Via Prague

„I was watching the images of 9/11 the other day on CNN International,“ I said. It was a bright, windy evening. „I felt like, ‚What am I doing here? Hanging out in Prague trying to be Ernest Hemingway.“
„What would you do if you went back?“
„I don’t know. Maybe try to get my old job back at the paper. Or spend time with my family. They’ve helped me a lot since I’ve been here. It would be good to know them better.“
„Do they want you to come back?“
„Sure, at least they say that I can always come home. But I think they’re proud too. They like telling people I’m in Prague.“
„Are you here for them or you?“
„Good call. No, it felt right – still does even when I wake up feeling like shit.“
„No regrets.“
„“No.“
„I was at a party the other night. A woman – she teaches at the university here – I told her a little bit about you. What does he do, she asked. He writes, teaches, I said. The woman started laughing, said, ‚Philadelphia dear, you are so niaive. Ninety-nine percent of Americans who live in Prague are teaching English and trying to write.“
„Ouch.“
Philadelphia grinned.
„Ouch,“ I said again.
„Don’t worry about it – what you care?“
„I know, but still …“
„Fuck it.“
„I suppose. I don’t know. When I hear that it just sucks the life out of me, just for a moment I think – maybe – „
„ – Like maybe you’re stuck?“
„Yeah, something like that. I get these job offers on my email every day from China. They need lots of teachers. They even pay your airfare to and from. I keep that idea on the burner, say to myself, ‚There’s always China‘ as though it were some kind of ace in the hole. And why not? There’s certainly a whole hell of a lot more going on in China these days than the Czech Republic, the next superpower and all. They can’t get enough stories back home about China.“
„So why don’t you?“ Philadelphia asked.
„Wait. But then other days I’m perfectly happy here, or convince myself that I should have every reason to be. But then I get drunk and wake up feeling empty and self-betrayed, and something happens like today when I see the people in New Orleans, and think I’m just fooling myself and should go home and put my shoulder to the wheel, help people out.“
„Well.“ Philadelphia shrugged.
„See, now I don’t know. There’s something unsatisfied, unfinished. I used to have this dream, a recurring dream, when I first arrrived in Prague. I’d be back home, no explanation how or why. I’d be back in my old situation in Eureka, and everyone would say, So you’re back. Why? And I’d just nod a little sheepishly. It was a really frightening dream. Then I’d wake up and realize I was still in Prague and feel this enormous relief.“
„Maybe what you’re really afraid of is what other people think,“ Philadelphia said. “Or maybe you just gotta také that leap again – like you did before.“
„I’ve thought about that,“ I said. „And it just depresses me. I mean, I gave up a good career, sold my car, threw my TV in the trash, the works. At the time it felt so gloriously brave and romantic. Like one of those guys I used to read about. But when you put it that way it feels like a pose. For so long I always tried to look ahead and make good decisions. That’s the way I felt going into it. I said to myself you’ve spent the past seven or eight years making good decisions. You owe it to yourself to make a bad one.“
Philadelphia laughed.
„What?“ I asked.
„I thought you just said you didn’t feel bad about it. No regrets?‘
„Right.“ I laughed. „Well, maybe you’re right.“
„Did you serve in Vietnam?“ I asked. This was a couple nights later
„No, I was drafted but I burned my card. My brother did though. Came back alright, except he didn’t like to talk about it.“
„Where is he now?“
„He’s in Philly. Works in the city for a printing company.“
„Do you ever regret not going? Did you feel guilty at the time, like you weren’t helping?“
„To Vietnam? No. I was one of those guys, there were a lot of us then, who listened to Ali. No Viet Cong ever called me nigger. You have to understand we really believed in the struggle and that we were progressing together. I was doing my part, that’s the way I felt about it. And that’s the way I feel about it now. So no, I don’t feel bad, not one bit.“
„I remember being in the newsroom on 9/11,“ I said. „We spent the whole day crowded around the TV, watching CNN. I wanted to do something, but felt totally inadequate.“
Philadelphia smiled indulgently.
„And I remember my best friend gave serious thought to joining the Army,“ I continued. I was on a roll. „It something he’d always swore he’d never do. Actually, in the end he didn’t do it . I never asked him why. Maybe it was his wife and kids, or else he just forgot over time. Anyway, since that day I had the same feeling – no, not to enlist – but that I had to do something, not just stand around frozen. It’s hard to explain. It was like, history was happening, the world was changing. I sensed this and wanted to be a part of it.“
„Did you ever think about using your journalism?“ Philadelphia asked.
„I did, especially when the war started. But then I saw that there were tons of journalists embedded with the troops and it all became this reality TV show, or a football match. And then it sort of turned me off.“
„Not original enough?“
„Exactly.“
„So you decided to go to Europe, thinking you’d teach English while writing the Great American Novel. That’s not exactly original either.“ Philadelphia chuckled again. He had a habit of drawing me out of the hole so easily, leading me to my own errors, that at times I got irritated with him, as I did then.
„Well, what of it?“ I asked. „What was the other choice? Stay at the newspaper and cover the same goddamn city council meetings for the next 30 years? I mean, I sometimes go onto the Internet and check out my old paper. They’re still writing about the same crap I wrote about for four years. California’s budget is a mess, the county doesn’t have any money, should marijuana be legal, so-and-so is suing so-and-so (again!).“
„Same shit, different day,“ Philadelphia said. „Well, you could try to just be happy.“
„Yeah, maybe. There are things I do miss. But you couldn’t have convinced of it then. I saw this gray future of just getting old and self-satisfied, one of those guys that they have little retirement parties with cake and maybe some wine. So I thought at least I’d go in search of a new story.“
„The story’s the same whereever you go,“ Philadelphia said.
I could see he was leading me to one of his traps again. This time I sidestepped it.
„Well, I guess you could say that in a broad sense,“ I said. „People live, struggle and love, hate and persevere, war, taxes, holidays, etc. But on the other hand there are different stories. I mean, for example the history is totally different. Here it’s the story of a society rediscovering and reinventing its identity and culture after years of oppression. So that’s different A couple months ago I was at a party put on by one of Marja’s friends. You were in Bratislava that weekend, remember?
„Well, anyway, after dinner the conversation shifted to the World Cup. This German guy, Bernard, claimed Germany were favorites since they were the host country. This idea was immediately booed by all the French students. It went back and forth. I kind of jokingly offered that maybe this time round maybe America would make a decent showing. This idea got some polite head nods. I remember I turned to one of the French guys, this really cool dude, to continue the discussion. He said, „It’s not that. It’s just that for us America is so – it’s everywhere all the time, it’s nice to ... And I could tell he didn’t want to say it so I finished it for him. „And it’s nice to talk about something else besides America,“ I said. Not wanting to offend me, he insisted he wasn’t exactly trying to say that, but he also smiled too. „Old Europe was finished after second World War,“ he went on. „The bombing, the occupations. America helped but in some ways I sometimes think, well, it’s not good, bad, just different.“ As he spoke, the journalist in me thought, ‚Now there’s another story. The New Europe. I mean, there I was, literally sitting in the living room with the young generation, members of the New Europe. They have a chance now to define it, or redefine it, make it whatever they want.“
I was rambling a bit, and I could see Philadelphia was getting restless, so I took a drink of beer. We sat in silence for a few minutes.
„I guess maybe Mika’s right,“ I thought aloud. „It is a good time to be Czech.“
„Yeah, look at you smiling,“ Philadelphia said. „Shit, are we suffering now? Sitting here drinking a beer and talking a lot of philosophical shit? The only thing you got to worry about is boredom, but that can be worse than anything.“
„Are you bored?“
„Time to get moving. I can’t sit nowhere for too long. Want to get over to Japan to see Tamara in November and to Baltimore to see Jayson for Christmas. Probably do it then.“

Interlude

Herb went on holiday to Italy in mid-April. I spoke to him briefly before he left. That evening his tone seemed different, cooler, more detached and I wondered if my passing on the RFE job had disappointed him more than he let on.
“Everything OK?” I asked.
“Sure. This place is driving me nuts. After this winter I need to get away, somewhere warm and sunny. Got anything going?”
Actually I’d applied for a position at a business weekly in the city earlier that day. But since it was premature I didn’t say anything. Otherwise I was just teaching.
“Seen the latest on Mrazek?” I ventured.
“Yeah,” Herb said. “You know there was another shooting about a month ago. This owner of a security agency, shot dead. Seems police think he was a friend of Mrazek. Czech papers had it. Said Mrazek was probably killed because he hand his hands in some big deals. Biofuel, talking billions of crowns.”
“I heard that,” I said. “So this security guy ...”
“—Kubin. Jiri Kubin,” Herb broke in, remembering. “Yeah, he secured houses of some of the big wigs from wiretaps. Police think Kubin passed on some confidential information to Mrazek, information somebody didn’t want passed on. Anyway, so that’s the latest.”
“You see Berlesconi lost in Italy ?”
“Well, appears to have lost. He’s contesting it.” Herb lit a cigar. “He ought to just go away. Him and Kohl in Germany . Yeah, busy. Bombing in Pakistan , Iran pumping up its uranium program – that’s going to be quite a standoff. Oh, and it’s Vera’s birthday!”
I shook my head.
“How do you keep up with it? I mean, you’re here all the time.”
“Old habit. It’s like a work-related injury. Can’t turn off the antenna. You’ll see what I mean one of these days. Stayin’ curious?”
I laughed. “Staying sober. At least for the moment.”
“Good. Just do that for a while, the rest will come.”
I left that evening, after wishing him a good holiday.
Overall things were starting to even out. I saw Karel once, the night of Tomas’ going away party. He said he wasn’t feeling good, and confined himself to tea and Coke. “I just think you shouldn’t drink so much,” was what he’d said, after forgiving me the pushing epsisode.
“It’s harder to talk to you now,” he added.
“Yeah?” I was worried.
“Well, I cannot relax totally.”
I understood what he meant, and, after offering Tomas a final congratulations, had left quietly a while later.
Dad emailed. Everyone was busy but fine. The company’s sale was still up in the air, might mean a move to central Penn. He was trying to quit smoking again.
“I’d like to maybe get into some menial work,” he wrote. “Do something I enjoy for a change, kind of like you.”


One afternoon in late April I took the metro to Old Town and headed to Bohemia Bagel. It was noisy and crowded.
I spotted an American girl who I’d ran into at Herb’s some forgotten night. I couldn’t remember her name. Twenty, twenty-one at the most, dark-eyed, with a babyish mouth.
“Been to Herb’s lately?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Kinda burned myself out on it.”
“It happens. So what’s been going on?”
“The same. Oh, wait. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Home?”
She nodded.
“Where’s home?”
“ Minneapolis ... A TEFL friend of ours died last month. Hit by a bus.”
“That’s awful. What was his name?”
“Adam Burger. I don’t think you knew him. A short, British guy.”
“I might have seen him.”
“Anyway. It kind of soured things. Plus I got screwed out of this flat. I finally said, ‘OK.’”
“It’ll do you good.”
“Yes. Time to regroup.”
“And you can always come back.”
“Exactly.”
Her eyes had that raw look of one who’s been crying. She looked as though she might again. I didn’t know her well enough to offer much consolation. So I wished her luck, then, feeling there was nothing more to say, went and ordered coffee. On the way to a booth I noticed the American girl was sitting with a group of friends. At least she had friends.Going home.Yes, maybe that was the best thing. She’s young, plenty of time to regroup. In a week or two, she’ll probably be restless again. Or maybe not. Maybe she’ll go back to school, or meet a nice someone and settle down. Who knows.

Globalization in Mělník

Just north of Prague the Vltava River intersects with the Elba. At this confluence the Vltava is lazier and cleaner than down in the city, and attended on its banks by a procession of tall, proud trees. The surrounding Bohemian countryside is gentle and rolling, like the bottom of an imperfectly glazed ceramic bowl.
The town of Melnik is distinguished from the landscape by the spire of a castle on the main hill overlooking the diverging rivers. A railroad runs along the banks of the Elba, connecting good- and people-carrying trains with the bustling German and Dutch capitals to the north and with the emerging markets in the East.
That spring I got a handful of new classes once a week at a seafood company in Melnik, and so each Wednesday morning took the hour-long bus trip up from Prague. Sometimes the trip was a hastle, consuming most of my day as it did, but the pay was very good and it felt good to get out of the city.
Often on the trip I enjoyed just looking out the window at the passing countryside. In the new season the vineyards and potato fields, hard-packed and frozen just a month before, were freshly tilled and soft. Ripe mustard covered many of the fine smooth hills giving the entire landscape a gaudy yellow color like in Van Gogh landscapes. Looking out at them, and sensing the proximity of the rivers you dimly heard the last, fading echoes of Smetana’s folk melodies on the damp, early morning air as the bus rolled on down narrow country roads.
Other times I brought along a copy of The Economist or The Herald-Tribune, and spent a fussy hour catching up with the latest news.
Pundits meanwhile took turns declaring civil war in Iraq, while hastily qualifying that declaration. Millions of immigrants in America demonstrated for citizenship. The president saw his approval ratings continue to sink, as the confused nation grew increasingly distrustful and worried about the future direction of the Empire. Iran stubbornly insisted on going ahead with developing a nuclear program despite opposition from the UN, America and Europe. A rumor even circulated the U.S. planned a nuclear strike, which the White House immediately denied.
And of course, the sun continued to rise on that emerging Empire to the East.
During the Communist era travel to the West was strictly forbidden. These days the borders are open, but although international travel is becoming more popular, most Czechs still prefer to spend most of their time away from work at their country cottages. Internet and mobiles are omnipresent as elsewhere, yet there remains a peculiar sense of isolation, of “Czechness,” a sort of lazy resentful disconnect between Czechs and the citizens of the greater world. That’s changing, especially among many younger Czechs – they have a new, more confident perspective.
Meanwhile, on the bus moving outside the city, along the slender winding farm roads the sense of urgency recedes as the countryside takes the foreground, and it’s easy for the clashing, desperate world of empires to gradually slip away.
Globalisation.’
I had the students repeat the word several times, first together, then individually to check for pronunciation.
‘Good,’ I said, satisfied. ‘Now what does it mean?’
Daniel, a sandy-haired 21-year-old Slovakian, takes a stab at the question. He’s new to the Melnik class, but since the company is moving him to London next month he’s anxious to have his English in traveling order.
‘Globalisation is, I think, all the world connected through business, travel, the Internet.’
‘Not bad, not a bad start. Marketa?’ I see Marketa, another new student, has a sullen _expression.
‘I think it means we all must be like America ,’ she says after a moment.
‘Really? How so?
‘Because with the globalization there is not local culture, only the big corporations – McDonald’s, Hollywood movies.’
‘Does anyone agree?’ I scan the class.
‘Yes, but it also means you can buy the same products all over the world,’ breaks in Lukáš. ‘And you can work in other countries.’
Over the next couple minutes we developed a list of positive and negative aspects of globalization. Marketa pointed out that while it was easier to work in other countries, globalization also tended to lead to unemployment, particularly in manufacturing, as those jobs head further East. Another student, Radek, worried about the growing power of multinational corporations at the expense of democracy.
‘These big company directors they are not elected,’ Radek said. ‘And they are free to do whatever they want.’
‘But what about the shareholders?’ Lukáš asked. ‘They are the ones who own the company?’
‘Yes, but if you look at Enron,’ Marketa said. ‘These other companies, they are just like the Communists. They steal whenever they want and don’t care at all about these shareholders or the employees.’
‘Wait, wait,’ I say. ‘So what is the solution?’
A silence.
‘Education?’ I offer, just to get things going. ‘Being willing to relocate, to China , to follow the work?’
‘For you maybe,’ said Radek. He was normally a quiet fellow who worked in administration. But the topic fired him up. ‘Perhaps for people in America or here in Europe , people who have education and skills, who are not married. But for someone like me I like Czech Republic . I do not wish to, how is it, relocate. And for poor people, who don’t have education, they cannot simply relocate. It’s different.’

I had four lessons each Wednesday in Melnik. The last one was always with František, the company’s supply manager, a clever-eyed, worldly fellow a shade over thirty. When we first started the lessons he was abrupt and formal, but as he saw that I was laid back he gradually relaxed. After that he’d frequently invite me over to his office, ostensibly to “do some translations,” but really to watch “Saturday Night Live” or Conan O’Brian that he’d downloaded on his desktop. After the hour, we’d step out for a smoke and he’d give me a ride to the bus stop.
Occasionally we’d both get conscience-striken - the company was paying for the lessons - so we’d resolve “the next time” to crack open the grammar book. “You must give me homework,” Frantisek would insist. So I’d give him homework and he’d thank me and when the next lesson came he’d look at me with a pained look and insist he’d been too busy at work, that he’d forgotten, and then he’d invite me over to his office.
Frantisek took a shine to me, for whatever reason, and we got on well. He showed concern that I was nearly always broke and for a long time I showed up with busted shoes and in need of a haircut.
“Remember, you are not a tourist,” he’d say. “You are a poor man in the Czech Republic. Be careful.”
Other days, like when he got his new company car, he’d pick me up and we’d zip around the village. ‚It’s a different world!“ he’d cry, the wind blowing in from the open window.
A few years before, Frantisek had worked as a bartender in Prague, so he had few illusions of what my life was like there. Far from being critical or disaproving, Frantisek gave me tips on what to do and not do, and places to try and places to avoid. He even gave me his mobile number and urged me to call “if there’s ever any problems.”
He was like Mika, or Karel, in that way, and with such support you felt like a protective shoulder of the country was at hand, and the country felt less reserved and foreign.
One afternoon just after Easter we were sitting in his office, talk turned to history.
“Here I will show you something.” Frantisek urged me toward the window. Outside the Elba drifted by, and the trees on the far bank were just beginning to bloom. Frantisek pointed through the bright window at a mountain in the distance.
“We call it Czech mountain,” he said.
I supplied the expected curious expression.
“They say many years ago, Granfather Czech was walking in the countryside. A gypsy was with him, and a German. After walking many, many days, they reached this mountain. Grandfather Czech looked out at the land and said, ‘I am home!’”
“What about the gypsy?” I asked.
Frantisek laughed. “He stayed, too. But the German went to Germany.”
“What’s there now?” I asked.
“Cesky hora? Oh, many people go skiing there in the wintertime. Sometime I will take you, it’s not far.”
“I’d like that.”
“Come, we have a smoke.”

Afterward, I packed up and headed outside for a cigarette and to catch the bus back to Prague . In the reception area there hung a series of poster-sized color photographs. One of them captured a flooded street in New Orleans , another a desert landscape from the Sahara . My favorite though was a portrait of the great Czech director Milos Forman. In the photo he’s sitting at a slight angle, his gentle, avuncular smile adding warmth to the otherwise brusque, draughty office. I remembered watching ‘Hori, ma panenko!’ with Karel the previous winter, with Karel explaining the parallels in Forman’s film between the hilarious failure of the fireman’s ball and the Communist government, the fireman’s ball that becomes a symbol of all the professed good-intentions that somehow ended up a pathetic mess – a sad joke. After the film came out, Forman fled to the West to escape arrest. It was a good move, for not long after came the Russian invasion.
‘When the Russians came to Prague , I was in Paris ,’ Forman reflected.
How I must seem to Czechs! Yet another foreigner, an outsider. First the Germans, then the Russians, now the tourists and company directors and English teachers. A never-ending flood, a worm that never ceases to turn. But perhaps the Czechs have had enough bad luck. Maybe it will be better this time around.
'It's a different world,' Frantisek said, as we zipped along in his new car on that thrilling ride.
Maybe. Or just the same old world, full of new surprises.

‘Jdema na jedno?’

Lukos Dolezal, a clerk in the Finance Minister’s Office, was sitting with Herb at the bar.
“So who you think’s going to win the elections?” Herb was asking.
Dolezal indicated he leaned toward ODS.
“They’re more capitalist over here, right?” Herb asked, getting a nod Lukos. “Good. Taxes over here are killing me. Back in the States twelve percent is considered high. Here it’s thirty-five percent. Good Christ!”
The clerk, an earnest-faced young fellow, nodded in sympathy.
“But of course over here we have the benefits,” Lukos said. “Health care is free, the university is free to all Czech people.”
“Who are you voting for?” Herb asked.
“The Green Party.”
“Green? Have they got any chance?”
“No, but for me it is a protest vote, like with Nader in your country. The others CSSD, ODS, even the communists – they really are the same people, they just change seats every few years.”
Herb laughed. “They put on different ties.”
Lukos leaned forward, seizing Herb’s arm.
“We need reform,” he urged. “Too many people – do you ever notice the street workers? They finish each day at three and at three thirty they are in pub.”
“What would you know about that? Oh, hey James.” Herb noticed me. I exchanged a nod with Lukos.
“No, but seriously,” the clerk continued. “There must be a way to give people more of the drive, to do more than what they are doing, to want better things. We must find a way to say, ‘Look, OK, going to the pub is fine, but now we must work, we must get this task done. Is it not like this in America , Herb?”
Herb and I looked at each other.
“I’d say it depends, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a little more laid back in the West. The go-getters are in New York .”
“Yes, this is a good word – what is it? ‘Go getter.’” Lukos pumped his head up and dow. “Yes, we need more go-getters. Too many Czechs are lazy, they don’t like to work.”
Herb winked at me. “How’s the drinking?” he asked.
I’d had Milan bring me a non-partisan cup of coffee.
“A little better,” I lied.
Herb introduced me to Lukos, even though we’d seen each other there before.
“James here is your man,” Herb turned back to Lukos.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a go-getter, aren’t you, James?”
“Ah, shit.”
“He can deliver a scorching expose on sloth and waste in the public sector. ‘To protect and slur, or swerve,’ or something like that.”
A handful of young people came in, led by a straw-haired American wearing a Baltimore Orioles shirt.
“Hey, Herb. Got the Sox game on?”
“Oh, hey Pete. Yeah, downstairs. I didn’t know you were a Sox fan.”
“I’m not. I just need to watch some baseball- any baseball.”
The group descended down the stairs.
“Anything new on that hotel across the street?” I asked. I’d seen signs of construction on my way in.
“At least a year,” Herb said. “But hey, you missed a big party last week. My fifth year anniversary party.”
I’d heard about it, but for whatever reason hadn’t shown up.
“Off the charts,” Herb said. “Hey, Milan ? The other night. Off the charts.”
Milan agreed that the party had exceeded projected levels of enjoyment.
Herb seemed to be in better spirits than the last time I’d seen him, and I wondered if I’d been wrong about his state. Presently though I looked at him again, and noticed something in his expression was gray again.
“Been getting any time away?” I asked.
“You kidding? A Sunday here and there.”
He looked vaguely around the bar.
“Sometimes I wished I’d waited a little longer before buying the place. I’ve hardly set foot outside Prague in five years, except of course to see Vera. I wouldn’t mind a few days in Italy . Milan , remember that couple here a few weeks ago. The Fanuccis. Gino and Teresa. They invited us to visit. Where was it? Near Turin .”
“You should go,” I prompted.
“I might. Maybe after the Cup. I’m training Milan here to be an assistant manager. He might be ready about then.”
The thought of Milan running the cafe seemed a bit absurd, but I didn’t say anything.
“Heard from Marja?” he asked. “She’s a good girl. I notice when you’re with her you’re not drinking much and you’re not breaking anything. You ought to get up and see her.”
“I know.”
A little later that same evening I got a text from Karel. “Want to get stoned and have a drum session?”
So I left Herb with a promise to stop by in a few days.

Outside it was twilight. Gold-colored light blew off the river and rolled along the faces of couples, in town for the weekend, and who stopped periodically to snap photos and enjoy one last glance at the castle in anticipation for their parting the next day.
I was surprised and happy to get Karel’s message.. Passing the Smetana statue, I threw a salute to the river’s lyrical partriarch, and hurried along to catch the metro.
The session was already well in progress when I arrived an hour later. I could hear the rumble of the drums from outside. Karel had an open-door policy so I let myself in. There were about a half-dozen or so familar faces – guys from the Aj Movka – all sitting in a circle playing drums of various sizes and timbres. A joint was passed and someone handed me a pair of leather bongos.
It was easier to follow along than I expected. I remembered Philadelphia Grove’s advice about blending, so I found a simple, off-beat rhythm and stuck with it, only varying it now and again to add to the already thick, pounding polyrhythmic flavor. The effect produced was an unbroken song, occasionally building and then changing to a different feeling when one or more of the drummers introduced a a slight variation, which was quickly enjoined or countered by the others. Or there was “call and response,” perhaps the world’s earliest form of human communication.
Karel’s flat was small and cluttered, adding to the intimacy of the jam. Gradually that warmth, similar to that evening in Zizkov with Philadelphia , began to fill the little room. Outside it was already dark, and in the village the streets were full of a Sunday evening calm, but you didn’t have to look outside to know it. Soon the jam would end, and the circle would put away their drums and migrate to the Aj Movka, “for just one,” but you knew that too. It was all there, in that warmth, in the shades and echoes collapsing on the waves of polyrhythm.
“Jdeme na jedno?” Karel asked when we finished.
“Only one,” I said.
The pub was fairly quiet, populated mostly by the older regulars, who were scattered around the tables and gazing at half-finished pints.
“Do you still have contact with Provokator?” Kare asked. We’d been there for a half-hour or so.
I told him I was, and gave him a contact number and email address.
“Yes, you said they liked my sad jokes. I would like to contribute.”
“You should,” I said.
“It’s hard sometimes for people to understand,” Karel said. “Here in Czech we are not supposed to say, ‘I am good at something.’ Because if you do it suggests you are arrogant, or better than everyone else.”
“I understand,” I said.
“But I think the sad jokes are good,” Karel continued. “I want to believe in myself.”
“You should,” I said. “And they are good.”
It was perhaps the only favor I ever did for Karel, so it felt good, especially coming on the heels of our last meeting.
“We must watch the rest of ‘Closely Observed Trains,’” I said presently.
“Of course,” Karel looked at Voytya, who had joined us. “What do you think? Can we find one with English subtitles?” Voytya nodded.
We set an informal date for the following weekend.
On my way home later, I thought about the conversation I’d had with Duncan and Tanner the night Kyle left.
“It’s funny, when I first moved here I was meeting people,” Duncan had said. “I don’t know. It just all feels so transient.” He looked around, as though expecting the damp shadows of the club to concur. We’d rattled off the names of people we knew.
Maybe something in us had changed. Back when we arrived, we’d come surcharged with a belief in the beauty and possiblities of Prague , the world, even in architecture, at least until we got used to it and took it for granted. Somehow we’d gotten sidetracked, blindsided – by what? – late nights, drugs, alcohol – intoxicated by the fever of new friendships and aware of the distance we’d put between ourselves and the past ... we were ready to expire into the present, until even that was not enough, no, especially inadequate –

IN THE NEXT INSTALLMENT: The May Day Communist beating