| Sylvia Petter
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| Rites Of Passion Prague Castle was packed. The Czech President sat serene in the front row of the audience, his second wife to his right, holding his hand. On the podium, too, was Gorbachov, now solo, his Raisa lost despite the marvels of West German clinics. And then there was Bush, his Barbara sedate in her pearls, ever proud of her white hair and, with her George, confident that the strain would endure. Gorby and George were not alone, I saw as I watched the TV. Their chests were sashed in the red and white moire bestowed by the Czech President, a gift from the Republic, on all the architects of Freedom, ten years since the fall of the Berlin Wall. No, I thought, they were not alone. It was 9 November 1999, a date laden with meaning for a nation, the world, and for individuals who had never thought further than their immediate dreams. I sipped at my glass of black-label whisky. It was 12:30 am. The family was now sleeping and the house was calm, calm enough. Lech Walesa sat red-faced from gout and spoke his thanks to the Virgin Mary, his black madonna. Mitterand was dead, but Danielle, devoid of the red and white ceremonial sash, spoke of her Fran‡ois and his contribution to the edifice of future generations, knowing full well that beyond the borders of the discretion of her own country the world’s mind now meandered to musings about her husband’s mistress and his secret daughter. Maggie Thatcher, ever the lady, quoted Byron and later cocked her eternally coiffed head at the strains of the syncopated viola. I had to agree with her for once. The music was weird. Yet the strains of a gypsy-like wail trying to find its place in a structure hardly freed from the constraints of classicism, spoke to me. And then the camera zoomed in on Vaclav. I had always found him attractive and now I wondered whether it had only been because of his dreams. Vaclav Havel smiled as he held the hand of his ex-actress wife. He had lost a lung, but gave the impression that as a reborn non-smoker he was feeling pretty good and that he had managed to bring together the things he had wanted to say in his writing, despite having to endure the constraints of his office. Then came Kohl. Helmut Kohl. I leaned forward to listen. What was it he said? Of course he should know. Freedom did not necessarily mean that one was free. I turned off the TV and went to the bedroom. My husband was snoring, gently. His blanket had slipped, baring a hip, so I tucked him in, my lips brushing his forehead as I withdrew. He did not stir as I slipped under the covers by his side. It had been a rough day, the 9th of November. I should have expected it, had I had any thoughts for the tricks history can play. The evening before, my husband had been rushed to hospital. We live out in the country so couldn't take chances. The ambulance was out, so the fire brigade came. My husband had had a seizure. His heart was breaking. Two hours later I raced to the hospital with my daughter. No point in coming earlier, they'd said. It will be all right, they'd said. And so the same night we brought him back home. Our daughter is sixteen. She was conceived in East Germany. My husband and I had gone over to see friends we had met on a previous trip, friends who couldn't get out. We were brave then. It was easy to be brave and there was a certain romance in defying the Wall. We were firm, we from the West. What did we have to lose? Is it true that our heroes had no one at stake, nothing to lose but their own face? We used to send our friends, Gerd and Helga, Swissair and Lufthansa timetables. They'd sit at breakfast, they said, with photo books open on the table showing the cities they wanted to visit. "Flight 241 to Paris is ready for takeoff," Gerd said. He always played pilot. "He needs to assert himself," Helga said. "He’s a plumber. I’m a judge. Everything is equal in the GDR of course. And gender is almost more equal than our ideology." We all laughed at that. "We don't speak to others about our dreams," Gerd said. I had the distinct feeling that his gaze grazed my cheek. "Thank you so much for the timetables," he added. Ten years ago, Gerd and Helga, must have been having their first real champagne flight, their last simulation. When the Wall came down, they went to Paris. It wasn't as they had imagined they’d scribbled on a postcard of the Eiffel Tower. Who would have thought that that metal construction would be for eternity. It had never been intended that way. So unlike the Wall, I remember thinking. We had hoped to see Gerd and Helga in Paris, but somehow we missed them by a day or two. They had become just like anyone else. We have not seen or heard from them since. Despite having gone to bed after midnight I rose early the next morning. Our daughter was already up and dressing as I came in to kiss her good morning. She was wearing her Calvin Klein bra, the one like mine that we'd bought together in the US last year. Just down from her neck I noticed a love bite. I hugged her and as I drew back I mentioned the bite. She laughed. "I love you," I said. "Me too," she answered. My daughter tells me about everyone else. Her friends. Their problems. Her best friend is seeing a shrink. "She keeps dropping guys straight after she hooks them." "Shrink?" My daughter nods. "Her mother doesn't understand," she says. The love bite just down from her neck is in the shape of a heart. "Is your period on time?" She nods. "Don’t tell your father," I say. "About the love bite?" "No." "Oh," she says. " I already have." "Why?" "He asked me. I told him." "When?" "Yesterday." "When?" "After school." "Where?" "When Pierre dropped me off at the corner." "Why?" "Someone in the village made a comment about us." I hope she can't hear my heart wings flutter as colour creeps up my throat and for a split second I feel what my husband must have felt when they rushed him to hospital, when he realised that his daughter no longer was his little girl. Gerd and Helga never had children. Helga was barren, Gerd told me a long time ago. "And anyway," Gerd added, "I wouldn't want a child that couldn't be free." They have their freedom now. It's a free for all. Just before his seizure, just before the pain in his gut punched all air away my husband accused me of having a lover. He'd found a phone number and name scrawled on the back of the cleaning woman's weekly bill. "Ring the number," I'd said. "No." I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. The face of a woman stares at me. I know her like no one else really does. The mirror woman’s mascara is smudged. She must have forgotten to clean up before bed. How can you remember never having done or said something? I rummage in the back of the cupboard and look for some make-up remover. |
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