Andrew Stancek

Bratislava

The kite’s background is robin’s egg blue, with a bold line drawing of eagles swooping down, chasing starlings.  Passers-by stop by the crafts store window display, move on.  But Robert makes a daily after-school pilgrimage, seeing in his mind string unrolling, kite soaring, long tail fluttering.

On Sunday, as Father is bringing Robert home after their weekend together, Robert insists on strolling along Sturova Ulica so Father can see the kite.

This afternoon Robert memorized the poem about the wounded birch.  After declaiming just like the great Hrnciar on TV, Father said he’ll enroll him at the Institute for Performing Arts.

“It’s imagination, you see,” Robert said.  “I can feel the birch’s pain as the boy’s axe is biting into its trunk.”

Looking at the kite, Robert sees himself being lifted off the ground, flying over the Danube, over the Stary Most bridge, over Michael’s Gate, landing at Bratislava Castle just as the President is toasting the visiting Prince Ludwig.  Robert hears the clinking of the glasses, the amazed exclamations of the dignitaries.  The President makes a toast to brave Slovak boys, everready to lead the world.

Father laughs at Robert’s telling.  “You’re right,” he says.  “Slovak boys are the most adventurous and most imaginative in the world.  Well-known fact.”  He watches him open the heavy wrought-iron gate of the apartment building and go in.

Robert has no chance to admire the kite for a few days.  On Thursday he convinces two classmates to accompany him.  But when they get there, the display is filled with calligraphy supplies.  The store keeper is gruff.  “Sold it two days ago.  About time, too.  Don’t like to hold onto seasonal too long.”  Robert feels like crying.  Some boy out there, in Petrzalka or by Tehelne Pole is flying his kite.  He knows he’s the only one in Bratislava who can soar with it.

Walking to his grandparents’ for his birthday celebration, he thinks this wind is perfect for kite-flying.  Father is grinning at Mother when Robert gets there, the first time in years he’s seen them together without fighting.  Behind the dining-room table with the cake, Robert sees an outline of something huge, covered with a sheet. He looks at the smirking faces and understands.

“Can I go to the fields right now, please, Dad, please, Mom,” he screams as he rips off the sheet.

Sprinting to the field he feels the wind passing through his hair, through his chest. Spool in hand, in the middle of the field, the kite behind, he glances back, runs -- lift-off. It catches the wind as he lets string out.  At tree level, ever higher.  His hands shake with the pull. His feet are off on the ground; he rises.  Far below, his family gapes, open-mouthed. He waves.

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