For people in England, Jiří was a strange name and nobody there could pronounce it correctly. Whenever he tried to teach someone the proper pronunciation, it took forever, with pathetic results. At best, they managed to say Jírží. Ever since he was little this had caused him problems, which was why he preferred George, which was the English translation. Now, for the first time in his life, he was about to spend some time in a country where everyone would be able to pronounce his name correctly and everyone understood Czech, that mysterious language that in London only his mother, father, and sister knew, plus the few people who gathered at the Czech club every once in a while. Life behind the former Iron Curtain promised to be a great adventure.
The plane to Prague was of Russian make, old and creaky, and Jiří had the distinct feeling the rivets holding together the sheets of the fuselage were experiencing material fatigue. When they flew over the border, the captain announced that they had flown over the border. As they made the approach to Prague, the flight attendant pointed out Karlštejn Castle on the right-hand side of the plane. Jiří gave his neighbor an apologetic smile and leaned across him to look out the window. From this height, it looked even more photogenic than on the postcards. A passage from the tourist guides suddenly came to Jiří’s mind: established in 1348 as a place of safekeeping for the crown jewels by Charles IV, King of Bohemia dash Holy Roman Emperor, known to the Czechs as otec vlasti, “father of the nation,” which was something between a title and a sign of respect. Impressive.
As the plane entered turbulence it began to shake and buck. Jiří regretted having eaten lunch instead of following the example of the Czech passengers and ordering beer or some other alcoholic beverage. The plane landed. It was drizzling rain. A bus drove across the runway to pick them up, and carried them to the terminal. They waited until a representative of the airline appeared, opened a door, and told them to have their passports ready. He said everything twice, in Czech and English. He made two mistakes in English, but his accent was better than the one of the airline representative in Paris, where Jiří had been on his last trip, and unlike his French counterpart, at least the Czech was trying to make himself understood. Jiří took it as a good sign.
In the room next door were two glass booths with policemen sitting inside them. The passengers formed two lines and approached the booths one at a time, laying their passports down on the counter. The policemen’s uniforms were dark green with red shoulderboards. No smiles. They looked strict, serious, funereal. Jiří’s turn came and he handed the policeman his Czech passport. Of course it was written there that he had been born in London, so the officer carefully inspected every page, weighing it in his hand, then looked up at Jiří. Jiří gave him an encouraging smile. At the airport in Paris, everyone smiled. In Rome, Düsseldorf, even Israel, they smiled. Not in Prague. In fact the look on the policeman’s face gave Jiří the feeling that he had done something wrong, so he stopped smiling in case the officer misinterpreted it. After thumbing through the passport one last time, the policeman turned to the personal information page. “Born in London,” he said. Jiří wrinkled his brow to indicate he didn’t understand whether it was a question or a statement. “Hmmm,” the officer said. He picked up his rubber stamp and applied it to Jiří’s passport with no change in expression. It dawned on Jiří that this man never smiled at anyone. Evidently his uniform didn’t give him much opportunity. Its forest green was too much of a constraint. He might as well have been waiting for an armored transport carrier to surface from a trench camouflaged in branches so he could hop on board and go barreling down the runway to defend the country’s national interest. He tossed Jiří’s passport onto the counter with contempt and called out: “Neeeeext!”
It wasn’t a very encouraging beginning, Jiří thought. It had been more than two years since the Velvet Revolution, but apparently the news hadn’t reached the airport yet. But so what, Jiří thought. It’s my first time in Eastern Europe, I can’t complain. He quickly corrected himself. I mustn’t say “Eastern.” Mum and dad were always a bit touchy when it came to that. “Central” is better. Yes, that’s it. Central! Central Europe!
He picked up his suitcase and duffel bag from the baggage claim and walked out to the main hall. About thirty people stood waiting for passengers from the London flight, five or so holding signs. None of them had his name on it. Květa probably hadn’t arrived yet, Jiří thought. He scanned the hall one more time, then went to change some money. He bought a can of Coca-Cola, sat down on a bench, opened the can, and took a sip. After ten minutes or so, the cluster of people waiting had dispersed. A gray-haired woman of about sixty stepped up to him: “Are you Jiří by any chance?”
Jiří looked her up and down. She had on a three-quarter-length coat with a fur collar that in England would have had its owner ostracized for cruelty to animals. Jiří tried to reassure himself that it was fake.
“Yes. Yes, I am. Jiří Nováček,” he said.
“I’m Květa Černá. I think I’m your aunt.” She went out of her way to pronounce every word carefully. He was a foreigner, after all.
“Dobrý den,” said Jiří.
“Dobrý den,” said Květa, bending over to shake his hand. A reconnaissance of the cuffs on her sleeves revealed that they were fur as well. Glancing into her eyes as he shook her hand, he realized he had never seen eyes like hers before. Emeralds are green, aren’t they? Jiří thought. Having never actually seen an emerald before, he wasn’t sure.
Květa gestured toward the door, and he followed her out with his bags. They came to the bus stop and she began to explain how they would get to where they were going. Jiří listened attentively, and when she mentioned Vinohrady and Jan Masaryk Street, his ears perked up. “Wasn’t he that minister they killed?” he asked.
“Why yes, how did you know that?” Květa replied with evident delight. Jiří blushed and sensed she could see it on his face. Attempting to wipe it away as quickly as possible, he said:
“I didn’t know people grew grapes in Prague.”
“Grapes?” said Květa. “Oh, you mean Vinohrady. Yes, it does mean vineyards, but it’s just the name of a neighborhood.”
“I understand,” he said, smiling. “But I know you grow wine somewhere in the Czech lands. My mother told me. Somewhere along the Elbe?”
“Yes,” Květa said, losing interest in the conversation. “Yes, all over the place. Moravia too, and Mělník, and by the way did I tell you that you’ll be staying with my daughter in Vinohrady?”
“Oh,” said Jiří.
“Yes, my daughter.”
“With your daughter in the vineyards where they don’t grow wine,” Jiří said. Květa didn’t answer. It was close to four P.M., the time when she normally had at least a small cup of coffee, and she was really starting to feel it. When they got to the apartment, Alice put Jiří in the room that belonged to her son, Kryštof, who hadn’t slept there in two years. After Jiří had been introduced to Alice and unpacked his bags, the three of them went to see Aunt Anna.