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8.11.07
But it wasn’t only musicians or drunkards or ex-pat detritus that we were dredging up in our sojourns and night prowling as we ambled or stumbled variously from tram to side street, down dank beer cellar stairwells, sat at tables with strangers, chain-smoked in a dishevelled pattern of on again-off again conversations before emerging hours later back up onto the suddenly chaotic streets, the touristed pedestrianisation of human mish-mash with a gargle of foreign tongues tingling in our ears.
One night we were in U Stare Pani killing time with cigarettes and no particular goal in mind once the time had been killed other than staring at the bar maid, a particularly engaging Moravian champagne of a woman with flowing chestnut curls, dimpled cheeks, bright brown eyes and a careless smile that whispered into every male heart it was pointed at.
It was quite some time before the first act was coming on and we weren’t even certain we would stay long enough to hear the initial chords when a foursome of performance artists arrived - we could sense they were performance artists, dressed as they were in a variety of costume but carrying no musical instruments thus clearly not the opening act.
They took a table near us and set about their little gag: Milos, Jaroslav, Robert and Ivo, all of whom shared a spacious attic duplex in Prague 6, Bubenec, each speaking in character of their chosen character: Milos as T G Masaryk, the Czech ideologist and politician, dressed in an overcoat with woolen collar open at the neck covering a white shirt, wearing a distinctive pince-nez, whitish goatee covering the area around his mouth and chin. (more on Masaryk accomplishments, etc)
Jaroslav as 1984 winner of Nobel Prize for Literature and poet, Jaroslav Seifert, native of Zizkov, our favourite neighbourhood dressed in simple peasant clothes, flannel shirt and stained grey sweater his large face surrounded by a mane of white hair, the only one of the foursome without facial hair, so chosen Jaroslav later confided because he had difficult, with his light complexion and fair hair, at growing facial hair at all.
Robert as Jan Hus, populist reformer, most imposing of them all with his hair in typical medieval tonsure, long, almost triangular white beard (although this was a sticky point, Robert admitted that although oft depicted as such, he wasn’t entirely certain Hus had a beard) dressed in a burlap robe and wearing a paper hat with pictures of the devil on it, which is what was alleged he was made to wear whilst imprisoned, speaking Bohemian rather than Latin, which was translated for us sotto-voce along the lines of Lord Jesus Christ, I am willing to bear most patiently and humbly this dreadful, ignominious, and cruel death for Thy gospel and for the preaching of Shy World.
And finally Ivo as Antonin Dvorak, flowing handlebar moustache speckled with grey and white, waistcoat, bow tie, black overcoat and holding of course, a baton.
It doesn’t make any sense, Albert protested, shaking his head and wagging his finger simultaneously. Firstly, you’re all of different eras and save for Seifert over there, you’d all be dead so such a gathering would be physically impossible.
Oh no, Seifert corrected, I’d be quite dead as well.
Well, it’s artistic and tourist-oriented, Jan Hus explained. You see this is primarily a method of promoting cultural awareness for both Czechs and tourists alike, dressing up like this we promote Czech history and culture. Of course, we aren’t always IN character but on the other hand, it is rather enjoyable to gauge peoples’ reactions when for example, after a long day of socialising with the hoi polloi, working hard for our grant from the Czech Tourism Authority, we enter a palace such as this eager to quench our collective thirst and forget about the burdens which harangue our mutual characters.
Seifert, or I, rather, have nearly 30 volumes of collected poems, born in Zizkov 1901, journalist until 1950 when I started being respected and paid enough as a poet to earn a living on that alone. Never toeing the party line. Want to hear my acceptance speech from December 1984 in Stockholm? He cleared his throat, but we protested we didn’t have enough time…Of course, he interrupted, by then I was very old and very weak, not like now…
Of course, it’s not all about government grants or even eccentricity, Antonin added patiently. In order to understand those with whom we want to identify, we mimic them. I love Dvorzak’s music and yet can’t play any musical instrument, have no talent or inclination towards composing myself and of course, philosophically I would add that I could never assimilate entirely, just as we are alive acting as dead people who were once alive, Albert. It would create a split personality, a duality between the person I am imitating and myself and I would honestly struggle to delineate the difference between myself and Dvorak.
Oh, c’mon! Masaryk laughed, slapping his palm on the table. No amount of imagination, no costume, no nothing could ever create the illusion that you were he or as talented or frankly, anything. Face it, you’re out of work, not composing. Instead of creating software programmes, or sweeping crumbs off of a white linen table in a fancy restaurant populated by politicians or cultural icons or German tourists you have placed yourself in this vortex of character imitation, not enough yourself so why not be someone else, correct?
Well for that matter, Dvorak confessed, I’m probably more entitled to dress as Goofy or Donald Duck at the Euro Disney than I am a famous composer but character imitation being what it is, guild-less and free, well, there is no prerequisite and the entire plausibility of it ultimately comes down to me. I can be prideful of being the best Dvorak I can be but Goofy? Good or bad or indifferent, I would be simply lost.
Masaryk scoffed and the conversation was becoming uncomfortably heated as though all of the petty controversies polluting the daily life of four grown men who lived together, spent most of their days together dressed as other people, parading characters for tourists and countrymen, was finally coming to a head, their frazzled ability to maintain a semblance of civility between each other, as it would appear a suddenly famous rock band whose fame had grown their egos to unacceptable proportions and led to their ultimate split up, we could sense the fabric unravelling.
We left them, Seifert warming up to his acceptance speech, Jan Hus giving speeches about sacrifice, Dvorak waving his baton to an imaginary orchestra and Masaryk rearranging the ashtray and straightening the table cloth.
2:15 AM
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