|
|
 |
 |
|
| Milos Forman, film director |
Moravian Eyes |
|
|
The smiles and the short conversation were enough to inspire me to write a poem in which I called her my "Moravian Eyes," but before I had a chance to show it to her, the two-week course in Marxist-Leninist modeling drew to a close. On the last day of the course, I cornered one of the instructors.
She . . . promised to bring Moravian Eyes to the bench by the lake at eight o'clock that evening.
I finally saw a shape coming down the path from the hotel. The figure moved like girl, and my heart began to race. But it was only the go-between, the instructor, descending to tell me that Moravian Eyes was sick and wouldn't be coming. I was so crushed that I didn't notice that the teacher was wearing a dress and smelling pretty with a vengeance. She was on the far side of twenty, so I saw her as an older lady; it hadn't even occurred to me that maybe she wasn't sorry that my Moravian Eyes was sick.
We started talking. It didn't take long for me to confess that I was a virgin, and, in no time after that, I no longer was. I lost my innocence on the sandy forest floor covered with dried pine needles, with mosquitoes buzzing my ears and the teacher of socialist modeling expertly taking care of all the details. I didn't have to struggle with her bra or fumble between her thighs. I didn't get to lay with my love, my inspiration, my Moravian Eyes, but I was rather proud of myself anyway. (Czechoslovakia, 1948)
from Turnaround: A Memoir by Milos Forman with Jan Novak (Villard Books, © 1994)
© 2000 Nerve.com, Inc.
|
|
|
|
|
