I think about all the sentences I have said to friends and even complete strangers. The ones that caused confusion, ending with a question. I wonder what to call the tall man with long hair who boarded with us. When turbulence occurs, my breathing slows down, and I tell myself to calm down. But all I can see is the image of my mother reciting the Lord’s Prayer during severe turbulence. I am ten years old again, but the strong shaking and pressure throw me back into my seat, back into my twenty-five-year-old body. I realize that my right hand is touching a stranger’s hand.

„I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

„It’s okay.”

A tall man with long hair stands in the aisle. He brings with him the sound of the sea, the ringing of a bell, the firing of a cannon. „Do you think he’s Dutch?” I blurt out. The lady says nothing, just stares at me. We don’t say anything else for the rest of the trip. I think about the man. The sky in the window is replaced by the pounding of waves, and suddenly the whole plane is a frigate. This image occupies my mind so much that I don’t notice the landing.

As a child, I used to wander through the school atlas, looking at the map of France and dreaming of arriving in Marseille at noon, walking along the Riviera, and then getting into a fast car. Heading for Montpellier, just so I could call my family from there and say, „Montpellier is as beautiful as it sounds.”

On the train, I read a message from Emil. He asks how the trip is going and says he will wait for me at the station, but he will be late because he is bringing bikes.

Night and the December wind welcome me. When I see my bike, which Emil borrowed from a friend for me, I realize that I haven’t ridden a bike since high school. I am overcome with happiness, which takes me by surprise. Emil tries to loosen the pulley, but he can’t.  

„You look like you’re trying to steal it.”

Emil lives in something like a four-story apartment building. The ground floor smells like sewage.

„Don’t mind it. Whenever it rains, the ground floor smells like they’ve been pumping the cesspool all day. Practically,” he grins, „our home is built on shit.”

Looking at the door to the apartment, I imagine pictures from English textbooks. First, I am greeted by a Ukrainian woman who keeps her eyes fixed on my earwig. I give her some Slovak sweets. I feel like a white man from the far west who has made a favourable peace with the local population. South Africa is wearing a cowboy hat. Emil explains to me that they are going to a techno party, which is why they are wearing the hat. His room is one of the larger ones, divided by a partition without a door, with access to a balcony and a view of the intersection. While I unpack my suitcase, he pulls a mattress out from under the double bed and places it along the huge window.

„Why do the Dutch put those huge windows everywhere? It’s drafty.”

„They love the sun. It only comes out in the summer months. And then they shiver for the rest of the year.”

I’m cold, my pants are wet from the bike seat, and I still can’t calm down. I look at all the huge, illuminated windows. I wait for a split-second glimpse of some story, but my eyes are flooded with different shades of colour, furniture, and Christmas trees. 

At night, I dream for the first time in a long time. I’m standing in front of a wooden gate, behind which stands a two-story house. It resembles the houses from the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries that were owned by wealthy American industrialists. The doors are wide open. A white curtain flutters from one of the windows on the ground floor. A tinkling sound comes from the room on the left. The room is spacious, with a fireplace opposite the door. There is a black clock in the middle of the mantelpiece. To the right of it is a lemon, a vase without flowers, and a large seashell. The clock chimes softly again. It has no face. Above it hangs a mirror. It is not me looking into it, it is my father.

I don’t want to get up because the dream might disappear. I look out the window at the gray sky. I close my eyes and still see my father. How old can he be? 

Mornings are long and slow in this apartment. We drink tea in Emil’s bed and listen to music.

„It’s a strange apartment.”

„I could see you didn’t like it.”

„No, it’s not that, but it gives me the impression of the end.”

„What do you mean?”

„The thing is that this apartment is a student apartment.”

„Yes. I still don’t understand.”

„I don’t know… one day you’ll leave this place. You’ll leave your student self behind and one day you’ll only have memories of these times. 

„And that’s bad?” 

„When I think back, the first thing that comes to mind is this apartment, and only then the people I was with in it.”

„I’ve never thought about that.”

There is silence between us for a few moments. 

„Could we go into town, please? I need to buy some souvenirs.”

Even when we managed to travel somewhere, it was usually without my father. I remember only one trip when we went to visit my father’s family in Uzhhorod. I remember how he enthusiastically explained to me that he used to walk across this bridge every morning on his way to school. Long after that, I never saw such joy in his eyes again. I didn’t ask him any questions; I just watched him silently. 

In the evening, we go to a small party organized by Emil’s friends from university. Mulled wine is poured; gifts are handed out. This is followed by discussions in English, in which I participate as little as possible. During English class, I looked out the window at the old willow tree and wondered where the teacher had gone. Whenever I remember those times, empty school corridors come to mind. All the classroom doors are closed. I go out into the courtyard and look up at the windows above the main entrance. I wave to my younger self, but he can’t see me. I look out the window and count the cats running across the evening street. On my way home, I look into the huge windows. I project different versions of myself into them. Me as a student at a Dutch university. Me as a member of an anarchist organization. Me as a refugee from war. Me as an employee of a foreign company. Me as the lover of a man whose wife and two children have gone to visit their grandparents. Me as the last living member of my family. I accept the rhythm of this city and stylize everything past, lost, and possible into its layout.

Before leaving, I found my elementary school diaries. I was surprised by how much I longed for love in them. I forgot about Magdaléna, my fear of remaining unloved, and made the decision that I would also love boys. I only knew affection from television soap operas and American films about adolescence. Sometimes I held my great-grandmother Zuzana’s hand and played with her gold ring. When the third night comes, my desire for tenderness wins out. I ask Emil if I can lie down next to him for a while. He agrees. 

„Is everything okay?”

„I don’t know.”

I hug him tightly and lie back down on the mattress.

On the day of departure, while Emil is packing his suitcases, I cry in the bathroom. Briefly and quietly. 

On the plane, I am overcome by cramps and nervousness again. I breathe slowly and deeply and try to calm down. 

„If it helps, you can hold my hand.”

„No, thank you, Emil, I have to learn to cope with this on my own.” 

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. A small screen with an airplane icon emerges from the darkness. My father filmed it on camera when he flew to America once. I don’t remember why he showed it to us. 

Was he afraid of flying too?


Translated by Samuel Vahovský