Via Prague: Beyond the AM Crowd, part 4

Kyle leaves, Olga and The Paradise Club, encounter with anti-US Protesters and the Resurrection

“Crazy times,” Kyle Mulligan said, looking at me and grinning.
“Crazy.” It was Easter weekend and he was going home – for good.
“It will be good to get away for a while. If I stay here I’ll go nuts,” Kyle lit a cigarette.. “I have a pill left at the flat. You can have it. And half a bottle of Beckerovka, you can drink that as well.”
Evidently there had been inquiries made. Kyle’d already had to fly home twice in the past month because the unemployment office called his folks and asked him to report. That very afternoon his mother had texted him saying another meeting was scheduled, and word was an inspector might be coming round. So this time Kyle decided to pack it in.
Kyle got up for a moment and came back with a glass of Fanta. His phone beeped.
“It’s Duncan – says we have to do something tonight. Meet at Café Louvre at nine.”

One of the servers barked out a number and Kyle got up again, returning this time with a club sandwich bagel, served with macaroni salad.
“You should come over to Ireland,” he said. “August. That’s when we have the festival. You can sleep at my folks place.”
“What are you going to tell the government if you can’t get back in time for the meeting tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’ll call and tell them I’m in Belfast until the morning,” Kyle said.
“How far is it from Belfast to Donegal?”
“ 200 miles .”
A little later we paid and left. Outside a drizzly rain was falling.
“It’s so funny, thinking about it now,” I said. “You had that trial earlier this year and all that time your lawyer was arguing your case, you were over here living off the government.”
Kyle laughed ruefully.
“I may need him again.”
We hurried along close to the buildings. The sidewalks were still crowded with tourists coming from the square. We passed a young women, a student probably, tanned and shapely. Kyle whistled.
“Well, I guess I won’t have those back in Rathmullen,” he said, staring after the girl.
We walked quickly across the square. The big clock was a dark silouhette against the grey sky.
“So you think they’ll arrest you when you get back?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so. I think they just have some job for me to take or else they’ll cut me off. It’ll be some shit job picking fucking strawberries or something. Oh, well six months in Prague . It had to end sometime.”
Barnie Hunter came for a visit in time for Kyle’s last weekend. He arrived on a Saturday afternoon. Kyle, Duncan and I picked him up at the airport and we caught a taxi to his hotel in Zizkov.
“Tanner? He’s still round is he?”
“Yes,” Kyle said. “We’re hoping he’ll get deported, we’re trying to convince him to take a teaching job in Outer Mongolia .”
As the taxi steered through the center, we laughed and sent Tanner a message. Party tonight in Skalka. Skalka is at the end of the metro line, out in the boondocks. But the joke was wasted. In his strange, almost telepathic way, Tanner figured out where we were and tracked us down at a pub just after eight.
Actually Tanner had changed in the months since I’d last seen him. From what he told me, I gathered he’d had a really lean winter, not many classes and the late nights had finally caught up with him. He looked a little thinner, and some of the hard-dust Texas swagger had been shaken out of him. Lately though he’d picked up some classes, improved his Czech, and had even joined a local rugby team.
“Coach called me at six o’clock yesterday morning,” Tanner said, as he sat down. “He says, ‘Tanner – get your ass over here in ten minutes! This was to a match we had in Pardobice. Oh, these are for you, Kyle, I believe I owed you.” He handed Kyle a new pack of Gauloises.
“Hey, Tanner finally makes good,” Duncan said.
“Good Christ,” added Barnie.
Kyle smiled sideways.
“You still owe me for the pills.”
“No, no! I said we’d work that out.”
Yes, he was a lot better to be around. Even Kyle loosened up. Funny, I’ve noticed a lot of people go through a similar evolution. I suspect it’s more of a uniquely American, or English-speaking, phenonmenon. We're just used to having everything our way. Maybe it's good to get the stuffing out of you now and again.
But I wasn't thinking about that. It was Kyle's last night, and there was a determination in all of us to get the most out of it. I was missing him already. It's a pity I haven't had time thus far to really give the reader a sense of the kind of guy Kyle was. But to be honest at that point, looking back, I didn't really know him that well either. As I said before, for a guy so young he had a certain repose about him, a patience, that most people don't have at that age. And people liked him, you noticed that. That evening at least a dozen people, whom I vaguely recognized from feverish past evenings, came up and slapped him on the back, and when they heard it was his last night the warmth in their eyes appeared sincere. Several people said he had to come visit them, and Kyle returned the invitation to Donegal. He knew I was low on cash, and though it was his farewell party, Kyle insisted on getting drinks for me so I wouldn't feel left out. And though he was fond of taking a piss on Tanner, as we all were, you didn't feel it was something malicious. His rough north Irish country humor aside, Kyle had a good heart, and he felt obliged to look after people. The downside was he often overextended himself. Once he even lent his keys to the Russian drug dealer, Pol, because Pol needed a place to bang this girl he'd picked up in the club. Kyle was high when he granted the favor, and afterward came to his senses raced across town, all the while on the phone to the Russian guy who by that time was at the flat with the girl. 'Don't steal anything!' Kyle kept crying repeatedly all the way in the taxi.

I reminded Kyle of that misadventure that night, and he just rolled his eyes. 'That's why I got to get away,' he said.
It was a rowdy night. We hit Marquis briefly, then wound down to Nebe, where we ingested the last of the ecstasy pills.
“Nebe is the perfect mid-evening club,” Duncan reflected.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You start at Marquis for the early going. Then Nebe, from 11 to, say, four. Then it’s La Clan , then Studio for the wrap.”
That’s pretty much the route Kyle’s last night followed, except at Barnie’s urgent request we substituted La Clan for the Paradise Club.
The Paradise Club is a strip bar-brothel just off the main square. Every time Barnie was in town he made it a point to stop by. He was a classic sex tourist, one of many who each weekend make their way to Prague , thanks to EasyJet.com.
When we got there it must have been about four-thirty. A “live sex show” was in progress on the main stage and the club was full. The girls were a mixture of mostly Czech, Russian and Ukranian, and most of them far more beautiful than I would have expected. In fact when one of them sat down I remember she said she was a student, and I was inclined to believe her – she looked perhaps 21. Most of the women we talked to that night said they were students. Surely it was good money. Kyle reported back that the girls made 60 percent on private dances, and even more for more intimate requests.
We were sitting there about an hour before Kyle and Barnie rose, both of them with girls on their arms.
“We’re going upstairs,” Kyle yelled over the music. “You guys watch our coats.”
He meant Duncan and me. Tanner had regressed a little from his improved self, and at that moment was engaged in a three-way argument with some of the girls. The details of the argument eluded me, but I could only imagine. Later Tanner claimed that one of the girls, a haughty-mannered Russian, had tried to take his wallet.
Duncan got up to use the toilet, so for a few minutes I sat by myself.
Presently I looked up. A tall, elegant looking young woman in a bright blue evening dress was walking to the table.
“Hello,” she said. “You know this isn’t just a bar.”
“I know,” I said.
“You would like to go upstairs?”
The ectasy had long since worn off, and I was tired. It was nice just to look at her; I had that sudden awful loneliness that comes with clarity after a night of partying.
“So you want to go?” she asked, a little startled.
“Yes,” I said.
She took my hand and led me to a cash register at the bar. Then we went up a circular staircase, at the top of which was a dark corridor. A short line of people stood, apparently waiting for rooms. I passed Kyle and Barnie, who were with their girls. We all laughed and waved hysterically to each other, as if we were a couple housewives running into each other at the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon.
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl.
“Olga,” she said. Olga must have had some pull, because she marched us past the line. An old woman handed her a plastic bag, which Olga then passed to me. Inside was a towel, some soap and a condom. She then beckoned me to follow her to a back room.
The room was much bigger and more impressive-looking than I would have imagined. A king-sized bed, with freshly pressed sheets, sat in the middle of the room, and light club music played softly from unseen speakers.
“So first – shower,” Olga said. I guessed she meant me. I went into the bathroom and quickly undressed. The water was piping hot, it felt good after a long night at the bars.
She’d just finished taking her clothes off and was laying the dress neatly over a chair near the bed. Her manner had undergone a change. Downstairs she’d approached me with a polite, demure air. Now as we got onto the bed, not bothering to get under the sheets, she tightened into a harsh professionalism.
It was an abrupt change, although I probably should have expected it. Still, as we went on the rigid manner stayed, even increased. After a couple minutes, I stopped, rolled over and looked at the ceiling.
“What’s the matter?” Olga got up. The manner had changed again. Now she looked a little nervous or worried.
“Nothing.”
“You don’t want?”
“No.”
“Is there something I could do for you? I’m sorry, it’s just, I work here five years. I don’t want to do the sex anymore. I just want to dance.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Here. Czech.”
“Are you a student?”
“Yes. Five years.”
“What do you study?”
“Art and photography. And you? You are British?”
“American.”
“American? And you are on holiday?”
“No, teaching.”
“Teaching – what?”
“English.”
“English, of course.” She was sort of massaging me now in a kind of conciliatory way.
“You know, I meet a lot of Americans here. Most of them are quite arrogant. But you – you are not like them. You talk to me like I am a real person. You want my advice? Don’t do this.” She made a gesture around the room. “Don’t look. Just wait. The right one, she will come.”

When the time was up I went into the bathroom, showered quickly again and got dressed. Olga was already dressed when I came out, and her manner had shifted back to formality. We went downstairs, and she disappeared into the crowd with a friendly little wave.
Duncan and Tanner were sitting at the table.
“How was it?” they both said, big grins on their faces.
“Great,” I lied.
Duncan was laughing.
“You should have seen it. They almost threw Tanner out. All the girls refused to go upstairs with him.”
“Fuck off,” Tanner said. “That’s not what happened at all! That’s not it. I’ll tell you later.”
We kept an eye on the stairs and presently Kyle and Barnie came down. Then one of the girls, the one who’d been with Barnie, came rushing up behind. She said something to him and he blew her a kiss, waved and she went back upstairs.
“Ah, Prague days!” Barnie said, returning to the table.
“You did better than I did,” Kyle said. “Mine farted, the dirty bitch.”
We were all laughing then.
“But get this,” Kyle said. “Then she grabs me by the back of the neck and cries out, ‘Fuck me Irish!”
It was nearly six then and we were winding down. But Kyle had to be at the airport at eleven, so there was no use going to bed.
“We could head over to Studio for a bit, then back to my place,” Kyle suggested.
“We could take you to the airport!” we said.
Studio was inevitably Studio. Most of the dancers, DJs, waiters, prostitutes – the city’s nightlife industry – all goes to Studio because it’s open when all the other clubs close. Kyle got us some more pills, which we chopped up in the bathroom. That got everyone going again. I sat with Kyle and Barnie on one of the sofas in the lounge, with nebulous set of characters, including the Russian drug dealer Pol, while Duncan danced with this Czech girl he’d met a few times before, and Tanner stood chatting somnabulantly with a couple other English teachers we knew.
“Going to miss it?” I asked Kyle.
”Sure I’ll miss it.” Kyle looked at me. “But I can’t keep doing it, I need a rest, for my sanity.”
“It will be good.”
“It’s not easy, James.”
“No, it’s not,” I laughed.
“You should think about going to Finland .”
“I know.”
“Well, either way you can get up to see me. I’ll take you around Donegal and over to Belfast . Duncan ’s already coming over, next month.”
“I’ll try.” I could already feel the loss of the two thousand crowns blown on Olga.
The sun was already up when we left. A rain had fallen during the night, and the streets were cool and quiet.
“Is it Saturday?” I asked, as we passed the national museum.
“No, Sunday,” Barnie said. “It’s Easter. Happy Easter!”
“That’s right,” Kyle said. “Old Jesus would have been resurrected right about now.”
For a moment a hazy light almost came off the hard, cold streets, that lonely achievement almost broke the surface of our thoughts. Perhaps we were just tired, oblivious in the a.m., but in that hour it appeared ludicrous, not to mention strenuous, for anyone to ponder rising again in this world. Kyle up ahead slipped on a patch of ice, swore, and we all laughed and helped him up.

Later that morning we all went up to the airport and saw Kyle off. He grinned a little sideways at us as he disappeared behind the security wall.
'It's not easy!!' he called, with a tired little wave.
“He’ll probably be arrested, the bastard,” Barnie remarked. We all looked like hell.
“They’ll think he’s a terrorist for sure,” Tanner said. “They’ll pull him out for the random search.”
Tanner and Duncan went home when we got on the bus back to town. Barnie and I went for a walk up to the castle. It was a clear, beautiful day. We climbed the long stone staircase, ascending to the top where the city spread out below. After a few minutes we continued on toward the castle entrance, before we heard a voice speaking in Czech on a megaphone.
We looked. A small crowd had gathered around a young, bearded man, who appeared to be a student. Several other students stood behind him, carrying signs like “Bush is a terrorist” and “Stop US Imperialism.” They were clustered around the statue of TG Masaryk, the first president of Czechoslovakia.
“That’s pretty rich of the Czechs – of all people, to be protesting against America ,” Barnie said. “What has America ever done to the Czechs?”
'Oh well.'
We headed into St. Vitus Cathedral, its brown spires silouhetted in the early morning light. It was always cool and dark inside the cathedral, with its monumentally high ceilings, decorated in muted frescos. We passed a sculpture of the Redeemer, a waxen-looking figure in the tortured pose on the cross. People were taking digital photos, and being tired we bumped into a few people. A group of senior citizens, mostly American, filed by looking around with owl eyes while a guide prattled on about the mysteries of this or that ornament. It felt like being inside a shopping mall, but that was OK, we just didn't feel like going to bed yet. We passed a set of steps leading down to the catacombs, where the ancient Bohemian kings were buried, but you had to pay to go down, so we passed it up.
'When you head back to London?' I asked.
'Tomorrow morning,' Barney said, coughing. 'Christ, that Studio is blast, but the smoke kills me, fucking hell!' At the blasphemy, he dropped his voice to a whispered chuckle.
Outside we headed downhill toward the Little Quarter. An anemic sun was out, and it was windy, and we felt more tired. Barney flagged down a taxi and we got in, and headed to Duncan's flat. All the guys were crashed out already.

IN THE NEXT INSTALLMENT: Spring arrives; Philadelphia reflects; Marja leaves; Herb takes a holiday; Hana's surprise

Via Prague

Literary and other offerings from former Times-Standard reporter James Tressler, who is living, teaching and writing in Prague.

Beyond the AM Crowd, part 4

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