The fact that the Northerners were more stifled than us wasn’t the only difference. There were also insurmountable cultural chasms. While we favored leather boots, the orthodox Northerner never took off his sneakers. He didn’t share our fondness for jackets and sportcoats, being too much in love with his shabby olive-drab field jacket. And even on the steamiest summer day, he never took off that abominable sweater, often frayed at the elbows. Prague was predominantly Catholic, among the Northerners there were many Protestants. Given our hatred for the Communists, the only thing that still bound us to the territory of Bohemia was the lion we so happily and incomprehensibly bear in our emblem; the Northerners were obstinate Lambs. The memory of German bones haunted them in their genes. Where one of us had a glass of wine, the Northerner drank a bottle; where the smug Praguer slowly sipped his beer and discussed global issues cagily, to avoid getting right to the heart of the matter, the Northerner guzzled rum and hollered. So it was impossible to ever agree on anything. In those lamentable little smoggy northern towns, each patrolman soon knew the defiant Northerner and kicked his ass whenever he could. Northerners came to Prague to relax and gain experience, but whenever the cops here picked them up they generally would thrash them just for being where they were from. It was a fiendish circle. Broke the weak, steeled the strong, like life itself, only much faster.
Hadraba. And now I have to go and clash with him, my head buzzed.
Even though none of us could stomach the idea that Hadraba was capable of hiring stalingos, I didn’t much feel like going. Černá’s was Hadraba’s main tent, and whatever he wanted, the Martian wouldn’t have invited me there without his knowledge. The hitlers were a new, foreign element, and allying with them for the sake of commerce … the contract the Laotians had put their thumbprints on … would’ve put Hadraba out of the loop. He’d be turning time, which once clenched him so cruelly, against himself. There’s no way, we concluded, and we were right.
Only I didn’t know that yet. I tried to think of some of the tricks Daniel used in the lion’s den, but except for that one, nothing came to me. I just relied on Bog and myself and went.
Maybe Černá* will be there at least, I thought. But then it struck me I could easily be subjected to general ridicule and scorn and outnumbered by my assailants, so instead I hoped she had the day off.
Thinking of Černá I went on foot, in order to loosen up my slightly achy and danced-out muscles. Bohler was right, our street, the last one within city limits, was conspicuously quiet. Just our three buildings, plus the usual sheds and garbage dumps, and some stuff that used to be gardens, in antediluvian times. Jutting up from the dirt were the foundations of the government palace that would never exist. Rust-stained scaffolding. A pipe here and there. A pool clouded with chemicals, unrippled by worms. Ordinarily there were city dogs and cats chasing around, a grinning squirrel or rat or two, but now there was nothing. I noticed the grass in back of our buildings had been all trampled down, and that made me wonder. What with the battle and the fire, we had expected most of our dear tenants to finally take off. But how fast they did was surprising.
As I made my way into the city, an illegal light flickered here and there in the demolition sites and buildings, entries locked and boarded up. There’s probly a hole here too, I worried, better tell the others so we can do somethin about it. Wouldn’t want it to spread out to us.
Then I decided to take the tram. On the outskirts I was alone, no one else got on till later. Candles flickered in the cemetery by the chapel of the Virgin Mary. As the tram rode along its shiny route through the gray urban canyons, from time to time an ad would flicker for Happy Family or Pepsi Cola. Few glowed steadily. Both flickerings were about hope: one here, one there. People began to get on. I didn’t like their looks, and if they even noticed me they probably didn’t like mine either. I thought about Černá instead … recalling this song she did at the club, never mind the words, she’s obscene enough herself … but always at the right time in the right place … at the club called Černá’s … “I’m aware of what you’re begging for, lemme wrap my legs around you” … the old-time “aware” struck a dissonant chord with “lemme,” and that created tension … the childlike “begging” gave it spice and brought the serenaded guy to his knees … the way Černá sang it, all the others hated him, after all she was offering … lemme wrap my legs around you … what’s more, she had black hair and cloaked her relatively petite though no doubt dance-firm body primarily in white, black, and red, the colors of light in the most important knowable worlds. Up on her miniature stage, behind the sorry piano, she observed the stir in the club with a sharp, no-nonsense look, and a few times it struck me … in my battles with the Fiery … or with my colleagues, but also with Cepková and Elsa the Lion … in the olden days of instructing David … it would beautify any chair to have Černá planted on it. She also had a voice, I remembered how Bohler, after rescuing that record from the flames, had added voice to the list of recognized virtues … in fact one night, after some especially difficult negotiations, Černá’s voice got me so confused I dipped my hand under the table next to me, it sounded close, I guess it was the way she twisted the words, maybe she wanted to be close … and when I raised my head I caught her eye … I tried again … and again, clear across that big, ugly room, she looked at me, slightly offended … if she’d actually been sitting nearby, she might’ve said: Keep your paws to yourself! … a third time … yet again she shifted her head toward me, incredible, it works, I told Elsa the Lion … yeah, but you don’t work anymore, said my pseudodroogina, and she was right, I didn’t work on her … not for a while. And then I froze in the tram, recalling that voice out at the Rock and the last words She-Dog had given me … promising I’d meet a sister … and I couldn’t remember whether or not Černá’s eyes were green … suddenly I didn’t want to go … too many things were happening at once and I wasn’t prepared … but you can’t very well drag your private affairs into a byznys outing, that’s one of the ABC’s.
I remained seated as the tram came to a stop, the doors opened, and the city spread its welcoming arms right at the site of a new, extremely suspect frankfurter shack by an old statue of a forgotten patriot. I got off at Hangman Street, formerly Marshal Time-Vulture Avenue. Bad old Prague no. 5 chilled my aching feet. Feeling light and warlike, I sprinted the length of an empty lane called Swingshift, formerly In the Tentacles (later it bore the name of some favorite horse of Budenny’s*), and swept through the Galactic at a trot. There were a few familiar faces, but I just gave a wave or two, ran out to the courtyard, and continued on over the wall. Crouching down on the other side, I stayed there for a while, hearing nothing but my own soft, wary breathing. Not a soul around. Then, hooligan slow, legs firmly planted and my hands above my thighs, the edge of my left pinky cocked against demonic whispers, I went down a few ordinary streets to Liberation Avenue. That name hadn’t changed, it fits every time the old rats jump ship.