Sabina Pachlopnikova

Common Tongue

“Dobrý den. Prosím jedno Americano.”

The barista blinks, like I’m speaking static. The man next to me clicks his tongue and pushes his way forward.

“Černý kafe, prosím.”

I step back as the barista serves him. The man glances at me with pity soured by annoyance.

I want to speak, but the sentence convulses in my mouth. Fleeing into the train station, I wait for the English translation before boarding the train. Across ‌the compartment, there sits a woman with political badges on her jacket. When we lock eyes, I avert my gaze.

She asks where I’m headed; slečno, young lady, and I can’t help but listen.

“Do Ostravy.” (To Ostrava.)

“Já taky! Jsem původně odtamtud, ale byla jsem v Praze na schůzi s politiky.” (Me too! I’m from there but went to Prague for a rally.)

One pin reads: no immigrants. My dad’s smile flashes through my head, his tan skin, “The West is good”, “study well”, “go further”.

“Zajímáte se o politiku? To byste měla, je to vaše future… future… future…”

There are echoes in my brain, the two languages mixing. I blink at the English sprinkled through my head, the safe retreat that doesn’t hold up.

“Jde vidět, že jste slušná slečna. Ne jak ta zvířata.” (You seem like a respectable girl. Not like those animals.)

The distinct ř roars in her, tiny spits landing on the table. Inside, my father’s hand is on my head: Don’t be like the others; be better. I wish I didn’t understand. Instead, I utter a Czech word that means either: yes, no, a question mark, “continue, please”, and “stop it”.

“No.”

She seems satisfied with that answer as we both bathe in its ambiguity. We carry on travelling in silence, and I dare to look at her pins again. In the centre: no benefits for foreigners. On the right: an Asian man smiling. Suddenly, I feel nauseous.

“Jste v pořádku? Nepotřebujete kapesník?” (Are you alright? Do you need a tissue?)

When she hands me her handkerchief, I retch, but nothing comes out. After a few tries, I give up, calming my breath instead.

“Jen si nechte ten kapesník!” (Just keep that handkerchief!)

I falter, but eventually fold it into my pocket and close my fist over it. I know why she doesn’t want it back.

When we arrive in Ostrava, the woman waves goodbye and hugs the grandchildren waiting for her on the platform. My eyes linger on them before I leave.

A week later, I fly back to the UK. My fingers twitch as the border officer takes my passport.

“Do you live here?”

The question knocks the air from my lungs. I hesitate, then nod.

“Yes.”

English rolls off my tongue. The memory of my father washes over me; our roles reversed.

“Welcome home.”

I smile, my shoulders releasing, the words settling in. Ahead, I spot a tall man on the phone–he is speaking Czech, looking lost. Moving closer, I feel the handkerchief in my pocket. My breath quickens. He looks up, wide-eyed.

“Pokud hledáte vlaky, jsou tamtím směrem.” (Trains are that way.)

His eyes light up with relief.

Sabina Pachlopnikova writes literary fiction exploring belonging and cultural identity, tracing the unexpected places where identity and home collide. Based in the UK, they were a Faber Academy scholarship recipient.