Mitteleuropa
By rlawless
- 452 reads
Mitteleuropa.
style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%">Grete lapped up the
warmth reflected off the grand old buildings and cobbled pavement.
Relieved that she'd discovered this backwater away from the main stream
of tourists, she was savouring a cigarillo and sipping the last of her
dessert wine, a perfect way to end a summer's day. Sound bubbles of
refined open-air entertainment - the fragile music of chiming bottles,
declaiming Shakespearean puppeteers, tumblers - drifted over from the
river.
In her late fifties, she looked remarkably like Germaine
Greer. The outfit she was wearing was a subtle cross between
educated-smart and designer tramp. The material of her costume
initially suggested a sack but on closer inspection it proved to be
naturally creased linen. A pair of half-eyes dangled on her ample
chest. She had just put down her magazine; the tell-tale orange colour
indicated that it was the German political weekly, "Der Spiegel". The
darkly quizzical face of Gunther Grass, also sporting half-eyes, peered
out from the front cover, disapproving of a recent turn of events.
200%">Sitting outside a smart, new restaurant, near the Charles
Bridge in Prague, Grete eyed the other diners. On one side of her were
two Englishmen, superficially tourists, but not the package holiday
type. Typical of the "civilised" West, they were both casually attired,
even in a restaurant like this. They were wearing shorts of the
practical hiking variety, not meretricious, designer-label ones. A
worrying note was the two baseball caps, but their tasteful pastel
colours suggested a utilitarian function rather than a fashion
statement - they were both bald. The one with the subtle, Breton-cut
sweatshirt was reading the "Guardian"; he had good, strong legs, she
noted.
On her other side sat a refined American couple, in their
forties. He sported a light summer jacket and chinos and she was
wearing a smart T-shirt and long, Hippy-style skirt. Grete was
delighted to see the T-shirt was from Weimar with two small silhouettes
of Goethe and Schiller in one corner.
to be any Czechs or Slovaks; Grete herself was from Gdansk (which for
her would always be Danzig). Perhaps there were some well-placed or
nouveau riche ones inside. The seafood salad she'd just finished with
the squid-ink pasta had been delicious but on the dainty, nouvelle
cuisine side. If Czechs could afford these prices, they would probably
want something a bit more substantial, like her, really, after all
those years of austerity. Never mind, she was on a diet.
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%">Just then she heard "Breton-Brit" raise his voice slightly. He
was insisting on the wine-list. No, he didn't just want the house
white. They were having Dover sole, so not just any wine would do. He
wanted something Germanic, most probably a Riesling or Rizling (Was
that the Czech?), a dry Kabinett or Spatlese even. The waiter, Franta,
had clearly misjudged these two Englishmen; it must have been the
shorts. They were obviously prepared to fork out on the wine and
everything else by the looks of it.
style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%"> style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%">Tonight Keith
(Breton-Brit) and his friend were splashing out. They had originally
wanted to dine at the Francouzska Restaurace, which they'd located a
few hours ago. It was attached to a concert-hall and was positively
palatial. A sumptuous example of Art Nouveau/Jugendstil. Guests
descended a spiral staircase into the well of the building, above which
were suspended vast chandeliers. But since then they'd walked the
length and breadth of Prague and it had been a hot afternoon; that
particular restaurant was possibly an hour's walk away.
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%">How
different their first night on Czech soil had been. From Dresden to
Nachod via Poland. Mental snapshots of Poland still glistened:
ubiquitous roadside, mushroom vendors with their irresistible, meaty
offerings, wildly undercutting Italian porcini merchants; the
unsophisticated appeal of a pastel-shaded, medieval square,
incongruously preserved amid a grey, prefab nightmare; the surreal
exchange with inebriated Poles, endeavouring to pin down an elusive
Czech border.
By the time they'd reached Nachod, accommodation
was out of the question. The hotel they'd earmarked beforehand was
featured in "The Bass Saxophone", by Josef Skvorecky, the town's famous
?migr? writer. Keith had wanted to savour its decadent charms. They'd
had to savour the cramped charms of the car instead.
following morning, bleary-eyed, they'd wandered into town in search of
breakfast. Before entering a caf?, they'd hesitated, realising they
knew no Czech. A quick squint at the guide-book had given them the
means to ask for two coffees at least ("Dwe kava, prosim".). Once
inside, they'd fairly confidently ordered "dwe Frankfurtska", which had
turned out to be potato soup with pieces of sausage. And they'd pointed
to two cakes in a cabinet. Voila! What a breakfast! All for a
pittance.
They had certainly been hungry enough to enjoy
that. Now they were looking forward to their Dover sole and Riesling.
Keith thought again how the waiter had taken them for a pair of two-bit
tourists. He hoped he was more on his guard now.
waiting for their meal, they noticed a German-speaking couple come in.
Keith thought they made an odd couple; he was in his mid-forties,
red-faced, brash, wearing a gaudy blue jacket and a cravat; she was in
her early twenties and looked like an intellectual, a blue-stocking
with a twinkle in her eye. Viennese Jews, perhaps?
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%"> style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%">Karl (the cravat)
approached the refined looking Grete and the couple joined her at her
table; it must have been the Spiegel, a German connection. Somehow,
Masha (the blue-stocking) didn't think Karl was a Spiegel reader; "Bild
Zeitung" more like, or an Austrian equivalent. The only thing that
attracted Masha to this gentleman was his wealth. And the promise of a
gourmet meal. Clearly lacking in other departments, he certainly knew
how to spend money. As a result of their brief exchanges so far, he'd
bought her a quality film magazine, some excellent tobacco for her pipe
and, at Karl's pressing, a Czech guide to Vienna. Apart from such
perks, she needed money for her studies. Prague was not like the
provinces. The flat rent alone ate into her finances. And there were
five of them in a three-person apartment! She was here to study German
(the reason she was given these moneyed BMW-driving clients) and
reading around the subject, even buying German newspapers, was an
exorbitant business. Prioritising, she tended to skimp on meals,
surviving on pretty dire fare from student dives. So when she realised
that Karl was heading in the direction of the U Huberta restaurant, her
taste-buds went into overdrive.
"Sie sind deutsch, ja?" Karl asked
Grete.
"Nein, polnisch eigentlich. Aus Danzig."
200%">"Ach, deswegen "Der Spiegel". Ist hier frei?"
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%">Grete was about to go and make a phone-call, so of course that
was alright. Karl and Masha joined her.
style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%">"This is Masha, a
useful friend to have in a place like this. And I'm Karl."
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%">"Grete. Pleased to meet you." They all shook hands.
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%">"What brings you to Prague?" asked Karl.
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%">"Business and, to some extent, pleasure. Like now, coming to a
lovely restaurant like this."
"Yes, it is nice, isn't it? It makes a
pleasant change to find something new around here. And what line of
business are you in, actually?"
" I have an antique shop in Danzig
and I'm on the point of making a rather interesting purchase. A
Jugendstil table and chairs. Are you familiar with that period?"
200%">"Not really. Of course, I've come across the word before. But
it's my wife, back in Vienna, who chooses the furniture, and she goes
for modern. Me, too."
"Such a shame. When you consider that Vienna
is the spiritual home of the style."
recommend the restaurant, then?"
"Yes, certainly. Though you may find
the portions rather small. So, wenn es Ihnen nicht stort, muss ich
jetzt telefonieren. Auf Wiedersehen."
Wiedersehen".
It was difficult for Masha to conceal her
appetite (lust almost) for the meal in prospect. She was worried the
rumbling of her stomach would give her away. Not that Karl would have
been concerned, noticed even.
But Masha had to sideline her desire and
concentrate on keeping the sleazy Karl happy. She wasn't really that
good at small talk. But it was included in her job description, so she
girded her loins and asked in her rather stilted German accent:
200%">"What will your wife be doing at the moment?"
class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT:
200%">"Oh, don't worry about her. She's probably at her club. It's
supposed to be a fitness club. But, you can bet your bottom dollar,
right now she's enjoying a Bacardi Breezer with her friends and smoking
her posy Sobrane cigarettes.
"What sports activities does she engage
in?"
"She plays some tennis. Works out a bit. You know."
200%">"And you?"
"A bit of tennis as well. And golf. You have to
play golf these days. But what about you? You look like a sporty young
thing, if a bit on the studious side. I'll bet you're a bit lively in
bed, aren't you?"
Masha shuddered inwardly as he tweaked her right
thigh. Immediately, she grasped her glass of red wine for support and
to cover her distaste.
At that moment, fortunately, the waiter was
coming with the food. This would hopefully distract Karl from his
clumsy manoeuvres. And she could devote all her energy to the orgasmic
meal ahead.
But events suddenly took a very unexpected turn.
Karl stared in disbelief at his small duck thigh with a sauerkraut and
apple garnish and token gesture vegetables. If this was from a wild
duck it must have been a small wild duck, like a teal, for example, and
a small teal at that. And as for the sauerkraut, there was nothing
Germanic about it, certainly not the portion. Karl's already red face
went the colour beetroot and his coarse features twisted into a
Munchian cry, not of fear, but of rage. He simply exploded, spluttering
that if he was paying good money for food, it was food he wanted, not
pathetically feeble excuses for food. Prague might be a city, but it
wasn't exactly Vienna, Paris or London. It had only just emerged from
the thrall of the Soviet Union. (Keith, at the next table, thought he
overheard the expression "Dunkel Europa".) Franta hadn't been expecting
this apoplectic outburst. Shell-shocked, at the behest of this raving
madman, he'd finally gone to fetch the chef but the latter's calm,
reasonable explanation of the quality ingredients, herbs and spices
used and the intricate method of preparation and cooking just wasn't
going to wash with this petty tyrant. The meals were returned. Another
bottle of Red Burgundy was ordered to cool tempers. A semblance of
order was restored.
Small as the portions had been, Masha recognized,
with bottomless regret, that the food had looked inordinately tasty and
she would have been satisfied with half the amount. Some perk this had
turned out to be. The tedium of hours of unalleviated small-talk now
tinged with attitude lay ahead of her, crowned by a night of drunken,
unimaginative, salacious sex.
200%"> style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%">What an evening it
had been. Franta loved working at U Huberta. He admired the owner. She
was actually a writer, whose sideline was the restaurant. She knew that
he too harboured the ambition to be a top restaurateur and was very
encouraging. Pavel, the head chef, was a character. Food was clay to
him, tubes of pigment, exotic words, magical sounds. The kitchen was
his studio. It was an honour for Franta to bring out Pavel's artistic
creations to customers unwitting and witting alike; for lots of guests
returned, once bitten - twice, thrice bitten.
style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 200%"> style="mso-spacerun: yes"> And Franta relished the
daily contact with visitors to the restaurant. Lots were from different
countries and he could converse with them in English and German. It was
surprising how many of them wanted to use Czech. Some even welcomed
grammatical explanations that he was proud to give them. Perhaps the
restaurant attracted a more sensitive type. He regretted his faux-pas
with the Englishmen. They were decent fellows and knew their food and
wine. Good tippers, too.
At this restaurant they wouldn't be ripped
off, either; not as in some establishments where there would be one
price for natives and another for English, American and German patrons.
And, even in these surroundings, they would be treated with old world
courtesy. Not like the gypsies, basically on a par with dogs. In the
new Republic's
more liberated climate, racist skinheads were now
blatantly persecuting the Roma. Yes, there was always that. Internally,
one barrier comes down and another is erected in its place. And,
viewing the broader picture, unification in Germany and disintegration
in Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia. Considering that point, were the Slovaks
really better off on their own?
He would leave politics to the
politicians. Or perhaps he would befriend the poor Jewish girl with the
uncouth, red-faced lout. He was sure he could talk politics with her.
What was she doing with that bastard, anyway? Was she an escort girl,
perhaps? A lot of students were doing it.
been without its hiccups. Franta, personally, had been embarrassed on
two counts. The worst episode, of course, had been with the Austrian
Jew. He had been seriously out of order. In an international setting,
he'd proved to be very parochial, as his boss had said, and she was
right. Again.
But he, Franta, was learning.
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