by Peter Kysel
“Run downstairs into the kitchen and out through the garden.” While she hid the champagne, I grabbed my jacket and ran. The gate was locked, so I climbed over it and jumped, but my belt caught on the gate post. There I was, dangling just above the pavement to the amusement of a passing dog walker.
“I lost the key to the gate; can you help me?” I called out. Together we undid the buckle and I dropped to the ground. For a few weeks after this incident, Sarah studiously avoided me. Then one morning she phoned and asked to meet up again at Frederick’s for lunch.
“I forgot to remove the champagne bottle from behind the sofa, and my husband discovered it.”
“What did you say?”
“I cried and confessed to be a lonely alcoholic.”
“Yes?”
“In return, he confessed that he was also an alcoholic. I agreed to go to AA meetings with him!”
“So, you got away with it”
“Well, then he was made redundant and is now insisting that we change our lifestyle.”
“How?”
“We are going to sell the house in London and move to his family estate in Dorset, where we’ll keep sheep, ride horses and he will stand as the Conservative party candidate”
“And you? Are you going to stay with him and open village fetes?”
“I don’t have the courage to leave him.” It was our last meeting.
At a dinner, I was introduced to Helene, a doctor from Dusseldorf, who was married to a Bundeswehr officer. We met a few times, but we were disturbed at one romantic dinner when her husband phoned, threatening to shoot her and himself, with his service revolver. Petrified, Helene ran from the table and escaped through the kitchens and into her car, while I paid the bill. I followed, expecting to hear gunfire. The dark carpark was silent. I got into my car and drove off, checking the rear mirror to make sure I wasn’t being followed. A few days later Helene telephoned.
“I think Walter tracked my mobile. When he realised that I was not visiting my girlfriend, he telephoned and made his threats.”
“The Bundeswehr have an efficient spying system. What else happened?”
“The revolver by his bed wasn’t even loaded, but he was so masterly, I had to give in.” The husband’s dramatic call restored their marriage and ended our romantic intentions.
Then I met Juliette, a French countess, with a family house in Versailles, a chateau in Languedoc-Roussillon and a white Maltese bitch called Ariel. Juliette was married to Henri, an aged count who was the chief executive of a large company. Old connections counted in France, according to Juliette.
“He is convinced that his name and background got him to the top.” I noticed that the countess’s name was a passport to getting us a table at any Parisian restaurant, and to jumping the queues outside crowded night clubs. It was fun to push through the throng who were clearly trying to work out our celebrity status.
“Henri has turned the chateau into a lucrative hospitality business and busies himself entertaining the foreign guests, but I am bored.”
I bought a Eurostar season ticket to keep her company, driving her around in a sports car and occasionally playing golf and tennis.” The countess loved drama and created a series of situations to try and make her aged count jealous, in the hope of spicing up their jaded relationship. But the old aristocrat wasn’t interested. Our relationship became so stressful, that I even considered contacting Henri, to form a united front.
On Bastille Day when former aristocrats gather together to lament the demise of the French monarchy, Henri was dispatched to a reunion, and I came to visit. I was lying in the garden with a drink, when Juliette stormed out of the house towards me, furious. She had somehow acquired the password to my emails and created a jealous scene. In the midst of her yelling, she needed to go to the toilet. I walked straight out of the relationship and caught the next train home. I wasn’t going to keep her company, while she waited for her freedom and inheritance. Count Henri lived on for another ten years.
I had met Melanie, a Swiss banker, during some of my business activities. She approached me, disturbed at the prospect of her husband’s forthcoming absence. He had just been sentenced to several years in prison for fraud in Italy. Melanie wanted to find a substitute live-in partner in Geneva and a surrogate father for her son. Melanie assumed that on leaving jail, her husband would be able to access his hidden spoils. It transpired that this charming woman was only offering a temporary relationship, so our negotiations were terminated.
A Czech lawyer, Ivana, imminently reaching forty, decided that she wanted to get pregnant by a fit and intelligent man. She had ruled out her husband. Over coffee, Ivana made me a proposal, assuring me that the husband would never be informed of her scheme and that she would not make any further demands. Her proposal carried potential liabilities, for which I felt too old. I therefore declined and she turned to her golfing coach for the service and our relationship ended.
Eventually, I met a titled English lady, Elizabeth, who was separated from her husband. A few weeks before we met, I had swapped my Porsche for a dark blue Aston Martin. I took lady Elizabeth out for dinner at the Summerhouse restaurant in Little Venice. She enjoyed the drive and showed interest in my car. It was a pleasant evening and two weeks later she called me from Italy.
“I’m flying into Heathrow this afternoon. Will you meet me for tea at Harrods,” so I did. After tea, we walked around Hyde Park and chatted about our families.
“My husband is much older than me. He’s a self-made property developer from the north of England. My own family can trace its lineage back to the Norman conquest, but our wealth has dissipated.”
“Why did you marry him?” Elizabeth gave me a pitying look, but quickly composed herself and laughed.
“I respected him. I gave him class and he gave me wealth.” Elizabeth impressed me with her straight talk.
“Walk me to my new car, I think you’ll like it. I’m going to have to leave you, to deal with our properties up north,” and I did as I was told, mulling over the information, not sure how I fitted in.
“Do you like my new car? I ordered it immediately after I met you. We’ll have a matching pair, what do you think?” asked Lady Elizabeth. I was left speechless; it was a light blue Aston Martin convertible. I was highly amused by her self-assurance and style.
Chapter 30
Return to Tatranská Lomnica
I was about to start planning my next skiing holiday. My mind was drifting, prompting a train of thoughts…
When did I ski for the first time? It was sixty-two years ago, when my parents took me to Tatranská Lomnica, in the High Tatras in Slovakia, I recalled with shock
There must be a photo of that holiday somewhere. An hour later I was sitting in my study, holding an old black and a white photo of my mother and me. We were standing on skis in a snowy forest. My mother was wearing her ski jacket fashionably tucked into her trousers and faced the camera in her dark sunglasses. She was twenty-seven years old, and very pretty.
As I looked closer, the memories flooded back, and I could visualise the exact spot. We had finished skiing for the day, and we were standing under the cable car, facing our hotel. My father turned towards us and took the photo. I searched through old albums and found more photos of that skiing holiday and spread them out on the coffee table. My memory was often jogged by looking at old photographs, but here I was trying to piece together events dating back six decades. It occurred to me that my two lifelong dreams had been formed during that remarkable holiday, when I was five years old.
***
An early morning fog was rolling across the tarmac of Ruzyně airport in Prague in January 1950. A small group of passengers were walking from the departure terminal towards a Dakota DC-3 parked outside. I was tugging my mother’s hand and jumping with excitement. My parents were taking me on my first skiing holiday, and this was to be my first flight.
We had front row seats, just behind the cockpit. I took the window seat and watch
ed the remaining passengers board. A few minutes later the airplane shook, as the engines came to life. Then the ground began to move, faster and faster until all the shaking and rattling stopped, and we were floating. My nose was glued to the window. There was Prague Castle under the left wing, and we were flying right over it. It was magic. Half an hour into the flight, the captain in his dark blue uniform came out to greet the passengers. After exchanging a few words with my mother, he turned to me and asked
“Would you like to come and see how we fly airplanes?” I gulped. I was speechless. My mother answered for me,
“This is Peter, he is so excited because this is his first flight. He would love to.” The captain took me into the cockpit, strapped me into his seat and put his peaked cap on my head.
“Now you are flying a Dakota,” and all I could say was,
“I want to be a pilot.” I had formulated my first lifelong dream. The flight from Prague to Poprad in the High Tatras took a couple of hours. We landed in the snowy landscape at one of the highest airports in Europe, surrounded by mountains, with peaks rising to almost 2000 metres above us. It was late morning on a clear and sunny day. The views were stunning, even I was impressed. When we descended the stairs, the captain shook my hand and asked,
“Peter, do you still want to be a pilot?”
“Yes. I shall always remember this flight, thank you.” My love for airplanes stayed with me for life. From Poprad airport we took a taxi to Tatranská Lomnica, ten miles away. Our holiday destination, the grand hotel Praha, was built by the Wagon-Lits Cook in la belle epoque style.
In 1950 the hotel still retained its traditional charm and luxury. It had a commanding position above the resort, with a view of the Lomnický peak above. The ski lifts and the cable car which went up to 2634 metres, were built conveniently next to the hotel. Skiing in Czechoslovakia was still the preserve of the middle and upper classes. Skis were made of solid wood, with mainspring Kandahar bindings. I wore rubber ski boots, while my mother and father had proper leather boots.
We went skiing every day and it fast became my favourite pastime. My snow plough slowly evolved into christie turns and by the end of the week I had built up the courage to schuss down blue runs near the hotel. Speed on skis was so thrilling.
Presidents Masaryk and Beneš took their winter holidays here and the American bar was famous throughout the region. It was the last traditional season at the Grand Hotel Praha. The impeccable service, lasting for nearly half a century was about to end as the hotel owners were being expropriated. In the subsequent half century, trade unionists became the new guests, standards fell, and the hotel began to decay.
“It is a beautiful day, I’ ll take the camera,” said my father on our last day. My mother and I skied on the blue run together and were resting between the hotel and the cable car terminal. My father clicked the shutter and I turned towards him.
***
A telephone call interrupted my thoughts, it was my friend Elizabeth
“I am in the area, can I drop in for a coffee?” She came in, saw the photos and I told her the story.
“So, what did you say to your father?” she asked
“I told him, I wanted to be a pilot and a skier.”
“Your two dreams.” A thought entered my mind.
“I want to go back to the exact spot where I declared my life’s dreams.”
“Sounds exciting, can I come?”
In early December I picked her up at Václav Havel airport in Prague. Elizabeth emerged, carefully negotiating the snow-covered pavements. When I opened the door to my Jeep Liberty, I reassured her,
“I’ve had winter tyres fitted, so don’t worry about the trip.” She was still thinking about her flight.
“Prague covered in snow looked like a fairy tale from the aeroplane.”
“Hop in and we’ll drive to the old departure hall, to remind me of my first flight.”
The old departure hall was a small art deco building in a quiet corner of the airport, now serving VIP and government flights. We stopped and I jumped out of the Jeep and stared at a Dakota DC3, in traditional CSA livery, parked in front of the building.
The memory of the group of passengers walking towards it, with me holding my mother’s hand came back instantly. Since my childhood I had been in love with airplanes. I had bought magazines about them, built models of them, gone to watch them at airports and collected airline timetables. At technical college, I trained in aircraft engine design. They tried to destroy my dreams by banning me from flying, because my father used to be a businessman. When I emigrated to England, I had other priorities, but flying always remained a dream.
After retirement, I finally found the time to turn my dreams into reality, by enrolling on a flying course in Kissimmee, Florida. There I also bought the burgundy red Jeep Liberty, and later shipped it to Prague, as a souvenir of my flying days. Standing next to the old Dakota, I had found the actual spot where my dream began and whispered a message to the CSA captain who had flown us to Poprad: I fulfilled my promise to you and have learnt to fly.
The drive from Prague to Tatranská Lomnica was 350 miles long. Gentle snow continued to fall, but the roads were clear. Only after Poprad did the Jeep come into its own, as we climbed slippery, snow covered forest roads into Tatranská Lomnica. We chatted about our skiing experiences. Unlike flying airplanes, skiing was allowed in Czechoslovakia, and I was able to earn pocket money as a ski instructor during my holidays.
I did not remember the reception area of the Grand Hotel Praha. It was only when I saw the sweeping staircase leading from the reception area, with the fireplace and the French doors leading on to the terrace, that I felt some familiarity. We took a top floor suite, with a balcony overlooking the resort. There was a fireplace in the sitting room, piled high with logs. I lit a fire and opened a bottle of champagne and as a full moon emerged above Tatranská Lomnica we gazed out of the window, mesmerised by the beauty of the snow-covered mountains and forests.
“What a romantic place,” said Elizabeth. The next morning we went to find the exact location of the old photo. We couldn’t find the cable car and I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. It seemed that my memory had failed me. I called the hotel manager and explained our mission.
“The cable car terminal was moved thirty years ago a few hundred meters up the hill. You should be able to find the disused cable car shed in the woods, beyond the carpark.”
We came out of reception, crossed the carpark and suddenly, I recognised the spot. The trees had grown, but everything felt right. I had returned after sixty-two years. I stood in the snow and looked around me. I wanted to imprint this moment into my memory. As Elizabeth took a photo, I whispered a message to my parents.
“Thank you for giving me my dreams. I made them come true.” It had taken six decades to complete the life circle of my childhood dreams, I could now both ski and fly airplanes and I felt jubilant and grateful to my parents for inspiring me.
I now understood Leo Thomas, when he wrote:
Have you ever had a moment
When your life came full circle?
You arrive at a time and place
Where the prior, inexperienced you
Meets the present, experienced you?
Where you become aware of part of your purpose?
“What did you say to your father this time?” she asked, “I told him that I am excited to be back here and happy that my dreams have come true.”
On the way back to Prague, I thought more about the Tatranská Lomnica experience. The journey of life is not a circle, it’s a helix. We return to the sources of our aspirations as changed people; but these returns allow us to understand our original motivation.
#
Grandfather
I was a 67-year-old man without commitments, gradually discovering that life without work did not need to be difficult, or indeed to have much purpose. It could consist of holidays, new encounters, playing sports, entert
ainment and eating out. It was a novel experience. I even acquired a modicum of respect for the upper classes, who had mastered the art of being idle.
Occasionally, I mixed leisure with business consulting, to keep my brain engaged. I noticed how quickly my contemporaries, who had dropped out of active life, aged and became dull and irrelevant. It was a warning I had to head.
Nick and Tamara went to work in Houston and Tamara, who had become pregnant with my first grandchild, invited me over in early May to join her on a trip around California. Nick joined us for a long weekend.
This family holiday, driving along the Pacific coast from San Francisco, visiting Napa Valley vineyards, Yosemite National Park and catching the last snow at Lake Tahoe was the beginning of a change from my sad life as a widower, with its lack of purpose, to a life of family involvement. I was encouraged by Nick and Tamara to join them to welcome their first-born child, my grandson.
Max Austin Peter was born on 16th August in Houston, in a hospital that felt more like a five-star hotel. I returned to Houston to stay with them. I knew instinctively that I would enjoy being a grandfather. I loved showing Max off in the rented Mustang convertible and taking him out in his buggy to the local park, along Buffalo Bay and even, in emergencies, changing his nappies. We began to bond.
Chapter 31
Revenge for Nina
Winter dragged on into 2012. The weather in London in April was damp and depressing, but it was too late for a skiing holiday. Elizabeth called.
“Would you like to come to Cyprus? It’s a short flight and it’s sunny there. My Greek friends are giving a party and we are invited.” I was grateful to be able to get away.
“Sure, sounds great” Elizabeth booked a week at the Four Seasons Hotel in Limassol. Talk at the party revolved around a property development at Malindi, not far from our hotel. I was bored, but Elizabeth seemed to be well informed about it.
