Wedding Bells… Not! - Part II
I married well known Czech photographer, Werner Forman, on a dark rainy day at a registry office in London, largely because my mother, who had a crush on him, insisted. Her feelings for Werner, her desire to keep him in the family, were what led to his proposal of marriage and everything that followed.
THIS IS PART 2 of a NINE-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
Photo: Sid Ali
I wore a very ordinary orangey-red sheath dress to my wedding. The event was last minute; we’d made no real plans for it, more or less jumped out of bed and said, “Okay this is the day,” a day that was hastened by the fact that Werner was returning to Prague for what would probably be his final visit the following morning. Celia and her boyfriend were our witnesses. To me, the whole thing was slapdash and a little comical. Our car had broken down, so we took a bus to the registry office. Inside the judge’s chamber, I realized we had no ring. When the judge placed a small black velvet cushion in front of me and whispered, “For the ring,” I slipped the jade band I always wore on my right hand from my finger and put it on the cushion, switching it to my left hand during the ceremony. There were no photos, no rice or confetti, no clapping or cheers. When we left the registry office, it was pouring rain -- a truly dark and gloomy day. We went to a Wimpy’s for lunch (the equivalent of McDonald’s). Then we went home to the apartment we still shared with Celia to pack.
I was going to accompany Werner to Prague. This was against his wishes, but I ranted and made such a big fuss that he finally gave in. The problem was, we couldn’t let it be known we were married due to possible difficulties with the Czech government. I had to travel on a business visa, with a bullshit story that I would be visiting with an editor from a Czech publication to discuss a story I was writing. And we had to act like we didn’t know each other.
This was the day after we married, remember. I was to stay in a hotel by myself and Werner would be staying with his former girlfriend, Trude. Originally he had told me he would be staying with his elderly father who was on his deathbed with some sort of cancer, but as soon as we arrived, he changed his mind -- his father’s flat smelled too much of illness and medicine.
I really had no idea what Werner was up to during our week in Prague. I only saw him once that whole time. Mostly I stayed alone in my hotel room, had dinner by myself in the hotel dining room where I got drunk every night on glass after glass of wine, or went out and drove around the city with Werner’s brother, Bedrich, who spoke no English.
The one time Werner visited me, it was to make love, and he wordlessly lay down on top of me on the bed and held his hand over my mouth so no one could hear my screams of pleasure. We practically didn’t talk at all, and when we did it was in whispers because the room was bugged.
Prague itself at that time was a dark and dreary place, nothing like the charming city filled with tourists it is now. It was depressing to be there and I couldn’t wait to leave. On Sunday morning, my second to last day, Werner showed up and told me to get dressed in something nice; we were going to visit his former girlfriend, Trude. Well, that scared the shit out of me. The sun had just come out. I’d bought a bottle of good scotch in the duty free shop at the airport, and I quickly slipped the bottle into my tote bag, thinking I could secretly fortify myself with it in the girlfriend’s bathroom.
Cover photo: Raimond Klavins