The Man Who Never Left Klinika Burleska

It was supposed to be just another night in Prague—one of those fleeting adventures that find their place in the delicate mesh of stories whispered by travelers. The man—let’s call him Victor—had only heard of Klinika Burleska from the murmurs of those who had walked the city’s twilight alleys. An underground sanctuary of art, allure, and decadence hidden somewhere between Žižkov’s fading murals and the scent of absinthe lingering in the shadows.

Legend has it that Klinika Burleska was founded in the late 1990s by a woman known only as Madame K., a former cabaret performer who had once graced the stages of Berlin and Paris. She was said to have fled the city’s mainstream theatres in search of a place where art could breathe freely—unburdened by convention. The venue itself was tucked away beneath an abandoned medical clinic, lending its name an ironic touch. A clinic for lost souls, where wounds of the heart were tended through music, poetry, and desire.

Victor arrived at the club just before midnight, when the neon sign flickered half-heartedly against the crumbling façade. The door, unmarked except for a small brass keyhole, opened to the sound of jazz bleeding softly into the air. Inside, the velvet drapes and flickering candelabras turned time liquid, melting hours into glances and secrets exchanged behind cigarette smoke.

He took a table by the edge of the stage. The first act began—a slow, sultry performance by a dancer who called herself Madame Noir. The curve of her movements traced stories from another era, when cabarets were more than spectacle—they were confessions wrapped in feathers and silk. The audience watched in reverence, glasses half-raised, as if the act was both ritual and rebellion.

Between performances, the room would hush as a voice emerged from the shadows, reciting lines from Czech poets. One evening, Victor heard a haunting verse by Vladimír Holan:

"Yes, life, though you say: – In the name of desire, we add something. But love leaves only love."

The cadence of the words tethered him to something distant, something lost, yet never quite forgotten.

Some say Victor stayed because of her. Others believe it was the place itself—a liminal space where reality dissolved under the weight of desire. He became a fixture at Klinika Burleska, always seated at the same table, his eyes searching for something no one else could see. Time stitched itself around him like a second skin. Nights became months, and the club’s performers began to nod at him in quiet acknowledgment. The rumors took root: perhaps he was a poet in exile, or a man waiting for a lover who never returned.

Even the bartender, who had seen his share of haunted souls, spoke of Victor in half-truths. “He’s part of the furniture now,” he would say, polishing the same glass he’d been polishing for years.

By the time Klinika Burleska closed its doors at dawn, Victor would remain seated—silent, as if the night had carved him into the city itself. Maybe he had found something there, hidden beneath the layers of smoke and jazz—a story that never quite finished. Or perhaps he had simply become the story, an echo folded into the secret life of Prague.

Nobody knows when Victor first arrived, and nobody knows if he ever really left. But if you linger long enough at Klinika Burleska, they say you might still catch sight of him—half-lit by candlelight, waiting for the next act to begin.

Note: The poem excerpt is from Vladimír Holan.

Klinika Burleska is more than a hidden bar in Prague — it is a sanctuary for restless souls seeking refuge from the ordinary. To uncover its history and how to find it, explore "Klinika Burleska: The Last Bohemian Salon of Prague."

Yet the story of Klinika is not only personal — it is cultural, architectural, performative. To explore the broader movements it belongs to — from fringe theatre to light festivals and cabaret resistance — continue with “Prague’s Fringe Pulse: Contemporary Cabaret, Underground Theatres, and Cultural Resistance.”