Two Faces of the East Wind

The First Face

It is almost a year since I agreed to go on a blind date. It was with a complete stranger—but our mutual acquaintance assured me that we would “get along perfectly.”

I asked why.

“Because … well, just because. You know, you’re into anime and books, so is he. Plus, things between us have not, are not, and never will go well so I figured it’d be a pity to not introduce you to my best friend who is also single.”

I chose to ignore the negative implications and instead urged him to tell me more about this best friend.

“Um … he’s got brown hair, blue eyes, he’s starting uni this year—translation, English‑German.”

I won’t lie—I was suddenly excited! It isn’t everyday that you meet a blue‑eyed brunet with a knack for languages and literature. My interest level jumped up like Mario at a cube in mid‑air—and to hide my sudden zeal, I rolled my eyes and said that sure, I’d give it a go.

“Great! I’ll arrange it. Tomorrow?”

“What, so soon?”

“Yeah, he’s leaving for Italy next week.”

“Um … okay. How will we recognize each other?”

“Oh, he saw your photograph. He said you’re gorgeous. Anyway, I gotta go—I’ll write you soon, okay? I promise, you won’t regret this!” He smiled proudly like Ariel after successfully causing the shipwreck in The Tempest and flew away.

///

It was summer and with my family being out of town, I felt freedom—freedom to do what I wanted, to go wherever I wanted and, mainly, to be with whomever I wanted. So truly, I met this best friend the next day—by the statue of a gramophone located right next to the National Theatre. I can say that I arrived without any expectations—only just in case, I made an arrangement with my friend to call me an hour after our meeting time. We had the following code: if I wanted to stay, I’d say ,“I’ll be home later” and if I wanted to leave I’d say, “I’ll be on my way right away.” In short, I was ready for both catastrophe and good luck.

But it wasn’t needed—to this day I don’t know exactly what it was, but I honestly never felt such a connection with anyone on a first date. From the moment we said “hi” all the way to the good‑bye smile and embrace about three hours later, I enjoyed myself and so did he evidently. All nervousness or initial doubt disappeared into the shadows of vivid conversation on literature, history, travel, languages. I felt so relaxed I even began speaking in English to him—out of nowhere! Realizing this, I apologized.

“It’s okay, we can speak in English if you like.” Cliché as it sounds, my heart melted. Because unlike many Czech men, his English was fluent, choice of words imaginative, and he was fun.

///

Then came the call I completely forgot about. I excused myself and went outside the café.

“You have to go home.”

“I don’t want to.” A hum of surprise came from the other end of the line.

“Really? So it’s going well, I guess?”

“Too well. Gotta go, talk to you later.”

After returning to the table, he smiled and asked if everything was alright.

“Yes.”

And after looking at each other for a while, the same words simultaneously flew out of our mouths, “Why haven’t we met sooner?” and, simultaneously, we blushed.

///

I knew that at this point it was all too positive. I couldn’t believe it either—as we say in Czech, there had to be a dead body buried somewhere. So I began searching. I asked, “D. told me you’re going to study translation.”

He nodded.

“Where? Faculty of Arts?” My heart jumped in excitement at the thought of us both studying at the same university.

His smile disappeared as he responded, “University of Vienna. I’ve lived there already for a year, got a place of my own.”

There, I had discovered the body. And I was confused. I felt the urge to leave, thinking that this relationship had no future and I won’t lie—I was disappointed. And confused, because I had never experienced long‑distance dating and honestly, I wasn’t rushing into it either. So after a short while, I responded, “Oh.”

To this he quickly said, “But I have my family here, so I do come to Prague twice a month.”

I looked away.

“My dad partially works in Italy, my mum in Russia, so I do travel quite a lot to see them.”

I looked at him quizzically.

He took the hint. “I’m Russian.”

There—the second dead body. I immediately pictured my family’s reaction to me dating a Russian guy. It wasn’t bound to be a positive one—my mother works at a music high school where most of her students are Russian and it had happened more than once that she had said that “no Russian will enter my house.” In short, there is a general stigma over here against Russians—more among the older generation than my own, but still. I wanted to leave. But I didn’t—I stayed with him until the end of that afternoon and a second date was arranged.

///

My mind was up in the clouds for the next two days. I counted the hours until we would meet again. I fought the urge to write him. I lived in recollections of our last meeting. And I was hurting. I was confused. I withdrew into myself. I was lost in doubt and fear.

But still, I met him. It was warmer than the last time we had met and it felt even hotter when I was in his presence. We went to see an exhibition of Japanese calligraphy—like the characters, we were equally as close to each other, texture on texture, shoulder to shoulder . His hand orbited around me like a planet does around the sun. Occasionally, there was a collision—he pulled me towards him into an embrace, he put his hand around my waist or he stood behind me, his hot breath caused me to shiver. But in contrast to last time, words did not flow as easily—he seemed to be mentally elsewhere and his body did all the speaking.

It was a change that I should have paid more attention to before it went all wrong.

///

He accompanied me to my German class as well as to my house later on that day. I was bewildered by the way he gently kissed my cheek before parting the first time—and despite all reason, I made the initiative to more physical contact that evening. On the street, with the stars and bright moon as our witnesses, our lips curved and brushed, producing infinite kisses. I didn’t want those moments to end, but I couldn’t enjoy them as much as I wanted. He was to leave for Italy in a week—as D. had warned me—and between the embraces and kisses, I felt a clock ticking away in my mind.

He stared into my eyes and said, “I’ve been thinking. If you want, we can try to make it long‑distance. You come visit me every two weeks, I come here every two weeks. I want to be with you and I will understand if you say no.”

And weak and infatuated as I was, I nodded. I agreed to seeing him after he returned—this was a mistake.

So after parting, I decided to plan the entire week in a fashion that would enable me to forget his absence—in vain. My life felt suddenly incomplete and I anxiously waited for him to return. I dreamed about him in a way that I had to slap myself and go for a run or read a book. Looking back, there always was an impression of a ticking clock where he was concerned. Only it didn’t ring an alarm in me until it was too late to go back.

The Second Face

Indeed, he returned a week later. My infatuation was still strong, but not as strong as it had been a week earlier. Reason began kicking in—but it got kicked out the moment he said that he would be leaving for Vienna in two days to sort out some university stuff. I decided to live for the moment—and when he invited me to his house, I agreed. I knew it was a Russian roulette, because I barely knew him. But isn’t it the forbidden or unreasonable that we desire the most sometimes?

He picked me up after class. He took my hand. He let go of it. Took it again. Let go. We reached his house—a stereotypical family home with a white façade, sharp red roof, and a trimmed garden; and in this aspect, it resembled one from some real estate magazine. It was all ours that night.

///

I felt no fear entering it. I knew well enough what we were there for—I had known that “watching a movie” was a code the moment I had noticed there was no television and he had taken out a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.

“I don’t drink.”

He filled my glass anyway and emptied his. And again. He showed me into the living room where there was a collection of books. I immediately began studying them—he then excused himself for a while and left.

That while was longer than I found normal—I wondered what was happening in the bathroom. Squaring my shoulders, I returned to studying the books, most of which were in English. I guess I was studying them rather intensively, for I didn’t notice his return into the room.

///

“I’m back.”

I grabbed a book and turned around, holding it, ready to ask a question—but what I saw took me aback. He just stood in the doorway in nothing but a bathrobe. And I stood there, speechless—I hadn’t expected him to be this frank. He walked over and sat on the white leather sofa and nudged me to join him. I did, still speechless, but also feeling awkward from being fully dressed with a man in a bathrobe. Then I realized how else it all felt: disgusting, cheap, and repulsive. All initial enchantment was gone and I considered him to not be worth my time anymore. Still, I found magic in his sky‑blue eyes.

I stopped him half‑way in the act of embracing me and urged him to clarify the whole situation, for my sake. I knew it was a poisonous question, but I still posed it, “Where is this all heading?”

Soon enough, he answered, “Where? Nowhere. I am returning to Vienna two days from now, you are staying here and eventually leaving somewhere else to study. I mean, I’ve done some thinking and really, it couldn’t work out. It seemed a good idea at first, being together long‑distance, but I’ll be honest—you’re Czech, I’m Russian and you know that says it all. We haven’t got a chance.”

I wanted to kick him for being so narrow‑minded—but at the same time, I knew he was speaking the truth that I had dared not utter.

He began rumbling the usual bullshit, “You’re a great girl, really—I’m glad we met. I think we could have been great together, but—“

“Shush.” And what I said next surprised me as well as him, “As long as you’re here, before you leave, let’s be together.”

He smiled and nodded. The rest is history.

A very short history. The next morning he made sure I didn’t leave anything at the house and accompanied me to the subway. It was the strangest ten minute walk of my life (so far); once there, we exchanged good‑bye wishes and the famous line, “We’ll keep in touch.” But we both knew that wouldn’t happen. Because, to quote Frank Sinatra, “It was great fun, but it was just one of those things.”

///

I won’t lie—the “fun” maybe wasn’t worth it, as I felt low and miserable for an entire week. I fell into isolation and only went out after my friends insisted. Rock‑climbing, 10 a.m. start. It was a little challenging for me to get out so early after a small‑scale heartbreak, remedied by watching the series Sex and the City for days on end, eating little or nothing—but still, looking back, I’m glad I made it. Because one of my climbing partners was somebody who would become my best friend, shoulder to lean on, and partner who helped me quickly forget about the shock caused by the two‑faced east wind.