Pavel Kovac is Going to America
It all happened long ago … but it did happen.
Pavel Kovac did not like his father. He did not like his father’s raw laughs, confident manner, broad shoulders, and how he made everyone around him feel small.
Pavel felt small.
Even in his fifteenth year, his body refused to give away the delicacy of a much younger boy. His fingers possessed that peculiar fragility seen in piano players. When he brushed wisps of his straw-blond hair from his forehead, it seemed like a fleeting ray of sunshine passed through.
Pavel’s mother called him her angel.
While he was still a little boy, Pavel’s clear blue eyes wandered for hours over the delicate watercolours his mother painted in an abandoned room at the end of their house. He would sit quietly next to his mother’s easel and gaze into the colours and shades for a long time.
Sometimes his mother would paint the tip of his nose crimson red or draw funny shapes on his face, and they would both laugh. She was careful to take it all off before his father came home. His father was working in a factory where they made guns and tanks. He was an important man there and a high-ranked Party official.
On the day one of his mother’s girlfriends from her art classes came to visit, they painted a large gold and green butterfly on Pavel’s face and let him make as many coloured handprints as he liked. Later, while his mother was busy with cakes and coffees, Pavel reached for crayons and started drawing a magical forest. Where brilliant butterflies like the one that had landed on his face dwell. He was shading the edges of wings when the noise of their front door opening and his father’s voice travelled through the air. The emerald green crayon wobbled and smudged the sparkling yellow of the wings’ edge.
Pavel’s father was calling their names in that jovial manner that always meant he had brought one of his comrades with him to talk politics, drink and play chess. His mother was tasked with arranging snacks, chilling drinks, emptying ashtrays until the early hours when she called taxis or helped find seats behind blurry-eyed chauffeurs.
As the door of their room swung open, Pavel looked up and, for the first time in his life, saw the workings of human geometry, the broad arches of his father’s smile transforming into sagging lines of disgust. Pavel’s throat tightened when his father picked him up and carried him to the far corner of the room. Where an old-fashioned sink with two porcelain taps and a sop his mother used to clean her hands stood. Turning on both taps, Pavel’s father told him to clean that shit from his face and remember that he is not a fucking girl.
After that, Pavel’s mother never used colours on his face or let him play with her paints.
At school, everyone was deliberately kind to Pavel. He was the son of a man whose word held exceptional powers; it could send you to prison or release you from it. Pavel’s teachers made sure that nobody picked on him or teased him about his delicate disposition. They did not want to answer any difficult questions. Pavel hated it with as much strength as his trembling heart could muster. He saw some of his classmates hiding sniggering smiles and whispers into the collars of their school uniforms. He caught snippets of whispered jokes about his girlish looks. Pavel wished for his classmates to tease and torment him openly as they did each other. On some days, he even wanted them to push him around in that half-play-half-fight manner of growing boys. But they would not.
Until Milan Vargas arrived in their class.
Milan was transferred from a different school on the far outskirts of the city. It was his third school in as many years. He was expelled from each one.
Milan was tall and a year older than Pavel. Even at sixteen, the beginnings of the look legions of females will eventually recognise as bad-boy charm were becoming visible. A ready smile lingered in the corners of his lips. When he was standing next to you, shuffling from one foot to another, it was hard not to think that he was in a big hurry and had no time to spare. And Milan was in a hurry. A hurry to grow up and go to America.
Milan’s father was killed by communists at the end of the war while trying to cross the board to Austria to find his way to America. After his mother died of grief and loneliness, Milan lived with his grandfather, who retreated into what was left of his house after it was partitioned to accommodate a working-class family. In the small space he was allowed to occupy, the old man surrounded himself with the objects that kept the life he could still recognise in their shapes.
Milan’s family was one of those with a file. To be monitored. If it wasn’t for his uncle, who, as his grandfather explained, was smart enough to join the communists when it became apparent they were winning, Milan and his grandfather would have been sent to reformation camps. To learn about the new world and its order. How to be its useful and productive members. But Milan’s uncle managed to keep them safe, so long as they did not cause any trouble.
Milan understood all that. The importance of keeping quiet, not drawing attention. About his grandfather’s worries. He tried hard to keep out of the way. It did not always work. He once asked a history teacher how she knew workers in America are oppressed. She sent him to the principal’s office. Milan skipped from one foot to another all the way there. The principal did not have the answer either. But he did call his uncle to school.
Pavel was fascinated by Milan. Every time Pavel glanced in his direction, Milan would wink at him. One day Milan just threw his large hand over Pavel’s shoulder and called him my little pal. They became friends. Pavel’s first friend.
Milan seemed not to know about the code of deliberate kindness that shadowed Pavel. He measured Pavel’s small hands against his and joked about how small they were. One day he even dared Pavel to throw punches and teach him how to fight in the far corner of the school field. It was such a fun spectacle that some kids forgot about the code and cheered them on. Pavel laughed so much that his face hurt.
Collecting their satchels from the edge of the field, Milan asked Pavel to come to his house for the first time. He said he wanted to show him something. Pavel hesitated. He felt an unfamiliar sensation of being pulled towards and away from Milan at the same time. He was sure his father would not allow it. As he was sure that he really wanted to go.
Pavel had never seen a house like Milan’s. From the outside, it looked old and almost abandoned. Inside, it was arranged as a cross between a workshop and sleeping quarters. There did not seem to be any bathroom or running water. Milan’s grandfather was sitting on the small stool, working on an odd-looking apparatus with various parts lying around. A couple of others in a similar state of disrepair were scattered around the place. Some looked like old radios with Bakelite knobs.
The grandfather did not seem to notice Pavel and Milan.
Milan carefully guided Pavel through the front room and into an adjoining space just big enough for a couple of people to stand or kneel behind the closed door. He flipped the corner of the dusty floor rug and carefully separated the floorboards. Pavel held his breath. Milan slowly slipped his hands inside the opening and lifted a square-shaped object covered with a thick woollen cloth. He winked at Pavel and threw the cloth away; We are going to America, he said. Pavel did not think so. All he could see was an old radio and some odd-looking wires attached to it.
Milan was excited. He was obviously familiar with the wires and knobs, turning them this way and that. Looking for a signal, he said, then checked that the window was shut and the curtains pulled. Pavel felt tiny drops of sweat forming on top of his upper lip. He watched Milan’s moving fingers. All he could see were Milan’s fingers and the top of his curly scalp. A puppeteer fiddling with his offerings.
Hissing sounds escaped from the apparatus. Pavel leaned over Milan, peering into the radio’s mesh front. A clear female voice surged forward. Pavel jumped back, bumping against the door. As if by reflex, Milan steadied him, his firm hand on Pavel’s arm. It was a dry, strong hand. He turned the volume down low with his other hand.
Milan pulled Pavel next to him. They were both now kneeling in front of the mesh. The young female voice was barely audible. Pavel looked imploringly at Milan. He did not know what to do. The air felt warm and dusty, like the inside of his mother’s room at the end of summer. He wanted to ask what it all meant. Milan squeezed his shoulders. It is OK, he said. I will teach you American.
Pavel went to Milan’s house every time he could craft an excuse. At school, it was easy; nobody questioned him when he asked to go home early because he was feeling sick. Milan leaving around the same time raised no concern. Milan’s absences were customary. As long as he kept to himself and caused no problems, nobody was bothered.
Pavel’s mother left the front rooms of their house around the same time she left the rooms of her marriage. She migrated into the room where her paints and easel were, and she called my studio. Occasionally, Pavel would see her wandering through the rest of the house at night. A willowy figure wearing long flowing dresses and vacant, unseeing eyes. After the first time she looked through him, Pavel avoided leaving his room at night.
Occasionally Pavel had to explain his absences to his father. Milan had an idea. Pavel should join their school’s communist-youth army class. They meet each week to learn how to assemble and disassemble weapons and have real guns to practise on. To become soldiers in the people’s army, ready at any time. To defend the country from imperial powers. America and its allies.
The organiser was an enthusiastic young teacher. He was overjoyed to have Pavel in his class. In time, the boy’s father would certainly visit. It will be a great opportunity. He was sure of it.
Pavel attended the beginning of each class. He displayed a keen interest and quickly learned how to assemble and disassemble guns with great speed. Milan’s grandfather had made sure of it. Once the boys told him their plan, the old man spent hours moulding Pavel’s piano fingers around the old gun that he kept hidden in that shack they call home. He also made sure that Pavel’s eyes did not moisten with tears of despair every time he held a weapon in his hands. The old man’s eyes danced like Milan’s did. Soon, the routine was established. After displaying his skills at the beginning of each class, Pavel would quietly slip out. The teacher did not question him. The teacher waited for a suitable moment to invite his father for a visit.
Pavel would join Milan at the street corner where an old newspaper kiosk stood. Sometimes Milan would arrive on his grandfather’s motorbike. That way, we save time, he would say. Milan loved that motorbike. It was a German model left from the war. The first time, Pavel was scared to sit behind Milan. He smiled at Milan’s open hand, motioning him to jump on. He could not. Until Milan dismounted and took him by the hand. You will be OK; just hold on to me firmly. The machine started with a roar that frightened Pavel. He held onto Milan with all his might and pushed his face deep into the creases of Milan’s woollen jacket. It smelt of sweat and tobacco.
The room with the radio held them for hours. Pavel soon learned that the program was called Voice of America and was broadcasted directly from America. Which is why they must keep it a secret. It was not allowed.
The old man would sometimes join them, causing a shortage of oxygen in the room. On those days, Pavel had to squeeze close to Milan. Their legs would entwine like knobbed branches on young trees in spring. Pavel’s insides moved in unison with the throbbing in his chest. Pearls of sweat spotted his upper lip.
Milan’s grandfather translated some words for them. Before the war, he had studied languages in Prague. He told them that the language is called English and is spoken in America. Pavel was unsure why it is not called American, as Milan first told him. The old man insisted on teaching them a few words. Milan later explained that they must learn so they could look for work once in America. Milan could already speak a few short sentences. It was the first time Pavel understood how serious Milan was about the plan. He is going to America and taking Pavel with him. For real. Pavel did not dare to ask when.
Milan’s grandfather unearthed some of his books and left them in the room. Some of them were beautiful, old and worn with thin pages and scratched covers. All in English. Pavel smoothed the palm of his hand over their surfaces. He wondered how often Milan’s hands touched them.
Pavel wanted to learn English. He wanted to understand the words coming from the radio and the lyrics of songs Milan said he liked. Wanted to understand everything Milan was carefully explaining to him; about lies, propaganda, and injustices. He wished he could care about all those things as deeply as he knew Milan does.
But Pavel could not concentrate.
He tried his best. Carefully writing English words and repeating them after Milan. Trying to follow the meanings Milan was explaining. Until his lungs became full of Milan’s smell, and all he could hear was the throbbing in the depths of his belly. Insistent and unyielding.
Spring slowly turned into early summer. Their school’s long field would soon be made into the podium for the school’s annual celebration. All the teachers and some important district party officials will attend. The end of another school year.
Pavel worried more each day. About his unfinished schoolwork and the long summer holidays. He did not have any idea how to continue visiting Milan once school finished. He was worried that his father would send him to one of those youth summer camps where manual work and Marxism teachings were practised daily. About English words, Milan asked him to practice. The harder he tried, the less he remembered. Until all he could remember was the shape of Milan’s mouth and the sound of his laughter. Like ripples of water cascading over cobblestones.
On some days, Pavel would hide behind his mother’s studio’s outer walls and cry until his eyes became red and swollen. He wished to lie down on the warm concrete, close his eyes and dissolve into the endless blue sky above him.
In the last weeks of school, Milan was ecstatic. His body was in constant motion, rippled with energy. Floodwaters bursting through riverbanks. He was absent from most classes and told Pavel he was finished with school. And with this place. We are as good as gone, my little pal, he said.
Milan never explained to Pavel how they were going to reach America. He only spoke about shiny cars and the big houses people have over there. Shops full of stuff you can buy any time you want. The music you can listen to any time you fancy it. On those afternoons, when Milan’s hands and mouth painted pictures of their new life in America, Pavel forgot all about his inability to memorise English words, his father, and his school. He even forgot about the dreaded school holidays and youth summer camps. He simply hugged his knees and floated on the current of Milan’s words like a lazy holiday swimmer on the sleepy sea waves.
With the end of school approaching, it was becoming harder to slip from the training classes. The teacher insisted on making sure that everyone was well-trained for the annual display. He was keeping an especially keen eye on Pavel. He had already arranged for an invitation letter to reach Pavel’s father and wanted to make sure Pavel would perform flawlessly and receive one of the highest prizes. After that, it would be easy to start a conversation.
With backing from such a man as Pavel’s father, he might finally manage to move from the classroom to an office job. It was not his fault that his own brother was adamant about not joining the party, even though he spent hours trying to make him see sense. To make him see that all he is achieving is ruining his life and the lives of others in the family. But you cannot talk to that man anymore. All he would say was; You do not believe in that crap yourself; all you are after is a cushy job and an easy life! It was pointless. But it bothered him. He knew they were holding it against him that he could not convert even his own brother. Only now, with this little boy, a sorry excuse for one to be sure, he might have a breakthrough if he can make the boy’s father proud. Especially since rumours have it his wife has locked herself into a room and hardly ever comes out. Sick, apparently. The boy is no better, either. All transparent and feminine looking. You almost wish to tie a ribbon to his hair. It was a miracle he learnt to operate weapons so well.
As soon as the class started, the teacher announced they would have a block lesson and a few more before the big day. Pavel’s heart sank. He knew Milan would be waiting for him at the usual time. His hands started sweating. He carried the first part of the instructions with well-practised movements, leaving only tiny wet marks on the shiny black metal. Pavel really needed to be on time today; Milan said they needed time to talk. He was going to tell him when to sneak out of the house and what to bring for their trip.
When the teacher approached him, Pavel realised that he had brought a new rifle for him to practice on. And a new roll of ammunition. That meant the teacher would continue to stand close to him and observe. Pavel’s hands started to tremble. Now he will have no chance to sneak out. The teacher was smiling at him, and Pavel could see his gum line bared above his teeth. He was saying something Pavel could not decipher. His ears were full of the drumming from his chest.
It was Janos that called the teacher from the front of the class. His fat fingers jammed the mechanism again, and he needed help. Pavel slowly placed the rifle on the bench and wiped his hands on his trousers. He picked his satchel and started moving towards the door. It might just work. Before Pavel’s hand could quietly turn the doorknob, the teacher called his name. Pavel turned around. He squeezed his satchel and looked at the floor. He did not want to cry. The teacher came close to him and put his hand on Pavel’s shoulders. He wanted to know where Pavel was going. All he could say was that he was not well and wanted to go home. The teacher lifted his chin. To see tears rolling down Pavel’s pale cheeks. The teacher no longer smiled. It was the second time in his life Pavel saw rapid changes in the geometry of human smiles.
The teacher let Pavel go home and asked Janos to accompany him. Janos made a face at his friend Andrej before picking up his own satchel and walking towards Pavel. Janos was a tall boy with a prominent forehead and big hands. He was a youth leader in training.
Pavel could feel fear clawing inside his spine. His fingers were ice cold. He could not move. Janos was waiting for him. Milan was waiting at the corner with the newspaper kiosk.
Pavel followed Janos outside the classroom and towards the school gate. Janos was trying to match his long strides to Pavel’s shuffle, but he ended up leaving Pavel behind. Pavel tried walking even slower. When they approached the school gate, Pavel glanced around. Janos turned towards the street on the left. The shortest route to Pavel’s home. Pavel did not move. He hoped Janos would not turn around.
When Janos called his name, Pavel saw Milan. Jogging towards him, smiling with his whole face, hands in the air, shouting for Pavel to hurry up. As he reached him, Milan grabbed Pavel by his shoulders and shook him playfully as he often did, joking that it was the only way to wake him up from his daydreaming. With his hands still on Pavel’s shoulders, Milan saw tears flooding Pavel’s face. He saw Janos at the same time. Watching them.
Janos knew right away what he must do. Run back to class and find the teacher. Tell him what he saw. That Milan Vargas is terrorising Pavel Kovac. He had seen it with his own eyes.
The street was empty when Janos returned with the teacher. The teacher said they should have a quick look around.
Milan had half-carried, half-dragged Pavel through the web of back-streets known by those in need of their quick routes and secluded short-cuts. Milan knew Janos would tell the teacher, and they would start looking for him right away. He was desperate to reach home and find his grandfather. Milan sunk his teeth into his lower lip and tightened the grip on Pavel’s arm.
Janos was suggesting they broaden their search when the teacher decided to return to school and call Pavel’s father. He was not taking any chances. He needed to be the first to tell the boy’s father.
Navigating his way through alleyways, Milan reached his house. His grandfather was not in. Milan locked Pavel in the room with the radio and went looking for his grandfather. If he could only find him quickly, they would be safe. The old man would know where to go until they could leave for America. He was sure of that. For the first time in his life, Milan felt the salty flavour of his own tears. And the emptiness of wish that his father is alive.
Pavel’s father was wearing a long overcoat when he arrived at Milan’s house. He looked even taller than usual. He pushed the front door open and stepped into the dim light of an early summer evening. The faint smell of oil and burnt food lingered in the room. It was empty.
Pavel’s father called his name in sharp, rapid bursts. Like bullets ricocheting off the pavement. In the silence made thicker by the absence of response, Pavel’s father heard a faint sound of crying behind a roughly made door. He tried the door’s knob. Locked. The anger was stretching itself inside him like a long, lazy snake. The door gave in at the first kick. In the small space below the window ledge, Pavel hugged his knees, burying his face between their knobbly ends. His whole body was shaking with sobs.
Milan found his grandfather at the bikes rapier shop, a man he had known since they were both young, kept at the end of their street. Milan was urging his grandfather to hurry when they saw a car parked in front of their house. They ran inside.
When Pavel’s father turned around, they saw a gun in his hand. A standard-issue TT-33. Milan’s grandfather stepped in front of him. Milan cried out.
It was then Pavel launched himself into his father. The late sun danced in his hair. His face wet with tears, hands grabbing desperately; he screamed at his father that he hated him, hated their house and was going to America. With Milan. Forever.
A gun fired. A single bullet flew from its enclosure like a bird from its cage. Fast and Free.
A large crimson flower blossomed from Pavel’s chest. The same colour his mother used to paint dots on the tip of his nose. When he was still a little boy.
It would be 20 years before Milan Vargas reaches America. In a bag he bought the same day he was released from prison, he carried an old school satchel. The name Pavel Kovac, written in a childlike scrawl, could be seen in the upper right corner. If you look closely.
