FEVER II.

FEVER

(Part II.)

Something about how children die -- a memory stays clearly in the family message about some relative (or only acquaintance) who survived WWII alone with two little children -- a boy and girl. Both were sick, deadly sick. They needed to be given medicine orally. Girl was weak already, mother could give her the medicine. Boy was stronger, he resisted and died. If you know this, don't you give medicine to your child, no matter what?

Man and Woman didn't get medicine to Child. They resigned themselves. Lying on either side of hot, little body. On guard, they sleep on pins and needles. They wake up also on pins and needles, and sleep fitfully throughout the night, as does Child. They wait. Early in the morning, the fever goes down. They succeed in infusing aspirin tea to Child, at least ...

Science can be found in the most unbelievable places. But this institute we know already, and the pigeon too. In the morning pigeon waits for Man in front of the institute, his feathers ruffled, he is stooped and silent.

Something about how pigeons die -- one clever man renowned scientist and essayist, his name Dr. Lewis Thomas, wrote in a noteworthy essay "Death in Nature." He analyzed there the strange characteristic in animals to die unobtrusively and alone, and he documents how many animal species at the right time seek seclusion and leave their society. He also speaks about how little dead animals, mostly birds, we see with regard to how many must die daily of natural causes -- but he's wrong. In this case, surely, our pigeon perseveres in staying in front of the doors of the science institute. Man sometimes sees it there when he, nervously, looks up from his work. What chance has this pigeon when sickness attacks it, when the viral platoon, ready for anything, penetrates the defensive position of its mucous membranes, distributing its worst to the most sensitive tissues. They drill through the head the cell walls and smuggle in false information of their nuclei acids. Genetically coded tapes, which the affected cells believe, record the information into its own circuitry and then, work on multiplying viruses and consequently on total destruction. When things go so far, what could a pigeon do as an individual, a being, a whole entity. ..? Somewhere deep inside, a life-and-death struggle goes on for the highest values. Now, in this moment, the control center of the pigeon's "me" is no longer involved in the struggle and the pigeon is consigned to the role of spectator. It can only cross its fingers and (fictively) send word down to every cell even not knowing its place in the line of battle. The message needs to be strong. Do fight somehow ...for everybody!

What else can this little amazed pigeon do, moving through every possibility in its sclerotic head? What else can it do, only ruffle its feathers, cower and wait? And yet the command must burn in the brain -- in this mindless head -- and to this feeble body to go and meet Man ...in fact, no, just now the pigeon has disappeared. Man thinks that the pigeon has already flown out as he didn't see it from his office. But it is just for a moment. Man again catches a glimpse of the pigeon on his way to the laboratory in the basement. It already moves nearer to the ventilator, not far from the entrance to the institute.

Pigeon had moved to a warm place, this was paramount, it was intuitive thinking to help light the internal fires for the fight ...

Instructive, too, is: "Immunity system has to discern 'alien' (sickness germs) and 'rebellious' (one´s own cells) and inactivate them. If the system is not successful, the whole situation can end fatally.
The first line of defence (macrophages, monocytes and neutrophiles) and natural killers in other sequences do valuable specific immunic reactions, secured by B-cells and T-cells. B-lymphocyte, under the influence of antigens (the material triggering immunological reaction) and with the presence of growth factors, make immunoglobulins, divide and mature in a few days into plasmatic cells. They mostly fight against bacterial infections. T-lymphocytes kill strange or virus-infected and changed cells in the organism and have an immuno-regulation function."
An important difference between T and B lymphocytes is the way in which antigens are distinguished. B-cells know directly antigens. Meanwhile, T-cells know fragments of antigens in a bond with albumins with a main histocompatible complex (MHC). This phenomenon we call MHC restriction ...

Something about how children die -- children die almost like pigeons and, what is worse, some kids die because of medicines that pigeons never try. Man knew about it when he complained to lab technician about worries concerning the fever. They fight with it as they would of at the medieval times. The heavy artillery of the antibiotics the doctor still didn't offer.

"It's worrying," sympathetically agrees the lab technician. "They say that the flu at the end of WWI killed more people than the war itself -- minimum 20 million."

"It's too much, I am not sure ..."

"No, really, they wrote about it in a magazine you get here monthly ...this popular scientific one ...I'm sure you read it, too. It's terrible when you imagine that even today people die of flu and pandemics. Then, tell me how it's possible that no one has found some really effective and non-toxic, viro-static medicine by now ..."

"Do you think that ..."

The lab technician interrupts again, "Yes, I think they wrote that there, too ..."

He interrupted her this time, "But our little baby only has some fever. It usually respond to aspirin, and it is harmless ..."

"Harmless like harmless," she said, "You didn't hear about harmfulness of salicylans and, therefore, aspirin, too? Some children died, they say. Some of the side-effects are more intense bleeding, among other things ... I thought that you knew about it ..."

There are moments when Man catches himself red-handed in one monotone idea -- in one short sentence. Question -- what else do I have to know? I have to know that child can be sick. I have to save him from the fever, but if I can't I have to know who, where and how to call for help. I have to know how to proceed for advice. And I also have to know that this help can fail fatally?!!
When Man was Child's age, step by step, slowly, one after the other, he came to understand the rules of how the world works (fairy tales providing the first examples). He was stunned how everything is clear, in fact, logical in its cause and effect. He told himself, if all these conditions hold true it's impossible that he don't achieve his goals and some promised bonuses along the way. But he never again felt this colossal faith that things go the way they are supposed to. So, aspirin, too, already ...

Man then read, specifically: "Aspirin" (Pharmacopiae on ingredients and description of effects) side-effects ... in usual doses, probably 6 percent of people experience some moderate breakdowns GIT (nausea, dyspepsia and vomiting), occult bleeding. In long-term use, hypocromic anemia, which in 20 percent can be accompanied by GIT bleeding (melene, hematomese, in ulcerations can come tissue loss and perforation). Increased bleeding with symptoms of epistaxis, skin sufusis, breakdown of blood production (trombocytophenia, aplastic anemia, agranulocytosis led to even pancytophenia). The risk of renal failure, papilar necrotis, and liver failure. Tinnitus affects up to 1 percent, and deafness 3 percent. In allergics, induction of asthma attacks, occurrence of skin eruptions, sometimes some breakdowns similar to Stevens, Johnson and Lyell syndrome, the possibility of Reye syndrome in children (suddenly hyperpyprexis, metabolic acidity, neuropsychic breakdowns, hyperpnoesis, vomiting, spasms and liver breakdown) ...

Man was sure until today (God knows why?) that aspirin was the one cure in the world without side-effects -- a big breakthrough of this century. He never heard about the possibility of breakdown of blood production and Reye syndrome.

And Child? Mystery. Problem. How many times, willingly, it push into its mouth things which don't seem reasonable. And now this time when Child doesn't want aspirin, are Man and Woman being unreasonable?Man calls home nervously. But Woman answers peacefully, Child is okay. It's fortunate that they didn't panic and use antibiotics. It could have hit Child's little heart or liver. ..(Man made a subconscious note to himself in one of the key memory lobes of the brain, a lobe that also holds the ability to solve problems and make decisions as well as ability to plan -- read Pharmacopiae on antibiotics ...). But it's not a priority. Indeed, Child is playing already. It draws. Man hears Child's little voice in the background and he puts down the receiver. The world, notwithstanding salicylans, Reye syndrome and Man's ignorance about the side-effects of antibiotics, continues to turn ...

Something about how pigeons die -- when Man leaves the institute (as usual, the last, he still refuses to deviate from the battle plans of the day) he doesn't see the pigeon. It is not near the container, nor near the ventilator. Man, light on his feet, goes home and -- treads on the dead pigeon. He gets scared for a moment. He looks directly into the pigeon's popped-out eye, which still holds the immediacy of infantile surprise that death is only a cruel, unjust joke. Really, how does pigeon's brain know that the fight in the hull of the body was definitely lost? Does a messenger run up through the nerve-racked body to warn of the danger? If so, where could he run to in the corners of the cold, little confines of the pigeon's head? When does he know that end is near and until this moment, when he realizes but is not able to perceive it? Or is the power of the fever so merciful that you simply can't realize this? How does it happen that the clockspring seized up, ending the whole humdrum existence of the pigeon?

Man, hesitatingly steps over the little cold pigeon. Then he comes back from the shed and takes a shovel and a bag and carefully buries the pigeon -- flipping the pigeon into the container. It seemed so easy. Dragging the heavy lid off the container, the story of the pigeon which had been looking for help was over. "You know," Man says tacitly to the dead pigeon, "I can't help you. We have no institution for you. Otherwise, I would call there." And Man, resolute and almost satisfied, goes home.

The day finished in an impossible way. It finished badly. With the coming night, the fever returns. It again grips the Child, moving like wildfire ...

The End

Translation by Robert M. Davis

FEVER I.

FEVER

(Part I.)

The day started in an impossible way. It started bad. The usual family routine was broken at breakfast -- it's engine, just starting to hum, broke down.

With a two-year child at breakfast, there are elements of feast and famine. Something always spilled, broken, scattered ...

This was the scene as the Man and Woman tuned in to the radio. Not listening to the news but to the BBC's English language programming, plus some urgent dispatches cross the table between Man and Woman. Family breakfast gives way to the baptism of fire that steels Man and Woman as they leap out of the trenches for life's quotidian struggle. It's all in aid of a better life, Communists say. And capitalists are no more inventive.

As they set the agenda for the day, they constantly look over their shoulders at the child on the unsteady highchair -- the temporary throne of the monarch that will be jettisoned when Child grows.

Usually, Child bungles and bashes its way through breakfast, hopping and hollering throughout. The contact with the things it come into its grasp are immediate and undimensional. All that notwithstanding, Child seems healthy enough.

Today there was no hopping and hollering. Child cowered in the chair. Nothing was eaten or broken, and quietly with his eyes asked to go back to his little bed. The parents are suddenly taken aback and suspicious, filled with anxiety. They hadn't counted on this. It had never happened before.

In the morning correspondence between Man and Woman, an unaddressed telegram had arrived the unanswered question of what has happened.

It would remain a mystery until dinner, at least. Woman is preparing to take Child to the doctor's; Man goes to work at the institute.

Science can be found in the most unbelievable places. This institute moved not long ago from a former confectionery to a former butcher's. The butcher's had the advantage over the confectionery -- it has a big cellar, where there are good conditions for cold and ultra-centrifuges.

The ultra-centrifuges didn't work well in the confectionery. In the butcher's -- in the deep, dark and dirty space of a six-storey tenement house in the Secessionist style -- they did. The former butcher´s is part of small, deep inner yard of the block of the living buildings. When it becomes a scientific institute, the beginning of the one century and the beginning of another century meet here. Both removed worlds, however, gel nicely, and there are no outside interventions. Especially no sun, which only has a chance to penetrate yard around noon. Only one sunny finger, like sinking water into the well -- brrrrr -- and in a moment crawls back up to the surface.

Man, just arrives, is greeted by the light flooding in yard from the laboratories, trying to cut the dusk of a cold November morning. The windows of the flats on the other side of the yard, now abandoned by their occupants, are frosty and dark. The morning has goosebumps.Man enters the yard, making a beeline to the institute. Immediately, he catches sight of the head of pigeon, feathers reared, as he opens the front door. The bird is scraping around near a container for the second day in a row, he notes to himself.

Nobody knows why the pigeon doesn't fly. He hides behind the container and doesn't fly away when someone approaches. It's as if he wants them to come and help him.

Is he sick? If yes, is Man the right savior? Could he help? And could he, should he, would he? Man unlocked the front door and as he closed it he looked to see if the pigeon was again in his place.

Yes, it was. Waiting, but Man thought may be things are not so bad. At least not so bad that he has to intervene even by thinking about it.

Something about the way pigeons die -- the dying pigeon people recognize when it is on the way out of the illogical cycle of a pigeon's life. It has stopped flying from place to place and doesn't do what pigeons do -- try to occupy all the roofs in the town, jump around every accessible female pigeon, shit in every romantic corner and on every head of distinguished human monuments.
The dying pigeon, one day he eschews all allurements, all the ideals, aims and goals of a pigeon. It drops down to the earth and finds itself on the paths trodden by Man, and waits.Puzzling is that it lacks the usual vacuous, bobbing of the head. Curiously, the head moves to one side with one eye as if it had popped out of its socket. It attempts to make contact, tries to not only see but almost like touch everything around.
The dying pigeon lacks everything required to be a pigeon, which would ordinarily give Man the comforting feeling that it is only a bird.

It's difficult to ask scientific questions, difficult to struggle in the front lines of an impractical scientific battle when the hinterland is threatened.Woman calls.

The child is in bed with a fever. A state of utmost emergency is proclaimed. They didn't get to the doctor's, it was too late to take action. The strategic conference is very short.When child can't go to doctor, doctor must come to the child.

After all this, Man's anxiety is relieved. The fight against the fever has become institutionalized. Their lives already have become a relay race from one institution to another. On the road there are several repair teams standing by. The strategic conference therefore finishes optimistically -- let them come and do their repairs ...

Something about the way kids die -- Some clever man (a doctor and Nobel Prize Laureate in medicine, his name Peter Medawar) wrote that such a complicated organism as a human very often dies not because of sickness but because of too strong defensive reactions. This defensive reaction is fever. The body is sounding the alarm bells and cannot stop. Bells are ringing again and again. Defenders of the body fervently runs up and down the wooden stairs of the body to the highest towers and bastions and back down again. Finally, the alarm bells should stop and then all the defenders find their positions on the walls of the body fortress, clenched and silently holding their positions against the enemy. But fever sometimes runs its course to the point where it degenerates and goes berserk. The bells ring maddeningly and unceasingly. The fever grows so hot so that the flames hit and engulf the temple of the body. Only moment ago there was chance for a successful defence. In another moment, there is no possibility for shutting the door in its face. First, the fire starts in the library. The brain cells are irretrievably damaged. Strategic defence plans fall by the wayside, from precise instructions are left only ash-heaps. The passages of the body turn into a labyrinth, where also the defenders are suddenly lost. The forces of the sickness conquer this disorganized castle of the body effortlessly. Good plans can very easily turn to catastrophe. Catastrophe was described by another clever man (a pilot and teller of the most beautiful fairy tales, his name, Saint Exupery) thusly: "I knew their misery when the vessel smashed before it had been filled. Because the death of grandfather who is returned to the soil, after he has spent himself -- it is something beautiful. His funeral is the burning of a tool that has been used up. But I saw the death of children among my people, who with quiet, half-shut eyes, tried to draw breath and caught the fires with the tips of their eyelashes. God seems like he's carrying the scythe, and along with the ripe corn also cuts down some flowers. And then, when he gathers the sheaves, full of corn, he also finds this needless luxury."

All this Man knows, and today has a foreboding that Death is also very near. But he doesn't want to believe it. There are so many brakes to be applied. Many white walls built around the patients (even that designation has to provide protection). So many ampules of cures are set as a traps for the fever. Against this, Death didn't step aside, still is not weary. Still lurks somewhere nearby...

Science can be found in the most unbelievable places. This, for example, in dark dirty yard in November in late afternoon that is the same as in early morning. Only the windows show evidence of a shift, they change their roles and now the the flats' windows lighten the yard.
Science's windows turn off, step by step, and immediately their windowpanes have goosebumps. Man leaves last. He still refuses to deviate from the Crusade of the day. Before he closes the front doors of the institution, he involuntarily checks if the pigeon is there. He is, and has only moved from the bin nearer to the door and Man. It waits and doesn't move. Man is startled for a moment. He's sorry for the pigeon and himself. Sorry for pigeon because he's missing something and sorry for himself because he can't do anything. Then, they depart in silence.

We are a civilization of dependents -- interdependents. We are dependent of many others and they are dependent on us. When this chain breaks, and it happens sometimes so often, we become more defenceless because we rally to this interdependence.

Man rallies to automatic expectations to come home to a field of battle dominated and controlled by the institution. But he came home to the middle of the war cry of Child listening from the stairs. Woman is speechless. Doctor still hasn't come. (How many long hours have elapsed?) There are very, very many such cases. Man rages because he is powerless. In their "case", lying quiet with half-shut eyes, Child tries to draw breath and catches the fires with the tips of the eyelashes.

Man goes to phone and confronts some stupid telephone receptionist woman for doctors. He yells at her and for a moment it relieves him, but not Child. Man and Woman look to each other. They are in the middle of civilization and they must win this fight alone. The fever gets worse.
Child suddenly says:
"I will sing." But doesn't sing.
"I will draw," Child says, but doesn't draw.
"I will be healthy?" he says, intoning a question.
"Yes," answered Man and Woman in synchronized faith. "But..." they add, and "but" is signal for a whole series of unbelievable acts that follow. Unbelievable from the point of view of Child -- a monarch came to world with conviction that the world began when it was born.The world can be secure and obedient, but is not. It isn't logical. Not even when Child sometimes, on shaky legs, falls down, it hurts and then they smack him on the bottom at the same time. Pain comes from both sides. Child's body is now at war with itself and they add more cause for concern.

The fever needs to be halted.Cold rubs don't help. Water-soaked towels are dry in a moment. Man and Woman unpack the fragile little body. It stays naked and shakes. They carry him to the torture chamber -- the bathroom. Child forebodes the worst and resists, but they firmly hold him under a shower of cold water. Child holds out its hands for a cuddle, craving for an end to this tough fight but they hold him firmly far from their bodies and add even colder water. Now, Child isn't a shaking naked monarch, but humbled and pushed away, it is naked little bird with shoulder blades distended and its chest, trembles against the stream of cold water and rivulets of tears flow over inarticulated cries -- making a birdcall. ..a a a a a a a a ah! Man and Woman avert their gaze, the little bird tosses about in their hands and says clearly a a a a ah!

When everything is finished, back again in bed, Child speaks in a human voice. "I will sing. I will draw," and falls asleep, at last.

Doctor comes, finally, bringing a short message: "We are with you. You will be with us" -- bringing connection. They don't awake Child. They advise in a whisper over him. But it has nothing to do with advice. It's about assurance. Yes, this fever is the worst. Under no circumstances, should the fever be allowed to get over 40. "Do you have aspirin at home?" the doctor asks. "In the worst situation ...but other medicine, not yet."Doctor says good-bye with encouraging words: "We are still with you."

Man and Woman stay alone. They don't speak. They are thinking about the same thing. How will they know when the worst situation has arrived? They know it very easily and very soon, when even the torture with the cold shower doesn't help.

Now comes new torture, and everyone suffers because this time Child can protect itself more effectively. A little spoon with a quarter of aspirin was thrust into its tightly shut mouth. Shaking its head back and forth, punching them with its hands, Man and Woman fight this stubbornness in a rage. Again and again, they make portions of the aspirin and feebly try to find and refind it to force-feed Child.

How could Child have been spying in the kitchen, and have such a fear of having a lozenge tablet in its tea? When they finally get something down Child's throat, it immediately throws up ...

(to be continued)

Translation by Robert M. Davis

THE DAY IN MY HOMETOWN

THE DAY IN MY HOMETOWN

Each Sunday in a family with small children has its firm ritual. It was a pleasant change, therefore, to wake up a little later than usually this Sunday, although still a little fatigued after the tennis tournament the previous day. Event like this gives a man the feeling that he escaped from the usual monotony. I drag myself from the bed almost with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is justified (despite feeling as if I had been run over by a train rather than having taken part in a remarkable sports event) because for the first time ever in my tennis career, I made it through to the second round. The tournament's organizer was one of the prosperous banks founded in post-revolutionary Slovakia. It took place at a popular recreational resort in Bratislava, as an autumn nostalgia after a summer which, as far as sports activities are concerned, I spent by playing tennis. The jolly mood of the most successful representatives of Slovakia's richest institutions received a symbolical undertone from a discreet but permanent presence of black-market money and drug dealers (primarily from countries of the former Yugoslavia, mainly from Albania) wearing their typical shrieking-colorful jogging outfits and expensive sports footwear. Their base camp seems to be located in this recreational resort. But they truly remained just a backstage shadow that did not disrupt the respectable essence of the tournament. And thus sports rivalry on Saturday ended by a contest in drinking beer and cognac. Hence this Sunday also called for coping with sins of a part-time athlete's lifestyle. Though all this results in slower than habitual Sunday motion, at some point, one finally gets into his workroom, through the toilet and the kitchen, gently knocking into the remaining family members.

The workroom is not just a stage for heroic acts of intellectual labor but also a museum and a warehouse of notes referring to things to be done, shelved projects, ideas forgotten and reinvented only to be set aside once more. The workroom is also an asylum from prosaic daily family activities, and last but not least, it is the only place where a Sunday afternoon snooze can be called contemplation instead of a siesta. I approach the desk to try once again to establish a balance of matters on it, to attain some order amidst creative chaos, and some overview in matters that principally enable none.

Sunday morning in family with small children is for parents usually dedicated to either vacuum cleaning or making love. There's not enough time for both, unfortunately. However, in the event of sex, Lucy must be taken out; my father-in-law, Janina's father, takes this care of. He is gratefully assumes his role of a grandfather, taking Lucy out for a walk on Sunday mornings. He thus kills two flies in one blow: he relieves us of an unwanted witness, and he gets himself a walk in the company of a five years young lady who, even at her age, will get him to the same point where all other ladies got him all his life -- to buy her something.

Exactly when the doorbell rang and Lucy (first as usual) opened the door to her grandfather, the first change appeared in our regular Sunday routine. In my perpetual attempt to put things on my desk in order, I came across a note on a piece of paper. I've been writing notes on bits of paper for years, and because I know how little time and attention I attribute to accomplishing whatever those notes are about, I use an adequate number of exclamation marks as classification of their importance. There were exactly six exclamation marks on this bit of paper. It included a memo that brought me to the brink of a heart attack. I had entirely forgotten that it was today that I was supposed to go to the bus terminal to pick up a colleague from India who had decided to arrive on an unsuitable day, such as Sunday, for a brief stay at the Institute where I work. In the meantime, Janina's father, Lucy's grandfather, took off his shoes, sat down in the living room, and hastily turned the pages of the latest issue of Playboy magazine, a copy of which I receive as an author of essays published there.

Lucy gets dressed with assistance from Janina and leaves for her Sunday morning walk with her grandfather. I wave good-bye to them, the message with six exclamation marks still in my hand, thinking to myself how simple grandfathers and granddaughters have it since they can rely on the stability of their Sunday program. Confirming that, Grandfather stopped for a moment in the door and as usual he reminds us to be on time for lunch with them (that is at a quarter past twelve) although he knows that we would, as usual, hurry in a little late. Luckily, there is our younger daughter, four-month-old Veronica, whose untimely morning sleep is a good excuse for not coming on time. The moment of relative freedom arrives, but a look in Janina's eyes clearly indicates that life is not comprised of only pleasure (such as my men's tennis tournament yesterday), but also includes duties. What awaits me is vacuum cleaning. Time's running out for making love, and when against all odds Veronica wakes up prematurely, the family matters get somewhat chaotic. I retreat to vacuum cleaning; it gives me something to do for the next forty-five minutes. The apartment where we live is larger than usual in this country: it has a total of nine compartments that may be closed by doors besides the large entrance hall. When I finish, there's only time to get dressed and rush with Janina and Veronica in her baby carriage to my in-laws. We will be late as usual anyway, though it's only a few blocks away....

Just as Sunday has its distinct ritual, a large family lunch has precise rules too. They can be briefly outlined thus: a meal -- a TV debate -- an argument. Although Lucy's grandpa, a former communist, used to scare us that in capitalism we would not have enough to eat, the table is piled with delicious food. Lunch begins with a classic aperitif, then soup followed by an oversized main dish with which everyone gets (a previously carefully chilled) drink. I always get a beer. Once a fortnight when Janina's brother comes with his little son Tomas, this chewing and drinking ceremonial is accompanied by children chasing and fighting each other. After lunch, the whole overfed family moves onto the sofa in front of the TV where coffee and cake are served. Teeming peace and lull reigns (apart from the screaming children), until the second point of the program begins (automatically followed by the third). The TV is switched on. It's an old bad habit taken over by the Slovak public television -- a live debate of politicians on current issues aired exactly at a time when people should be resting peacefully after their Sunday lunch. Hence doctors may expect an epidemiological increase of stomach and digestion problems in the population, because typically, this program is accompanied by fierce family arguments. It's essentially unimportant who starts it. The front lines are basically demarcated by age -- battles go along generational frontiers. I stand up disgusted; I must sacrifice this regular angry siesta time of a Sunday afternoon and hurry to meet an-as yet-unknown Indian scientist at the bus terminal. After a juicy farewell kiss from Lucy (Veronica was already asleep, happy child), I'm about to desert the family battlefield. Later on in the tram, I feel some regret over the missed chance of an unperturbed afternoon siesta. I usually flee at the peak of family quarrels. Regardless of political preferences, Janina's mother packs what remains untouched from lunch into a neat package (enough for the next few days) and I take the stuff home and end up thinking hard on the sofa in my workroom.

An official from the Slovak Academy of Sciences awaits me at the bus terminal. He clearly sighs with relief when he sees me coming. It's actually his job to take care of incoming scholars. He kept asking me for the past week to come and take care of this particular visitor, and he is now pleasantly surprised that I did come. This visit of an Indian scientist is somewhat mysterious. He is coming to work at the University, but his arrival was arranged by the Academy of Science (two antagonistic institutions extremely jealous of each other) on the basis of some forgotten intergovernmental agreement that only seems to work one way. Indian scholars always somehow manage to get here, but no one can get over in the other direction since Indian side simply does not receive scholars from this country. Anyway, I must admit that our Indian colleagues have much more patience than we do. The previous one had been trying for ten years before he finally got over here. This one, whom the academic official and I impatiently await, made it in three years. To make it entirely clear, Indians are nomads of science. They are the most frequent foreigners in all research institutions worldwide.

The bus from Prague arrived. We could not have missed our visitor for he was the only Indian on the bus. We helped him unload his luggage; the academic official gave the Indian (his first name is Manmohan) an envelope with scholarship money, and clearly relieved, left us alone. Looking at him walking away, a thought crossed my mind: the situation is not so bad in this country when bureaucrats are willing to work on Sundays.

A taxi is generally considered a luxury in this country, but I decided to sacrifice some money on this occasion to let our guest get a better impression of the city, which usually isn't very impressive. Taking a taxi would allow me to take Manmohan to the University hostel where he will be staying, and still come home in time. I promised Lucy to take her to the circus today, for the first time in her lifetime. Optimistically, I stop a taxi and we drive off to the hostel. Astonishingly, the porter welcomes us in three world languages before we agree that Slovak is enough for me and English for Manmohan. This is remarkable, because pre-revolution porters were usually exceptionally stupid and arrogant. How often have I been engaged in tough battles with them for a minimum of elementary respect towards visitors or guests? This porter was a post-revolutionary one, and I assume that his education may only be explained by extensive layoffs of scientific and educational staff and consequently high unemployment; the porter may have been a former professor.

I take Manmohan to his room and before I can eloquently say good-bye, he strikes me with a question: "What are we going to do next?" To be honest, he tried that already in the taxi, but I was too occupied delivering my sightseeing lecture about places we drove past, and I paid little attention to what he was saying. Now it seems that he really meant it. At this point it becomes clear to me that it's not going to be as simple with this Indian scholar as it seemed at first.
I suggest that he takes a rest after the long journey, but he refuses. I tell him that we are taking our daughter to the circus, but he says he does not mind. He also wants to come along. This suggestion catches me off guard. Taking a foreign academic guest to a circus with a child on the first day of his visit, is that appropriate? I feverishly storm my brain and figure out a compromise. I'll take him to our Institute, which isn't very far, and there I'll try to arrange some program for him.

From the Institute, I called my professor, chief of the department, telling him that our guest is here. The professor lives near the place where the circus is set up, and I asked him whether he would be willing to take care of Manmohan while Lucy and I watch the tigers and clowns in the circus. He was not. The professor is a very kind man, but Sunday is Sunday. He said that I should pass on his cordial greetings and reassure Manmohan that on Monday he would certainly and gladly...

I called a colleague, but he for a change speaks no English. So I called Janina's parents, asking whether they wouldn't by chance... I was told that by no means! Janina's parents are generous in-laws and I can't remember their ever having refused me anything (including allowing me to marry their daughter). Thus if they were saying "no" it must be something serious. (I was later told there's a typhus epidemic in India and God knows what other diseases, and they, elderly people, don't wish to risk their health. That's entirely their right after all.)

All my efforts to unload Manmohan misfired. I watched him while on the phone as he patiently sat at the desk with microscopes, and at every suitable occasion he tried to show me how much he was looking forward to going to the circus. I gave up! But I was no longer willing to pay for a taxi. I live at the opposite end of the city. We'd go by tram. It will take quite long, and sightseeing from a tram will be genuinely detailed. Bratislava is a projection of all Slovak towns, except perhaps for Slovak medieval mining towns. The city center consists of a former village that is surrounded by kilometers of concrete apartment blocks. This makes Bratislava more of a capital village than a genuine capital.

Downtown Bratislava is unusually small, and my inspiration vanished as we rode past the dull facades of apartment blocks in the suburbs. Tongue-tied, we look through the panoramic rear tram window. And then it happened. Three girls got off at the next tram stop. They didn't feel like walking all the way to the pedestrian crossing and one of them climbed over the railing that separates the tram stop from the street. She glanced in the direction from which cars usually come and seeing no danger, she jumps over. Brakes screeched, a dull knock, a scream, and the thump of a body hitting the ground.

I look at Manmohan who has just been a witnessed something that has become a too-frequent tragedy in Bratislava. Traffic here is very close to total chaos. Even the traffic police admit that some junctions could be best described as driver traps. This one was a pedestrian trap. The tram lane is in the middle of two one-way lanes for cars. One of the two-stripe lanes was under reconstruction, so traffic from that lane was redirected to the remaining one. The girl automatically looked in the normally proper direction to see whether she could cross the street or not (as she perhaps used to do for years), but this time cars came from the opposite direction. There's an old joke about this: a villager asks a man in Bratislava how to get downtown from the train station. The man answers: I don't know. I was out of town for a week. But what's going on here now is not a joke. The girl lies twisted on the ground and sobs from pain. The driver stands above her not knowing what to do. The tram driver calls an ambulance. Trams queue up behind and people pour out. One of the drivers brings a blanket and covers the girl. Her two friends are sitting beside her in shock. No one dares to change her position -- she might have a spinal injury -- but one of her feet rhythmically pulses beneath the blanket. Minutes go by without a sign of an ambulance. Trams continue to queue up behind us, and cars in both directions block the road. This boulevard is the sole link, several miles long, between the city center and the suburbs on its eastern outskirts, including the one where we live and where Lucy restlessly waits to go to the circus. (If I don't make it in time, not only will she be sad, but also what will I do with the Manmohan?) Time passes and no one moves, except for the girl's foot beneath the blanket.
Knowing that this time no role of a hero is planned for me, I decide to act. My role now is that of a pragmatic, senseless passenger, who whispers to the tram driver: "Madam, you have called the ambulance, there is no other way you can help here. No one can do more although there are hundreds of people around. And I have a guest from India here, look." She looks at Manmohan, who is still in the tram and does not look like an Indian anymore, because he's pale. And finally I have to add: "Madam, please, let's go, it's time...."

She gave me exactly the glance I deserved and disgustedly turned away. It will be a miracle if an ambulance gets here at all on this car-packed street. I get back on to the half-empty tram, Manmohan and I changed a few words; I no longer remember what either of us said. I glanced at my watch; it was getting late. I decide to capitulate. At that moment the tram driver very slowly turned away from the scene on the road and very, very slowly walked to the front of the tram, got on, rang the bell, and people began to pour back in. She closed the door and the tram moved on. I did get what I wanted, but I certainly didn't feel like jumping with joy.

We made it just in time. Impatient Lucy with her maternal grandpa awaited us at the tram stop. Grandpas always sacrifice themselves when things get critical. Lucy got on the tram and introduced herself to Manmohan. All this wiped out any trace of the tragedy we saw moments ago. Lucy excitedly awaits what's ahead and succeeds in infecting us with her spontaneous joy.
It is early autumn; the time of wine grape harvest, and the circus is set up in a part of town known for its vineyards. So it's time for the renowned local specialty -- burchiak, which is a drink less than half way between grape juice and wine. It's still muddy with yeast, and allegedly a healthy drink. To be honest burchiak does not look very trustworthy; it resembles mud diluted with alcohol. But those familiars with that drink are always looking forward to the grape harvest season. Manmohan too radiates an impression he's looking forward to drinking that muddy-wine drink. Fortunately his religion does not forbid drinking alcohol. Kiosks in front of the circus offer not only burchiak (which is available only for a couple of weeks in the autumn, and experts claim that it stays good for just a few hours), but also lokshe, a popular salty pancake that goes well with burchiak and roast goose meat. Lucy gets her sugar-stick and smears the sticky substance over her face before Manmohan and I take our first sips of burchiak.

Furnished with supplies, we were sucked into the circus tent by a swarm of children with parents. The circus strongly resembles those old, not very noble, establishments I remembered visiting when I was a kid in a village where my grandparents lived. Wooden benches, earthen floor, shabby decoration. I very much doubt whether this is the kind of place to show a visitor to Slovakia from India just after his arrival. And this is a Czech circus. Czechs have traditionally been circus artists, and they used to call that ironically "Czech light industry". Before I can finish explaining all this to Manmohan, we come across the classic question of what is the difference between Slovaks and Czechs is and why did we tear the country Czechoslovakia apart? I try to explain using an aphorism by my professor from Prague (who naturally is Czech) who used to say: "The basic difference is that when Czechs get a little drunk, they sing Slovak songs." One our popular humorist here also summarized it briefly: "Politics stupidity blossoms both here and there, but it's in a higher price category over there." But these slogans only confused Manmohan and I have a really hard time explaining in detail the distinction between two such historically and linguistically close nations. It quite drained me explaining all that to Manmohan against the background of the circus production. Eventually, he looked me straight in the eyes and knocked me down with his question: "Tell me honestly, who in the world really cares whether you are Czechs or Slovaks? What matter is that you are Central Europeans! Europe, can you imagine how proud I will be when I tell them back home that I was here? Remember, you have an enviable advantage: you are from Central Europe." This ended the debate, because I had nothing to add. I'm afraid that only a few intellectuals here ever think about being Central Europeans. The rest are primarily interested in the differences in our attitudes.

With their grand-style production, the Czech circus artists seemed to confirm my historical and cultural lecture. However, an experienced eye notices that a few clowns are actually doing all the work; it's rather irritating seeing a young man who at one point mimics David Copperfield in an unusual piece successfully freeing himself from chains while hanging on a burning rope and later moves stage decorations and cleans the stage. But Lucy and Manmohan do not mind at all. Production continues with more-or-less gratifying pieces. It is obvious that life is not easy for a private circus in the post-revolutionary era. Nonetheless, this circus stands a chance of winning full admiration from Lucy who adores horses, represented here by an elderly pony who did the classical circus piece with matemathics. Manmohan and I spend our time sipping burchiak and eating lokshe, our hands and cheeks are smeared with goose fat, and the mood on board rises until supplies are exhausted. Luckily, before it all becomes boring, Lucy unexpectedly reverses her opinion as far as circus art is concerned and wants to go home. Deep in my soul I'm grateful for her wise decision and I order an organized withdrawal. Manmohan, too, seemed clearly happy to go. He has evidently had enough of burchiak, lokshe, and the circus. But what should I do with him now?

There's only one simple solution. A slow stroll home. Effects of burchiak start to take their toll on the way; Manmohan nonchalantly scrambled into the bushes to relieve himself (fortunately it was already getting dark). I keep on walking as if nothing's going on, but Lucy wants to know where Manmohan disappeared. I explain that what he's doing is an act that unites all nations on earth, and especially the male population. This perfectly satisfies her because consequently this is none of her business since she considers herself a promising young lady.

We come home at the time of greatest chaos -- Janina bathes Veronica and it looks like a well-done circus piece with a home pool and a dozen elephants. Veronica is delightedly splashing water in all directions, while Janina washes her with baby soap. While Manmohan and I remained standing in the hall feeling somewhat useless, Lucy ran into the bathroom and started telling Janina everything she saw in the circus. We eventually started moving and I made a momentous mistake of offering Manmohan a seat in the living room, neglecting the fact that the living room is Veronica's battlefield of drying and dressing into her night outfit after bathing. Manmohan watched the scene with oriental composure. The situation become critical when Janina, without a moment of rest, started taking care of Lucy, with the same evening ritual of bathing, drying, dressing, and reading her the usual bedtime tale. Meanwhile Veronica starts shouting something from her bed, and at this point it became clear to Manmohan that this family is irreversibly getting ready to go to sleep. He got up to leave, I accompanied him out to the hall, Janina said goodbye from the bathroom, Lucy from the bathtub, and Veronica dismisses him with a battle scream from her bed.

It's now sleepy silence back home; it is late. Janina whispers to me that a TV producer called and wanted to know whether that screenplay I was supposed to write is ready and when could I deliver it. I originally planned to spend this Sunday writing it and naturally I don't have it finished. It's already too late for excuses on the phone. I'm resigned to my fate and (contrary to my habits and firm principles) don't even try to look at what's on my desk to get ready for the next working day. For a moment the lit television screen and the remote-control button game reflexively attract me. This game creates an illusion of feverish activity and breathtaking events, but eventually when you get to the end you hardly remember what you saw in the beginning. I give up. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, which is my last duty for today, and I drop off to sleep. This Sunday did not succeed to make any work or relaxation, but it was an extraordinary day in my hometown....