Greenhorn crazy caleb first submission (chapters 1-3)

Greenhorn Crazy Caleb Jason Collins

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I coughed my last forty Euros on the ticket to Praha - Hlavní nádraží. There was nothing to

exchange when I got off the train. I pulled my last eidam and butter sandwich from my pocket,

and chewed on it, walking down the platform. It was early yet. Climbing the stairs, I stepped

into the main concourse. My feet hurt—blisters. I hadn’t changed my socks in days.

“Prosím. Máte nějaké změny?” An old beggar stood there with his wrinkly hand out. His

face was gray, huddled inside the hood of his coat. He stunk like wine and looked like he hadn’t

slept in a week.

“Ne, promiň.” I shook my head.

“Prosim,” he said. “Jste Američan, no?”

He grabbed my arm. The old bastard wouldn’t let go.

“Ne.” I jerked my arm away.

He said something in Czech and grabbed hold of me.

“Fuck off.” I shoved him, and he backpedaled, falling to the ground. I heard a clap on the

concrete. My phrasebook fell out of my pocket. I bent over to pick it up. When I rose, there

was a group of people circling around me and the beggar.

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“Pardon,” I said, offering my hand. I hoisted the old man up, brushed him off, and offered

him a cigarette. He thanked me, as I lit it for him. His teeth were rotten. He blew out a yellow

cloud and thanked me again. The crowd dispersed.

I lit a cigarette of my own and stepped outside. People shuffled back and forth across the

concrete in front of the station. The sun beat down, but it was a brisk day. A stiff breeze blew

across Vrchlického sady, stinging my cheeks. The trees were forming the first buds of the

season. Their skeletal branches held chirping birds. I pulled my collar up around my neck and

walked across the park. Men in suits strolled along paved paths; women pushed strollers. Bums

sat huddled around the barren trees, sipping half liters of beer, laughing, coughing. My cigarette

burned down to the filter, and I flicked it across the brown grass.

I had one contact in Prague. Stepping out of the park, I fell in with the foot traffic streaming

down Opletalova ulice. I nodded at a fat woman struggling to keep up with her dog. The bitter

wind made my eyes water. It was only a couple blocks, I knew, having studied the map before I

boarded the train in the morning. My feet hurt. Every step made me wince. There was nothing I

could do, not till I found a place to crash, took a bath and got into some fresh clothes. At least I

didn't stink. Across Růžová, I rounded the corner and stood before a pharmacy. Four different

doors spilled onto the sidewalk. A young guy with a bald head and a corduroy blazer swung one

of them open and stepped outside.

“Dobrý den. To je Glossa.”

“Second floor,” he said. He must have fingered my accent. Or maybe it was the eighty liter

hiking bag slung over my shoulders. I climbed the stairs and greeted the receptionist.

“Dobrý den,” I said. “I’m coming from France. I traded some emails with you a couple

weeks back. Jana told me to ask for her when I arrived in Prague. She said there would likely be

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some teaching opportunities.”

“What is your name?” the blonde asked. “I’ll tell Jana you’d like to speak with her.”

“Caleb O’Connor.”

She picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons.

“Ahoj, Jano, mam tady Caleb O’Connor.” She talked some more and laughed, hanging up

the phone. I drummed my fingers across the glass countertop.

“Yes, take a seat.” She extended a hand towards the couch and coffee table behind me.

“Jana will be with you shortly. Can I offer you something to drink—coffee, tea?”

I eyeballed the bloke sitting on the couch.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

“I’m sorry.”

My comment took her by surprise.

“Coffee, tea, or me,” I said. “That’s how the saying goes in America. I was wondering if I

could pass on coffee and tea.”

She thought about it for a minute, and laughed.

“Yes, well, I am married.” Raising her left hand, her gold ring glittered. “Take a seat and

Jana will be with you shortly.”

I laughed. “That’s what I figured, beautiful girl like you. Can’t blame a guy for trying. A

coffee would be wonderful.”

There’s a world of difference between looking for a place to stay when you have no money

and trying to find love. The last few years had pretty well turned me off of love, anyway, so I

gladly accepted my hot coffee when the blonde brought it over, and leafed through a magazine

about Czech film. I was deep into an article about noir cinema when I heard my name.

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“Caleb, I am Zuzana, the Director of Studies. Jana will meet with you tomorrow, if that’s

okay.” She brushed her brown locks over her shoulder. Slouching in my chair, she towered over

me. “Right now, though, I have a pressing concern. I just had a teacher cancel. I need you to

fill in for a lesson over near Florenc, if you are able.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Great. It’s a public class. They meet at fourteen hundred hours. If you leave now, you

should make it.”

She gave me a map and sent me on my way. So much for lesson planning. I guess she took

me for a professional. I neglected to tell her I didn’t have enough money for tram fare. I didn’t

think it would serve me well in the future, so I stood outside on the sidewalk, inspecting the map.

The sun was straight overhead by now. Its blinding sheen flashed off the cobbles and storefront

windows. The wind hadn’t let up. I took a chill. The blisters on my feet stung like hell but it

was time to start walking. Past the restaurant on the corner, I smelled schnitzels and fresh bread.

My stomach growled. I didn’t know where I’d find my next meal. The 24 train came along. I

followed the swarm of people, jumped on, and road away from the city-center, cars streaming

by, cabs honking their horns, people on the sidewalk buying scarves, spilling out of pubs. The

tram rolled past a small Renaissance church. Its lone spire and weathered stone walls looked like

they’d seen a thousand years. I was digging life in Prague. There for a minute and already I’d

found work. When we rolled up to Praha Masarykovo, another railway in town, a hoard of

people got off the tram and two guys in drab coats boarded. I didn’t pay much attention, sitting

there, taking in the scene, beautiful buildings streaming by, until people rows ahead of me began

shuffling around and chattering. I saw the silver flash of a badge. It was time to jump. I didn’t

care how far away the school was. It was time to go. I had no money for a fine. And I didn’t

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want to go to jail. The tram kept rolling. The detectives meandered down the aisle. I looked

behind me. Another detective was checking tickets in the back of the car. I was fucked. The old

ladies rows ahead of me had their tickets out and ready. The detectives smiled. There was no

stalling them. When they moved on to the students right in front of me, one of the kids got all

shifty. A few kids stood up, sticking tram passes in the detectives’ faces, and talking all kinds of

shit. The cops weren’t having it. They shoved them aside and cornered the kid in front of me.

They were shouting and the poor kid began shaking. His friends jumped up and swarmed the

detectives. The wheels of the tram screeched, metal whining. I got ready to spin around and bolt

out the side door. All the kids were screaming. The detectives sat them down. One of the cops

started writing a ticket while the other one pressed the kid for his ID. The kid reached into his

back pocket, his face wrinkled like he would cry, when the tram pulled to rest. The others

stormed the cops and their buddy split and ran out the side door. I didn’t have the chance to get

up. The others followed, stumbling over each other as they leapt onto the sidewalk. The cops

took off after them. The kids scattered. People in the tram pressed up against the glass,

watching the cops sprint down the street.

I got off the tram at Florenc and studied my map. There would be blood when I peeled off my

boots. Cars zipped by. I strolled past a few Herna bars, a shoe store, and finally made it to

Karlínské náměstí. Benches lined the square. It was quiet. A couple guys were passing a bottle

across the way. I turned down Peckova ulice, overstepping piles of dog shit. A cathedral rose in

the middle of the square. Chain-linked fence guarded its stained-glass. Beer cans and broken

bottles littered the ground in front of its dingy facade. I crossed Křižíkova and looped around

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behind the church. A couple guys stood in front of a four-story building, smoking cigarettes. I

strolled up with my bag and asked if this was the language school.

“This is whorehouse. You must to be fresh meat.”

I lit a smoke of my own.

“Fresh as it gets,” I said. “Just arrived in Prague.”

“Fresh off the train,” the other guy said. “They always send us greenhorn.”

I took a drag. “I been around.”

“You speak Czech?”

“Mluvím trochu česky,” I said. “Ale mluvím špatně.”

“Ahh, that is bull shit. You learn that from phrasebook. How you supposed to learn us

anything if you don’t even know us.”

“I am Russian. I give no dams.”

“You shouldn't give a damn,” I said. “I can still teach you guys something even though I

don’t speak Czech.”

“This is bull shit,” the smart ass said. “Class taken over first by Russian, now by greenhorn

American. Czech history repeating itself. It is Velvet Revolution all over again.”

We had a good laugh.

“What are your names?” I asked. “I’m Caleb.”

“I am Vadim,” the Russian said. “It is pleasure to meet you.”

“And you?” I asked. “What’s your name, smart ass?”

“This is Pavel,” Vadim said. “He is detective. Don’t mind him. He is just pissed his

girlfriend fucks everyone else on police force.”

I pitched my smoke aside and slapped them both on the back.

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“Well, gentlemen, I’m your teacher for the day. Whattya say we do this?”

“Fresh off the train,” Pavel said. “We pay good money and they send us always greenhorn.”

I opened the door and followed them through. Up the stairs to the third floor, I trailed them

into the classroom. It smelled like chalk dust. There were two other students sitting down: a girl

and another guy. I flung my bag in the corner and opened the window.

“I want to get to know you all,” I said. “Take out a piece of paper.”

I stole a piece from Vadim.

“Now fold it in half,” I said. “And fold it again, so it stands up like a sign.”

I dropped my folded piece down on my desk.

“You see that?” I asked. “Now you’ve got a nametag. Write your name on the front.”

I wrote in big letters, CALEB, and stood my nametag on the desk.

“Now I want you to think of two adjectives that begin with the first letter of your name, any

two adjectives that begin with the same letter, and write them down on the back of your nametag.

Don’t tell anybody. Keep them a secret for now.”

I wrote down my own and gave them a minute. I had to holler at Vadim and Pavel for

speaking Czech. We went around the room. Jana was joyful and jumpy. The slim guy next to

her, wearing glasses, said his name was Adam. He was still thumbing through his dictionary

when I called on him.

“I am awesome.” He flipped another page, found the word he was looking for, and

straightened his glasses. “I am awesome and anxious.”

“Good, now, say them with me.” I wrote the adjectives on the board. “Awesome, anxious

Adam. Joyful, jumpy Jana. How about you, Pavel?”

“I have only one.”

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“Let’s hear it. We’ll help you out.”

“I am powerful.”

Vadim roared with laughter. “You are pussy.”

“Guys, come on, there’s a lady in the room.”

“She doesn’t care,” Vadim said. “You don’t care, do you, Jana?”

“Pussy Pavel,” she said, laughing. “Powerful, pussy Pavel.”

I took that for no, and wrote the words on the board.

“You are bastard, Vadim.”

“My name does not start with B,” Vadim said. “My name starts with V, you pussy. I am

villain.”

“Villainous Vadim.” I wrote the word on the board. “What’s your other adjective, Vadim?”

“That’s all I have. I am villain.”

“You are villainous,” I said. “Let’s help him out, guys. What’s another adjective?”

“You are Viagra,” Pavel said. “You have soft penis. You are Viagra Vadim.”

It was no wonder they couldn’t keep a teacher around.

“Villainous, Viagra-eating Vadim.” I wrote it down. “Now say them with me.” We drilled

the words. They wrote down the new vocabulary and I explained adjective endings, how to turn

a noun into a descriptor.

“What are your words, teacher?”

“Cute Caleb.” Jana laughed.

“He is crazy greenhorn,” Pavel said. “Crazy Caleb.”

“I am courageous.” I went to the board. “And here’s a new one for you. I bet you’ve never

heard this word.”

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CONCUPISCENT

“I am courageous, concupiscent Caleb. Say it with me. Con-cupe-ih-scent.”

“What does it mean?” Adam asked, shifting his glasses.

“Look it up.”

Vadim was already tearing through his dictionary. He howled, laughing, and blurted out

something in Czech.

“It means nadrženy. You want for to make sex.”

“That’s close.” I laughed. “It means I am lusty. I’m desirous.”

“Jumpy Jana jump on cute Caleb.” Pavel clapped his hands. “Jumpy Jana jump for joy and

make greenhorn baby.”

“All right. All right. Pipe down, you powerful pussy. We’ve got work to do.”

“What is this pipe down?” Vadim asked. “I do not know.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Take out another piece of paper. We’re going to learn some new phrasal

verbs.”

A couple hours later, I dismissed the class and stayed behind to erase the chalkboard. Jana

had a couple questions about a letter she was writing for her boss. We read through the draft. I

pointed out a few errors, made some suggestions. She thanked me and left with a coy smile. I

gathered my bag and flipped off the lights. When I got outside, Pavel and Vadim were smoking

cigarettes.

“You guys, again. Can’t I get rid of you?”

“Caleb, you must to join us,” Vadim said. “We are going for to find bitches.”

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I pulled out a smoke. “You are, are you?”

“You said you are nadrženy,” Pavel said. “You do like bitches, no?”

“I like bitches just fine,” I said. “Let me get a light.”

Vadim dug through his pocket and handed over a book of matches.

“From the looks of that ring on your finger, Vadim, you already went looking for bitches one

too many times.” I sparked my cigarette. “And what about you, Pavel, I thought you had a

girlfriend?”

“Ahh, you really are greenhorn,” Pavel said. “You are in Czech Republic, man. When in

Prague, do like Czechs.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass.” I sucked down a piney drag. “Just got in town. I gotta find

someplace to stay, get something to eat.”

“You come with us,” Pavel said. “We get food at pub. You find someplace to stay later. It

is not hard. There are hostels.”

“Sounds great. But I’ve got no money.”

“You come with me,” Vadim said. “I take you my place. I have café in Nové Město. We

serve food and drink.”

“I’ll pay you once I get money for this lesson.”

“I give you gratis.”

Pavel growled. “Lenka will be there, no?”

“Yes, Lenka will be there.”

They started arguing in Czech. Pavel stormed off.

“Very well, then. We go to my place for food and drink.”

I took the last drag from my smoke, nodded at Pavel, who was climbing into his car; he

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slammed the door.

“What about him?”

“Never mind him,” Vadim said. “He is racist bastard. He does not like my wife.”

We parked his Beamer around the corner from his place. It was a quaint café along the Vltava

River in New Town. Before going inside, we strolled across Rašínovo nábřeží and watched the

boats pass. All the old bridges sprawled over the river and off in the distance I could see Prague

Castle and the rising spires of St. Vitus’ Cathedral. Buildings fronted with plaster and roofed

with red tiles stretched across the opposite bank. Vadim was standing with his back against the

railing. He said he’d inherited the property from his father, who’d moved to Prague when Vadim

was just a young boy. He’d lived upstairs for as long as he could remember.

“U Trojická. It is called U Trojická because it is on corner of Trojická ulice.”

I turned around to have a look at the place.

“U Trojická,” I said. “That’s a catchy name.”

“It mean place where is group of three. It be only wife and me since my father die.”

The place was empty when we stepped inside. There was a band-riser by the front windows,

a few booths along the wall and some tables. The Russian pulled out a stool for me at the bar.

“Ahoj, Lenku, kde jsi?”

She called out to him from the kitchen in back. He went around the bar and poured two pints

of beer.

“Nazdravi” He lifted his glass. “To my new friend.”

We toasted glasses. There was a strange look in his eye.

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“I must to go say hi to my wife. I will get you food. Give me minutes.”

He disappeared around the corner. I pulled out a cigarette and sat there smoking and

drinking my beer. I could hear them talking in back. I had no idea what they were saying but

the Russian sounded excited. He had a beaming grin on his face when he came back out.

“Here is food.”

He set a plate of roast duck, bread dumplings and cabbage down before me. I dug in. He

stood there sipping his beer, watching me eat.

“You like food?” he asked. “Lenka is good cook. You like?”

“Yeah, it’s tasty.”

“I hope you like.”

I nodded and kept eating. It was my first solid meal since leaving Paris.

“What you do in Prague?”

“Teach for a while,” I said. “Till I get bored and go somewhere else.”

“You like teach?”

“I like it enough. It keeps me fed.”

“What else you do?”

I didn’t know what he meant.

“You seem smart man,” he said. “You know business?”

“Sure, I know a little.”

“I need—how you say—I need manger.”

“You need manger?” I asked. “What are you, farming sheep?”

“I need manger for my café.”

“Ohh, you need a manager.”

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“Yes, manger. I need manger. Business is different these days. Many expatriates in café.

You help?”

I sat back and sipped my beer.

“Hey, look, I appreciate the food. But right now I need someplace to sleep and I need to get

some classes so I can get paid.”

“You sleep here,” Vadim said. “You sleep in guest bedroom. We have room upstairs. You

stay with us and learn me English and do me odd jobs and keep expatriates happy at nighttime.”

He gave me some more about U Trojická being the place where there are three, how he had

this English bloke working for him a while back, and how he couldn't figure out why he'd left.

“You like it here, no?”

I’d put down my third beer by then, and lit the cigar he gave me. “Listen, I’m supposed to

meet this teaching coordinator tomorrow about work. These lessons are supposed to pay really

well. But I’ll think about it, Vadim. I’ll definitely think about it.”

She came in to clear my dishes. With her alabastrine skin and sleek black locks, she had a

different look about her than the Czech beauties walking the sidewalk. In her eyes was a proud

and damning beauty. I wanted to slap her in the face, shake her from her sleepy routine.

“Meet my precious wife.”

She never even glanced at me. I nodded at the Russian and puffed on my cigar as she walked

away, and that was all. She disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived. It was like she wasn’t even

there. Vadim kept trying to sell me on the job for the next half hour. By the end of his spiel, I

was out in the courtyard in back, sanding chairs so I could touch them with a fresh coat of

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varnish.

“This is good,” Vadim said. “We make good business. What is last name, Caleb?”

“O’Connor. Caleb O’Connor.”

“I am Vadim Revnik.”

We shook hands and he went inside. I had a piece of plywood splayed over a couple saw

horses. I got busy sanding. From my work station, I could see her back and forth through the

kitchen window.

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The place was jumping by about ten o’clock at night. This three piece jazz band had them

howling. The tenor sax player set off on one of his runs, honking away, then he aired it out and

let the droning bass line coming through under his soft vibrato. All the while the drummer kept

riding the hi-hat and laying down rim shots. People were bopping their heads to the steady

thump of his bass drum. He beat the toms, rolled on the snare; the loud crash of his splash

cymbal set the sax player off. The kitchen was open for another hour. Drinks were flowing. We

were raking it in.

Vadim set me up with another tray of beer. I dropped a few frothy half-liters at the corner

booth, penned a few lines on their tab, and walked across the room to the group of English

blokes waving me down.

“How many, fellas?”

“Better make it five, mate.”

I dropped the beers down in a group. These guys had been doing some damage. I had to flip

over their tab to mark their latest drinks.

“Band’s killing tonight,” I said. “You guys picked a good night. You here on stag?”

“Bloody right. I’m getting married soon as I get back to the UK.”

“You’ll have to come back before you leave town. You having a good time?”

“Bloody good time,” the groom said. “A right and proper lead in to the pussy I’m going to

munch tonight.”

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“Right and proper if you served me the right fucking food.”

“Shut up and eat, you drunken bastard.”

The guy across from the groom wasn’t having it.

“Fuck that. This isn’t what I ordered. Where am I, Beijing?”

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“You’re fucking right, there’s a problem. I ordered the pork and you bring me this shite.”

He shoved his plate across the table. The cabbage lobbed over the edge in a soggy heap.

“Well, if you didn’t order the duck, I’ll be glad to get you what you ordered.” I snatched the

plate from the middle of the table. “Your next round’s on me, guys.”

“Thanks, mate.” The groom gave me a nod.

I set the tray of beer on the bar. The Russian shot me a weird look when I walked past. He’d

been setting me up with trays of food all night. Lodged behind the bar, he was the middleman

between his wife in the kitchen and me on the floor. I carried the plate through the swinging

doors in the back of the room. The stink of garlic and boiling fat pressed on the kitchen walls.

“Roast duck. You people sure know how to make roast duck.”

“What you talking, you people?”

“You and Pan Revnik,” I said. “You stuffed me full of roast duck earlier—my first meal in

Prague. And now you’re sending it out to customers who didn’t even order it.”

“That’s not what you meant.”

“It’s like it’s your national dish.”

“You think I’m Chinese.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You think I’m Chinese. You come back here talking about roast duck, my

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national dish. You see my black hair, my dark skin. You think I’m Chinese, admit it. I’m not

Chinese. You want to last around here?”

“You don’t look Chinese.”

“I’m as Chinese as you are.”

“You don’t look Chinese at all. Chinese women are all short with stumpy legs. They’ve got

those round heads, like bowling balls. They’re always spitting all over the place. You don’t

look Chinese. Not at all. You’re tall, elegant. Got those long legs, Slavic cheekbones, pouty

lips. You don’t look Chinese at all.”

“My name used to be Novatna before I got married. That sound Chinese to you?”

“Not so much.”

“My father’s Czech. My mother was Vietnamese. I come from Brno. You know where that

is?”

I nodded. “Novatna, you say. Now it’s Revnikova. You have a proper name?”

“Lenka. Call me Lenka.”

There was an edge in her voice. It wasn’t her dark hair, or the roast duck. It was her Russian

husband who made her feel like she wasn’t Czech. She was worried I’d begin calling her Mrs.

Revnikova, remind her that she was his.

“Lenka, it is. You can call me Caleb.”

She began swapping the duck on the plate with pork. Her shoulder brushed mine. I could

smell a hint of lavender perfume. The way her shirt fell over her collarbone turned me on. I

leaned over real close, feeling the first pulse of an erection, and whispered into her ear.

“Why’d you marry that Russian, anyway?”

The gravy ladle fell from her hand splashing on the floor.

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“That is no business of yours.”

“Sure, it is.”

“Here’s your pork.”

I thanked her and walked out. She heard what I had to say and it hit her hard. I knew she

understood, all right. Even if she wanted nothing to do with me, she’d know what I was about.

After hours that night, we tipped our glasses at the table in front of the bar. The Russian was

happy with all the money we'd made. He poured shots of Becherovka and kept the beer flowing.

We picked from the spread of food in front of us: pickled herring in sour cream, slices of

cucumber and chunks of cheese. He handed me a couple thousand koruny and told me to keep

them—pocket money. He was really proud, the Russian. When the bowl of herring was empty,

he thumped his fist down on the table and got all excited.

“Get him food, Lenka. He work hard tonight. See you not man is hungry?”

“He knows where it is.”

“I'm fine. I don't think I could eat another thing.”

The Russian kept at her. They were speaking Czech. I understood about every sixth word

they said, and then gave up trying. It was about that time Lenka rolled her eyes and walked off

in a huff.

“You see her?” the Russian asked. “She is malá kočka. My little bird.”

“Happy marriage,” I grumbled. “You two are made for each other.”

“It is happy of happy.”

“Happy of happy, hah?”

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“Yes. Happy than happy you could know.”

“That sounds pretty happy.”

“Happy fucking sleď.”

Lenka dropped the bowl of herring on the table and fell into her chair. Her knees caved in

towards each other; her hands were draped limply over her thighs. She was a strong woman.

Every inch of her breathed a vitality barely contained. I wondered how long it took the Russian

to break her down.

“She get angry sometime,” the Russian said. “But she is all right. My little girl. My little

kočka.”

He got up and brushed her cheek on the way out. Her lips pursed, eyes closed. She looked

like she was fighting not to turn away. The Russian walked through the kitchen. I could hear his

creaking footsteps up the stairs. A pitiless fire burned in her eyes when she looked at me. I sat

there with her, not saying a word, not moving, not till I felt a singe on my finger and had to quit

looking at her to stamp out my cigarette butt. I lit another one. She reached past her husband's

pack for one of my smokes, lit it, and sat back, one leg crossed over the other, her head cocked to

the side, showing a long patch of neck, blowing lazy streams of smoke and watching it writhe

from her black fingernails to the tin ceiling. She grew bolder before my gaze. The Russian came

back with a bottle and a squeezebox slung over his neck. She didn't budge. The current of

smoke interrupted, blown aside, she kept staring at her fingertips till the steady stream floated

skyward in fast and direct flight from our lonely tabletop.

“You must to try this.”

He slapped the bottle down and went behind the bar. When he came back, he filled the

bottom of three glasses.

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“This is Russian wodka from homeland where was my father born. My uncle send me bottle,

special. Velmi expensive. Very expensive Russian wodka.”

“Ohh, no, I don't drink vodka.”

“You must to try this.”

He shoved the glass in my hand.

“To my new friend. Nazdravi.”

The vodka burned like gasoline in the pit of my stomach and I felt something come alive.

My cheeks flushed. The Russian filled all three glasses.

“To my little kočka.”

I raised my glass and gave her a nod. She wouldn't look at me. She just gulped down her

shot and dropped her arm down on the table, glass in hand, all nonchalant. The Russian poured

another round.

“To U Trojická. Place where should be—where is—three people.”

He jumped from his chair. His feet shuffled along to the hoozah hoozah sounds of his

squeezebox. He started singing in Czech—in Russian, I don't know. The echo of his voice

boomed off the walls of the cafe and rang in my ears. Every once in a while, he'd belt out this

chorus: “To my new friend. To my little kočka. To U Trojická. To the three of us—hey!” Then

he was right back to the foreign tongue. I couldn't take it anymore. What came alive in me with

that first shot of vodka was crawling and scratching to get out. He must have seen it in my face.

He dropped the squeezebox—it wheezed, dangling from his neck—and hoisted me up by the

arm. “We go outside. Get some air. You feel like million krowns.”

A halo of light from the kitchen kissed the solemn black courtyard. I walked to the edge of

its shadowy reach and sat down.

20


“Just take yourself easy. You feel better.”

His dark profile leaned up against the door jamb.

“I'll be all right,” I said. “You guys go on up.”

“Nonsense. I wait for you. We wait for you.”

“I'll be up shortly. I'm just going to get some air.”

“Tomorrow you start me English lessons.”

“You got it.”

He ducked inside. The door swung clapping shut behind him. I let it all come up, a steaming

pool of vodka, herring and cucumber at my feet. One of the neighbor's cats rubbed against my

leg, began lapping it up. I slid my chair back a ways. The lights on the second floor turned on;

the lights on the third floor followed. Their silhouettes eased by the windows. It hollowed me

out watching their shadows merge. I felt like hell.

The courtyard was a mess the next morning. A storm had blown through in the middle of the

night. The winds whipping down the Vltava had ripped a piece from the roof over the back door.

All the chairs I'd varnished and left to dry were tossed about, scratched and scuffed, plastered

with filth, and once more in need of sanding. A tree limb had fallen. Branches lay scattered all

over the ground. Chards of ceramic roofing tile stuck out of the dirt like errantly sprayed

shrapnel. One of the neighbor's windows had shattered—struck by another felled tree limb. The

jagged remnants shimmered in a dusty heap along the back wall.

“That was crazy storm. Most bad I see in months. Thunder and lightning keep me up all

night.”

21


“Yeah, it was pretty rowdy.”

“What is this rowdy?”

“It means wild, crazy.”

“Like my wife?”

“Sure, like your wife.”

Vadim slapped me on the back. “Look at mess. We kill last night with you working floor as

manger and now I spend all money in repair.”

“Yeah, it's pretty bad,” I said. “You got a pair of gloves?”

“What for you need gloves?”

I took a sip of coffee.

“Our English lesson’s outside today. It's time to clean this up.”

We’d reframed and reshingled the overhang in the courtyard by noon. All the branches and

brush strewn about had been raked into a pile. I ran through present continuous and past

participle usages while plucking pieces of tile from the fecund soil. Vadim and I strolled around

the courtyard, giving voice to our present actions, why we were doing them, what had happened.

Through tangible movement, his English progressed faster than it ever would in a dusty

classroom.

“I pick up broken glass that fall to ground when tree limb break and smash.” He threw

chards of glass crashing onto our pile of inorganic waste.

“I am picking up broken glass,” I said, “that fell to the ground when the tree limb smashed

the window.”

Vadim growled, scooped a handful of glass, dropped it chiming onto the pile. “I am pick up

broken glass that fell to ground when tree limb broke off and smashed.”

22


“That's good,” I said. “You have any gasoline?”

He looked at me like I had two heads.

“Petrol. You have petrol?”

“Ahh, mam tady petrol,” Vadim said. “I will get. But what for you need petrol?”

“We've got to burn this brush pile.”

“Yes, big fire. Big fire and it like no storm.”

The Russian and I stood around the crackling brush fire, warming our workworn hands. The

gas and stillgreen branches made the fire burn all violet and orange. A thick plume of smoke

wrestled violently into the sky, sparks flying, before diffusing into the gray horizon.

“You know you're losing money.”

“How I lose money?”

I lit a cigarette. “Should've turned this courtyard into a beer garden by now.”

Vadim shrugged off the suggestion.

“I mean it. Think of all the afternoon customers you could shuffle into the cafe once the

band was playing. A beer garden on the Vltava would kill.”

“Beer garden is bull shit.”

“All right. A beer garden's bull shit.”

He left me outside sanding chairs. Half an hour later he was back out with a diagram he'd

drawn up. He had all these tables penciled in, and a fire pit, and overhead lighting. His wife

could see to the front room during the day and I could take care of the customers out back. This

would leave him free to attend to business in town. We could work on his English in the

afternoon, when it was slow, and it would be business as usual at night.

“Now you're talking. They're gonna be handing over their money.”

23


“It is great idea, no?”

“It sure is, Vadim. You should get supplies, hire an electrician. Let me at it. Just think. U

Trojická—jazz bar, cafe, beer garden. The place where there's three.”

“U Trojická, yes. I do it today.”

The big hardware depot was only twenty minutes away, in Budějovická, but the Russian dandied

himself up like he was going to a state dinner at Prague Castle. After eating lunch, he left and I

locked the door behind him. I grabbed our dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I'm doing well.”

I dumped the plates rattling on the countertop.

“That vodka takes getting used to.”

“Not sure it was vodka made me sick.”

“What was that?”

I heard the front door rattling.

“Sounds like somebody's trying to get in.”

She wiped her hands off on a towel. “Did Vadim lock the door?”

“I locked it.”

She stepped back. Her fingers got all jittery around her waistline, her neck, till she collected

herself. The rattling stopped: whoever was pulling at the door knob left.

“We're losing money.”

“Who cares.”

24


“Yeah, well, it's not yours to lose.”

She stormed past me out into the dining room. I followed her.

“You closed the blinds?”

“Yeah, it got bright while we were eating.”

She peeked through, apparently seeing no one at the door, and spun around. “What are you

trying to do?”

“Whattya think I'm trying to do?'

I moved towards her but she scurried past. She was almost in full sprint when I caught her

by the booth in the back corner.

“Let me go. Leave me alone.”

I pressed my lips against hers. She clawed at my face and pushed me away.

“I'm going to tell Vadim.”

I had her close, my arm around her back. I grabbed a handful of black hair and looked her

straight in the eye. Her legs kicked around me, arms flailed. Her body went soft. I let go and

she scrambled back, bracing herself against the back booth's tabletop, her frock twisted over her

frame. Her eyes burned with that same pitiless fire I saw the night before. I don't know who was

breathing heavier. I reached for the back of her neck, pulled her close, and felt her legs wrap

around me, drawing me near her on the tabletop.

“The door's locked. Nobody can get in.”

I reached under her dress, pulled off her panties. I was between her legs, my hand around her

throat. She tore at my fly. With her hand around my shaft, she drew me sliding through her wet

lips, over coarse hair, and back between her soft flesh. I clutched her neck, bit her lip, and thrust

deep inside her.

25


“Hit me. . . . Hit me, please. . . . Hit me. . . . Do it.”

My backhand fell smack across her mouth. Her head turned sideways, hair flying. I split her

lip. Her eyes raged with desire. I fucked till she cried. By the time I was done, I couldn't move.

I was lightheaded, ears ringing. I fell flat on top of her. We curled up in the back booth.

3

26


I was sore for days. It didn't help that the Russian had me working like a dog, around the clock.

I had the idea that he was taking it out on me, my idea for the beer garden, his wife getting

somehow jacked in the face. The first thing was to take the swinging doors in the kitchen off the

hinges and jigsaw a couple diamond-shaped windows in them, so you could see when somebody

was coming in or going out. Now with the three of us running around the place, he didn't want

anybody else getting clocked in the mug, not after seeing the way Lenka's lip bruised and

swelled up. I don't know if he bought the story she fed him. She told him she went running out

to the floor, hearing a customer, about the time I came running in from the courtyard for another

trash bag. It didn't matter. I'd stuffed seven hundred krowns in the drawer, like we'd served

somebody, and the only time I caught a glimpse of her in the days to follow was after hours,

when we'd sit around eating and drinking in the halfdark before heading upstairs for bed. It was

like my first night there. She never even looked at me. The Russian and I would sit there talking

ice hockey or George Bush and Lenka, with her everburning cigarette, would sit staring at the

steady stream of smoke rising from her fingertips. In the mornings, the Russian pulled me out of

bed with a cup of coffee so I could get down to the courtyard to supervise the electrician.

In three days' time I sanded and varnished all the tables and chairs in the dining room. I cut

planks and framed the canopy for the string of overhead lights outback. I bolted picnic tables

together and built a bussing station to collect beer glasses. The laidrock firepit was my favorite

touch. I'd come across a pile of old roofing slate in the back corner. Around the central ring of

boulders, I laid down a slate floor that extended a couple meters out from the firepit. It was a

real beauty. After Jakub, the electrician, was done late in the afternoon, he'd roll a spliff and

we'd get high watching the day's scrapwood burn. Then I'd be back inside, making the band

happy, chatting with customers, serving food and drink all night.

27


That Friday, I brought Vadim out back after we locked the doors.

“I want you to see this.”

“I see earlier. It look good.”

“It wasn't dark earlier.”

“Dark, no dark, it no difference.”

He must have thought I wanted a pat on the back. I made him close his eyes and dragged

him along behind me. I hit the juice, the canopy of white lights lit up the courtyard like stolen

constellations. Orange embers from that afternoon's fire were still smoldering in the fire pit.

“Have a look, Vadim.” I threw my arm over his shoulder. He opened his eyes and muttered

something in Czech. “I've got to hand it to you, my man. They're gonna be begging you to take

their money.”

“Is beautiful. I make good idea, no?”

“You sure did. This beer garden was a wonderful idea.”

He nodded. “I make good idea.”

I slept in the next morning. My lace curtains obscured the scene outside. The buildings across

the river rose like a pointillistic mirage. I crossed the room and, drawing back the curtains,

pulled the brass lever down. The windows eased open on their own. The cool air filled my

nostrils and gave me a jolt. The sun shimmered in corrugated bands across the Vltava River,

waves of gold and black rolling over each other. I caught a strong whiff of garlic and paprika:

Lenka was already simmering the day's goulash downstairs. My stomach growled. A woman

and her dog were walking along the riverside. The dog sniffed the foot of the Staropramen

28


billboard and raised its leg. I filled my lungs and closed the window. It was ten o'clock. The

Russian was giving me a break. He and I must have been friends again.

“Eat some strudel.”

“I don't want strudel.”

Vadim was sitting at the table outside my room. I took a piss and came back out to join him,

eyes still heavy. He saw me yawning.

“There is fresh pot of coffee.”

“You know your sink upstairs is leaking into my bathroom—probably leaking into the bar.”

“Why don't you fix?”

He sat flipping through the morning paper. There was a grease-smeared plate in front of him

littered with bread crusts. I pawed through the refrigerator.

“Don't y'all have any eggs up here?”

“I finish eggs. You must to go downstairs.”

I ran down the hairpin flights of stairs dropping into the kitchen. It was the first time I'd

caught her alone in days. I rushed up behind her and swung my fist into her hamstring so hard

she almost curled over. I held her up so she didn't fall.

“Good morning.”

“You bastard. Why are you such an animal?”

I held her in my arms.

“Your English is so much better than your husband's. You could really teach him a few

things, if you cared.”

“Fuck off.”

She peeled herself away.

29


“How are you, Lenka?”

“How do you think?”

I tapped her cheek in play. “A lot better since I've been here.”

“I am lousy.”

I stroked her cheek and kissed her bruised lip.

“I just came down for a couple eggs.”

I brushed hair from her face. It was my first chance to really see her wounds. The skin

surrounding her lips was turning purple to yellow. She froze before my touch. Her dark eyes

were locked on mine, but they were hesitant. Her lips twitched.

“You’re beautiful.”

Her expression softened. “You’re a greenhorn American.”

“You haven't been able to look me in the eye.”

Her head fell. I stroked her cheek and kissed her on the forehead. After grabbing my eggs, I

was gone.

The beer garden was a big hit. We wrote on the chalkboard sign out front that it was open. A

couple German tourists were the first to stroll in midafternoon. A group of English teachers

followed them. Before long they were on their cell phones, texting friends about the new space

and telling them to come by. The British blokes I met my first night came back. Even Jakub, the

electrician, stopped by with a few of his pals. By nightfall, every picnic table outback was

packed. I got the bonfire roaring. There was a collective gasp when I flipped the switch and the

canopy of lights came alive.

30


Once the band started playing, people shuffled inside. Vadim was loving it. He pulled me

aside to drink a shot with him.

“We make killing! To U Trojická!”

By the end of the set, the gypsy jazz quartet was playing to a standing-room-only crowd.

The Russian was drunk. He disappeared upstairs. I served the band a drink and gave them their

cash. The crowd petered out. After I cut the lights out back, the last few stragglers pissed on the

fire and went on their way.

I locked the front door and cut the lights. I didn't much feel like sitting around drinking by

myself. I went upstairs. The light was on in my room. Lenka was in my bed. She lay on top of

the covers fully dressed.

“Where's Vadim?”

“Upstairs sleeping.”

“That's early.”

“He gets drunk every day. Saturdays are the worst.”

“Aren't you worried he'll come down?'

“He passed out, naked. He only sleeps naked when he is too drunk to find his pajamas. He's

not going anywhere.”

I killed the light and crawled in beside her.

“I'm exhausted.”

“Me too.”

“Hold me.”

I nuzzled my cheek against hers and wrapped my arm around her. When I woke in the

middle of the night she was gone.

31


Some go to church: Czechs go to the beer garden on Sundays. The April sun brought them out in

force. As fast as the Russian filled up trays with beer, they were sucking them down out back. I

had all I could do to keep up. When I ran in for my fourth tray, Vadim was sitting in the corner

booth with some guy in a business suit. I poured the beers myself and ran them outside. In

another minute I was back in for more.

“You be busy out there.”

“You're telling me.”

The suit was gone and Vadim was behind the bar. He began filling another tray.

“How you say, insurance man, go to asshole?”

“Insurance man, go to asshole.”

“You no understand, moj Kalebku. In Czech, we have saying, do pradele. It mean go to

asshole.”

“We'd say 'kiss my ass' or 'suck my dick.'”

“I like that. Even on weekend they give no rest. Suck dick, insurance man.”

“There you go, Vadim. You're English is really coming along.”

He set the last beer on the tray. “Hey, listen, I must to leave. I need you to take care for

people inside while I am away. Is that okay?”

“You got it.” I ran the beers out to a group of college kids. The bus bucket was full of

glasses, so I lugged it into the kitchen. Lenka hovered over the countertop, her back to me,

preparing food.

“It's just you and me for a while.”

32


“Where is Vadim?”

“He had to run to town for something.”

She spun around, her head hung low. When she brushed the hair from her face, I saw she

had a black eye. I dropped the bucket of glasses chattering on the counter.

“So that's what you're into?”

“You do not understand.”

“Ohh, I understand. You look like a goddamned punching bag. I'm down here busting my

ass all morning and you two are up there fucking.”

“I did not have sex with him.”

“What?”

“I couldn't. He wanted to. But I could not let him touch me.”

“So he hit you?”

Her head fell. I crossed the room and held her in my arms.

The next day, Monday, we closed up shop. The Russian told me they always took Monday off

and I was exhausted. I wasn't going to argue. There was a big party the next day—some

birthday party, bridal shower, something—and he needed Lenka and me to run to town for

supplies. Once we finished breakfast, he rose up from the table and brushed her cheek, right

under where he'd cuffed her.

“My little bird need to breathe air. It be good to get her out for while.”

Her jaw clenched and she closed her eyes. The Russian ran his thumb over her thick lips. A

rash breath shot through her nose; her shoulders tensed.

33


“This cage get small sometime and little bird have to flap wings.” He walked off, laughing.

“Take car. Keys on counter. I ride train into center. See you here tonight. We drink wodka,

make song. It be good time.”

He rapped his knuckles on the countertop and strolled down the stairs. His whistling hung

behind him. The kitchen door swung breezing, squeaking, thud thudding footsteps. The front

door slammed. Lenka shivered; her eyes shot open.

“Fuck me.”

“You're crazy. He's got you dialed like a mad woman.”

“Fuck me, Caleb.”

I sipped my coffee and lit a cigarette.

“I need you.”

“You need somebody to take you away from this Russian.”

She slapped her hands down on the table.

“I need you.”

She came over and sat in my lap. I kept puffing on my smoke. She grabbed my head, looked

me in the eye, and got all serious. “I need you.”

“You need an ice pack. You look like you went ten rounds with Tyson.”

“Who is Tyson?”

“Don't worry about it.”

She tugged on my hair and lifted her leg, straddling me. I could feel her pelvic bone grinding

on my flesh. Clothing on skin: the friction was killing me. I was hard. I had to have her soon.

“I need you.”

“You don't know me.”

34


“You don't know me either.”

“We haven't wasted much time on chit chat.”

I puffed on my smoke and turned it around so she could have a drag. She ran her fingers

through my hair and gave it another yank.

“Are you going to fuck me?” she asked. “Or would you rather talk all morning?”

My cigarette burned to nothing in the ashtray.

An hour later, she and I jumped in the Russian's Beamer. I slid the seat back and got

comfortable. I half expected horrid techno music when I turned the key, but I was pleasantly

surprised by Adam's Apple, old Wayne Shorter with Herbie Hancock on keys. We shot across

the Vltava River on Palackého most and parked near Andél. All the candles, streamers and food

we needed were found in the few block radius of shops. It was like a different world over there

in Smíchov. I felt like I was back in America walking through a shopping a mall. The sight of a

second McDonald's gave me the creeps.

“We done here?”

Lenka nodded. We jumped in the car and started driving.

“Turn left.” She turned down the volume of the music. “Turn left on Janáčkovo náměstí. I

want to show you something.”

We drove north along the bank of the Vltava. The grandiose walls of Prague Castle rose on

the hilltop ahead. A few spare islands cut off my view of the climbing spires and Renaissance

buildings across the river.

“Turn left. Turn left here.”

35


I cut off a tram—it was close, but not that close—and we parked in what must have been

Malá Strana.

“This is Petřín Hill. Come on. You are going to love this.”

I slammed the car door shut. She grabbed me by the hand and led me up this sprawling

mountain, past a funicular car, along a winding path with apple trees littering the green hillside,

on past a playground, the path still winding through some apple trees, the grass growing taller,

until her playful steps slowed in front of a bench near the top of the hill.

“Have a look.”

I turned around, catching my breath, and caught view of Staré Město across the river, the

glittery gold rooftop of the National Theatre, the Charles Bridge dumping hoards of tourists into

the winding streets, a thousand spires rising amongst the red-tiled roofs, their copper tarnished

pallid green through the centuries.

“That's Frank Gehry's Dancing House, no?”

Lenka traced the line of my finger down the river.

“It is. And take a look at the giant metronome on Letna.” She pointed north. From atop the

hill overlooking the river, a needle fifteen meters in length tic-tocked back and forth through the

afternoon sky. “There used to be a huge statue of Stalin on that hill but they knocked it down.”

Across the lush orchard to my left, Prague Castle rose like a parapet supporting the towering

spires of St. Vitus' Cathedral. The cathedral's flying buttresses and gothic arches cradled

immensed stained-glass windows: dull distant jewels, radiating.

“I need to sit down.”

“Here, have a seat.”

She guided me to the bench and there we sat looking over the city. I squeezed her thigh; her

36


fingers locked with mine.

“You don't see this in America, do you?”

“This is better than Paris.”

I leaned over and gave her a kiss. Before I knew it, she was on top of me on that park bench.

The cityscape disappearing behind her curtain of black hair. There I was smelling the lavender

on her neck, the fresh grass, her thighs wrapped round my hips. Our lips were gliding over each

other's, tongues dancing. I had my hand up her shirt, and she was peeling off my belt, when I

heard scuffling footsteps up the hill.

“Náhradní každou změnu? Mají cigaretu?”

A beggar strolled up near our bench. Lenka howled and swung at him till she almost fell

backwards. I had to grab hold of her to keep her steady. The old man walked off.

“I can't go on like this.” She straightened her clothes and dropped on the bench beside me;

tucked under my arm, she stroked my chest.

“I know. We should go back to U Trojická.”

“I can't go on like this. Me and you.”

“Go on like what?”

“All this running around, hiding.”

“Then we've got one choice.”

“What's that?”

“You and me—we take off.”

“I can't leave.”

“Sure, you can. We can leave this afternoon.”

“And go where?”

37


“Anywhere. I came here from Paris. Let's go to France.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Easy as packing a bag.”

“Maybe for you,” she said. “You pick up that duffle bag and go wherever you want. But it's

not that easy for me. You don't know me.”

Her hardness cracked, and like a little girl she started crying.

“I know you. I know what it's like to be lonely when you're with other people.”

“You don't know anything.”

“Well, you’re right. I don't know why you married that Russian.

She sniffled and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I was working in a massage parlor on

Wenceslas Square. You know the kind. A year in a place like that and you take the first offer

you got.”

“When did you leave Brno?”

“Four years ago. I got here and the only job I could get with my slanty eyes and dark skin

was in that massage parlor.”

“So why didn't you go home.”

“And do what?”

“You're telling me the Czechs are that racist?”

She nodded. Not like she was pissed off; she nodded like somebody asked her if the sun

shines and it gets dark at night. “This is a small county where no one could travel for fifty years.

They hate Russians, want your greenhorn money, and despise anyone who does not look like

them.”

“All the more reason to get you out of here.”

38


“And go where?”

“Anywhere.”

“You know where anywhere is?”

“You tell me.”

“Anywhere is the massage parlor,” she said. “Anywhere with my Czech passport is right

back to those dark rooms with drunken tourists and their boozy dicks.”

“Never again.”

“Anywhere is the massage parlor, Caleb. You think you're going to support us both teaching

English?”

“We'll get married. You can find work with an American passport.”

“He'll never give me a divorce. Don't you understand?” She shook her head. “I cannot get

married with him around. You must leave.”

“I can't leave. I love you.”

“I love you, too. And you must go. It's too much. It's torture having you around. Unless—”

That pitiless fire was back in her eyes.

“Take a look at this. Isn't this beautiful?” I drew a deep breath, and sighed. “I can't live my

life behind bars.”

“You don’t know what it's like to live with that Russian.”

“I have some idea.”

“You know what it's like to breathe vodka every night? You know what it's like to fuck when

he says he wants to fuck, or get slapped around?”

I brushed hair from her face, tucked it behind her ear, and stroked her cheek. She was too

proud to hide her bruised eye from me. “I love you, Lenka.”

39


“I love you. Don't leave. Don't ever leave. I need you, Caleb.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Right now what you and I need is to get our asses back. It's time

to drink wodka and make song.”

“I'm not leaving till you give me a proper kiss.

I planted one on her lips.

“That do it for you?”

“For now.”

I hoisted her up. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

40

Greenhorn crazy caleb first submission (chapters 1-3)

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