Via Prague

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 mean, I just helped with the arrangments.’
Don’t ask me why I said that, it just popped out.
‘I see you brought your guitar,’ Jerry said, in a friendly way. ‘Working on something now?’
‘He is composing the soundtrack for the movie,’ Paquito Montana said.
‘Are you on holiday?’ I asked, to change the subject.
‘We’re retired,’ Jerry said, nodding. ‘We’ve been backpacking through Europe . Started in England last month, down through Spain and France and Germany . Next we’re going up to Poland , then swing up to Holland . Like to see Copenhagen and maybe Sweden or Norway before we head home.’
Claire giggled. ‘Actually we’re making a bit of a movie ourselves.’ She reached in a leather bag and produced a camcorder. ‘Action,’ she said gayly, and we saw the red light come on.
As if on cue, the man called Paquito Montana leaped gracefully from the chair, withdrew the rapier and, with much style and composure, waved the sword over the heads of the breakfast crowd. ‘This is no movie!’ he called. ‘I’m for real. Micheal Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Bruce Willis all rolled into one. Generation Masturbation!’
Everyone laughed, and several people took his picture. The performance went on for a few more minutes. ‘Play something, homey!’ he called to me. I strummed some Johnny Cash while he went about the performance with the rapier. Then he produced the nunchucks from his jacket and, entrusting the sword to Jerry, went on to amaze the café with various speedy techniques and tricks, twirling the nunchucks between his legs, behind the back, chopping and gliding, whirling and jumping.
He finished, I stopped playing. There was some applause and a few people actually came over and, mistaking us for street performers, gave us coins. When we sat down, we saw Claire stopping the camcorder.
‘Now you’re immortalized,’ Jerry said. ‘Where you guys from by the way?’
‘Originally from Mexico ,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘But now I move back and forth between LA and Miami . My friend here is based in New York City .’
‘That right?’ Jerry asked.
‘That’s right,’ I invented.
‘So you’re not living here?’
‘Well, just for the movie,’ I said. ‘After this I have to head to Hong Kong for another project.’
‘Well, you both sure get around,’ Claire said.
I looked at Paquito Montana .
‘Systema,’ he said.

Walking over the bridge a little later, I felt troubled.
‘I can’t believe I said all that,’ I said aloud to Paquito Montana .
‘Systema.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Look El Gabacho, what are we doing?’
‘What - now?’
‘Yes - now.’
‘We’re walking. Across Charles Bridge .’
‘Right. Walking across Charles Bridge . Are we suffering?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, are we suffering?’
‘No.’
‘And them back there? Homer and Marge Simpson - are they suffering?’
‘No.’
‘So what are you worried about, homey? Systema! Come. We scout some more locations.’
But something else nagged me. How long could it last? I thought of my editors back at the newspaper. ‘You’re too trusting,’ they said. ‘Learn to be more skeptical. Ask the hard questions.’
But I didn’t feel like asking the hard questions. Somehow I felt, at the time, that it would have been unseemly, intrusive. It would have interupted the flow, the river of glittering ideas and illusions. Besides, I wasn’t picking up the bills, so what right had I to question? I wanted to feel that anything was possible -, that Al Pacino was on his way, that the movie would be made and it would have action, suspense, spirituality, emocion. I suppose that’s what I meant by enchantment.
Paquito Montana slapped me on the back as we crossed the bridge.
'This is no movie, Gabacho!' A group of girls passed, he turned and said something and they turned back. He talked to them for a few minutes, introduced 'El Gabacho,' and tried convincing them to accompany us. They smiled shyly, but shook their heads and walked away.
'Systema,' Paquito Montana said. He watched them a moment, waved a little in farewell, then turned and continued in big strides across the bridge.

The Kampa is a lovely park on the other side of the river. In the spring and summer there sometimes are outdoor art exhibitions, and many people go there to lay in the grass or sit on benches and look out at the river.
‘This is an important scene,’ Paquito Montana said, when we arrived. He walked over to a tree-shaded bench with a view of the river and the bridge on the left. ‘It is here I will meet with Anselmo Montana (Tony’s uncle) and he secretly turns over the family business to me. The Columbians are conspiring against the Montana empire so we meet in Prague , nice, out of the way place, to discuss a secret counterattack. Systema. Situaction interesanche, eh homey?’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Now I understand why Prague .’
‘Prague is perfect, El Gabacho. Nobody knows it’s here? Like your man Osama, he’s probably over on the Charles Bridge taking pictures. You think the Montana family can do a deal like this at the Miami Hilton? Too visible, El Gabacho. Systema!’
‘So you’ll meet Al Pacino here?’
‘No, at Karlovy Vary . He will be at the film festival.’
Paquito Montana sat down on the bench and looked out at the river.
‘Perfect, eh?’ he spread his arms. ‘We will sit here, the cameras will be behind us so we’re in shadow and you will hear our plans … Anselmo says, ‘There is much to be done in the coming days, Paquito. It is time for you to step into your father’s position. It is up to you now. And I say, ‘Don’t worry, dear uncle. They fuck with me, they fucking with the best!’
‘Avenge his death,’ Anselmo says. ‘We will do it together. Avenge the death of Tony Montana!’
I admit I could picture the scene was impressed with the emocion in Paquito Montana ’s voice. I really wished Al Pacino was there at that moment. The story even sounded plausible, if a trifle familiar.
‘Of course, El Gabacho, the studio is still unsure about the script, so nothing is finalized. You must swear to me that you will keep these important plot points secret for the time being.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
We left for Karlovy Vary on a Thursday. That morning I met Paquito Montana and Lenka at the train station. The train was crowded with festivalgoers and tourists. We sat in a compartment with a group of middle-aged Germans who spoke very good English and were very polite. They told us they were from Bonn and were coming to the festival.
They were somewhat astonished by the appearance of Paquito Montana. He’d bought a handsome white dinner jacket, which he now wore, but with the same black trousers and knee-length gold-tipped boots, and of course the rapier ever-present at his side. As a special touch he’d added a pair of white gloves to match the jacket. While Lenka and I looked out the window at the passing countryside our friend entertained the Germans with the photos, which they carefully passed around, and with his talk of the movie.
‘You are a famous actor?’ of the Germans asked. ‘Why do you take the train and not some private car?’
‘No private cars. Only trains.’ Paquito Montana reply had a note of contempt, as though a private car in these circumstances would be the hallmark of foolishness.
‘I saw ‘Lionheart,’ the same man said. ‘I don’t remember you in the film.’
‘He really was in it though,’ I broke in. ‘I’ve seen the picture.’
‘Well, it must be my mistake,’ the man chuckled politely.
‘Systema,’ Paquito Montana said. He rose from his seat and took the photographs, leafing through until he found the one he’d shown me. ‘It was a longer scene but they had to cut it.’ He handed the picture to the German, who eyed it closely, then with an air of surprise handed it back. ‚Systema.’ A grin broke across his raggedly handsome face.
He disappeared for a little out into another car. The Germans fell to talking among themselves. Lenka closed her eyes and after a while she fell really asleep and I enjoyed looking at her as she slept, her gold-colored hair trembling slightly with the persistent movement of the train.
Then I looked out the window for a while. It felt good to be out of the city, the first time since my arrival the previous autumn. There had been a lot of rain that week and the Bohemian rolling hills soaked to a damp, rich green. Someone had left an old copy of USA Today under the seat. I picked it up and tried reading it, but the news was old and stale. There was the usual junk about the war, titters about the market. I flipped to the entertainment page and read an interview with Tom Cruise. It wasn’t a very interesting interview but I read all of it for something to do. After a while I went to shove it back under the seat but one of the Germans asked to see it so I handed it over, then pretended like I was going to sleep so I wouldn’t have to talk. For a few minutes I actually did fall asleep. The train came to a stop, and the announcements startled me awake. We were in a village about half way to our destination. Then the door opened and Paquito Montana, with his usual flourish, stepped in. He was carrying a bottle of wine. ‘Only the best, Gabacho!’ He’d picked up an umbrella somewhere in his exploration of the other cars. He presented it to the Germans as a gift. ‘My lady,’ he said, handing to one of the wives, who looked confused but accepted it with a smile.
Seeing Lenka was still asleep, Paco waved to me to come with him. ‘Come, I introduce you to some people.’ We passed through three cars, the floor rattling beneath us. The compartment Paquito Montana led me to was noisy and filled with students, a mixture of nationalities. They were on holiday and going camping in near the German border. Everyone was drinking and smoking and watching some American comedy on a laptop. Paquito Montana waved off the film.
‘Teenager movies. I cannot watch these. Generation Masturbation.’
The phrase caught hold with the students, who enjoined him in repeating the phrase several more times. They also liked that I was called, ‘El Gabacho,’ and a beer and joint were pressed into my hands. It was this afternoon that Paquito Montana explained to me the meaning of the nickname.
‘It’s OK, right?’ he said to the others. ‘In Mexico, everything is in how you say it.’
One of the young men, a Valencian by the name of Alejandro, concurred that it was possible that a single phrase could be interpreted as an endearment or insult.
‘It depends on the situation.’ He had the way, like a true Spaniard, of pronouncing his hometown, ‘Valen-thia.
‘So El Gabacho - it just means American?’ This from Bernard, a medical student from Norway.
‘Yes.’
Bernard laughed. He had a rich, deep laugh.
‘It is very interesting,’ he said.
‘Situacione interesanche! There’s a good example,’ the man called Paquito Montana broke in. ‘Yes, another example. Do you not agree that it too has many meanings? If I say, as you do, ‘it is very interesting?’ with a bit of a laugh, as you do, does this not mean something different then if I -‘ he rubbed his goatee and nodded slowly ‘Ah! Very interesting.’
‘Yes, of course. This is obvious. Every one knows this.’ Alejandro said.
‘So, homey,’ Paquito Montana turned to me. ‘You see.Systema’
Bernard raised his beer to me.
‘Systema! El Gabacho!’
There were several more raised glasses, cries of ‘Systema!’ and toasts for ‘El Gabacho.’

We sat drinking and smoking and talking for until the train pulled into Karlovy Vary
The festival began the following day. Paquito Montana had bought tickets in advance, which saved time. Paquito Montana was right in leaving everything to him, for we’d hardly stepped off the platform when he disappeared into the crowd of people awaiting the train, entered a café, and came out engaged in familiar conversation with a Russian guy who he introduced to us as Alexey, who in turn introduced us to two lovely girls, Anna and Allah. They were all from Moscow. I could see they were astonished at the appearance and style of Paquito Montana. They immediately invited us for drinks and later offered to put us all up for the night. They’d rented a villa just outside town.
That first day we saw a Czech film and one classic Western, The Good The Bad and The Ugly. They were having a tribute for Sergio Leone. Paquito Montana enjoyed the last film immensely. ‘Hombre Sin Nombre! Man with no name! Excellent. Systema!’ he enthused. ‘I have plans to do a remake. Clint Eastwood, a close, personal friend, has agreed to appear in it. He will be El Viejo sin nombre and I his lost son, El Joven sin Nombre.’
The Russians invited us all for lunch at a pub off the main square. It was crowded and hot in the restaurant aand the staff looked sullen and overworked. We all had sausage, dumplings and cabbage, along with several pints of Pilsner. Paquito Montana entertained the table with more stories, and even won over the waitstaff with some of his photos. They seemed convinced he was insane, but in a way that was charming. Alexey asked if he could be instructed on the use of the rapier, so while the rest of us had coffee, Paquito Montana rose and demonstrated how to properly hold the sword, to excecute nimble twists and thrusts, and handed to the Russian, who held the rapier gingerly, his face a study in concentration.
‘You must come to Moscow,’ Alexey said. ‘I will introduce you to my friends. We will go to discos such as you have never before seen!’
I was sitting between Lenka and the two Russian girls, and thoroughly enjoying myself. I’d already been asked to play and had complied. Most of the people in the café, well-dressed, attractive jet setters in for the festival, either came swaying over beerily to listen in or else pointedly ignored us. At the next table an old Czech man sat alone, staring hard at our table for a quarter of an hour until a waitress finally came and we overheard him complaining. The waitress returned and served him a pint.
‘He says he lives here and he can’t even get a beer in his pub,’ said Lenka, who translated. ‘And he says he is very thirsty now.’ She turned and flashed a smile and said something I couldn’t catch. The man appeared mollified and attended to his beer.
‘I said, ‘Don’t worry, Daddy. Enjoy your beer.’
After lunch we went walking through the town. Everwhere there were people walking, sitting in cafes enjoying the festival atmosphere. Paquito Montana led the way as usual, with Alexey at his side asking questions about the movie business, while Paquito Montana answered with his customary speeches and oblique murmurings. The girls broke off from time to time to look in the shop windows and talk among themselves. I was content to drift along and enjoy the sensation of being of Prague and moving in the crowd.
At four we went to another Sergio Leone film, ‘Once Upon a Time in America.’ Afterward, over dinner, once again on the visiting Russian, Paquito Montana launched into a discourse on ‘contemporary violence,’ which he exalted as‘the spirituality of a sexualized planet.’ ‘It’s pure Systema,’ he said. He was much impressed by the character played by De Niro (a close personal friend). It was a warm, fragrant evening, and I was enjoying the company so much I was almost sorry when around eight thirty and the dinner had been paid for, Paqutio Montana leaned over and told me it was time to ‘talk business.’
We headed to the center of the town. Outside the cinema a great red carpet had been been rolled out under peach-colored awning. Already a great mass of people were crowded in and around the entrance, which was cordoned off by security. Paquito Montana led us confidently through that well-heeled, gaping throng, the rapier at his side. People looked at us questioningly, but we ignored them, and they moved aside. They seemed to take Paquito Montana for an important personage, and us as his entourage. We got up close to where the press photographers were waiting, checking their cameras, and we mingled for a while. Paquito Montana characteristically began chatting with all persons within range, including some of the security guys. For a moment I thought he was going to break out the photos and show them the picture of the yacht, but he didn’t. The rest of us, having nothing else to do, kept our eyes on the entrance and now and then flicking our glance out down the street, waiting for something to happen. It was past nine by then but still bright out, the sky bathing the village to a lovely, bewitched gold, and light music, presumably from a car stereo, played on the air.
A group of black cars approached and came to a stop at the curb in front of the hotel. Elated, the crowd rushed toward the cars, but then fell back again or were pushed back by the security. It was hard to see. A feeling of disappointed came over everyone after a couple minutes as we saw the people getting out of the cars one by one, all immaculately dressed, but none of them possessing the essential starshine we were looking for. They were probably producers, Paquito Montana shouted to me. A few minutes later more cars arrived and more dignitaries and their wives got out, all of them walking matter-of-factly past the flicking cameras and, acutely aware of their importance, largely indifferent to the crowd. A leonine attractive woman, her platinum hair piled into a mass of miniature curls, and wearing a red satin evening dress and escorted by a man in tuxedo, stepped onto the carpet. ‘She is very famous Czech actress,’ Lenka told me. The Czech actress, whose name I don’t remember, paused while the press took pictures, and someone brought her a bouquet of flowers. She smiled brightly and the cameras flashed and then with her date disappeared into the hotel.
Finally a white van arrived and there was a great cry and much jamming forward. Over the heads of people I recognized Al Pacino. He looked haggard as usual but trim and fit in a silver evening suit, his famous pensive gaze covered by a pair of dark shades. I looked around for Paquito Montana and suddenly I spotted him standing on the red carpet in front of the hotel entrance. He stood magnificently poised, one hand over the rapier, an ecstatic grin lighting up the ragged face. A couple security guys were making their way over and I could see they were getting ready to move him back when something amazing happened. Al Pacino, who by this time had passed onto the carpet, had stopped, looked at Paquito Montana. A broad, friendly smile spread over the face of the famous actor. He walked forward, his hand extended.
'Systema!' he shouted in his gruff voice.
‘Situancion interesanche!’ my friend replied.
They shook hands, and Al Pacino put a hand on Paquito Montana’s shoulder while and they spoke for a moment, their heads bent closely together. I could see Paquito Montana saying something, but it was too loud to hear anything and he made several big gestures while Al Pacino laughed and patted him again. Then Al Pacino and Paquito Montana shook hands and the great actor waved to the crowd and went into the theater.

Afterward we went to a garden café for beers.We were all buzzing with excitement.
‘So what did he say?’ I asked.
‘Systema, Gabacho.’ He was full of a warm sense of purpose and an easy confidence flowed from him as he sat back in his chair, as though a great weight had been taken off his shoulders. I felt a curious relief too.
‘Didn’t I tell you, homey?’ Paquito Montana said. ‘We worked together briefly on ‘Serpico.’ I was a stunt double in several scenes.’
‘Did you get a chance to ask him about the new movie?’
‘Relax, Gabacho. At the right moment, as our Italian friend says. He says he has to be in New York tomorrow. No problem, I told him. Systema. I’m flying to New York myself. Anyway, we’ll discuss it later.’
It was a fine evening. The spirit of Paquito Montana’s triumph cast a spell over the whole party, imparting in each of us a sense of a tangible and rare mystery, a feeling of arrival on a luminous shore. We went from bar to bar, drinking and talking, and even took our glasses out with us into the streets. Anna and Allah, their faces flushed because of the heat and drinking, linked arms with me and Alexey and we toasted each other and exchanged kisses and felt very close together and happy. Several times we all shouted, ‘Systema!’and that made us feel even better, and all around us the other festivalgoers passed, with their own battle cries, on the way to their own secret communion with the night. A star had passed through their lives, and conscious of the rarity of the evening, they hurried on in a determined way, or else joked of their happy disenchantment. But we had among us our own star, who floated along with us and we stayed close to him, and to each other, and let him lead the way, rapier withdrawn.

He was born Juan Francisco Prieto in a remote village in southern Mexico - I remember his brother Eduardo told me it was somewhere near Oaxaca. This I learned later, the night Paquito Montana was almost arrested.
Apparently the journey of the Man called Paquito Montana began on a spring afternoon in 1962, when word spread through Los Santos that a Hollywood film crew was in town making a picture. Juanito, as he was known in the village, couldn’t have been more than ten at the time. He was already tall then, and athletic, with a charming way of expressing himself that made him something of a favorite. His parents were farmers, and he had a little brother Eduardo. Usually he and Eduardo accompanied their father to the market on the weekends. It was here he heard the news, from ‘El Boracho,’ or the drunkard. Juanito begged his father to go and the old man indulged him (he was probably curious too).
The filming went on in the outskirts of the town. It was some kind of spaghetti western, from what I gathered, starring John Wayne. One afternoon Juanito and his father, and others from the village, watched while a shootout was filmed between cowboys and Mexican bandits clad in sombreros and heavy woolen ponchos.
He spent two weeks hanging around the set. His brother Eduardo went with him, but was shy in front of the foreigners and preferred to watch from the shadows. The crew were all friendly to the brothers. There were meals and snacks set out on great white-linen tables for cast and crew and each day the boy was invited to ‘help himself.’ It was there Juan had his first taste of Coca-Cola, of Hershey bars and strawberry shortcake. All of it he consumed ravenously, feeling in them that exotic and marvelous taste of another world.
The highlight lay a few days later though, near the end of the shoot. During the filming of the climactic scene, a high noon duel, the director said he wanted Juan and Eduardo in the scene, which involved the John Wayne character, on his way to the high noon duel, arriving in town and asking the Mexican village boy to send a message to his girl, the daughter of the Sheriff.
The scene was done in two takes. Everyone was kind to Juan, said he was ‘a natural.’ Even John Wayne seemed impressed.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon and after the scene the crew broke up and went for lunch under cool, shaded awning.
Juan was paid $50, and given a white cowboy hat by the director. He gave the money to his parents, who marveled at so much money earned for so little. They saw it as a kind of omen even, and so put the money away instead of spending it.
He and Eduardo followed the crew’s trucks on foot as they wound through the town one last time, departing with a toot of horns and waves.
He never saw the film. There were no cinemas in the village, and it’s doubtful if the film even made it to Mexico City . One day a few weeks after the crew left a couple of village boys accused him of being a ‘filthy gringo.’ He got in a fight and in the confusion lost the white cowboy hat. He suspected one of the boys had taken it, but there were too many people around. Still, he was left with the singular vision, the memory of that other world he’d seen.

He left school early - 16 - he just couldn’t sit still in classes, and even then he was a talker, full of energy and imagination. He had plans of his own. It was around this time he met Claudia as well. She was only 14 and already a great beauty. They were engaged secretly for a short time, and Claudia really wanted to be married, but from what Paquito told me they probably were more in love with love than each other. I wonder if it’s possible for him to really love anyone. His world, or the one he had built for himself, seemed large enough - for ‘love’ ‘drama’ ‘suspense’ ‘emocion’ but really only as ideas or plotlines and not in their tangible, mundane forms.
One of his friends, Miguel, had said he knew of some people who, if you had a little money, would help get passage over the border to Los Angeles . It was an idea he’d heard a few times, and kicked around in his gut. One long evening he spent the night with Claudia. It was a strange evening, at times tearful and angry, then sentimental and romantic. Sometime near dawn he crept out. He went to his parents house, found the money stored at the top of his mother’s kitchen cabinet, packed a small bag and headed out.

He hated LA, at least in the beginning. Upon his arrival he found himself -- like his eventual hero Tony Montana -- working as a dishwasher at a steakhouse that catered mostly to conservative old businessmen and their wives. Thanks to his good looks and persevering charisma, as well as a flair for picking up English, he eventually moved up to waiter. All his wages went for rent and food, nevertheless he did make a point of presenting himself well. He had two white dress shirts and corresponding black trousers, which he kept washed and brushed. He tried talking to customers. Most ignored him, but a few found him charming and those who did came back regularly and insisted on him serving them. The hours were long -- his shift ended after midnight. The night was his time. He'd walk up and down Sunset Boulevard, enchanted by the phantasmagoric shimmering lights and parade of color and shifting, restless faces. His one day off, Sundays, when the restaurant was closed, he treated with the reverance of a holy day. It was then he went to the Studios. He had met a young girl from Illinois, she was maybe 17, and who had come to be an actress but worked as an escort and in occasional stag films. She had changed her name to Persephone Watkins (her parents were Polish immigrants, her real name was something like Hana Radlackova). It was she who convinced our friend to change his name. Initially he tried a Western name, true to his heroes, so he became Doc Fernandez. He grew a randy mustache, which he kept waxed, and he slicked his hair back and took to walking with a swagger and a toothpick jutting from one side of his mouth. Persephone instructed him on how to prepare a resume, and through a friend photos were taken. I asked to see the photos but he told me they had long since been lost.
He got to go on tours a few times. You hear legendary stories of great stars sneaking onto sets, or being 'discovered' working in a diner, and of course it has become a cliche, the whole city of lost dreamers theme. It was a cliche even then I suspect. But our friend was in luck. This would have been the late Sixties, early Seventies. Times were changing. Many of the studios were in trouble or closing. Audiences were staying at home watching TV, tired of the spaghetti westerns and musicals. There were the new directors coming, the renegades like Coppolla and Scorcese who would revolutionize the medium. There were new stars too, and one particular star attracted his attention. One Sunday he went to the cinema and saw 'The Godfather.' He was fascinated by the character of Michael Corleone, and even more astounded by the actor who played him, Al Pacino. I suspect what attracted him most was the fact that Pacino was what Hollywood then called, 'ethnic.' He tried communicating to me the effect the performance had on him, but mainly through his usual channels. Pacino's rise convinced him the tide had turned, the moment he'd been waiting for. The following week he called in sick to work, shaved the mustache, got a haircut and a new red silk shirt, changed his name back to the original Juan Francisco Prieto (part of his reaction to Pacino was a sense that 'authenticty' was in)and walked to Universal Studios. The guard at the gate wouldn't him past. Instead he directed him to a phone, dialed a number, and handed the phone to him. A voice on the other end of the line was polite was hurried. He asked to see Pacino. 'Well, he doesn't exactly see people,' the voice answered. He was told to submit a resume and photo at the front desk and the information would be relayed to the director. That call never came, but he was encouraged enough by the simple contact that he went around to the other studios on similar errands. These efforts too were unsuccessful. But one night Persephone took him to a party in Santa Monica with one of her girlfriends who was dating a B-movie actor. It was this guy who took a strange liking to him and introduced him into the circle of other low-grade actors. This friendship eventually landed him his first acting job, as a waiter, in a forgotten exploitation comedy called Hot Stuff! He was paid a couple hundred dollars -- more than he earned in a week at the restaurant -- for the two-minute scene, and promptly quit the restaurant. His luck held, and the following month the friend got him a slightly more substantial role as a tough in a Steve McQueen movie. He even got to meet the great actor, who asked him for a cigarette during a break.
A few years passed, and by the mid-Seventies he had become quite acclimated with life as an aspiring young actor. He grew his hair out long, as it was fashionable in the counter-culture spirit of that time, and took to smoking weed at parties and occasionally doing coke, but as for that he could take it or leave it. The work was in bit parts and even extra work but steady enough that he was able to get by, enough to enroll in martial arts classes at the city college. He got a black belt in karate, and his physique, always good, became even toned enough so that he even got some modeling work.
His 'big break,' if you can call it that, came late. This is when, by a stroke of luck, he landed the job on 'Serpico,' the Al Pacino film, which led to a strong supporting role in a low-budget action film called 'One to One,' where he played a drug dealer. He was paid $3,000, his largest pay check to date, but the film was shelved and never released, but he made an important contact. The film's producer, who liked his performance, went on to use him regularly over the next decade, the Eighties, when our friend enjoyed his most productive period. By then he was in his thirties but had retained his boyish looks. He had also continued his martial arts training (it was around this time he began learning weapons like the sword), and had developed enough expertise that when calls when around looking for stunt doubles and toughs his name was often given. He did well enough to afford a brand new black Z28, a decent sized apartment, and a stable of girlfriends attracted to his dark good looks and masculine physique.
He continued to go to films, never missing a Pacino performance. Just why 'Scarface,' and its leading character meant so much to him I don't know. We all have that certain film we see at a certain time in our lives, that goes on to define us in some way. Perhaps that film epitomized his own hopes as an actor, what he hoped to achieve and what so far had eluded him. Years in America, and his actor's sensibility, had long evened out his Mexican accent, and his mannerisms had also become tanned to a different hue under LA's sun. After seeing the film, he revived the accent, and copied the style and manner of the characters in Scarface. Unfortunately it was during this time he also began emulating the more sinister aspects. He drank more, went to parties too often and the drug use got heavier, and fell in with bad company. A girlfriend dragged him to court on a charge of assault; he pleaded no contest but was stuck with a hefty fine. His name of course wasn't big enough to make gossip columns, but nevertheless a black cloud began to hover that would within a few years release a downpour of misfortune and disappointment. It didn't come immediately. For a while his career continued at the same small, but regular pace. He appeared in a half dozen low-budget action and suspence films, most of which he already talked about at Valentynos, and then of course there was the famous 'Lionheart' scene.
He received a letter from Eduardo that his mother had died. The letter came as a shock. He had kept in regular touch with his family, who'd long since reconciled to his decision. He sent money, as well as photos of him on various sets, to ease an elusive feeling of guilt. Eduardo was then a clinician working in Mexico City at a hospital. He flew to Mexico and spent a miserable week with his father and Eduardo, a visit that was enlivened only when he told stories about Hollywood, and then their faces lit up with pride and longing. On the way back he was hassled at the border. He never found out what the exact problem was, but he was refused entry. The following day he went over illegally, wound up getting arrested and deported. All his money and most of his belongings were still at the flat in LA. He got a friend at one of the studios to call a lawyer, who took on the case, since his rights had apparently been violated. He was allowed a temporary visa long enough for the case to go through. Unfortunately he got drunk at a party soon after and arrested on a DUI. This second arrest didn't help his case. Faced with deportment, he convinced Eduardo to ‘loan’ him $5,000. With that money he bought a ticket to Paris. He spent a year there, living at first on the money but then on various women he came into contact with. He lived for three months with an Iranian woman -- ‘She was crazy,’ Eduardo said -- until he grew tired of her tears and scenes whenever he went out, and then with a 20-year-old girl New York who was there in an exchange program. There were efforts, meager and forced, to look for acting work. Once he was hired by a British company to appear in a beer commercial, which paid well, and by an artist to pose, which didn’t but at least got him drunk. It was the artist, an Irish fellow, who gave him the idea of going to Prague. ‘It’s like paradise,’ the artist said. ‘You’ll fit right in.’
He arrived in Prague not long before I did, as it turned out, and had been there ever since. As for the name change, well, I’m not sure. I never asked about it.

We left Karlovy Vary on Sunday. Alexey and the girls accompanied us to the train station. We embraced, and in a great burst of emocion the Russian stuffed a 5,000 crown note in Paquito Montana’s pocket. Then they stood on the platform and waved as the train pulled away carrying me and the heroic Pequito Montana. We returned to Prague in triumph, both us happy and full of adventure. I hardly had a chance to rest, for that evening I got a call from Paquito Montana and he instructed me to meet him near the Mustek station. He’d (somehow) met a trio of German businessmen in town on holiday. The Germans took us in a cab to a handsome estate on the outskirts of Prague. There were a group of young women there, escorts hired for the evening by the Germans, and so we passed a wild, memorable evening. One of the Germans even videotaped it with a small camcorder and promised to send us a copy. He never did, of course, but at least you could say we made at least one movie, after all. The party lasted until well past dawn, and I have a strange memory of the big party all wandering through the streets and ending up at Charles Square, where we splashed in the fountain and walked through the park, crying out ‘Systema!’ to passersby, while our friend performed handsome and formidable tricks with the rapier.
Over the next few weeks, there were other adventures. One evening we got to go up in a helicopter around the city, the pilot a guy named Jan that Paquito Montana had met somewhere. It was splendid, and we used the opportunity to outline ‘overhead shots,’ as Paquito Montana said, for the movie. ‘It’s like a chariot, eh Gabacho?’ Paquito Montana shouted over the noise, and I had to agree.
During these adventures I still worked a little during the days, enough to just get by. The evenings passed quickly. Some nights I didn’t see him and went busking on my own, which I was getting better at. I tried acting like Paquito Montana, in his manner I mean, but without success. I just didn’t have his style and flair to pull it off, so after a while I just played the songs and left the style to Paquito Montana.
We also still saw a lot of Gino and Dana at Valentynos. One evening in mid-July they were sitting at one of the patio tables when I arrived. Paquito Montana was off on one of his adventures, ‘business,’ as Gino said, and I sensed they’d just been talking about him. ‘I am a man!’ Gino was saying when I arrived.
‘Ah, my artist friend,’ he greeted me. There were no other customers. He insisted I sit down, and Dana went to get me a beer.
‘You are always welcome here,’ he said. ‘You are a friend. ‘Let it Be,’ please. But at the right moment. I can see you are tired and thirsty. Our friend he will return. The business. Always the business, the systema.’
‘Systema,’ I said.
‘Yes, systema,’ he said. ‘But understand, I am a man. I too know the systema.’
‘Yes.’
‘I also know the systema. But I am a man. You see?’
He fixed me with a gaze.
‘I say to my Dana, we must wait and know the priorities. No stress. Everyone relax. I am old man, I know these things.’ As if to illustrate, he picked up his glass of red wine and sipped it. ‘Everything at the right moment. Come, I show you.’
He got up and I followed him to the room he’d given to Paquito Montana. He unlocked the door and we went inside. He flipped on a light. The whole room was a wreck, worse, if possible, than it had been when I’d seen it before. The radio was on, blaring Latin tunes. I could smell something burning. In the kitchen dishes of all kinds filled the sink, and the coffee maker had been left on - the pot was scorched to a faint grey and cracked from the heat. The floor in the bathroom was soaked from the shower (or ‘fountain’) that was still running, and some of the water had leaked into the bedroom. The umbrella from the patio was still over the unmade bed, the sheets stained with beer and cigarette ash, and the floor was scattered with porn magazines. A classical portrait had been taken down from the wall and stuffed dangerously into a corner. In its place on the wall hung a photo of Paquito Montana, the younger version, in a track star pose.
Without a word, Gino went over and snapped off the radio. Dana had followed us in and I saw her quietly go into the kitchen. I heard the shower go off, and she started cleaning up the kitchen.
Gino waded through the room, his beefy arms describing a circle as he turned around and around, surveying the room. He looked at me to see my reaction.
‘You see,’ he said. He gestured around the room. ‘This room we save for the tourists. Dana and me we spend 10,000 euros on this room. I give it to our friend for nothing, as a present. I say, ‘No, no money. You are a man and friend. I give for you. For the systema, you see? Because I am a man and I know the systema.’
He broke off, wheezing a little. He picked up one of the magazines and opened it to the centerfold.
‘Mama mia!’ he exclaimed. He stopped and faced me, and remembered. ‘I tell you I am a man!’ He threw the magazine down, and stormed out.

Dana was in the kitchen. I saw her put the cracked pot in a paper bag, along with other bruised and battered articles. The dishes were soaking in soapy water, and she had wiped up most of the water in the bathroom. I started to say something, but then we heard sounds coming from the courtyard. It was Paquito Montana, arriving with his customary clamor and high style. The rapier hung at his side, and the steel-toed boots clattered on the patio. He was accompanied by a balding, middle-aged Latino guy.
‘El Gabacho! My Lord!’ he cried, seeing me and Gino. He addressed us with a short bow, his hand over the rapier. My mind was still clouded with the recent scene with Gino, so didn’t react to his arrival. Paquito turned and said something to his companion and they both laughed.
‘My friend!’ Gino broke in, extending his broad arms. He lightly slapped Paquito Montana on both cheeks. ‘My friend, how are you?’
‘Easy, senor,’ Paquito Montana stepped back.
Gino produced from his shirt pocket a yellow card, like the referees use in soccer, and flashed it at Paquito Montana. ‘That’s one,’ he said. ‘One! Let there not be two.’
‘Situacione interesanche!’ Paquito Montana cried. ‘Relax, hermano. Systema.’
‘I too am a man, I am ready to die! You understand me?’ Gino turned to the rest of us. ‘I am ready to die!’
‘Situacione interesanche,’ Paquito Montana giggled. He produced a 1,000-crown note from his great coat and presented it to Gino. ‘Beers for everyone. Gabacho, let me introduce you to Eduardo. He’s also from Mexico! We are brothers. He is a quite famous surgeon throughout Latin America.’
Eduardo blushed and we shook hands.
‘So he will be in the movie too,’ Paquito Montana continued. ‘Eh, homey?
‘My friend!’ Gino broke in again, handing the 1,000-crown note back to Paquito Montana. Paquito Montana made sweeping gestures renouncing claims on the money. He insisted on giving the money back to Gino, who with the same stern oath that he was ‘ready to die!’ refused to take it. The money went back and forth five or six times, before finally Dana came out with the beers and took the money from Paquito Montana and disappeared into the bar and we sat down.
‘No stress!’ Gino said. ‘I am a man! I am ready to die! But at the right moment, everything at the right moment. We relax. Mama! Bring me a wine.’
‘No stress, relaxacion,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘I tell you the business today. I talked with the producers-‘
‘About the movie?’ I asked. The subject of the room had been tacitly put away.
‘-we had lunch,’ he continued. ‘Talked business, we make a deal, back massages, yoga, acupuncture, flight attendants, masturbation,’
‘A deal?’ I asked.
‘A deal, Gabacho!’ He looked at Gino in triumph. ‘Swimming pools, movie stars, Daffy and Donald Duck. I’ll buy this building -‘ he swept his arm around the patio. ‘I buy this building, we put in a jacuzzi …’
‘My friend,’ Gino said. He was quieter now with the wine. ‘My friend’ He exchanged a look with Paquito Montana, who continued his reveries about the meeting with the producers. Later they talked more easily, and the room was brought up, first carefully by Gino, then with a crescendo of emocion. He got up and paced, his beefy arms clasped against his head and making gestures in the direction of the room. He even took all of us, like a group tour, to the room so we could personally inspect. By then, Dana had restored it to something of its former glory.
Gino produced the yellow card, waved it warningly, and we all went back to the garden.
Paquito Montana, still lost in his enthusiasm, asked me to play. A group of tourists, attracted by the sound, came in and listened. Some even took pictures. When I finished there was applause and the group (Polish people) decided to stay for drinks.
‘See, Gabacho - lovely!’ My friend’s face glowed. ‘Beautiful, eh?’ He looked at Gino, who was busy welcoming the new arrivals. Once more, I marveled at his ability to attract and illuminate, and I think even Gino and Dana forgot about the room.

We had dinner later, after the Polish tourists had left. Dana brought coffee, refreshed our pints, then disappeared to finish restoring the guest room. With his usual flair, Paquito Montana kept us amused with his flashes of dialogue and inspiration. He filled Gino in on our recent adventures, while Gino quietly sipped his wine and listened with admiration. He seemed eager to hear the stories, and to see the photos again. We’d taken new ones in Karlovo Vary, so he looked at the snapshots of Alexey and the girls, the villa where we stayed, and of course - the highlight - a single digital, taken by Lenka, showing our friend embracing the one and only Al Pacino.
The picture revived Gino’s adoration of Paquito Montana. He turned, extended both hands, and embraced him warmly. It was Gino’s most endearing quality, this willingness to to praise and forgive, with sincerity and emocion. Paquito Montana offered another 1,000-crown note and was again heartily refused. Gino only insisted that, ‘at the right moment,’ we give him a copy of the photograph, the one with Al Pacino, autographed, so he could hang it on the wall in the bar and show to customers. ‘But at the right moment, everything at the right moment.’
For a while, the ‘business deal’ was raked over, highlighted by Paquito Montana’s spirited imaginings and speeches. He was full of the incandescent fire he had when I first met him, so much so that he could hardly sit still, though he never sat still for long. He was more comfortable pacing the patio, his boots clattering on the patio floor, his brow bent in concentration, murmuring and plans, or else his shining black eyes turned upward in a supplicating way as though he were addressing the very stars.
‘-Juanito!’ This came from Eduardo, who rose from the table. He looked squarely at Paquito Montana, who started and then giggled. They had a brief conference in Spanish.
‘It’s OK, hermano. I must go. I’ll be back. Then we talk business.’
Eduardo gave a doleful glance, then returned to his seat, watching his brother as he
turned and, the rapier trailing behind, disappeared out into the streets. We could still hear him, shouting his usual cries of ‘Systema’ over the crowds even when he was down the street and well out of sight, clamoring above the crowds and night noises.
It was getting late. At Gino’s request, I played a little while and waited for the man called Paquito Montana to return. Sometime near midnight, Eduardo said he was leaving, so I rose and thanked them both for dinner.Gino had relapsed into thought, so I don’t think he really noticed. Dana went with me to the great wooden front door to let me out.
‘So you have some work tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Not much,’ I smiled.
‘We will see you at dinner then.’
‘Yes, I hope so.’
‘Yes, come.’
She stood in the doorway, arms-crossed, the light from the patio putting her in silohouette.
‘Sorry about the room,’ I said. She didn’t say anything, but only looked out at the street.
‘He is quite strange.’
‘Yes.’
Dana stood a moment longer, then shivered.
‘Everybody is strange.’
‘Well, Dobry noc.’
‘Cau.’
Out near the square I heard a familiar voice calling.
‘Gabacho!’ Paquito Montana jostled through the crowd. ‘Come, homey. We talk business!’

He disappeared again shortly upon our arrival at a café near the river. ‘Just sit here, drink your beer, Gabacho.’And he was off.
An hour passed. I wasn’t really worried because I had money that night. I’d made nearly 600 crowns busking, and had had a private lesson. Eventually I got bored and went outside. I walked down the street to another café and looked around. In the toilet I encountered Paquito Montana, who was pacing back and forth in front of the mirror, and murmuring to himself.
‘Are we suffering?’ he asked, giggling to himself. ‘Systema. Philosophy. Color TV. Drama and suspence - what’s the difference?’ He giggled again. ‘But of course! … Revenge … only it is just possible … El Gabacho … we must make allowances … yes! Hmm.’
He went on this way, his voice rising and falling, at times dissolving into mutters, other times in a stage whisper.
I finally went in and over to the toilet. ‘El Gabacho, my lord,’ he said, seeing me, then he went back into his private conference. He splashed water on his haggard face a few times, scrubbed his hands and patted his hair and goatee. He repeated these ablutions several times, his voice falling to a whisper again. Then he turned and punched the wall dryer, which roared hot wind in his face. He repeated this process a few times, punching the button with a flourishing, determined fist, the sound of the punching and corresponding roar of hot wind providing a cacaphonic mirror of his frantic, disturbed soul.
A businessman came in. He stared for a moment at Paquito Montana, who saw the man and delivered a short bow, then went back to his drying and philosophic discussion. The man looked over at me, then excused himself and pushed by us into one of the stalls.

It was late. We went walking by the river past the bridge and the nightclub Karlovy Lazy and toward the national theater. Now and again Paquito Montana stopped and chatted with people, including handful of tourists taking romantic photos of the river and castle, and a taxi driver, who hailed him with familiar cries of ‘Systema!’
He seemed urged on inwardly, desperately, and I wondered if it was possible he was feeling pressure from the ‘deal,’ which he still had said very little about. I asked him but all he just nodded eagerly, then went into various ‘plot points.’ He was preoccupied with the revenge scene, he said. I thought it might calm him down to talk about it.
‘So how will you avenge the death of Tony Montana?’ I asked.
‘Systema. This is the problem, Gabacho. I am not sure. I have been thinking long and hard about this scene. It’s going to have it all! Assasinations, conspiracies, complexities, and of course a message with spirituality and emocion. This is no movie!’
I tried offering suggestions, possible alternatives. He listened eagerly, nodding his head and our pace picked up, but his glances out at the river now and again told me he was keeping his own counsel. ‘Give me 200, homey - you got it?’
I gave it to him and he went into a little shop, returning in a moment with a couple tiny bottles of absinth, which he drained quickly. Then he told me to wait and he went over to pay phone. I heard him talking to someone in English, and his gestures were beseeching and exlamatory. Finally he hung up. He checked his reflection in the mirror of a car window, adjusted his black coat, and walked briskly past me. ‘Systema,’ he muttered. I asked what was wrong, and he said something about pre-production problems. ‘There has been a postponement,’ he said.
‘Al Pacino?’ I asked, and he patted me reassuringly on the shoulder.
‘Relax, homey. A few days. Situacion interesanche!’ He giggled to himself.
We went to a Latin bar a few blocks from the Rudolfinium. It was packed, salsa music filled the room. We were greeted with cries of ‘Systema!’ by familiar faces, and a big bearded guy who introduced himself as Carlos came up and patted Paquito Montana on the shoulder. ‘Ah, so I finally meet the famous Paquito Montana,’ he said, with just the slightest irony. ‘Ah! And El Gabacho - ha ha! Nice to meet you!’ He and his ‘party’ were all from Venezuela, and he introduced us around. Paquito Montana, with his usual style, took in the atmosphere, then set about ordering drinks at the bar. There were also some Russians who had joined in and sat drinking on the couches. He came back, exchanged embraces and good-spirited jokes, mostly in Spanish. The photos were brought out as usual, passed around and admired and discussed, even though the salsa music was playing and the whirl and noise of the dancers made it less easy to concentrate. Later he even did a demonstration with the rapier, in time to the music, and performed it with such elaboration, emocion and elegance that all eyes were shining by the time he finished.
‘Systema!’ Carlos cried.
‘Systema! This is no movie!’ returned Paquito Montana.
‘No movie! Systema!’ others joined in.
‘Interesanche!’
‘Interesanche!’

Then there was more dancing, cocktails and shots passed around. I got rather drunk and fell into conversation with some girls, but their dates soon came and invited them to dance so I sort of slumped into a chair and started to fall asleep. A few times I opened my eyes and saw Paquito Montana’s face, shining and haggard, among the streaming faces in the crowd, on the dance floor, always animated and in the midst of discussion. At one point Lenka was there. She said hello but then disappeared, looking upset, but I didn’t see what happened. Then I woke up again and there was something happening. I got up and walked toward the dance floor. There were voices shouting. It was Carlos and a couple of the Russians. They had surrounded Paquito Montana, who was gesturing and protesting, a look of outraged innocence on his face. Several of the women were trying to intervene but others held them back. I worked my way through the crowd. Just then Paquito Montana’s eyes widened, a kind of grin passed over his face, and he made a movement and drew the rapier. The Russians fell back. ‘You know what a hasa is, man?’ He said this to the Russians, who just stared ‘It’s a pig that don’t fly straight. Fuck with me, you fuck with the best! Systema.’
‘You must pay them 1,000 crowns,’ Carlos said, holding back two stone-faced Russians.‘They say you were buying drinks for people and putting on their tab, they will call the police if there is trouble!’
‘Gabacho!’ Paquito Montana saw me for the first time. ‘Tell these hasas about the movie. Spirituality, action, drama, suspence, emocion. It’s going to be the best. I’ll buy drinks for everyone in this bar. I’ll buy this bart, put in ceiling fans, new lighting, wide-screen TV -‘
‘Just pay him!’ Carlos implored, his eyes beseeching. I looked outside and saw one of the Russians, the injured party, talking on his mobile phone and looking up the street.
Just then I noticed Eduardo. I don’t know how long he’d been there. Perhaps he’d showed up while I was sleeping. Anyway he went over to Carlos and handed him two 1,000-crown notes. This money was hurriedly taken outside, while Eduardo and Carlos tended to Paquito Montana. He’d drunk a lot and it was clear in his movements now, which were sloshy and uncertain, but he continued ranting at the ‘hasas.’
The police arrived. We saw Carlos and the Russians talking with them and it appeared everything was going to be all right. But then suddenly Paquito Montana, revived, was outside on the sidewalk, the rapier drawn and he was issuing strong invectives at his antagonists.
‘This is no movie!’ he shouted.
He stood poised with the rapier, issuing challenges. Carlos and Eduardo rushed over to subdue him. One of the policemen walked over. He surveyed Paquito Montana. ‘Passport,’ he said, holding out one palm.
‘It’s OK,’ Carlos said. ‘Too much drinking. Rozumis?’
‘Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Lionel Richie!’ Paquito Montana cried. He stumbled forward. ‘Little Richie, John Wayne, Daffy Duck - all rolled into one!’ he swayed and stumbled, while Carlos and Eduardo went to help him up.
‘You go back to hotel now!’ the officer barked, evidently taking our friend for a wayward tourist.
‘Systema,’ Paquito Montana muttered.
‘What do you say?’ the officer glared.
Paquito giggled.
‘Systema. Situaction interesanche.’
The officer looked sternly at Paquito Montana, and at the rest of us, then shook his head and walked away.
It was with great effort we managed to get Paquito Montana to leave the scene. ‘Systema,’ he kept saying. Suddenly he grinned and broke into a sprint, the rapier out, jumping and dashing onto the roofs of cars, back down to the sidewalk. Then he was far down the street, and we couldn’t see him anymore, but heard his clamor and shouts as they blended into the shadows.
‘Juanito!’ Eduardo called. ‘Juanito!’
We were afraid the police would come back. I half expected to see lights and hear the sirens any moment.
‘Are you guys OK?’ Carlos asked. ‘I have to rejoin my friends.’ We exchanged handshakes and apologies, and he left.
‘Come,’ Eduardo said to me. ‘We must find him.’
We searched the streets for more than an hour. It was past two then. We couldn’t find him. With his usual flourish, he’d just disappeared.

It was that night Eduardo told me the story. We went to a café and talked had a couple beers, and to another café for coffee and by then it was nearly six and Eduardo paid for our breakfast. I don’t know why we stayed out so late. I guess we both shared a vague hope that Paquito Montana would just show up, the way he usually did.
'So you see how it is,' Eduardo said, after he'd finished the long story. He looked tired; there were dark circles under his eyes and with a distracted air he kept looking out the window at the streets.
'Maybe he should go home,' I said. 'Back to Mexico, I mean.'
Eduardo shook his head.
'He would never do it. You know, he did come for a short time after the bad business. But he was never the same, never the same after he left America. I suppose it was his dream. The movies, Hollywood. Your dreams, they can break you if you are not careful. But now, he is too proud to return home. He would see that as admitting defeat.'
'But you're his brother,' I said. 'And a doctor. He doesn't seem too healthy now.'
'You've noticed.' He laughed bitterly. 'Ah, Gabacho. Do you have any brothers and sisters in America?'
'Yes.'
'How would you feel if they came here and told you to go home?'
'If I needed help, I would ask them.'
'Yes, but if you didn't?'
'I see.'
'This is what you want, yes?'
It was the first time I'd thought about it in a long time.
'Yes, I guess so.'
'Juan always will be my big brother. I cannot decide for him. Only he knows what he wants.'
He sipped his coffee. 'Systema.'
'Systema.' We both laughed.
'My wife, she says the same thing. 'Why do you not help him? He is your brother.' You know, there were many times he sent us money, when he was making the movies.'
'Really?'
'That is what helped me finish university. I don't forget that. That is why when he calls now and asks I cannot refuse him.'
It occurred to me that perhaps Eduardo was the 'agent' Paquito Montana was calling, but I didn't say anything.
'So do you think he'll be OK?' I asked.
Eduardo looked out the window again. It was starting to get light outside. He didn't say anything.
A little later, we had breakfast, which Eduardo paid for. Then I walked with him to the metro station, and we shook hands, agreeing to meet later at Valentynos.

I woke up late that afternoon. It was sunny, so I grabbed my guitar and headed down to the river.
There were many tourists, and over the course of an hour or so I did pretty well. One group of Italian students sat for nearly a half hour listening, and a retired couple from Sweden offered me a drink of whiskey, which they produced from a backpack.
'Gabacho!' I heard my name called, and stopped playing. Paquito Montana was approaching from across the Cechuv bridge. He waved. Upon closer inspection I noticed another gold button was missing from his great coat, and the steel-toed boots were muddy and scratched. He wore a red bandana gangster style over his head, the black hair tied in a ponytail, and his face was even more ragged than before. He grinned broadly, greeted me with his usual flourish.
'What happened to you last night?' I asked.
'Systema,' he shrugged. 'I met some people, we went to a hotel, got in the jacuzzi, relaxacion, back massages, masturbation ...'
'Your brother was worried. We were afraid the police got you.'
He laughed.
'Don't worry, homey. They have to catch me first. Situaction interesanche. How's the woman?' He indicated the guitar.
'Good.'
I played a little while longer. Paquito Montana joined me on a few of the songs, which he hadn't done before. He whipped out the rapier and, with great style, sang the lyrics haltingly, leering at passersby. Most people looked for a moment, then hurried on.
'Come, Gabacho,' he said presently. 'We must talk business.'
We walked to the stop light at the Rudolfinium.
'Anything new on the deal?' I asked tentatively, thinking about my conversation with Eduardo.
'It's beautiful, homey. Next week I meet some producers, discuss some details, get the contracts, signatures, then we make the movie -'
'-and Al Pacino?'
'Baby, Al Pacino, Stevie Wonder, Lionel Richie, Michael Jackson --'
The light changed. He broke off and began walking across the street into Old Town. We walked for several blocks, not really talking, and suddenly he veered into a dark passageway. I followed as he entered an art gallery. The interior was filled with paintings, picturesque Prague scenes. Paquito Montana walked by the pictures, entreated them with brief gazes, then something in the far corner attracted his attention. He walked over, giving a gasp. It was a suit of armor, mounted on the wall. He inspected it from various angles, and invited me to share in his admiration. Nearby on the wall hung a midieval sword, which Paquito Montana traced with an appraising eye.
We left, and out in the dark passageway Paquito Montana withdrew the rapier and made several flourishing maneuvers, spinning and ducking at the shadows. Presently he put the rapier away and continued browsing in the shop windows. He came to an abrupt halt before one particular shop. 'Look, homey.' He pointed to a large portrait of a beautiful young woman done in oils. The young woman in the painting wore a black velvet evening dress. She stood sideways, her head turned over one bare shoulder and her eyes were cast wistfully down and away into painted gloom.
Paquito Montana gazed at the picture for a long time in reverent silence, his expression mute and reflective. He stood back so that I could take a closer look. The colors of the painting were staid, even dull, washed out, and bled into the vendurous background. The young woman's hands were clasped at the breast, suggesting anxiety or expectation. Her lips were wan and pale, parted slightly, the dark hair flowed along just the faintest suggestion of a neck.
'She's beautiful, eh homey?'
Before I could answer, Paquito Montana was already moving on, the sound of his boots echoing in the passageway.
'Where are we going?' I asked, but he didn't answer, and I wondered if perhaps we were scouting locations again. We came out of the passageway into bright sunlight. We passed a crowded street market, the booths twinkling with souvenirs. Paquito Montana stopped at one booth and admired some pieces of Bohemian crystal, then moved on. Then we crossed a square where pastel canvases swung gently on wooden easels, and then we passed the old Three Golden Lions building, where Mozart stayed during his sojourns to Prague. Finally we were out on National Avenue near the Tesco.
By then I noticed Paquito Montana was much quieter than usual. There were no great proclamations or speeches about the movie. He didn't accost strangers, and even the rapier stayed at his hip. A peculiar dreamy silence hung over him. He seemed content to keep moving, his eyes roving for the glittering and novel offered in the shops and in the streets. One bookshop had in the window a big antique map of the world, circa 1750. We stopped and looked at it for a moment, and then I followed Paquito Montana into the bookshop. He addressed the clerk with a curt 'My lord' and a bow and then went over to the travel section and spent ten minutes poring over big color portraits of azure coastlines and breathtaking mountain vistas, inviting me to have a glimpse now and again. As we were leaving he seemed to have a second thought, and turned to the clerk and asked for the big map of the world. It cost 200 crowns. Paquito Montana paid, then with his usual flourish, presented it to me as a gift. I protested, but he just grinned and waved his hands. 'Take it, Gabacho.'
I wish I still had that map, for it was the only thing he ever gave me. A few months after that I moved, and it got lost somewhere. But now I still like to look back and remember that afternoon, Paquito Montana randomly placing the map in my hands, as though communicating to me a lost message, just as he did with the photos. Both offered windows into something enchanting and inscrutable -- the past perhaps, or maybe something even more luminous and unrecoverable. Perhaps Paquito Montana himself wasn't even sure how to decode this lost message, but like someone possessed of a concert ticket but who couldn't attend, willingly passed it on. So for me the actual map itself isn't so important, even though I'd love to have it, but rather the gesture itself, communicated in his usual style and flourish.
It's tempting to say now that he didn't know -- the mounting debts, bar tabs and bills scattered in dozens of cafes and restaurants around the city, the mounting isolation, the growing distance between the photos and trembling hand that passed them around. Twice that afternoon we were turned away from cafes, the barmen shaking their heads firmly and ignoring our protests. Paquito Montana took the ejections with formidable grace. 'Systema,' was all he said.
At four-thirty, after we'd walked for several hours, we went to the park at Charles Square and sat on a bench. Paquito Montana entreated me to play while he went over to the fountain, took off his boots, and washed them. He took off the great coat too, laid it gently in the grass. He took the photos and carefully rearranged them. Finally even the rapier was brought out and polished with the red bandana until it shone gold-red in the late afternoon sun. He performed all of these duties with concentration, like a priest attending to a ritual, sometimes humming along to the music.
Several homeless people slept on nearby benches, and in the grass a small theater company performance was going on. Of course it was in Czech so I didn't understand much of it. Nevertheless I enjoyed watching the actors perform their antics, and the small audience, which sat or laid on the grass, was pleasant and shook some of the lonely feeling out of the afternoon. Later I went over and asked a young man, a student, about the performance. He said it was a scene from Doestoyevsky's 'Demons,' the scene when the vicious conspirator Verkovensky is urging the disenchanted athiest to commit suicide and in his suicide note to take responsiblity for all the horrendous crimes the conspirators are about to commit. I'd read it in college. Surprisingly, Paquito Montana didn't appear interested in the performance. I think he scarcely noticed it, so preoccupied he was with his cleaning and polishing and arranging.
'Some of us are going over for a few drinks,' said the student, who introduced himself as Pavel. 'Why don't you come along?'
I wanted to go. I went over to Paquito Montana and urged him to come, but he declined.
'You go, homey. I have some business.'
'You sure?'
'Systema.'
'Well, I'll see you at Valentynos later?'
'OK, Gabacho.'

I dropped by Valentynos just after eight. Something was wrong. The big wooden front door was slashed in several places, and one of the tables had overturned. The restaurant was closed, the patio deserted. Then I heard voices. They were in the bar. Gino came out and told me to wait. His wife was with Eduardo talking to Paquito Montana.
You are witness,” he whispered in his thick Italian accent. “My wife, she want to try to talk to him. I give her 10 minutes. But I say her, ‘You cannot talk with him. It is like talking to a wall.’ But she insists. She thinks she can make him understand.'
Whispering me to be quiet, Gino had me follow him over to the wooden door. 'You see?' he asked, then pointed to the overturned table. He then had me follow him back to the patio. Out of his pocket he produced a red card. 'I am a man, I am ready to die,' he said, his voice wheezing. 'I tell our friend, 'One card, no problem. But let there not be two.' So tonight I say, my friend! That's two. Understand? Two!' He flashed the red card. 'I am a man. I know the situation. At the right moment, everything at the right moment.
“He thinks this is a movie,” he continued, looking to me for agreement. “A movie! This is no movie. He needs to realize he is part of the systema. I give him notice. He must leave. Am I right? He can kill me if he wants.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I don’t need this. I am a man! I am ready to die!’ Gino went on, the words pouring out now. Dana’s brother, a Prague policeman, had been by that afternoon. He'd just left. Gino showed me the table where the plates still sat.
We could hear Paquito Montana talking.
“Listen, I know, I know, and it doesn’t matter,” he was saying. “I tell you, I will buy this building, put in a Jacuzzi for the neighbors. I’ll pay the water bill, I’ll pay the water bill for the whole building. Systema! Situation interesanche.”
Gino shook his head.
“I tell you, he will not listen,” he whispered. “Come, we go inside.”
Paquito Montana, Eduardo and Dana were sitting at one of the tables. It looked like a still life, or a scene in a stark one-act play. Dana was wiping tears of frustration away. Paquito Montana, for some reason, had his rapier out and was resting his hands on it.
“Senor, Senor,” he greeted Gino. 'My lord. Gabacho.'
It's not much use reporting what happened. The argument dragged on for another half hour in much the same manner as it had before, Paquito Montana and Gino occasionally embracing, calling each other brother, then in a great crescendo of emocion nearly coming to blows.
“I’m homeless,” Paquito Montana finally said. “But it doesn’t matter. I am Dick Van Dyke, Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder all rolled into one.”
“You are part of systema,” Gino said.
“I’m homeless, I serve everybody. Systema.”
With that, the man called Paquito Montana turned and walked out of the bar, the rapier hanging from his belt.

He was to leave the next day. Gino and Dana were leaving Saturday for a week in Italy. Gino felt bad and wanted to give Paquito Montana an extra day, but Dana insisted on Friday. They had me sign a typed notice as a witness.
When we went out onto the patio to put the notice on the flat door it was quiet. They locked up the bar and we all headed out into the street. I liked them both and felt bad about everything.
“I know what I must do,” Gino said. “But at the right moment. Everything at the right moment.”
I turned to leave, but Gino stopped me.
“You go and find him. Explain to him the situation. You are American. Make him understand. He must go. This must end. It’s not the money. I need peace. No complications.”
“You will find him,” Gino said. “If you want to you will find him. You know you are always welcome here as a friend. But alone. If you bring friends I don’t know you. Come alone and it will always be as it was before.”
We shook hands, and Dana smiled and waved as they walked away.
Eduardo and I went looking. We looked in a half-dozen places Paquito Montana had taken me. I went into the little grocery store and asked the Middle Eastern guys. At the mention of Paquito Montana's name they shook their heads and said a few words of retribution. He had been convicted in their eyes as well. His reign had ended.
Down the street I asked one of the big Russians. He shrugged. “Paquito Montana is everywhere and nowhere,” he said, waving his arms about.
I walked back toward Old Town Square. By then it was past nine, but it was a bright, pleasant summer evening. The square was packed. Lots of people were out snapping pictures. I watched a middle-aged Czech carrying a sketch pad from table to table at the cafes.
'What should we do?' I asked Eduardo.
He suggested we get something to drink. We went to one of the tables in the square, expensive, but we reasoned it would give us a good view in case Paquito Montana should return, clamoring across the square. We sat there a good hour, but there was no sign of him.
'When will you go back?' I asked.
'Tomorrow,' Eduardo said. 'That's why I hope he comes back. I'd like to see him once more.'
But he didn't come back. He'd disappeared again into the city. As it got dark, the square grew more crowded, and we sat watching the people clicking pictures of Tyn Church and waiting in front of the clock for the hour to strike. Finally we rose. I insisted on paying the bill, but Eduardo waved me off.
'If you see him, tell him don't worry. He can call me if he needs anything.'
'Sure,' I said. 'Well, take care.'
'You too.' He smiled. 'El Gabacho. How long do you think you will stay here?'
'I don't know.'
'You must go back to America someday.'
'Yes.'
'And Mexico. You can come. I'll introduce you to my wife.'
'I'd like that very much. Salud.'
'Systema, Gabacho.'
'Systema.'
We shook hands, and I watched him as he drifted into the crowd, then walked to the metro station.