Nice One, Vaclav Havel!

Prague in 1989 was like a fairy tale. The much-loved Vaclav Havel replaced the unloved President Gustav Husak. Seventy years earlier, another Czech thinker, Thomas Masaryk, founded the liberal democratic republic. In that fantastic year of 1989, another world-renowned Czech author, with some of his friends, restored democracy and renewed the republic. The metaphor of the philosopher king came back into fashion. Painted on the t-shirts of pretty girls on the Charles Bridge, we could see that quiet, smiling face that a just destiny had lifted from prison so it could, in the Hradčany, personify the new freedom of the Czechs. “Havel to the Castle!” was the slogan that could be read everywhere. In early autumn, even the dissident writers could not believe this would happen.

After the New Year, this was the most natural thing in the world, and if the President visited Bratislava, the flag went with him. The pure strength of his thoughts lifted him head and shoulders above other heads of state. He was invited everywhere and he imbued respectability to the events where he was present. We first met forty years ago. He was conspicuous with his hearty smile, deep voice that rumbled out into space and his meditative sense of humour. In January of 1990, together with my wife and Adam Michnik, we paid a visit to President Havel. We saw him at work in a Prague Castle pub. He chatted with us, in the company of long-haired, happy artists and freshly recruited ministers. He showed off, boyishly: “You see? The President’s beer-glass is two finger-breadths taller than the other glasses.” The glass was indeed taller, but Havel reached for it less often. Documents were put before him: “Vasek, this is good, you can sign it.” He read them thoroughly, and made modest comments on them. His new role suited him. He applied himself to it with bright but serious humility. He could feel a little dizzy in the whirlwind of events, but he could deal with it with devotion and reflexive honour.

The writer’s fate was to learn from his work as the master of an absurd drama. It was genuinely surprising that not too long ago his home had still been his site solitary confinement and that he could recognize some of his former guards among his new bodyguards.

When Slovakia separated from Czechoslovakia, something Havel was not happy about, he renounced the title of Czechoslovak president and in the interregnum paid a visit to Budapest. Friendly protocol made it possible for the two of us to have breakfast in the government’s guesthouse. I wanted to convince him to return to literature. He had done what was expected of him in the public arena, I told him – now the artist should re-emerge and leave politics to the politicians. There is an obligation, not just the writer’s self-interest, the guest replied. Many expected him to remain president, even if only of the Czechs. The room was filled with sunshine and everyone had their paths on which to return: me to my desk and he to pay respects to his colleague Árpád Göncz, the Hungarian president. He had a busy, interesting life. Perhaps for a moment, but no longer than that, we both envied one another. In my eyes, he was the embodiment of clear-thinking and responsible European politics. On more than one occasion we signed a common declaration. An inner voice told me: if he says so, then this is quite right. Together with Gábor Demszky, mayor of Budapest and former samizdat publisher, I paid a visit to the retired and gaunt Czech president in an old house on a little Prague street, surrounded by friendly female colleagues. Havel was pleased by his long-lost samizdat books in Hungarian, the fruit of much brave and diligent work. His head bowed, he spoke out into space, just as before. He was still himself: cheerful, refined, with just a tad of melancholy. As we came out, I noticed that a little heart had been drawn with lipstick on the bronze plaque bearing his name in the doorway. “Quite right”, I said to myself.

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Translated by David Robert Evans

The author is a Hungarian dissident writer, novelist and essayist, known as an advocate of individual freedom. He was elected president of International PEN in the early 1990s and of the Akademie der Künste in Berlin in 1997.

This text comes from the first edition of the Visegrad Insight (2012)

Read the original text in Visegrad Insight.

This article has been automatically generated from the Visegrad Insight magazine website, a project funded by the International Visegrad Fund. The opinions expressed in this article do not necessarily have to represent the official position of the donor, the Visegrad Group, or the publisher (Res Publica Nowa).