Jiri looked at me and smiled, then uttered a sentence which impressed me as much for its speed and confidence as it did for its total and utter lack of any discernible vowels. Not able to speak Czech, I blinked at the man a couple of times, and said, ‘Um…’
‘American?’ he said. ‘British?’
‘British’, said Honza.
‘What you are doing here? Holidays?’
‘No’, I said. ‘I’m just waiting for someone.’
‘Who you are waiting for?’ said Jiri. ‘Tony Blair?’
And then he laughed and laughed and laughed, smacking the table with the palm of his hand, and turned to Honza, who was also laughing. Then they both stopped laughing and looked at me.
‘No’, I said, quite calmly. ‘I am not waiting for Tony Blair. That would be ludicrous. I am waiting for a photographer.’
Jiri brought his hand to his chest.
‘I am photographer’, he said.
I blinked again.
‘Are you?’ I queried.
‘No’, he said. ‘I am not photographer. I am butcher.’
‘Oh.’
I couldn’t help but wonder what had prompted Jiri to play such an elaborate hoax on me.
‘But!’ he said. ‘I have camera!’
At this, Honza and Jiri started to talk very excitedly in Czech. And then Honza got out of his seat and said, ‘I come back soon.’
I looked at my watch. There was still no sign of the photographer. Perhaps he wanted me to meet him at the gig. I reached into my pocket and tried to find the piece of paper on which I’d written the name of the venue. Jiri watched me do this, then leaned forward, conspiratorially.
‘What do you want, my friend?’ he whispered, his eyes darting nervously around the room.
‘How do you mean?’ I asked, confused.
‘Anything you want, I can get you. You are friend of Honza, you are friend of my. What do you want?’
I thought about it, and shrugged. Perhaps he thought I wanted a tour guide, which, come to think of it, wasn’t such a bad idea.
‘You want to smoke something? I can get you something. Anything I can get you, in Praha it is all possible. You want class A, I get you class A.’
Oh good God. The Butcher was trying to sell me illegal substances, when all I wanted was an hour to myself and someone to tell me where all the pretty buildings were. First I’m picked up by an armed stranger, and now I’m sitting underneath a bright-green leprechaun with a criminal butcher who wants to find something he can sell me.
‘A girl? You want a girl? I get you girls. Anything you want, my friend, it is possible.’
‘To be honest, I’m okay at the moment…’
‘A gun?’
‘No!’ I said. ‘No, I don’t want a gun. Or a girl. Or any Class A’s…’
Jiri leaned back in his chair, cast his eyes round the room, and then leaned forward again. ‘Anti-tank missile?’
Anti-tank missile?!
‘Whatever it is,’ he said, ‘it all can happen. It can take time, yes, but…’
‘Um, look…’
‘Ah!’ he said, suddenly, pointing a finger in the air. ‘You want Chicago Bull? I can get you Chicago Bull!’
‘Chicago Bull? What’s a Chicago Bull?’
But the truth was, I didn’t want to know. I had a hunch he was referring to something illicit and dodgy, but to be honest, even if he was referring to the basketball team itself, I wouldn’t have been interested. There is a time and a place for illegally purchasing massive, millionaire basketball players, and the corner table of an Irish pub in Prague isn’t it.
‘Really’, I said. ‘I am absolutely fine for all the things you have mentioned. Even the anti-tank missile and the Chicago Bull, whatever that is. I am simply waiting for the photographer to arrive and then we are going to go and see some music.’
Honza walked back into the pub just then, and Jiri put his finger to his lips, willing me not to let on about his minor indiscretions, such as drug dealing, pimping and the potential kidnap of some nine-foot sportsmen.
‘I have camera’, said Honza, placing a small and battered disposable Kodak camera on the table. ‘Now we go.’
‘You’re the photographer?’ I asked, as we drove over the Charles Bridge, heading for the gig. ‘You?’
‘No. I am not photographer. But photographer did not come tonight. So I help you. We have camera, what is problem?’
We were alone again now. Jiri had stayed on at the pub and given me a knowing wink as I walked out the door, mouthing what I think were the words ‘grenade launcher’.
‘We go Dlouhá’, said Honza, and I nodded, even though I didn’t know what he was saying. I was growing a little nervous now. I’d been told the venue was only moments away from the pub, but already we seemed to have been driving for a lot longer and in what I irrationally believed to be the wrong direction. Plus, the photographer was missing. Oh my God, the photographer was missing. He was probably dead! He’d clearly got to the pub early and run into the Butcher. Or maybe Honza had got to him earlier today with his Uzi…
‘How much you paying photographer?’ said Honza.
‘I don’t know. The magazine was paying him.’
Honza made an odd grumbling sound. We were thundering over a cobbled street now and into a square, where trams were stopping and people dashed through slanting rain.
Honza slowed to a halt. ‘There it is. You go in, I follow.’
And I did as he said.
The band came on half an hour late to mild and scattered applause from a bored-looking audience. But they played well and won the crowd over, and soon the place was rocking. I looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone with a camera, anyone who might be the guy I was supposed to meet. But there was only Honza – clutching his disposable camera in one hand and a beer in the other and clicking away from the back of the room. I made a few notes and drank a bottle of water. And then the gig was over.
‘I only make seven photograph’, said Honza, back by my side. ‘Already this camera was full.’
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine’, I said, eager to get away, to finally be free. ‘Thank you very much for that.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Well’, I said, offering Honza my hand, hoping that this would be the moment I could make a break and flee into the night to see all that Prague had to offer.
‘And now we eat!’ said Honza.
An hour later we were sitting in a fine little restaurant, chewing bread and meat and drinking beer. A few of Honza’s friends had turned up, and although I couldn’t understand them, the atmosphere was warm as we sat there and laughed and drank and laughed some more.
I suddenly felt quite guilty. I mean, this wasn’t so bad, was it? So I wasn’t exactly seeing Prague – but maybe, by hanging out with the locals, I was experiencing a more important Prague, the Prague of the people.
I looked over to Honza. ‘You like the food?’ he asked. ‘Good food, huh?’ I nodded, and realised something shocking. I had clearly jumped to some very wrong conclusions about this man. He hadn’t needed to invite me out. He hadn’t needed to fetch his camera and take pictures of the band. He was a genuinely nice, hospitable and friendly man. Someone who was only supposed to pick me up from the airport, but who was now spending all evening looking after me. Just because he had a gun in his car and his friend had tried to sell me black-market weaponry didn’t necessarily make him a bad person.
As I accepted another beer from this table of strangers, I resolved to be less judgemental in the future. I’d learned an important lesson, and if someone tries to sell you black-market weaponry one day, I hope you’ll remember my experience in Prague and not think too badly of them.
‘Here, Danny’, said Honza, holding a small shot glass filled to the brim with something green. ‘Drink!’
I downed the shot to the cheers of the table, and we ordered another.
‘Tonight, Danny, you stay with me’, said H
onza.
‘No, no’, I said. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got a hotel booked.’
‘Which hotel?’
‘It’s called Hotel Pyramid, or something.’
‘No, no – that is terrible! You stay with me. Please!’
‘But it’s booked!’
‘We unbook it. You stay with me!’
And I looked around the table at the smiling faces and said humbly, ‘Thank you, Honza.’
When the bill finally came I suddenly realised that I hadn’t had time to change any money yet. Honza just smiled and waved my objections away, and the bill was paid. I smiled. What genuinely lovely people.
A few of us went back to Honza’s that night, and as the clock edged towards 3am, I fell asleep, drunk and happy, on the sofa in the living room.
Four hours later I was being shaken awake.
‘Danny! Come! We must leave!’
It was Honza.
‘Eh?’
‘We must leave now! We go!’
‘Where?’
‘To the airport!’
He was smiling the broadest smile I think I have ever seen.
‘But it’s only seven in the morning! My flight isn’t until two.’
‘I have things I must do.’
‘I’ll get a taxi to the airport later on. I want to see some of Prague anyway. I still haven’t managed to see it.’
‘I show you sights in car’, said Honza. ‘Please, we leave now.’
Confused and tired, I quietly got my things together.
I’m not sure what sights normal tourists get to see when they visit Prague. I’m told they’re entranced by the majesty of the old town. I’m told they stand and stare for hours before the gates of the mighty castle. I’m told some fall in love with St Nicholas Cathedral, while others never want to leave the Old Gardens. Evidently, Honza didn’t think any of these were the slightest bit important. Which is why most of what I saw of Prague was a motorway, a brewery and the back of Jiri’s block of flats. Honza had more errands to run – the very last of which, it turned out, was dropping me off at the airport.
I began to thank him for looking after me in such a – well – unusual way, but he had one last thing to say.
‘This is for you’, he said, and handed me an envelope. I was touched. Honza had obviously written me a letter, thanking me for my friendship and wishing me the best. Or perhaps it was the photos, which he’d secretly had developed as a parting gift. Or maybe it was an invitation to come back sometime, to enjoy more of his generous hospitality.
I opened it. It was a bill.
Car. Drinks. Photos.
I couldn’t quite believe it.
Meal.
I was being charged for the meal? And not just for my meal, either. It seemed I was being asked to pay for everyone’s!
Hotel.
He was calling his sofa a hotel?
Prague Tour.
Prague Tour?! A brewery and the back of his mate’s house!
I was dumbstruck, and not a little vexed.
I looked at Honza, who looked at me and smiled. I remembered the Uzi under his seat. And the knife in the ignition. It was all I could do not to scour the horizon for Jiri and an anti-tank missile.
And so I bravely said, ‘I only have British money on me.’
‘Okay’, said Honza.
Twenty minutes later I stood in the check-in queue and considered the fact that my trip to Prague had actually cost me more than I had earned. And then I looked up and caught a glimpse of bald, beefy Honza walking towards the arrivals area, carrying a small sign that read ‘Mr Thomas’.
Mr Thomas, if you are reading this, please get in touch. It would be nice to reminisce about all the things we saw in wonderful, unforgettable Prague.
BLACKOUT IN USHUAIA
MICHELLE RICHMOND
Michelle Richmond’s books include the story collection The Girl in the Fall-Away Dress and the novel Dream of the Blue Room, which is set in China. Her stories and essays have appeared in Glimmer Train, Playboy, the San Francisco Chronicle and elsewhere. She lives in San Francisco and edits the online literary journal Fiction Attic.
At first glance it may seem that Ushuaia is sleeping, but in truth the city is fully awake, groping in the dark. It is seven-thirty on a Friday evening, rather early by the standards of this South American ski resort, the capital of Tierra del Fuego and the southernmost town in the world. Perched on the southern tip of Argentina, Ushuaia borders the frigid Beagle Channel and is backed by the awesome Andes. In the depths of winter it is a haven for serious ski bunnies from around the globe. By day, the steep mountains behind the town are dotted with veteran skiers; by night, the discos along San Martin serve overpriced alcoholic drinks to a young, disorderly crowd and pump out dance music so loudly one can feel the thunder in the floor, and one fears an avalanche. Winter in Ushuaia is also host to a number of grand events I’ve read about in my guidebook: the Longest Night National Party, the Snow Sculptors’ National Meeting and the much-anticipated End of the World Rally – the Stanley Cup of sledge dog racing.
Or so I am told. But it is not the depths of winter, not quite. It is August, and ski season is apparently over. The best snows have gone, and the slopes are dotted with old snow and slush. One can still take the ski lift to the top of Martial Glacier, but the café is closed and the few people milling about at the top are pretty unfriendly. In the lull between ski seasons – a lull made even quieter by the wretched state of the Argentine economy – the town reverts, for the most part, to the dominion of the locals.
I say for the most part because a few tourists have managed to find their way here despite the blandness of the season. My husband and I are among them. It has become an accidental routine of our travel modus operandi to visit a foreign city or country only at the most inopportune time – thus the Scottish Highlands in January, when the castles and B&Bs were closed; Baja in August, when the heat and humidity put everyone on permanent siesta; Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast during a particularly precipitous July, when it poured 200 millimetres in three hours. It is in our nature to arrive anywhere and everywhere just after the parade has passed or weeks before the party starts. While our taste in destinations may be superb, our timing is atrocious.
So, upon our arrival in Ushuaia the slopes are no longer ski-able, the town’s best chefs have gone on vacation, and the gift shop proprietors are desperately hawking wool sweaters and wooden ashtrays as if we’re the last tourists they’ll see this year. None of this is surprising, given our history, but we aren’t prepared for the possibility that even the electricity might take a hiatus.
It happens on our second night in town. To save money, we have checked out of the pricey Del Glacier Hotel and into the Tolkeyen, a small, one-storey, lodge-like affair perched on the edge of the continent. To get here, we took a ten-minute cab ride from the city centre through winding suburbs filled with large, unattractive houses. The blank-faced homes with their small windows and smoking chimneys seemed adrift in a sea of black ice and snow. Hardly anyone was about.
Our room at the Tolkeyen features dark-panelled walls, a single queen-sized bed with a seventies-era quilt, some cheaply framed pictures of mountain scenes, a three-drawer dresser with missing knobs, two lamps and an ancient TV with no remote control. The room is simultaneously ugly, cosy and warm, and we are both happy to be here.
Our new room reminds me of the night my husband and I spent together eight years ago at the Bucksnort Inn in Bucksnort, Tennessee. We were at the fragile beginning of our relationship, driving from Fayetteville, Arkansas, to New York City through blizzards and sleet storms in a tiny Mitsubishi pick-up with no power steering. We arrived at the Bucksnort Inn the night before the opening of deer season, and the clientele consisted almost entirely of hunters. All night long we could hear men in the adjoining rooms cleaning and oiling and racking their guns. We woke at six in the morning to find the place deserted; the hunt had already begun.
The Tolkeyen has the
same abandoned feeling, as if it is only by accident that someone left the door unlocked and the vacancy sign in the window. When we checked in, the concierge seemed surprised to see us. He was wearing a funny hat, the kind favoured by the children of Finland. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked, sliding a skeleton key across the wooden counter.
‘California.’
‘Oh.’ The fuzzy balls on his Finnish hat jiggled. ‘Hollywood. Your movies are very big but not very interesting. You are in room number one.’
My husband empties the contents of his backpack into the top drawer of the dresser and takes a moment to brush his extraordinarily unruly hair. The effect of the static, combined with an orange-and-green striped scarf he purchased from a street vendor in Buenos Aires, makes him look something like a misguided English gnome.
‘Want to go for a walk?’ he asks.
‘Sure, a short one.’
I pull the gingham curtains aside and take in the view. Just a few hundred yards from our window, the sea whips against the flat brown beach. In truth I’d rather stay right here and catch up on sleep and Argentine TV, but compromise is in order. Earlier today, my husband consented under duress to ride the toy-like Tren del Fin del Mondo through a flat, dull landscape made remarkable only by the stories piped out of the train’s loudspeakers. From the moment we arrived in Ushuaia, we had been bombarded with literature and coupons for the Train at the End of the World, apparently the only tourist attraction currently in operation. Long before it was a tourist destination, Ushuaia was a prison town, where criminals were sent to labour and die under unbearably harsh conditions. The electronically delivered Disneyesque narrative made it sound as if the prisoners had enjoyed a pleasantly reformative exile, complete with arts and crafts and organised football. We met a friendly family from Buenos Aires on the train, whose eldest son pulled out his harmonica and serenaded us with ‘Candle in the Wind’. By the time we got back to the little station my husband’s cranky knees were suffering the ill effects of an hour crammed into a Small World-sized seat. I owe him a walk on the beach.
The evening is windy and grey, beautiful in its bleakness. As we walk along the dirt path from the motel down to the beach we are followed by a scraggly yellow dog. My husband has been picking up dogs all over Argentina and Uruguay. Not at all a pet person at home, in this part of the world he has become a natural magnet for unkempt, affection-seeking canines. Just a few days ago in Colonia, a scabby brown mutt who decided he belonged to us got us chased out of a laundromat, and as a result we have had to put our unlaundered socks and underwear on a second rotation.
By the Seat of My Pants Page 2