Marina Velcova and the temptation of America - Albert Russo (essential books to read .TXT) 📗

from here, I'm dying of thirst. After that, if you're in the mood, I'll invite you to a small popular bistro where they serve hot, hot, spicy dishes." And he rolls his eyes impishly then hugs Marina and places a fatherly smack on her forehead.
Learning that Petr leads a jazz hand, I exclaim, "That's my hobby, three pals and I perform on weekends at private parties and college balls. I play the saxophone."
These common affinities create a new bond among the three of us. "We've just obtained permission to give several performances in England towards the end of autumn. It will be great," Petr announces, radiant, then adds in a hush: "Don't tell anyone, I'm superstitious."
We wind up the night strolling on Charles Bridge and contemplate Hradcany with its hauntingly beautiful castle which dominates the city from the opposite bank of the Vltava. Leaning against one of the thirty Baroque and Neo-Gothic statues that grace the bridge, a youth strums out a few notes on his guitar. The violet scarf he wears around his neck and his loose unbuttoned shirt uncovering his navel make him look more akin to the rebellious students of Paris and Berkeley than to his bashful young comrades. Soon a cluster forms around him and as he strikes up Elvis Presley's Jaithouse Rock , the small crowd takes to the beat and clap their hands. The guitar player sings in a raucous voice with gypsy accents, giving the tune a twist which is not unpleasant. When we walk away the audience has doubled and the clapping has become bolder. The scene is surrealistic: sounds of rock music that echo amid the gallery of stone saints mutely looking on while, all around, guarded by lanterns-flickering sentries, the Bohemian capital so charged with history lies majestic and unperturbed.

Another day and I'm off. Marina asks me to excuse her for a couple of hours; she has been invited for lunch by an Austrian friend of hers whom she has known for a few years. They had become acquainted during one of his numerous visits to Prague. He is an important industrialist and does a lot of business through the Ministry of Trade and Finance. We have our first row.
"There is no reason whatsoever for your jealousy!” she rebukes after I've hurled at her, "Who’s this bigwig anyway? Do you sleep with him?" Suddenly cupping my groin with her hand, she says in a pacifying tone, “Don’t be silly, he's 45 years my senior and considers me as his stepdaughter, for he's never been married or had children. He could be my grandfather. True, we are close, but ours is a family relationship. My folks know him well. So, you see, you have nothing to fear."
Marina is back at 2:30 p.m. and produces from her bag a small wooden box shaped like a miniature crate. "It's from Hans, to both of us," she says. "I told him we were going to get engaged. When he returns next year, he wants lo meet you."
Walking into the courtyard of Strahov Monastery, we munch our third or fourth chocolate filled with cherry and Grand Marnier then kiss voluptuously, relishing the heady flavors of our tongues. "Oh Frantisek," she mumbles once we release our embrace, staring into the glazed pools of each other's eyes, our pelvises hurting from desire, “how I want you!" Her visage is suffused with the glow of a polished apple. Marina calls me Frantisek whenever we become intimate. The name stirs emotions that go back to my early childhood when Father was still alive; they are happy if very vague memories. The day he died, Mother stopped addressing me by that name, as if by reverting to "Francis" she could secure for herself the fulfillment of her Americanization.
The Strahov Monastery now harbors the Museum of National Literature. Marina leads me directly into the Philosophical Hall whose ceiling is decorated with a stupendous fresco, painted by a Viennese rococo artist, depicting The Struggle of Mankind to Attain Real Wisdom . She gives me a brief historical background of the library which contains some 130,000 volumes, mostly leather bound, illminated manuscripts and incunables, as well as globes of the 17th Century, vases, portraits and medallions of Emperors Franz I and II.
As we browse around the halls lined with book cabinets that reach as high as the vaulted ceilings, Marina says: "There is many a revolution that sprang from these pages, most of them unfortunately quelled at birth. But the one we are living today is irreversible." Thus she introduces me to national heroes and personalities such as Jan Hus, the 14th Century religious reformer who was excommunicated by the Pope and was burnt on the stake in 1415 as a heretic; Jaroslav Hasek, author of The Brave Soldier Scweijk , the beloved humoristic novel about Scweijk the anti-hero during the First World War which saw the end of the humiliating Austro-Hungarian domination; and closer to us, Franz Kafka who, Marina points out with a tone of bitterness, wrote in German only, the language of the former occupying power and of the Nazis even though he died in 1924; Karel Capek, the originator of the word robot which he used in a play; and Jaroslav Seifert, the contemporary poet who more than once had decried the repressive influence of communist bureaucracy on cultural life and fell into disgrace.
We still have two hours left before museums close and I suggest that we return to Bertramka where Mozart composed his opera Don Giovanni. The rooms of the homestead are furnished in the style of Wolfgang Amadeus' time, there is even a piano on which he allegedly played. And Marina, the patriot that she is, goes on to talk about Smetana and his masterpieces My Homeland and the Moldova and about Dvorak who adapted the spirit of Czech nationalism and folk songs to his music, composing among other symphonies the Slavonic Dances .
At the airport, the following morning, we are both tense. I hate farewells but we can't afford to miss a second of each otlier's company. Holding Marina in my arms, I tell her that the year will be gone before we realize. When the announcement is made that the passengers of the CSK flight to London are to embark, she bursts into tears - I have never seen her cry before. "Yes," she finally says in a tremulous voice, adding with the sketch of a smile, "and in the autumn of 1970, I too shall be able to say 'God bless America'."
In the Soviet-built Tupolev I review those eventful weeks I have shared with Marina and reflect on the current situation Czechoslovakia finds itself in, asking myself if I could ever adhere to communism, even with a human face.

ASTORIA, Queens, August 20, 1971. It's exactly three years since the Warsaw Pact armies invaded Czechoslovakia. Those scenes on TV with the Soviet tanks rolling down Wenceslas Square amid a population infuriated and wounded in its pride still give me nightmares. Who will ever know how many people died during the street fights? There couldn't have been a more grim symbol than the self-immolation of Jan Palach. My helplessness in the face of such events make me terribly depressed. It may be selfish on my part, but not to be able to communicate with Marina is what hurts me most. Pavel was unfortunately right about the fate of his country. All in all I got three air-letters from Marina, the last one ironically bearing the postmark of August 20, 1968. That it could ever have crossed the border mystifies me to this day. In it, Marina still sounded cheerful in spite of some "somber rumors spread by certain circles - ah, such killjoys!" She also was getting involved in a number of activities connected with the implementation of the new reforms, nothing political, she stressed, and, of course, she rnissed me tremendously. She ended with this romantic note: "I have inserted your portrait in the gold-rimmed medallion you bought me and wear it as a pendant, so I can always feel your presence against my skin."

Not long after the invasion, I went to the Czech Consulate in Manhattan but they wouldn't receive me. I returned there several times and they finally deigned to listen to me. Some underling sat with me and made a few queries, after which he told me to fill in an incredibly long questionnaire. "We shall get in touch with you," he their said. But they never did and when I went back, the underling who had attended to me wasn't there anymore. I had to start the procedure all over again, but it was in vain, for they refused to issue a visa and didn't give me any valid reason. Was it because they knew I was half Czech myself and that I could be potentially dangerous? At first I thought it wiser not to mention the existence of Marina and of her folks. But seeing no results, this year I've decided to tell them the truth about our marriage prospect. To justify why I hadn't disclosed this before, I said, feeling terribly naive, that I wanted to avoid causing them any harm. They must have known, just by keeping track of the mail that I've been sending Marina during these last years, which probably got confiscated or discarded. Yet nothing I wrote could have compromised her, since I never alluded to the political situation or vented my anger towards the regime. I'm still waiting for their reply.

PRAGUE, March 1972. When I appear at the door of Marina's apartment and see the stunned looks on her parents' faces, I sense something is wrong. They let me in, peering at the stairway, in case I have been followed. Once inside, Ekaterina clutches me against her bosom, mutters "Oh Frantisek" and begins to weep in gasping sobs. Then Pavel tells me. Four months after I left for the U.S. the Secret Service came to fetch Marina who was expecting our son and locked her up, accusing her of being an agent of imperialism. They had searched, ransacked the apartment, but hadn't found anything. They claimed nevertheless that two of her fellow conspirators had given her away and produced all the evidence they needed.
Hearing all of this makes me want to regurgitate. I then settle on the couch which used to be Marina's bed and inquire about our son.
“In the cell with Marina, that was the only request they granted her," Pavel explains, adding, “She named him after your late father. Thank heaven, our Johnny is a bright and lively little boy; without him, I don't know what would have become of her."
In a surge of fury, I exclaim, “I want to see them, immediately!"
"I don't think it will be possible, Francis," Pavel says, “we ourselves are allowed to visit with her only periodically."
Pavel was right, the bastards wouldn't let me go near Marina and the child. But I don't relent and knock at the door of their office every morning and every afternoon at the opening hours. They're adamant and repeat that I have no business meddling in the internal affairs of a host country.
My visa expires after tomorrow, I can no longer contain myself and yell: 'The person you call an enemy of the State happens to be the mother of my son.” All at once, the floodgates break loose