Legends

Martin wasn’t so much interested in saving money as time. His instinct told him that he had to get into and out of Prague before Crystal Quest, whose operatives would not be far behind, informed the local security people of his presence; before the Chechens who murdered Taletbek Rabbani caught up with him. He produced a ten dollar bill from his shirt pocket. “Fair enough, Radek—here are ten hours in advance. I want to take a bus into the city. I want to rent a room in a cheap hotel in the Vyshrad quarter that has a fire staircase leading to an employees’ entrance. Then I want to make a phone call from the central post office, after which I would like to eat a copious vegetarian meal in a cheap restaurant—”

“I know definitely the cheap hotel. It is former secret police dormitory turned into a student bed and breakfast when communism demised. When you are checkered in, I will pilot you to a mom and pop’s Yugoslav eatery, not much grander than a crackle in the wall, all vegetarian except for the meat.”

Martin had to laugh. “Sounds like just the ticket.”

Radek tried the phrase on his tongue. “Just the ticket. I see the meaning. And for after the meal, what about girls? I know a bar where university students in miniskirts wait on tables to supplement their stipends. Some of them are not against supplementing the supplements.”

“We’ll save the girls for my next trip to Prague, Radek.” Martin took a last drag on the Beedie and embedded the burning end in the sand of an ashtray. “After the mom and pop’s crackle in the wall, I want to go to”—he hauled out the envelope that Taletbek Rabbani had given him in London and looked at what the old man had written on the back of it—“to the Vyshrad Train Station on Svobodova street.”

“The Vyshrad Station was shut closed by the communists. Trains pass there but do not stop. For a while it was an abandoned building where you could buy drugs. I am hearing it was hired to Czech people who buy and sell.”

“Buy and sell what?”

Radek shrugged. “Only God knows and He has so far not shared the information with me.”

“I want to know, too. I want to find out what they buy and sell.”

Radek fitted his deerstalker back onto his head at a rakish angle. “Then please to follow me, Mister.”

The hotel in the Vyshrad quarter turned out to be spotlessly clean and inexpensive if you didn’t formally register and paid two nights in advance with American dollars, which Martin immediately agreed to do. And the narrow fire staircase led, four floors down, to the kitchen and a back door giving onto a courtyard that gave onto a side street. The central post office, reached after a short ride on a red-and-cream double trolley, had a window for international calls. Martin jotted the Crown Heights phone number on a pad and waited his turn and squeezed into the empty booth that smelled of stale cologne when his ticket was called.

“Hello,” he cried into the phone when he heard Stella’s voice breasting the static on the other end.

“Why are you shouting?” she demanded.

He lowered his voice. “Because I’m farther away than the last time I called.”

“Don’t tell me where you are—there’s been a bizarre echo on my line the last few days.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Martin said. “They’ll take two or three minutes to figure out it’s an international call. Then they’ll need two or three days to find out which city it came from. And another week to get the local spooks to determine I’m calling from the central post office in Prague.”

“Now you’ve gone and told them.”

“They won’t believe me. They’ll think I’m planting phony clues to throw them off. What did you do with yourself today?”

“Just came back from the dentist—he’s making me a new front tooth.”

“Money down the drain. I liked the chipped tooth. Made you look …”

“Finish what you started to say, for God’s sake. Every time you get personal you let go of the end of the sentence and it drifts off like a hot air balloon.”

“Breakable. That’s the word that was on the tip of my tongue.”

“I’m not sure how to take that. What’s so great about looking breakable.”

“For starters, means you’re not already broken. People who are broken have several selves. Estelle is your real name, isn’t it?”

“The family name, Kastner, was assigned to us when we came to America. They wanted to change my first name, too, but I wouldn’t let them. Estelle is me.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “You still there?”

“I’m thinking about what you said. I know I must have met people who aren’t living in legends, I just don’t remember when.”

“Legends, as in having different names?”

“It’s much more than different names; it has to do with having several biographies, several attitudes, several ways of looking at the world, several ways of giving and taking pleasure. It has to do with being so broken that the king’s horses and the king’s men would have a hard time putting you together again.”

“Listen up, Martin—”

“Terrific! Now they’ll know it’s me calling.”

“How can they be sure I’m not using a phony name to throw them off?”