The following story is a work of fiction, but it was based on a real person I encountered here in Prague shortly after my arrival three years ago. I wanted to write about him because he struck me as a fascinating person -- maybe I read too much into him, maybe not. He called himself Paquito Montana. That isn't his real name, but I won't give his real name here because he doesn't know I wrote the story. It's a bit long, but I hope readers who can make it through will find, as I did, something of what Cervantes called 'enchantment.' As the great Czech-German writer Kafka once observed, 'Don Quixote's problem isn't his madness; his problem is Sancho Panza.' Something about this quote struck me, for it said something about the man called Paquito Montana. --JT
The Man Called Paquito Montana
These relics I preserve with care,
My comfort in disastrous fate;
For, steel’d and whetted by despair,
My love, and new force acquires from hate.
Unhappy those! who darkling, sail
Where stars and ports and pilots fail.
-- ‘Don Quixote’
“That’s beautiful, man! You want to make a movie?’
The man called Paquito Montana just appeared out of nowhere with this fabulous pronouncement. It was an afternoon in June, and I’d just set down my coin cup and started playing my guitar in an archway near the Tyn Church.
It’s an action movie, but with spirituality, too,’ he continued, shaking hands with a certain flourish. ‘ I am the director, writer and star. Systema! Situation interesanche! Come, my friend. We get and drink and talk business.’
I took him in at a glance, and was taken aback. He stood just over six feet, but seemed taller, his chest and shoulders thrown backward and up in a cavalier pose.. His face was dark, haggard and remotely handsome, a broad perpetual grin covered by a scraggly goatee and shiny black hair fell over his shoulders and over the great long black coat he wore. The coat resembled an old-fashioned military jacket, perhaps a French officer’s coat, with shining gold buttons, one of which was missing. He wore knee-length black boots, the tips a shining gold metal. Most astounding of all was the rapier, complete with a curved, ornamented scabbard, that hung at his waist.The overall effect was startling - so incongruous was he with the mass of tourists who streamed by in Prague’s Old Town.
He called me ‘El Gabacho.’
‘What does it mean?’ I asked him once. He tried to explain something about a long black coat like gaberdine but we were at a loss for a perfect translation. In the end he just patted me on the shoulder and said reassuringly. ‘It just means, you know, American, no offense homey.’
I followed him to Valentynos, where he’d already run up a sizeable tab that afternoon. That’s how I met Gino and Dana. There were other people - a young Czech couple, Milos and Zuzanna sitting out on the patio under tables with green umbrellas. Milos spoke very little English, and had a cross-eye that was disconcerting because you could never tell if he was looking at you or not. Zuzanna was dressed all in black, with a pierced tongue and two-toned spiky hair. She spoke good English and was quite pleasant. Paquito Montana, his hands in a flouirsh, introduced us.
‘This man is a great artist,’ he said, meaning me. ‘You might have heard his recordings. He is quite famous in America .’
Homey, you want a beer?’ I said yes, and the rapier swinging at his side Paquito Montana disappeared into the café.
‘Can you play Nirvana?’ Milos asked.
I played ‘Come as you are,’ the only Nirvana tune I could play. It went over well, Milos quietly sung along. There was a burst of polite applause, from some middle-aged English tourists at the next table and from Paquito Montana and a beefy Italian man in white short sleeves who were coming outside.
‘I told you!’ Paquito Montana exclaimed, his dark eyes shining. ‘What did I say? Muy famoso! Situacion interesanche!’ he proclaimed full of an inquisitive bravado.
‘My friend! My friend!’ This was the beefy Italian man who introduced himself warmly as Gino. He was the owner. Gino also proclaimed me a great artist, and insisted my beer was on the house. ‘Anything you want,’ he added. ‘But one thing - ‘Let it Be.’ You know this song. ‘Let it Be?’ Please, my artist friend, ‘Let it Be - for me. Please.’
I felt embarrassed, but also glorious in a way. It was hard to imagine that just a few minutes before I’d been busking under the archway not fifty meters away.
I think by then Paquito Montana had already shown me a few of the pictures, as he did again later that afternoon with the English tourists, as well as Zuzanna and Milos, who were very curious and asked lots of questions. Gino was proud of the pictures. He even presented them to other customers who came in, enthusiastically waved Paquito Montana over to the tables and perhaps sit for a drink.
Occasionally Paquito Montana disappeared out into the street. Once it was with Milos and Zuzanna on a pot errand. They came back after a half hour and a joint was rolled, lit and passed. More beers were brought. I gathered from Gino not to worry about my drinks. The tables were littered with empty pint glasses by then and near dusk dinner was served. It was a wonderful fettucini with fresh spicy vegetables and a chocolate mousse pudding for dessert brought out by Gino and a pretty, silent young woman who I soon learned was his wife.
‘This is my mother,’ Gino said, introducing me to Dana. ‘My mama she is a great cook!’
It was funny, hearing Gino introduce Dana as his mama, but it fit strangely enough. I called her Dana. They insisted I take a break and everyone sat down to dinner, this assemblage of Paquito Montana , Milos , Zuzanna and Gino and Dana. Gino put up a closed sign outside so we could eat in peace. He came back to the table brandishing a cane that for a handle made out of ivory. Gino waved the cane, strutted proudly. ‘I am a man!’ he cried, his thick Italian voice booming. ‘Homey, how about it?’ Paquito Montana looked at me. He’d hardly touched his food. He was too busy talking.
‘It’s great,’ I said.
‘The best, homey! Me and you. Partners, bro. Systema! Systema! We make the movie. I am the star, you the composer.’ He turned to the table. ‘We’re going to have it all in this movie. Action. Drama. Suspence. Emocion. Comprende?’
‘Bene,’ Gino said, cupping his hand in a gesture of praise.
They spoke a strange language, Gino and Paquito Montana . It wasn’t quite Italian and not quite Spanish, but something unique to them, born of their rapport.
‘I too am a man,’ Gino said.
‘Hermano,’ Paquito Montana said.
‘I am a man!’ Gino said, adding an ornament I didn’t quite catch.. ‘Like Al Pacino. You are like Antonio Banderas, and I am Al Pacino.’
Paquito Montana suddenly leaped back from the table, brandishing the rapier. His knee-high black boots made a big thud as he leaped again, into an action pose, the gold buckles on the sides of the boots shining.
Gino also leaped from the table. He turned the cane upside down and waved the big white cane threateningly. With shouts and curses the two men clashed swords, scattering across the small courtyard patio. Gino made a bold thrust, which was blocked magnificently by the man called Paquito Montana , who in turn spun, rolled sideways and turned a somersault.
‘Bravo!’ Gino said.
We all clapped enthusiastically. It was impressive, the agility and grace and strength, all of it coming so suddenly.
The two men embraced, shook hands and returned to the table. I was happy now, not just because of the food and beer, but because I felt some kind of gratitude for the way the day had turned out. Later they broke into loud disputes again, and Paquito Montana disappeared again. When he returned, with his usual flourish presented Gino with a crisp bill. I couldn't see how much it was, but judging by the broad grins they exchanged it must have been enough. They patted each other warmly and sat again.
As it grew dark, cigars were brought out and a nice red wine. Dana didn’t talk much; but I could tell she liked and approved of the evening . The talk went round, with Paquito Montana keeping it going most of the time. He took out the photos again, discussing fine points of different situations in the pictures. ‘Here we were filming in Caracas ,’ he explained. ‘This one? Oh, we were in Gibraltar . Three years ago?’ ‘You see that girl? Que bonita, eh? She is a model from Mexico . She comes from my village, we’ve been in love for twenty years.’
‘Are you getting married?’ Dana asked, one of the few questions I remember her asking.
‘I was in Miami this winter (I have a winter house there,' Paquito Montana went on, not hearing the question. '- Elton John - you know, he is my neighbor. On the other side? David and Victoria Beckham.’--
‘I thought they lived in England ,’ Zuzanna said.
‘Systema. They do - but they like to spend a few weeks in Miami . But listen, I was there last week and Elton, he says to me - interesanche - ‘My friend, you are too great for love!’
I think he’d forgotten me by then, because when Paquito scanned the room and saw me, he burst into a grin.
‘What do you say, homie? How about some music?’
Everyone turned to me nodding.
‘My friend, my friend,’ Gino said. ‘Let it Be - for me.’
‘Whatever you want,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Systema.’
‘Let it be,’ Gino said, looking around. ‘But at the right moment. Everything at the right moment.’
Sometime after midnight (I think I passed out for a while), I left, feeling disoriented. The café was closing. Paquito Montana wasn’t there. Gino and Dana shook hands with me warmly, and told me to come back. Outside near the square I ran into Paquito Montana .
‘Where you going, homey?’
‘Home.’ I smiled.
‘Well, come here tomorrow. We talk more business.’
‘Not tomorrow. I have to look for work.’
‘Saturday morning then. You’re free, yes?
A little hesitantly, I agreed to meet him at the Jan Hus statue.
That Saturday Paquito Montana was already there when I arrived. It was very early and the square was virtually empty.
He was still wearing the same ragged glorious outfit from the first night, and was literally standing up on the statue of the 13th Century martyr, the rapier drawn. He rested his weight on it in a grandiose pose. ‘My lord!’ he called, by way of greeting, but then continued with his mediation. I smoked a cigarette and regarded the square. Presently, he rose and with an energetic leap, landed on the ground. I asked what he was doing up on the statue.
‘It’s like a tower, El Gabacho,’ he said. ‘You must have the perspective. Systema!’
‘I see. Where are we going?’
‘To scout locations. For the movie, homey.’
We set out, crossing the quiet square and down to the river. All the while Paquito Montana gave forth to his musings, murmuring ‘Situacion interesanche,’ now and again, or ‘this is no movie, I’m the real thing. Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie all rolled into one … you hear me, El Gabacho? Must remember El Gabacho.’
I couldn’t piece together the meaning of what he was saying. Instead I detected a certain rhythm, a pulse to his fancies, a meter. He had a distinct voice, characterized I’d say by a ringing, inquiring tone, as though every word were being addressed directly to the heavens. I was content to follow along - what else had I to do? I’d brought my guitar along in case there was a chance to busk.
We arrived at a restaurant near the Charles Bridge . Inside it was a dark, swanky tourist trap. Paquito led the way. He returned the rapier to his hip and walked in tall and full of purpose. He ran his fingers admiringly over the polished wood surfaces and encouraged me to do the same, then turned his head upward and inspected a chandelier, which was truly impressive. “We can film one of the assasination atttempts here,’ he said. ‘Paquito Montana arrives here for the meeting with the head of the Columbian cartel, but he is betrayed…’
‘By who?’ I asked.
‘The Columbians, homey. Systema.’ He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Ah homey, action, suspence, drama, spirituality, emocion. The movie’s going to have it all. And Paquito Montana , like Tony Montana, he’s there to fight the people trying to take his money and power. You fuck with me, you fuck with the best!’
‘I thought he was done in by greed,’ I interposed. ‘You know, don’t get high off your own supply and all that.’
‘Listen to El Gabacho,’ Paquito Montana murmured. ‘Maybe on a certain level. But you see, El Gabacho, guys like Tony and Paquito Montana , they -‘ He struggled with his words as we walked. ‘To you, El Gabacho, maybe Tony is ‘done in’ as you say by greed. Systema. But -‘
Suddenly he broke off and veered into the dining area. It was almost empty. A beautiful young woman was sitting alone at a table. We sat down, or rather Paquito Montana did and I followed. The woman looked up and Paquito Montana leaned over and kissed her. ‘This is Lenka,’ he said, introducing us. Two plates of breakfast, scarcely touched, languished on the table.
‘Where did you go?’ Lenka asked.
‘I told you I would be back. I had to meet El Gabacho here for business.’
‘But you were gone nearly one hour.’
‘Sorry baby. Systema.’
They talked for awhile and Paquito Montana offered me the breakfast, which looked good - biscuits and gravy. While I picked at it the waiter came and I ordered coffee. The waiter brought it, made a scratch on the bill, and disappeared.
Lenka didn’t look too pleased - I can imagine we looked pretty devilish - but after a few minutes she relaxed under Paquito Montana ’s insistent soothing voice and endless supply of words.
‘She’s beautiful, eh homey?’ he said to me. ‘You like her? Only the best, homey.’
He produced the pictures again, from the album in his coat. You’ll have noticed by now his tendency to produce the photos often. By then I’d begun to notice too, and too look at them more carefully than I had before at Valentynos. Nearly all showed handsome incarnations of our strange friend. There was undoubtable starshine in some of the pictures, especially in the ones that looked like authentic movie sets. Privately I tried to reconcile the handsome person in the photos with its present incarnation. He later told me he was close to fifty, and the person in the photos was youthful and attractive. His features, though striking, were now puffy and haggard and a slight paunch poked out from between the layers of his long, black coat.
Presently he produced a photo I hadn’t seen before, a white yacht floating in an azure sea under a cloudless Carribbean sky. Upon closer inspection I noticed the photo was a carefully clipped magazine ad for Absolute vodka.
‘I had one just like it, homey,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Down in Mexico .’
‘I thought you lived in Miami .’
‘Yes but I also have a villa in Oaxaca .’
‘What happened to the boat?’
He laughed.
‘Had to pay the government. Systema.’
After a while Paquito Montana rose, planted a kiss on Lenka’s cheek, then with a stream of courtesies he was off. I started to follow but he stopped me. ‘Stay here with Lenka, homey. I be back. Thirty minutes. I told her you are a great famous American composer. Relax, homey. I will return.’
I went back in, feeling uncertain, and sat with Lenka. She was sending a text message. The waiter came and asked if I wanted anything. I ordered a small beer. The waiter said something to Lenka in Czech and they both laughed.
‘Sileni!’ the waiter waved in Paquito Montana ’s direction. ‘Crazy.’
‘He says he is crazy,’ Lenka said.
I laughed.
‘Everyone is crazy,’ Lenka said faintly.
We talked for a while. She was 23, originally from a village in Moravia , and was studying economics at university.
‘And you?’ she asked. ‘You are from America ?’
‘ California .’
‘ California ? And why you come to Czech Republic ?’
‘To see the world.’
She laughed.
‘That is what all Americans say. I never understand why they come to Czech Republic .’
‘You don’t like it.’
She shook her head.
‘I would like to live maybe in New Zealand - or California . And what are you doing in Czech Republic?’
‘Teaching.’
‘English?’
‘Yes.’
‘Another English teacher.’ Lenka laughed. And how long are you here?’
‘It’s my first year.’
‘And you want to stay?
‘I don’t know.’
‘And will you go back to America ?’
‘Someday. How do you know Paquito Montana ?’
She laughed again, and I saw she had nice even white teeth that set off her rich gold-toned skin.
‘I was just walking near Narodni Trida and he just started talking to me. Ah, you are so beautiful, he said, come have dinner with me.’
I laughed this time.
‘It was the same with me. He just started talking to me out of nowhere.’
We ended up waiting nearly another hour before our friend finally returned, his face glowing as though from some fresh triumph. With his usual flourish he whipped out a thousand-crown note and stuffed it into the waiter’s pocket. The bill had totalled only about 400 crowns.
I decided to get going. It was a good day for tourists to be out and I hoped to make some money busking near the castle. Paquito Montana protested.
‘Come El Gabacho - we go with Lenka. Talk more business.’ I looked at Lenka, then shook my head.
‘It’s OK, I have some things to do.’
‘Well, call me tomorrow. We will scout more locations’
‘How will I reach you?’
‘You can call Lenka.’
I got her number, and they waved and disappeared around the corner.
We passed many evenings at Valentynos. I gathered it was a home base for my strange new friend. Each night was the same, with variations. Paquito Montana blazed back and forth, disappeared for long intervals, came back and gave demonstrations with the rapier and even a pair of nunchucks, and whatever other customers there were were shown the pictures and sometimes he and Gino got in loud disputes about the bill.
Gino was always extremely polite to me for some reason. He would insist on ‘Let it Be - at the right moment,’ and at the right moment I complied. He was fond of displaying to us the wall inside the bar, which was decorated with currencies from all the countries he and Dana had traveled and lived in: Chinese yuan, Japanese yen, American dollars, British pounds, French francs, Canadian dollars, even Russian rubles and some Indonesian currencies I’d never seen before.
It was never really busy at Valentynos, maybe because it was tucked away in one of those narrow streets behind Tyn Church . It wasn’t the kind of place you noticed. One night a couple of teen-age Czech girls wandered in. They were both naked except for bra and panties, and both had various markings drawn on their bodies. They said it was all part of some joke they were playing. Another evening actors from a traveling theater company passed through, all of them dressed as hobos, their faces painted in white greasepaint, and Paquito Montana traded a small Bowie knife for a black cowboy hat, which he then wore the rest of the evening.
There are perhaps little pockets, cabinets of the world which you fall upon without expecting. I felt tucked away into one of these corners. True, I was broke most of the time. My busking adventures during the day were slim, and I spent most of the time evading police, who’d ask me to show a permit or move on, or else finding a spot where the homeless guys or other buskers hadn’t already claimed. I’d also answered a couple of ads on the expats websites from Czechs looking for English lessons, but hadn’t received any replies. It was dead of summer, not the best time to look for work. So in a way, I felt tied to this strange new adventure. It was the only thing I had going. There was the occasional email from a colleague or two back in the States, an anxious note from the parents, but on the whole I felt disembodied. The romantic adventure I’d set forth in search of appeared always to be just around the corner.
‘You were with Paquito today?’ Dana asked. It was a warm evening in June, about a week after my first meeting with Paquito Montana.
‘He’s staying here now,’ she said. She pointed to a spare room next to the garden which was usually rented out to tourists.
It was a splendid room. Gino had showed it to me that first evening. The interior, which they’d redone themselves, was a plush rose color with a king-size bed, pastel paintings on the walls and there was also a private kitchen and bath.
‘How long?’ I asked.
Dana shrugged. I admired her self-possession. Usually she stayed in the bar while Gino engaged the customers with his garrulous courtesy, and only came out when her husband wanted to show her off, or else to bring drinks or food. She seldom spoke, but like many quiet people she communicated something of herself, a shade or a tone of ambience, that could be pleasing or unsettling, depending on her mood. If she approved of you, she just let you be, but regarded you with the same level of attention as she might a picture hanging on the wall. Through snatches of conversation here and there, I learned she and Gino had met when she was only 16 and living as an au pair in Rome . Gino was nearly 40 then,and had just come back from America . Since there marriage ten years before they’d lived in dozens of countries, the proof of which hung on the wall in bar.
‘Who was Lenka?’ Dana asked.
‘Somebody. She's nice.'
Dana nodded and sipped her tea.
Then we heard the shouts and glorious curses that announced the arrival of our friend. He came into the garden with his usual ceremony. Gino came bustling out of the bar and for the next few minutes the two engaged in their intense mano a mano conversation. It seemed the only way they could communicate. ‘I am a man!’ Gino said. ‘No stress! Everything at the right moment!’ to which Paquito Montana replied, ‘Yes, hermano. Systema, systema. Situacione interesanche.’
After a few minutes of this heated discussion, Paquito Montana turned and left, but first insisted I wait until his return.
There were no other customers. Gino sat with me while Dana disappeared inside and presently came out with dinner, a pasta dish with cucumber salad, white wine and chocolate ice cream for dessert. It was dusk and we ate quietly in the fading light. Then Gino encouraged me to play, ‘something soft.’ ‘It’s good for my heart, my artist friend.’ I knew a traditional Italian song, ‘A Como Buen’ and just strummed it. For a while Gino hummed the melody and Dana took the plates inside. Then the two of them sat and stared into space until I stopped playing. Gino clapped. ‘Precioso,’ he said. ‘Ah, you are a nice young man, my artist friend.’ He insisted I have a beer and relax. ‘More later,’ he said, gesturing toward the guitar. ‘At the right moment. Everything at the right moment! Did I tell you when I was in America ?’ Gino said, as we sipped our drinks and it was getting dark. ‘Many years ago. I was a young man, like you. I wanted to make my fortune. So I went to California - Los Angeles !’
‘What did you do?’ I asked, but he waved the question away.
‘At the right moment, my friend … I was a young man, 20 years old. In California ! I had a motorcycle, big and beautiful, a Harley Davidson. And then one day I had a terrible accident. I was in hospital five weeks. You see?’ He stretched out his legs and pulled up his shorts and revealed a network of cruel dark lines. ‘Scars,’ he said. ‘That is why I move so slow.’
‘So later I came back to Italy and there I meet my Dana.’ He looked at his wife, who hadn’t said anything during the reverie, and then back at me. ‘And now I am old man, you see? But I am a man.’
I lit a cigarette.
‘I mean,’ he went on. ‘I have learned the priorities. You must learn the priorities. Everything at the right moment. No stress. You see?’
‘I think so.’
‘You are American,’ he tapped his head. ‘You understand. You see, I don’t forget. Someone wrongs me. I do nothing. I wait. But I no forget. Maybe ten years, twenty years, fifty years, but I wait and - at the right moment -‘ he pounded his fist on the table. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes.’
Gino laughed.
‘Ah, my artist friend, you must be careful in this city. There are many dishonest people. Many strange people. People here, they will take advantage of you. But I am a man. I know the priorities. At the right moment. Everything at the right moment.’
‘Come again tomorrow,’ Gino said. ‘At the right moment we will have some more music.’
I left, wishing them both good evening. A few minutes later I was crossing the square when I heard my name called. It was Paquito Montana .
‘Where you going, El Gabacho?’ he cried.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come, we talk business. I want to show you a bar I’m thinking about buying.’
‘A bar?’
‘Systema. Why not. It’s going to be lovely homey. I buy the place, you perform, I bring the girls and we make some money, then we make the movie. Situacione interesanche. This is no movie. I’m for real. Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Elton John all rolled into one.’
The bar was a pleasant hole not far from the astronomical clock. It was crowded with tourists, mostly young people. We sat at a table in back. There was an old upright piano, with several keys missing, in a dark corner. Pacquito Montana , with his usual flourish, sat down at the piano, raised the cover and launched into a classical piece which I recognized as Chopin’s Polonaise. The opening notes floated high above the room, blending with many puffs of cigarette smoke. He played passably, though a bit jerky and heavy-handed. His image, especially with the long black coat and rapier, was if not ridiculous eminently dashing. People turned from their conversations and eyed him curiously, exchanged bemused glances. At the end of the piece there was scattered applause and Paquito Montana performed a short bow over the shoulder.
‘El Gabacho, bring the woman.’ I picked up the guitar and joined him at the piano. Just play something, he said.
I strummed chords, which he overlaid with sprinkles off the high keys. I doubt very much he heard or cared what I played, so focused was he with intense life on the trickles of sounds his fingers produced. The effect of our efforts was disjointed but not without moments of melodic overlap. I found myself listening more to what he played, those florid, improbable snippets, oddly composed by his kaleidescopic thoughts. It was here I detected the feverish pitch, the almost desperate tone, of his imaginings. We must have struck a strange chord with the audience, two raggamuffin pilgrims washed up on the old continent, as though survivors from some wholesale El Dorado .
I found myself feeling disoriented, off track. On some level I reflected on my old life back in Calfifornia, the romantic images from books that had led me to give up my life there, and felt a melancholy and emptiness - but why? Shouldn’t I have felt a debt of gratitude to my strange friend, to the great city and nhigh night, to the images themselves? I’d arrived spilling over with all these notions and ideas, and set out to find romantic destiny and write about it - in the same cocktail-scented prose of my ancestors.
I laugh sometimes now when I look back at how I was that first summer. Prague that first summer appeared to me as a vast stone square filled with round café tables, a waiter as nimble as a matador, red-checkered tablecloth in hand. I spent the better part of those first few months time idling. I went for long picturesque walks by the Vltava, tried to read into it qualities I admired in the great 1920s writers. I reflected on Mozart and Einstein and Smetana and other great geniuses who’d spent time there. I read books, the classics of my youth as well as Czech authors, and spent innumerable hours in cafes and pubs, scribbling in notebooks and observing people in the manner of my heroes. I can’t read most of the stuff I wrote then - collections of observations and fancies, rough outlines for stories. Not too long ago I threw most of it into the garbage, and didn’t lose a night’s sleep.
The one story I haven’t been able to let go of is the one about Paquito Montana. Nights like that one, where he held forth at the piano, stand out and rebel against my my supposed hard-won greater worldliness. I come back to him and that wild, enchanted first summer and he right in the middle of it, the great rapier of his hanging at his side, the black steel-toed boots, the long coat and bristling goatee. Above all, the great cry of, ‘Systema, Systema!’ And the movie, of course. Always the movie.
Lenka arrived, wearing a light summer dress, her gold-colored hair hanging over one shoulder. She sat at our table, ordered a Mattoni and listened. At length some British guys, apparently on holiday, came over and tried to chat with Lenka but she just nodded politely and tuned them out. The guys were drunk and one of them, a beefy, cream-faced fellow led a chorus of ‘Eng-land! Eng-land!’ The chant competed with the music to the point where it became intolerable. Suddenly Paquito Montana stopped playing, turned and faced the sloshed ensemble.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but as you can see we are giving a concert.’
‘Ah, piss off, Zorro,’ the big English guy said. ‘You call that shite music?’
‘It is a spontaneous free composition, with much drama and spirituality and emocion,’ my friend said, with dignity.
‘Rubbish!’
‘Throw him out!’
‘Ah, come on, Matthew, let’s take it easy.’
Paquito Montana rose.
‘He’s got a bloody sword, for fuck’s sake,’ the big man, Matthew, roared derisively. The others laughed. ‘Hey, Zorro - do us a favor, eh? Let’s see you wipe that bleedin’ sword with your ass!’
In a flash, Paquito Montana unsheathed the rapier, whirled and lunged, then delivered a series of sharp raps upon the skulls of his drunken abusers, who drew back, more stunned than actually hurt. Then there was a scramble, curses thrown and I thought we were done for when suddenly the bartender, a big fellow himself, came over and told the Brits to leave.
‘What, us?’ Matthew protested. ‘He fuckin’ started it!’
‘You go,’ the bartender said. ‘This is not fucking stag party.’
They left, after first cursing the whole establishment, the Czech people in general and Czech ‘cunts’ in particular, Yank ‘tits’ and David Beckham, several Italian league players, and the indifferent god that had the ingratitude to let the sun set on the Empire.
‘Systema,’ Paquito Montana said, after things had settled down. ‘Situacione interesanche.’
‘Systema,’ the barman echoed., and went back to the bar.
It was nearly midnight. We were still at the bar, Paquito and I nursing beer and Lenka with her water. Paquito had the photos out again (he’d showed them to the bartender, whose name was Zdenek, who was particularly impressed with the yacht photo).
‘This is from ‘Savage Nights,’ Paquito Montana said, pointing at a photo that showed the younger Paquito Montana standing on a sunny, tropical set.
‘Where is it?’ Lenka asked.
‘ Miami . We were shooting there four weeks.’
‘ Miami ?’ Lenka looked impressed.
‘Sure baby. You want I’ll take you there sometime. I show you my house. You know Lionel Richie? A close personal friend. He lives next door.’
I thought he’d said Elton John lived next door, but didn’t contradict him. He went on to another photo showing an Alaskan wolf reposing in a backyard.
‘My baby!’ Paquito Montana cried. ‘Margarita. The picture was taken in Hawaii , when I was there making ‘Tropical Heat.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘With my aunt in Mexico .’
‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’ Lenka asked.
‘I have black belts in several of the martial arts disciplines,’ Paquito Montana replied. ‘You know Jackie Chan - a close personal friend - I studied with him in LA. You know Jean Claude Van Damme?’ He produced a photo. ‘That’s me fighting him in ‘Lionheart.’
I was surprised to see that I recognized the famous French action star, in full combat, with none other than the younger version of Paquito Montana .
‘I remember Lionheart,’ I said.
‘Yeah, homey. And you and me, we make the new movie. It will be the ultimate. I am expecting Al Pacino, a close personal friend, to come see us soon to discuss story ideas.
‘Wow! When?’
‘Next week. Systema.’
‘You’re really serious, Al Pacino?’
‘Systema! Of course I am always serious, El Gabacho.’
Zdenek came back several times, and I had a feeling he was a little worried. Fortunately I still had the money from earlier and this time resolutely thrust two hundred crowns on the table.
‘You can get it?’ Paquito Montana asked. ‘Well, well. What do you know? Saved by El Gabacho. Sitacione interesanche. Thanks, homey. Tomorrow my agent is sending some money by Western Union . We’ll have a nice party.’
‘ Western Union ?’ This surprised me. ‘Why don’t you just use a credit card?’
He waved off my words.
‘No credit cards, no bank accounts, El Gabacho. Systema. Only Western Union .’
The following day was Sunday. I dropped by Valentynos and it hadn’t opened yet. I went over to the room where Paquito Montana was staying and knocked on the door. He answered, looking even more ragged and weary than usual, and his hands trembled slightly. ‘The DTs, homey,’ he said shortly, and invited me in.
The room was a mess. The bed was unmade, the floor littered with the photos and in the kitchen dirty plates lay everywhere and a pot was black, as though left to cook too long and had burned itself out. For some reason, he’d taken one of the green garden umbrellas from the courtyard and set it up over the bed.
‘You hungry, homey?’ Paquito Montana handed me a half-finished plate of eggs and bacon. I shook my head. ‘You should eat it,’ I said. I had already noticed he ate very seldom - so busy as he was with his plans and musings. He told me to relax and then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the shower go on and over the noise I could also hear Paquito Montana muttering to himself as he showered. Later he came out, dressed in his usual glorious attire and we prepared to head out. The shower was still running, and I asked about it.
‘No, leave it, homey.’
‘But why?
‘It’s like a fountain - for chi, of course.’
We headed through Old Town , which had a quiet, hung-over atmosphere, and then Paquito Montana went into a small shop. Behind the counter sat a short man of Arabic complexion.
‘Systema!’ the man said familiarly.
‘Systema!’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Situacione interesanche!’
‘Interanche!’ the man echoed.
‘Relaxacion!’
‘Relaxacion!’
While Paquito Montana purchased a couple small bottles of absinth (and a pack of cigarettes for me) I quietly marveled at the spontaneous effect he seemed to have over people. We passed a café, where a big Russian guy stood at the door. ‘Systema!’ he called, grinning broadly. Several more shouts greeted us as we passed more shops and cafes on our way toward the river. A couple Nigerian guys, who passed out fliers to the nightclubs, came up and exchanged soul handshakes and whispers. I was introduced as El Gabacho.
Prague has a certain off-brand magic that surfaces at unexpected moments. In that rushing heady atmosphere everything took on a dreamy aspect. So instead of feeling bad, I felt quite the oppposite, perfectly marvelous. It was all so off-kilter, cinematic, unaccountable. My friend Paquito Montana, his gold-tipped boots sparkling, that ridiculous rapier hanging at his side, trailing behind him, seemd the embodiment of a new folk hero, arising from the streets and flashing crowds.
I’ve tried recapturing his speeches, but confess it’s not easy. I apologize to the reader for just offering the same snippets and slogans and mutterings. He talked a lot of ‘the movie,’ of course, famous people he knew, the past, as well as his present plans. As for exact content, I’ll admit much of it went right by me - I was too absorbed in the moment, watching the city, distracted by interesting-looking people, caught up in my own romantic images. I wonder even now how much it mattered to Paquito Montana . Sometimes I felt as though he hardly noticed I was there.
The absinth seemed to revive him. At length he began discussing the movie.
‘I thought of the title last night,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Are you ready, homey? Scarface II: The Revenge of Tony Montana.’
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘But Tony was killed in the first one. How can he get revenge?’
‘Systema. I told you, El Gabacho. I will play his son. I will take the revenge. Al Pacino will play an uncle who is carrying on the business.’
‘Is that why Al Pacino’s coming?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got to discuss some possible script changes.’
‘I’d like to read it.’
‘Yes, of course, homey. But it’s in LA right now, where the writers are working on it.’ He became enthusiastic. ‘It’s going to be the ultimate! Action, suspense, spirituality! Situacione interesanche.’
‘I never really thought of Scarface as a spiritual film,’ I said.
‘Listen to El Gabacho!’ Paquito Montana covered his eyes, and shook his head. ‘I mean, the spirit, you know? Systema. Heart. Conviction. Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Generation masturabation!’
He repeated the phrase like a trumpet blast, prompting sleepy breakfasters in the cafes to look up and watch us as we passed. We were getting near the Charles Bridge , and since it was now mid-morning the crowds were beginning to fill the streets. Still full of spirit, Paquito Montana made overtures to a group of girls, who giggled but turned away. Then we entered a café. With his usual flourish, rapier at his side, the man called Paquito Montana seated himself at a table occupied by a middle-aged couple who’d just sat down for crepes.
‘Making a movie?’ said the man, who introduced himself as Jerry Sloan from Pontiac , Michigan . His wife, a plump graying woman, smiled. ‘Call me Claire!’ she said, flashing a smile behind red sunglasses.
‘Wow!’ Claire gushed. ‘Sounds like it will have everything. Will there be a love story?’
‘Madam,’ my friend said. ‘It will be the last word on love, I assure you. Julia Roberts, a close, personal friend, has agreed as a favor to me to play the love interest.’
‘Wasn’t Tony Montana in love with his sister?’ Jerry asked mildly.
‘No in love,’ Paquito Montana said, with patience. ‘It was love of the family. Familia!’ He indicated me. ‘My partner (a very famous composer and good friend, he did ‘Titanic, you know?) is writing the score.’
The Sloans looked at me with polite interest.
‘Titanic?’ Claire said. ‘I just loved that movie. Have it at home.’
‘He’s lying,’ I said, after a moment. ‘I