He’d been standing at the intersection, waiting for a tram when the sky coagulated. He sidestepped the people crowding onto the tram and looked. Watched the low cumuli in the slow-moving sky above Angel Station, saw them run through with a crimson vein, outlined in silver. Then the fleecy clouds let loose the red, caught him in the eyes, he’d had to lean against a lamppost.
The sky was red, It was dazzling, he tried to move, felt a drip, drop, drip on his shoulders, neck, scalp, knew it was blood.
Angel Station, a novel by Jáchym Topol, one of the the most-translated Czech authors
In Berlin, one could experience the Wings of Desire breeze when the city was torn in two, one half offering precarious shelter to Nick Cave - whose songs guide you through the black-and-white movie - David Bowie, or Iggy Pop, only to end up among the Children from Zoo Station. I imagine avoiding the pull of that infamous spot was impossible. Prague trailed behind for decades, its fate intertwined with Eastern Berlin's, as though they were soulmates under the same red star.
Eventually, the chains were shattered in Czechoslovakia, albeit a little behind schedule, if I may say so. The seventies, eighties, and nineties burst in all at once, like a beaver dam collapsing after heavy rains, releasing the pent-up waters to flood the land. That's what Topol brilliantly captures in the novel. That is what the area around Anděl in Prague was like back then – a place flooded with the retained decades, transforming everything and everyone.
Anděl (Czech for angel) has changed significantly over the past thirty years. It has become a thriving business district. Although most office buildings are disguised as ordinary residential blocks. Though off the beaten tourist paths, it still hums with a mix of languages, thanks to expats who work there. Modern Anděl boasts a large mall, two multiplex cinemas, a handful of good restaurants, a craft microbrewery, and more. Gone are the bleeding skies, the haunting voids where people seemed to vanish, the psychedelia, and the drug-fueled sects that blurred the lines between religion and addiction. Or are they?
Setting aside the present sparkle, let me show you the other side of Anděl – the side that still echoes the one portrayed in the novel, which is, without a doubt, worth reading.
That’s Anděl – one of the busiest public transport hubs in Prague, where crowds from the metro merge with streams of people flowing from trams and buses, as well as the nearby train station. The dominant building here, constructed in 2000, replaced an old corner house adorned with an angel fresco, which gave the crossing its name.
The rear view feels more Prague-like – cobbled, narrow streets that make the city center rather car unfriendly, and late 19th-century townhouses, many with additional stories added later. This neighborhood - Smíchov - was once a town outside the old Prague borders, a relatively rich one, as the architecture demonstrates.
The metro exit has been integrated into the newer building and recently gained crimson paint above the escalators. A reference to the novel, perhaps?
Before we move on, here is one final touch of modernity: the mall entrance, already with a decorated Christmas tree.
Prosperous Bohemian towns often hosted Jewish minorities, and Smíchov was no exception. The Smíchov Synagogue now stands amidst modern buildings, looking rather austere since a Functionalist reconstruction in the 1930s. It does not serve religious purposes since 1941 when it was seized by the Nazis and repurposed as a warehouse—a function later maintained by the communists. After the Velvet Revolution of 1989, the building was returned to the Prague Jewish Community and is now managed by the Jewish Museum in Prague.
I had thought the inscriptions were identical, but they actually cite two distinct verses from the Old Testament:
- "Peace, peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near" in Czech
- "Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the Lord of hosts" in Hebrew
Leaving the Anděl crossing and heading west, I cannot miss these office houses. They house Seznam.cz, one of the rare companies in the world capable of beating Google in a local market.
Passing by the Smíchov Sokol movement gym, you might wonder how such a wealthy town, later a district of Prague, became so run-down. Well, being rich perfectly qualified you to become an enemy of the people under the communist regime. Residents were relocated, private shops were shuttered, large apartments were divided into smaller units, and workers for nearby factories moved in—including Roma families who were forcibly settled here. With no emotional ties to the area and insufficient funds to maintain the townhouses, the newcomers neglected them. You'll see it in a while.
But first, we will pause at the Lesser Town Cemetery, about three kilometers from Lesser Town. It was founded in 1680, yet most graves are from the second half of the 19th century. Most tombstone inscriptions are illegible, wiped by time. The sandstone statues are often decapitated, and some have lost their limbs.
Here's a rare, legible tombstone. Arguably one of the youngest around, from 1866.
Still, there is a grave that draws visitors. Anna Degenová, who died at just three years old in 1851. Legend says that she was an angel accidentally incarnated as a human child. When Anna tragically fell from a window and passed away, the angel is believed to have returned to heaven. It's been almost two centuries, and people keep bringing toys and flowers.
And now, finally, to the parts of Smíchov that still retain the Angel Station vibe—you will find them around this cemetery as unintended memorials. Year by year, they disappear as prosperity spreads through the district. If you ever read the book (which I genuinely recommend), this is the atmosphere you should picture.
It might be a tad early, but still: This is my #wednesdaywalk entry for the @tattoodjay’s initiative.
Česky
Jsem líný překládat text do češtiny, tak snad jen uvedu originál z knihy Anděl (protože strojový překlad tady teda opravdu nefunguje), a dodám pár maličkostí pro české čtenáře. Věřím, že zbytek bude pro zájemce srozumitelný i pro projetí překladačem. Pokud vím, stejně jsou tu hlavně proponenti strojových překladů:
Stál na křižovatce, snad čekal na tramvaj, a nebe si sedlo. Vyhnul se lidem deroucím se do tramvaje a díval se. Sledoval nízké mraky pomalého nebe nad křižovatkou u výstupu Anděl Exit, viděl mraky proťaté rudou žilkou, na krajích se stříbrným lemováním. Pak mu beránci začali spouštět červenou, chytal ji do očí, opřel se o kandelábr.
Nebe bylo rudý. Oslňovalo ho. Chtěl se pohnout, na ramenou, na krku, na temeni ucítil káp, kap, kráp, věděl, že je to krev.
Celá kniha je k přečtení třeba tady.
Jáchyma Topola asi nemá cenu představovat. Je to jeden z těch odvážnějších, kteří se do křížku s režimem dostali už jako puberťáci. Později se stal jedním z kritiky nejlépe hodnocených současných spisovatelů. Často se o něm píše i jako o nejpřekládanějším českém spisovateli své generace. Novelu Anděl asi také četl kdekdo, dostala se i do povinné četby. Nebo jste možná viděli film, který se ale podle mého moc nepovedl.
I když už jsou dneska znovu různé normalizační hvězdičky uznávanější než excentrici v přízemí, k tomuhle článku se jako doprovod skvěle hodí třeba album Nebe je rudý Moniky Načevy. Trocha trip hopu a trocha Topola. Snad neurazí.
Dnešní Anděl je každopádně místo, kde u poledního menu zaslechnete tak deset dvanáct jazyků. Jsou to vesměs Pražáci, nemám pocit, že by sem běžně zabloudily davy turistů. A tak se postupně mění i podniky v okolí. Vesměs se tu opravdu dobře najíte a napijete. Albert hned vedle metra má trochu jiný sortiment než prodejny stejného řetězce na periferii – ne že bych na tohle byl expert, ale vždycky koukám na nabídku řemeslných piv, a tady je více než slušná. Jsou tu řemeslné pekárny, řeznictví, obchod s čajem, minipivovar...
Jen o kus dál, okolo Malostranského hřbitova, přitom najdete dozvuky starého Anděla z doby nedlouho po revoluci. A o tom byl (krom doporučení současné české prózy zahraničním čtenářům) mimo jiné tenhle článek.
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