Morning on the Charles Bridge
By Kyle Bradstreet
It was December and I was not sleeping well. I knew what the trouble was and I was fairly certain of a path to resolution, though I always believed it necessary to support my hypotheses with research. I went to the dictionary. Oxford’s Unabridged. Big, fat fucker. There it was.Silence. Noun. Old French from the Latin silentium. See also: Silent.
Definition number four seemed the most appropriate: the cessation of anger, agitation, or tumult; calmness; quiet; as, the elements were reduced to silence.
Reduce the elements to silence. Yes, that was the plan. The babel, the chaos, the pain, the guilt. Fading away. No, not fading. Immediate. Like waking up from a nightmare. Jolting up in bed because you’ve just learned everything and you have to be awake right now or else you’ll forget it. And you’re left sitting there. Sweating, panting, understanding. You’re alright. It was only a nightmare. And it’s silent.
Definition number four.
Just you and the night. Blackness staring at you from eternity away and you looking back at it. Accepting it. Willingly. Because it’s better than where you were. In that nightmare.
Maybe walk downstairs, get a glass of milk or whiskey. Depending on your taste. Sit at that small table by the window knowing you’re in your kitchen and it’s dark and it’s soundless and there’s something strangely beautiful and comforting about it that says you’re alright for now, there’s no need to worry anymore.
Maybe say fuck it at the first hint of light and refill your glass because you feel like the only one in the northeast with the sensitivity to watch the sun rise off the Atlantic while drinking whiskey on a winter morning from the comfort of your kitchen table.
I was there. That morning.
But, as happened each night since the trouble began, the nightmare that had infected my sleep eventually tip-toed down the stairs, entered the kitchen and handed my worry back, as if I’d forgotten to keep it beside me, then seated itself across the table and curiously watched my silly, forgetful person rattle ice cubes in a rocks glass and stare out the back window.
I was not the problem. I will readily admit I had created the problem, but there is a paramount fucking semantic difference between the two statements.
I’d spent the two days prior poring over world maps and aged travel guides, desperately searching for a place where I could stop time. A small apartment in a foreign land to temporarily pause the anger, the agitation, the tumult. Steady my breathing and come home with a logical solution that would not destroy the family my wife and I had created.
My episodic memory slapped me with a slide show that included a photograph of the most painfully beautiful bridge I had seen in my fifty-one years. A close up of the beggar I had walked past the last time I was upon it—the man silent and prostrate in front of the passersby, his hat in front of him speckled with coins.
I remembered the sadness of that scene and knew it was time to go back to Prague.
She would wear these scarves to class. A student of mine. Every day. I couldn’t keep track of how many colors she had.
I’m not talking about a pull around your neck wintertime scarf. These were the transparent, colorful ones that have been out of style since the day Marilyn Monroe died. You’d have to coordinate an archeological dig at your local thrift store to find one of the fuckers. Each day, a new scarf.
She stared at me during class. A penetrating look fixed on her face.
I was a decent professor. Twentieth Century Literature. Knew what I was talking about, lecturing on the greats. You throw in a foreign phrase or two, the students they fucking love you—thinking you’re well-traveled, a person of the world. For me it was shite and bollocks. They couldn’t get enough of that stuff.
But I didn’t deserve her look. And I’d been doing this for years. So I knew. I knew what it meant. It fucked my head something proper. Started jerking off at home with her eyes in my head. In all my years of teaching, I’d never done that. Made me feel like a sick fucking cheat, my wife Patricia reading in the next room. My own hand. Just an asshole’s imagination.
She scheduled an appointment with me. Outside my designated office hours. I knew.
She wore a white and grey scarf. Looked like snow on a sad day.
I was never one of those professors who could quote books. Just wasn’t. Read the shit out of them. Understood them. Talked about them and taught them. Just didn’t have the memory to recite. So I was already cheating. I had passages written on scraps of paper strewn around my desk. Delivering to this girl lines from Chekhov to Bolaño. You could see her getting wet in my fucking chair. The university’s chair.
She stood and bore her eyes into mine. As if she could fuck me with her iris. It felt like she did.
In the seconds I sat under her stare, I thought about standing over the toilet in my bathroom, jerking myself placid over this girl. I thought of my wife—who hadn’t seen my dick in months.
That was that.
She fucked me like I’d imagined an eighteen year old would fuck. Took charge, did anything she wanted. Let me do anything I wanted. Her hair smelled like blackberries. Everything was firm. New. And she seemed to enjoy the whole thing, too. Moaned and whispered crazy shite—told me what to do.
Patricia had never done that. Would never have even thought about it.
When it was over, we sat for a minute. Me on the floor, her on the sofa wrapped in the translucent snow.
She seemed so small. Not sexy anymore. Just a girl.
We got dressed in silence. She nodded at me, I nodded back—both of us knowing it had been a colossal fuck up. Then she opened the door. That’s where Charlie was standing. He’d been there a while. Long enough to know, at least.
She hid under her hair and hurried down the hall. The poor child.
Charlie stepped in, dropped a folder on my desk. His broken voice. Mom said to run this over, that you’d need it for your lecture tonight.
A tidal wave of shit ran over me and I sat back down. It must’ve been then that he grabbed the scarf.
There’s a beer hall on Křemencova in Nové Mĕsto with a large clock hanging off the building and into the street—bright orange face shining down, offering light to an otherwise black Prague night.
The first time I’d seen it, years ago, I’d been in dire need of a drink. I’d walked a few blocks from my apartment and seen the clock. Standing underneath it, I’d turned and saw it was stemming from an old pub. In the middle of the bar were musicians—a tuba player and an accordion player. This is the place to be, I remember deciding.
At some point during that first night, I ended up standing on a table singing “Home on the Range” for the entire pub, accompanied by the tuba and the accordion, of course. It was the only American song they knew. The crowd cheered the shit out of me for that one.
I began my night there this last time.
The accordion player was sick, they told me. And the tuba’s not really much of a solo instrument, so its player was sitting in the corner getting shitfaced, his massive brass piece taking up the bench next to him.
Beer halls in Prague are set up with rows of parallel tables stretching the length of the room. With enough to drink, you can sit down next to strangers and stand up with friends. I was seated next to an Italian gentleman. Younger than me, named Mario.
Mario spoke English, so we got a good talk going—economics and such. The fucking Euro. Then this young Swiss girl sat down across from us, drunk as fuck, blabbering on like we knew her. Mario and I were polite men, so we acted like we gave a shit.
Already five beers deep when my meal arrived, I was light-headed and ready to eat. The Swiss girl uninvitedly moved over, squeezing herself between my new Italian friend and me, talking on about boots from goddam Milan or God knows where while Mario drank and I tried to eat myself sober enough to continue the night.
But then she turned to me.
She turned to me, focused her drunk eyes and gave me the stare. The same fucking stare that inspired my nightmares to send me out of bed, down to the kitchen table and, eventually, across the world to sit in this ancient pub. She said, You are a quiet man, and slid her hand under the table. Into my lap.
I nearly choked on a roasted potato, started gulping beer to save myself from turning blue.
The tidal wave was forming again, preparing to wage its second attack. I could see it beginning in the corner beside the inebriated tuba player. It was going to wash me away this time. She reached for my cock and started kneading the shit out of it. A professional fucking masseuse. I put my elbow on the table and rested my forehead upon my hand. The tidal wave was approaching, growing in height.
I didn’t want to drown. I could barely keep above water as it was.
I leaned into her ear and whispered a string of the foulest curse words I knew. Her eyes went wide. Drunkenly trying to escape my vulgarity, she faded backwards, stumbled when attempting to stand, then tripped over the bench and spilled onto the floor. Two waiters lifted her and showed her the fine cobblestone work outside. Sloppy drunks are not appreciated in Prague.
The excitement of her exit brought a change in mood to the room and the pub became too loud for my conscience. I paid my check, thanked Mario for his conversation as we exchanged numbers, then walked out into the December air.
After wandering north, I remembered a local pub on Boršov that stayed open late and kept some good whiskeys behind the bar.
There was meatloaf on the table. A fine dinner. The whole family. The first time in years we had all sat down for a meal.
Patricia couldn’t stop smiling. Her family. Together.
No one else gave a shit. It was simply coincidence that we happened to be home at the same time. I’d had a meeting canceled. Charlie—God knows—the pub must’ve been closed for renovations. James had vacated his room for a rare appearance downstairs. Ernest, being younger, was always home for dinner.
So there was meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy. A good fucking meal. She’d gone all out, Patricia had. And it was peaceful enough to start. Please pass the potatoes and all that. But little comments began coming my way from Charlie. Questions about work that he wouldn’t have given a damn about under any other circumstance—How were my students this semester, Did I feel close to any particular one? I knew where it was headed.
Patricia was not picking up on the heap of shit he was throwing across the table. Maybe she was and she was ignoring it. Either way.
Charlie had told James. The two rarely spoke, but my greatest mistake must’ve surpassed whatever had grown between them over the years. James was always quiet, but that night he was mute. I caught him staring at me several times, eyes full of judgment.
I’m not sure why I let things go on like they did. I should’ve left. Or broken down and confessed it all. But I didn’t. I sat there. Accepting my beating.
Charlie maneuvered the conversation to his liking. Religion. The Bible. His words more intense. I took the Commandments in stride, desperately trying to let my wife enjoy the dinner. I owed her that much, for Christ’s sake.
When he noted the repetition in Deuteronomy, I was a hair’s width from telling him to fuck off but instead said, We all know it, Charlie. By the time he got to Matthew, I could tell he had gone and looked the passages up. He’d been plotting this. But I say to you that whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery in his heart.
James was smiling.
My oldest sons. They had me beaten and they knew it. I was finished.
I wanted to be alone, in the next room, just before sunrise, a glass of whiskey in my hand. I wanted my silence. I wanted to tell my wife, praying she’d forgive me for my fall. But instead...
They’re words of men, Charlie. Good stories. But that’s all they are. Good stories, I said aloud.
One by one, their heads lifted from their plates.
Just stories, I continued. But wait until you get to be a little older, a little wiser, and you’ll understand. God was constructed from the arrogant human worry that this might be all we get. A short circle of time filled with pain, betrayal and disappointment that ends in infinite blackness while your vacated, despicable shell lies covered in the shit that drained from your bowels after a final panicked breath.
God is fiction, Charlie. Very good fiction.
I could tell more—go into detail about the yelling that ensued between Charlie and me, the look on Ernest’s face, Patricia’s tears, what James said to me that made me walk away, but I’d rather not. I’d rather not talk about that night anymore.
Prague.
The memories of past trips stood carefully balanced on the line in my head that separates action from daydream. Walking drunk down a winding cobblestone street with no sound of the English language echoing off the ancient stone walls. I imagined I would find peace under the cold Bohemian winter.
Westchester suffocated me.
My wife knew. About the girl. It was alright. She was bound to find out. She deserved to know what a piece of shite I was.
Shit. Piece of shit.
I don’t know what Charlie’s intention was. Whether he wanted revenge or to simply rid it from his possession. But I walked into my office at home—in the attic where my flea market desk sighs below a small window that watches over Upstate New York. I found the scarf stretched across the sofa he’d helped me carry up the stairs. The entire length of it. That sad snow spread out for any curious eye to see.
I leaned against the doorway and felt sorry for myself. As if I were the victim. Must’ve stood there for a full minute. Thinking about what I had done, wondering what the consequences were going to be, when they were to be doled out.
She walked up behind me. Patricia did. She stared at the scarf, puzzled for a moment, then turned to me. I watched her face contort with pain and betrayal as it registered. She turned around and descended the stairs without a sound. She knew without having to ask.
For three days, I slept poorly on the sofa in the attic. My office. I was waking up before dawn and drinking whiskey at the kitchen table. Patricia never said a word about it. I almost wish she had.
You fuck up one time—just once—and you lose everything.
I made up my mind.
I needed the silence. I didn’t know how long I was going to stay, but I knew I was going.
I lied to my family. Yeah, I’ve got a conference in London for my paper on Orwell and Hemingway in the Spanish Civil War. Bought a ticket to Prague for a long weekend. Booked the apartment on Černá, the same one as the last time I had gone—years ago, before this stain. I knew I was in the wrong, but if I was going to fix this I needed the silence.
The nightmares. Each time sleep dared to come, I was smothered with that winter’s scarf, unable to breathe, life fading. And I tried to fight it. I would struggle with my assailant, desperate to pull the scarf away, desperate to breathe. Through my last tears, I would see it was Charlie smothering me. Then it was Patricia. Then it was the girl. Then it was James. Then Charlie again. Then Ernie. Then Patricia. Then the girl. Then James. Then Charlie. Then Patricia. Then the girl. Then Ernie. Then Charlie. Then James.
Then Patricia.
Then the girl.
Then Patricia.
Then the girl.
Then Patricia.
Then the girl.
Then the girl.
Then the girl.
Then the girl.
Then the girl.
Then...
The name of the pub on Boršov was Zpetné Zrcátko. Loosely translated, rearview mirror. Appropriate. Ice cold pure as can fucking be pilsner and a selection of whiskeys from around the world. Couldn’t go wrong. A far cry from sunrise at my kitchen table, but I decided to make the exception.
So I had a cold beer and a warm shot and talked with a young American writer who had moved to Prague, thinking he was the modern Hemingway-expatriate. Chester Underhill. Hell of a name. Though I smiled at Chester’s naïveté, I envied the shit out of him. Just upped and went, as I had. But he was going to stay. I had responsibilities back home. Another beer, another shot. Forgot those thoughts.
Chester was living cheap—drinking dollar beers, eating three dollar meals. He spent the rest of his time writing in a studio apartment in Malá Strana. Son of a bitch. The kid knew something.
He reminded me of Charlie. Not the writing part. Charlie had about as much creativity as a bar of soap. But the fire in his eyes. You just know when a person’s got something to accomplish.
The whole time I was talking with this kid, The Boss’ Nebraska was on the jukebox. Some asshole had played the album in its entirety and I was getting drunk and nodding my head and thinking fuck yeah, this is the way life is supposed to be.
So Chester and I got fucked up proper, drinking whiskey to my max and beyond. At one point we sang every goddam lyric to “Atlantic City” together. Other patrons must’ve loved that. Fucking Americans.
Finally, before daybreak but after Chester and I had torn through a good portion of their bottle of Twelve Year Jameson and the jukebox asshole had moved on to Tom Wait’s Small Change, it was time to leave. I knew that because the pub was empty and there was a stout Czech man in a stained apron standing in front of us who had just said, It’s four thirty assholes, while pointing to his watch. I told Chester I was paying because he reminded me of my son, then gave a handful of notes to the staff because that’s what a drunk man does after a decent evening at the pub.
A light snow was falling over Prague when we walked out the door.
When we said our goodbyes Chester asked about my family. After spending a career studying words, I had none that seemed to fit. But he was staring at me, waiting for an answer. Must have been twenty seconds. Finally I muttered, Here on business.
Chester nodded as if that was a proper answer, thanked me for the booze and shuffled to catch the tram at Národní divadlo.
After some time in the fresh air my head started to reel from the alcohol. The blackness of the sky lessened as the sun began its morning custom. The snow fell heavier, draping a winter’s blanket—or scarf—across the ancient city. A perfect time for a walk on the Charles Bridge.
Realizing how cold it had become, I pulled up my collar and headed north.
I was drunk. Very drunk. And I knew that wasn’t an excuse. I was very well fucking aware that was not a suitable explanation for my fatuity. But to have taken action. To have found the silence I had so desperately searched for. To have walked, soaked in whiskey, through the cobblestone streets of a foreign city, streetlights shining in the face of an early morning fog while snowflakes seemed to fall from the Hands of God Himself.
Because I had been sitting at my kitchen table watching the sun rise.
I had woken up from a dream to find I understood everything. My kids hated the fucking sight of me and my wife knew I had been an unfaithful piece of shit. I knew. My nightmare was my life. And I fucking knew. So I bought a ticket.
Who the hell travels to Prague in December?
Who the hell walks the Charles Bridge as the sun is beginning to rise after he sat depressed and drinking whiskey at daybreak not twenty-four hours prior with hopes this winter city would proffer the proper path to salvation?
Allow me to ask, who the hell climbs a statue of the Crucifix in an attempt to hug a concrete Christ because—after cheating on his wife of twenty-nine years—he had told his kids he’d given up on God when he knew goddam well he hadn’t?
I was smarter than that, goddam it. I had a fucking PhD.
But too much literature does that to a man. Too much whiskey does that to a man.
I had sat there at that dinner table with my children and told them that I didn’t believe God existed.
I did not want to say that.
I did not want to say that.
But I was there on that bridge. And Jesus was there and the Castle was behind Him and He was looking at me like He knew. Like He knew that I had fucked up and He was saying, It’s alright.
Because I was forgiven.
And I started crying, blubbering like a small child, like my own children had—back when things were good, when they still fit in my arms. I remembered the dinner table and my kids and my wife and the student I had fucked and what a vile, filthy piece of shit I was and I started climbing.
Stretching one foot up onto the wall, I hoisted myself up. I balanced my inebriated soul, draping one arm around John the Evangelist, who was looking up mournfully at the cement Son of Man. I looked up, too, my eyes still full of tears.
I touched His feet. It wasn’t enough.
I walked up the base of the statue and gripped the bottom of the Cross to raise my body higher. Hands clenching the golden lettering—Holy, Holy, Holy Lord—I pulled myself the remaining impossible distance and was finally at His level.
Face to Face.
My arms around His neck, clutching Him, holding Him tightly, my legs wrapped around the Cross, the appearance of a suited drunk tree climber clinging to some thread of Christ.
I was sobbing. Sobbing for my doubts in God. Sobbing for the helpless young student who involuntarily came to me in my nightmares. Sobbing for my wife, who had offered me her love and trust only to be betrayed. Sobbing for my children, who were angry and embarrassed.
My family.
And I had left without so much as a hurried scribbled note.
I’m sorry… With love, from Prague.
I slipped.
A simple accident.
My whiskey-drenched feet gave way. I reached for a better grip but grabbed His crown by accident. The thorns pierced my fingers and instinct is instinct when it comes to pain.
Brutally drunk and four thousand miles from home on a snow-covered morning as the sun rose. I fell off the Charles Bridge in Prague and landed in the cold waters of the River Vltava. That was that.
To think Christ would have had any time for me?
I should have known better.
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