A STORY ABOUT ONE NIGHT AND A MAN RIDING ON A BIKE IN STREETCAR RAILS
This is
a story about a man. A man who is riding on an old creaky bike in the streetcar
rails from Pohořelec down to the river by Žofín Island by some especial nights.
It
happens when you don’t expect it – as everything important does. The lights of
streetlamps have to turn special shade of yellowish shine and it has to be one
of the warm cosy nights of late sweet-smelling spring, exceptionally lonely
summer or very early jazzy autumn. Then you can spot him. He’s a man around
thirty or forty maybe. I don’t know his name because I forgot to ask him. His
eyes have a weird hue changing from sky blue across ivy green to stony grey as
he’s riding through the city. He also has a dark leather bag with many secret
and enigmatic objects in it. Sometimes he takes handful of buttons or coins
from one of the pockets and throws them in the air so when someone finds one in
the morning it will bring the person good luck.
It was
about half past one a.m. and I was slowly walking under the arcades on the
Pohořelec square. I had a very long day. It was one of the nights which belong
only to you and maybe the moon and some lost birds sleeping in the park. The
light was spread on the pools remained after an evening shower and it shivered
every time I stepped in it. First I heard just the squeaky sound. And then
there he was with his bike and all mysteries of Prague covering him in a soft
barely detectable mist. I stayed waiting on the tram stop quite bewildered
because this was my night, mine and of the moon and birds. He stopped I sat
lady-like beside him above the mudguard. We didn’t talk until we arrived to the
Queen Anne’s summer palace but the moon got upset and was jealous anyway and
didn’t say another word to me any longer. So easily offended!
On the
way from the statue of Kepler and Kopernik to Prašný Bridge – the bridge with a
hungry black gate to the Prague Castle – there’s nothing. We rode so very fast
from Lions’ yard to the summer palace that my sweater flew anyway and didn’t
catch up with us until Malá Strana. The man smelled like grandma’s pantry –
raspberry marmalade, honey, mustard and fresh bread all at once. As we flew in
the doglegs next to Stag Moat he began to sing and he never stopped even when
he was speaking I could still hear the strange melody under his words. Oh, how
I loved it – the fast ride and my adored ancient remarkable city surrounding
us. When we arrived to the Malá Strana Square he left his bike standing in the
rail. We didn’t need to worry about trams, it wasn’t their night tonight and so
for the time being they vanished from the world with a loud “plop”. We ran a
race to St. Nicolaus church, knocked on the door politely and went inside. He
sat cross-legged under the cupola and I laid down on my back to have a good
view on the marvelous fresco. At that time – surrounded by all the ecclesiastic
fathers – he spoke for the first time and he narrated his story.
He had
been a common man – the kind that you meet hundreds of on the street in the
morning. And he got very angry about that. He found it so very unfair that God
didn’t give him any unique quality and that he’s exactly the type of man who
looks the best in a dark blue suit, tie and black shoes. He felt like he can’t
stand it a moment longer so he let free his bright yellow budgie and now he’s
living Beyond the clouds.
We
talked for a while then but we got such a strong craving for a cigarette that
we had to go outside because these giant a lá marble statues aren’t used to
smoking. We rode further through the gorgeous streets of Malá Strana. The
streetlamps were waving at us, stars came out and everything seemed so
fairy-tale-like that it couldn’t be true. As we went in the mist from the river
near Újezd he threw some glittery coins in the air and the wind carried them
from the top of Petřín Hill (one silver coin even got stuck on the top of the
observation tower there) to the bottom of the Church of Our Lady before Týn. We
got wet from the mist and the air was so fresh and tasty.
What
would happen if he didn’t become so scared of the National Theatre’s gold tips
and if the woman in the quadriga on the top of the building didn’t crack with
her whip so strict? Maybe I would be living with him like Little Prince. I fell
of the bike and he disappeared in the milky mist. To this day I have a small
dimple on my forehead slightly above my right eyebrow from the fall.
After a
while I bounced back and went away. I was asking myself if I even like him
after all. When I got to the Charles Bridge the sky turned red and stars went
bright yellow. My bare feet were cold from the stony pavement. As I was in the
middle of the bridge the statues came to life and started hunting me. Those
made by Ferdinand Maxmilian Brokoff were particularly dreadful. I have been
having this nightmare since I was little. At this very moment I realized I will
never be able to flee like he did. Even if I would like to. The moon still
wasn’t talking to me and I started running for my life.
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