Nobody´s bed

There was no reply to my last text message. Never. Maybe too much wine is to blame. Maybe hunger and maybe cigarettes and maybe fear of the dark and maybe someone hurt her. Or it was lack of interest. Or solitude. Or unwillingness. Or selfishness. Or they. Or me. Maybe it was the winter. Hair falls from the palms to the ground and it is slowly getting colder outside…

2 minutes read | 3 hours work

I was so courageous and I stole this picture for my friend. But I will give it back. I promise. Once I meet her again.

It’s slowly getting colder outside. I remember a friend of mine who, during the warm summer months, slept somewhere near Prague in a tent with her boyfriend. In the winter, in an underpass on old mattresses, in the best case, in some Chinese restaurant, where she could spend the night, for a penny, for peeled onions, for kilograms of cleaned vegetables. A bowl of warm soup as a gift. It’s slowly getting colder outside. The cold wind blows the leaves from the trees, leaving only a few to the mercy of the harsh winter.

Her black, enviable, waist-length curly hair fell while an electric razor obnoxiously played a sad never-ending tune. It was a painful song. The listeners wept and weighed the dead strands of hair in their hands. And the electric razor played and did not want stop.

It’s slowly getting colder outside, and the water is flowing in a river as red as the wine she loved. By which she fell asleep and by which she woke up again, by which she warmed herself, by which she forgot for a while, by which she laughed, because that’s how I remember her, because that’s how she was. Nice and friendly. Insecure and trusting. A weak, short, young, beautiful woman.

When she came with her hair cut so short that only that electric razor with its obnoxious tune could handle it, a smile froze on my lips. It’s slowly getting colder outside. In five austere sentences she summarized how life is. Then I said to myself that I don’t know how to help. I’m thinking today, really? You don’t know how to help? You are proud of your expensive handbag, but you have no idea how to help. No comment.

There was no reply to my last text message. Never. Maybe too much wine is to blame. Maybe hunger and maybe cigarettes and maybe fear of the dark and maybe someone hurt her. Or it was lack of interest. Or solitude. Or unwillingness. Or selfishness. Or they. Or me. Maybe it was the winter. Hair falls from the palms to the ground and it is slowly getting colder outside…

Can you imagine the fear? When it slowly gets dark, the street is quiet and behind the windows, which are very high and unreachable to knock and behind which the shadows of people move until the last lamp by the bed goes out. The street lights are buzzing. Only buzzing. They don´t give a warm at all. You’ll cross half the city, and there’s no one. Not even a soul. Zero credit on the phone for the last sos. Sorry, I wanted to write a sms. In the shop windows is exactly what you don’t have, what you lack, what you need, what you desire, what home means. The display in Vinohradská street with a cozy Hästens bed and blue and white sheets is the last thing you need to see. Can you imagine that? Wandering the streets and passing by a storefront with a bed in it? A whole big bed, with pillows and a warm duvet, cozy, you imagine its warmth, its comfort, you are trying imagine the dreams that you will never dream and no one, no one at all lies in it. It is empty. Lonely like you. Can you imagine whole floor of these empty beds? Room after room. A hotel. Somewhere is buzzing neon light Open and it’s slowly getting colder outside

and the hair falls down with the last leaf from the tree. And this is not the end. And this is happening right now in your city, in your street, to your friend, while you fall asleep in your bed because you were only lucky.

Vonku sa pomaly ochladzuje. Spomínam na svoju kamarátku, ktorá počas teplých letných mesiacov prespávala niekde pri Prahe v stane so svojim priateľom. V zime v podchode na starých matracoch, v tom lepšom prípade v nejakej čínskej reštaurácii, kde mohla prenocovať za groš, za olúpanú cibuľu, za kilogramy očistenej zeleniny. Miska teplej polievky ako dar. Vonku sa pomaly ochladzuje. Studený vietor zhadzuje listy zo stromov a len niekoľko ich necháva napospas krutej zime.

Jej čierne závideniahodné, po pás dlhé kučeravé vlasy padali, zatiaľ čo holiaci strojček protivne hral smutnú nekončiacu melódiu. Bola to bolestná pieseň. Počúvajúci plakali a poťažkávali mŕtve pramene vlasov v rukách. A strojček hral a neprestával.

Vonku sa pomaly ochladzuje a v akejsi rieke tečie voda červená ako víno, ktoré milovala. Pri ktorom zaspávala a pri ktorom sa znovu budila, pri ktorom sa ohrievala, pri ktorom zabúdala, pri ktorom sa smiala, lebo tak si ju pamätám, lebo taká bola. Milá a priateľská. Nepriebojná a dôverčivá. Slabá, nízka, mladá, krásna žena. Žblnk.

Keď prišla s tak nakrátko ostrihanými vlasmi, že by to zvládol len a len ten holiaci strojček so svojou protivnou melódiou, zamrzol mi úsmev na perách. Vonku sa pomaly ochladzuje. V piatich strohých vetách zhrnula ako žije a ako sa má. Vtedy som si v duchu vravela, že neviem ako pomôcť. Dnes si hovorím, naozaj? Nevieš ako pomôcť? Pyšníš sa drahou kabelkou, ale netušíš ako pomôcť. Ja nemám slov.

Na moju poslednú sms správu už neprišla žiadna odpoveď. Nikdy. Možno za to môže príliš veľa vína. Možno hlad a možno cigarety a možno strach z tmy a možno jej niekto ublížil. Alebo to bol nezáujem. Alebo samota. Alebo neochota. Alebo sebeckosť. Alebo oni. Alebo ja. Možno to bola zima. Vlasy padajú z dlaní na zem a vonku sa pomaly ochladzuje…

Viete si predstaviť ten strach? Keď sa pomaly stmieva, ulica tíchne a za oknami, ktoré sú veľmi vysoko a za ktorými sa pohybujú tiene ľudí až dovtedy, kým zhasne aj tá posledná lampička pri posteli. Pouličné osvetlenie bzučí. Len bzučí. Nezohrieva. A o pár metrov ďalšie a prejdete pol mesta a v meste nikoho. Ani živej duše. Nulový kredit v telefóne na posledné sos. Pardón, chcela som napísať sms. Vo výkladoch obchodov je presne to, čo nemáte, čo vám chýba, čo potrebujete, po čom túžite, všetko to, čo znamená domov. Výklad vo Vinohradskej ulici s útulnou posteľou Hästens a modrobielymi obliečkami je to posledné, čo potrebujete vidieť. Viete si to predstaviť? Ponevierať sa ulicami a prejsť okolo výkladu, v ktorom je posteľ? Komplet celá veľká posteľ, s vankúšmi a teplou perinou, útulná, predstavujete si jej teplo, jej pohodlie, v duchu snívate sny, ktoré nebudete nikdy snívať a nikto, vôbec nikto v nej neleží. Je prázdna. Sama ako ty. Viete si to predstaviť? Celé poschodie postelí, celý hotel. Zývajúci prázdnotou. Niekde bliká neón Open a vonku sa pomaly ochladzuje

a vlasy padajú s posledným listom zo stromu. A toto nie je koniec. A toto sa deje práve teraz vo vašom meste, vo vašej ulici, vašej kamarátke, zatiaľ čo vy usínate vo svojej posteli, pretože ste mali iba šťastie.