View from Stalin's Head Stories

A Man of the Country All fairy tales have in common not "once upon a time" but an unlikely pairing of characters who under normal circumstances would never have met. Like a former waiter from Madison, Wisconsin, and a giant. Jirka is tall and tlusty, which translates roughly into "thick." It is an equally useful word for describing people who weigh over two hundred pounds as well as books that clock in at over a thousand pages. His nose, chin, and fingers are fleshy and full of life. The only subtle thing about his looks is his smile, which curls up in the corners of his lips as if he's winking at you. We met on a subway platform. I was standing under an ad for the new Pizza Hut, my nose buried in a book with the cover wrapped in brown paper. A guy from Minnesota advised me to cover all my English books to avoid being hassled by undercover ticket inspectors on the subway. Jirka picked me out of the crowd to ask if he could take a picture of my nose. "It is regret I do not understand what you have said," I told him in Czech. "Where are you from?" he asked. He wore a bright yellow knit cap over his mangy curls and a dull blue winter jacket that looked like he'd slept in it. I wore a full-length Czech gray raincoat to hide my American clothes. "I am a man of America but I speak a little of Czech." His eyes, already big and round like moons, widened. "You are American and you can speak Czech?" I said, "Is it contrary to a law for an American to speak Czech?" Sometimes I was reckless in languages that were not my own. "Wir konnen to speak the English," he replied. We rode the subway to Dejvice together and then transferred to the tram. Jirka, who worked in construction, wanted me to be his English teacher. After fumbling around in his coat pocket, he fished out a pencil stub and a wrinkled Dunkin' Donuts napkin so he could write down his phone number. How much did I charge for lessons? Could I give him a list of books? He would buy them the very next day. He knew a good bookstore. "Wait, wait," I said. "I no can wait," he told me and pulled my arm. The other passengers in the tram stared. "I must besser speak English. It is important to make my fortune." "But this is my stop. I have to get off. Moja zastavka." Jirka looked deep into my eyes. "Please call to me tomorrow," he begged. A year passes, and I'm going home. Jirka the giant and I stand in front of a pink and green castle on a hill that inspired a novel by Kafka. We are not lovers and Jirka has no idea I ever wanted to be, but he has taken the day off work to spend it by my side like a lover would. The smog has melted, as if in honor of my leaving, and we have a clear view of the trams, the tourists on Charles Bridge, trees dragging their leaves over the water, paddleboats on the Vltava River, shadows, islands. After a last look over the city, we walk down the craggy steps of Nerudova ulice into Mala Strana, a neighborhood of narrow streets where the buildings are painted in pastels and trimmed with scallops and curls like wedding cakes. Jirka scratches his chest with a proud, satisfied smile. His size and rocklike good looks turn heads everywhere. Even the American tourists wearing the red-and-black-checkered velvet hats for sale on Charles Bridge stop to look at him. I can't decide if he's unaware of the attention he's getting or if he enjoys it. We turn right onto Malostranske namesti and Jirka puts his hand on my neck. His touch feels cold and heavy, like a metal clHamburger, Aaron is the author of 'View from Stalin's Head Stories', published 2004 under ISBN 9780812970937 and ISBN 0812970934.