My friendship with dear Parviz Davayi catapults me back fifty years, to when I was doing my military service. I’d send letters from the training camp in Birjand, near the Afghan border, to my family in Arak—letters full of love and longing for their well-being. Davayi, despite having lived in Europe for almost five decades, still lives emotionally in those same early days of love and sentiment. His perspective, his feelings, his descriptions of family, childhood, friendship, and shared life with his wife and fellow townspeople aren’t virtual or copy-pasted—they are real and heartfelt.
In his home, instead of mobile phones, tablets, laptops, or messaging apps like WhatsApp, Telegram, or IMO, you’re more likely to find countless blank notebooks, a variety of fountain pens, and inkwells in every imaginable color—tools he uses to handwrite letters to friends and acquaintances scattered across the globe. He puts these letters in envelopes, writes out the addresses, and drops them into a mailbox on his daily walk to the grand library of Prague. I still have a few of these letters myself—sent to me for Nowruz, or to congratulate me on a published article, or to offer condolences for the death of a loved one. In this mechanical world, he remains a fully feeling and thoroughly human being. I am certain that seeing a plastic flower in a vase would genuinely upset him—it would ruin his day!
Only recently, after years of discontinued magazines and the digitization of books, has a computer found its way into his home. If you want to contact him, you still have to call his landline—and either he or his Czech wife will answer. He’s lived in Prague, that dreamlike and beautiful city in the Czech Republic, for over fifty years now. Among the cherished memories of my travels, my three-week trip to the Czech Republic holds a special place, particularly because I spent a week of it in his company. I still remember how much we strolled together through the streets and alleys of that gorgeous city, chatting about anything and everything.
Let me take you along with me and be a companion to him. Parviz Davayi is truly one of the rarest and most endearing old-school film critics and writers, whose memory lives on in the hearts of all who have crossed his path. If you want to know what a truly unforgettable journey feels like, you must take a walk through enchanting Prague with him.
I asked him, “How is it that, despite being occupied by Nazi Germany during the war, all these historic buildings have remained untouched and intact?”
He replied, “The Czechs’ main profession is crystal-making—delicate, exquisite things, just like their girls, who are among the most beautiful models in the world. They knew the ruthless strength of the Nazi army, so they surrendered without resistance. It was clear that with their military power and merciless soldiers, the Germans would have destroyed the country completely if met with opposition. That’s why they surrendered with barely a fight—maybe not even a single shot was fired! Besides, it’s true Hitler was a brutal, bloodthirsty warmonger, but perhaps out of calculation or love for art, he wanted to keep all these exquisite artifacts and statues for himself—just like the priceless paintings he looted from the Louvre during the occupation of Paris and took to Germany.”
Our exploration continued. Parviz took me to the city’s main library, with its bizarre architecture and even stranger layout of books. I was mesmerized, while he quietly jotted notes in a notebook—maybe translating a new book, maybe writing letters to friends. Then, since he’s not into computers or cell phones, he used a public payphone to call his Czech wife and said some things I couldn’t understand.
After that, he took me to a café, ordered cake and coffee, and as I was savoring both the flavors and the conversation with him and his publisher friend Mirchi, he quietly warned me to watch out for a suspicious young man who had just entered—because with a quick sleight of hand, he’d already emptied the contents of my coat pocket, which I had hung on the back of my chair!
I said, “By the way, we need to go to a currency exchange—I need to convert some money.”
He took me to the most cost-effective place and cautioned me against the street currency peddlers who, like the ones near Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, hover around the shops.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” he said. “They offer you more money, but because you don’t know the local currency well, they sneak in fake Bulgarian bills when they hand you your change. Worthless.”
Then we browsed a few crystal shops so I could buy souvenirs. I quickly realized that Czech crystal is so expensive I couldn’t afford it—so I settled for Chinese-made imitations!
Our wandering continued until we found ourselves outside the house of Franz Kafka. My hand instinctively reached for the doorbell.
Davayi said, “He won’t answer.”
“Why not?” I asked.
With his usual gentle smile, he said, “Because he’s been dead for over a hundred years. Kafka had tuberculosis at the end of his life and withdrew from everyone.”
I joked, “I heard it was because he drank too much unpasteurized milk!”
He replied, “Kafka was a depressed man. He had migraines, insomnia, chronic constipation, and his face was full of acne. He drank unpasteurized milk hoping to feel better—but caught tuberculosis instead. In the end, he couldn’t eat and died of starvation!”
He once made a beautiful remark about friendship in a conversation with Gustav Janouch:
“All my friends have extraordinary eyes. The sparkle in their eyes is the only light in the dungeon of my life…”
And that was how our stroll through beautiful Prague unfolded—with a man who lives between ink bottles and memories.
