Time's Magpie - Myla Goldberg [24]
I responded that three hundred crowns was actually quite big for a fine, which The Mole thought was a pretty funny thing to say. Once he finished laughing he asked me whether I was a student or a tourist, and when I told him I was a tourist he became confused. If I was a tourist, he wanted to know, how come I could speak Czech? I explained that I had lived here once, ten years ago, and had returned to visit. Dim had, by this time, stopped writing; I had become too entertaining. Rising to the moment, I told Dim and The Mole that I was a writer.
Have you written a lot of books? The Mole asked, looking impressed, or at least feigning regard.
Only one, I answered, and then, with the help of my Czech–English dictionary, I attempted to explain that I was in Prague in order to write a book about the city. The appearance of the dictionary drew The Mole’s attention to the fact that the dictionary was merely one of three books I was carrying, and in an instant he had grabbed all three. Dim and The Mole poked at the books inquisitively, as if not quite sure how they worked.
You are writing a guidebook? The Mole asked.
No, I responded. A book about my thoughts on Prague.
The Mole smiled.This will give you something to write about, he concluded.
By this time the narrow passageway had netted new quarry—a young German woman who, having emerged from the passageway, stopped uncertainly at the sight of Dim and The Mole, who practically cackled at the prospect of doubling their good fortune. While they initiated the same interchange with the German girl as they had with me, it soon became clear that Dim and The Mole’s eyes were bigger than their stomachs. They couldn’t handle two offenders simultaneously. They flung fractured English at the German, who lobbed her own bewildered English back at them, but they made no motion toward her—that would have meant leaving me unattended, and for reasons obscure to anyone but Dim and The Mole, splitting up was apparently not a possibility. It did not take the German long to ascertain this fact and, as she had yet to be parted from her personal identification, she was able slip to away while Dim, The Mole, and I continued our foray into absurdist street theater.
I do not have three hundred crowns, I lied. In fact I had a couple thousand crowns in my wallet. While I was certainly aware that new infractions might be invented—improper walking shoes or inadequate identification, perhaps—if they intuited this monetary surplus, the amount of the sum Dim and The Mole were requesting was ultimately irrelevant. Even if my fine had been a third as large, I would have protested. There was a principle at stake. Though ten years had passed since I had been an expatriate, I felt I had earned the right to deal with the police in a manner more befitting a Czech, a manner that fell somewhere between wheedling and sport, which most Americans only ever observe in Hollywood comedies.
How much do you have? The Mole asked. I reached into my pocket and produced seventeen crowns. The Mole laughed at the sight of the coins. You can pay two hundred crowns, he offered in a reasonable tone.
This is all I have, I insisted, holding up the flimsy coins.
It is not enough, The Mole shrugged.
Then you will have to come with me until I find a cash machine, I sighed, certain I had just engineered my release. Surely Dim and The Mole would rather relinquish their grip on me than abandon such prime tourist territory, where they were certain of bagging far more compliant trade if they remained. I had not counted on the obvious fact that Dim and The Mole were old hands at harvesting tourists.
There is a cash machine down that street and to the right, The Mole readily answered, helpfully pointing out the route. We will wait for you.
It was a crucial moment, the moment in the script when it became clear who was the victor and who the vanquished. Until that moment I had honestly thought I would be able to walk away unmolested. The Mole was savvier than he let on; he could probably