Part 5 of the nameless Czech fic
So all throughout my day stuffing and unstuffing envelopes, I'd planned out how the next part of this story would go.
Then I wrote it, and this old guy showed up, and the whole thing changed completely.
Previous parts are here
Maybe it was the left overs of the St. Nicholas music, maybe it was the statues looming in the darkness of the nearly moonless night, silohuetted against the bright lights of Mala Strana and the castle. Or maybe, Xander was willing to admit, it was his own sense of unease and loneliness that transformed the Charles Bridge into something ancient and eerie.
It certainly wasn't the tourists, who, despite the cold weather and the dark hour (though, Xander noted with a bit of amusement, it was only about seven o'clock), packed the bridge from end to end, filling the Vltava with a cocophany of different languages. As he started to wander towards the old town on the other side of the river, Xander felt more like one of the statues than one of the sightseers. The tourists were too busy with their own vacations to take notice of a solitary man in a gray overcoat, even one sporting an eyepatch. He found himself walking silently through the gaps in the crowds like a ghost without ever touching any of the people that surrounded him. The only response he got as he walked between the thirty statues of the bridge was from an older man playing an elaborate music box, who tilted his hat mechanically when Xander dropped a handful of his change from dinner into the waiting basket.
The temperature had dropped during the performance by the stairs, and Xander's breath made perfect, pure white puffs as he walked. He tilted his head to the sky for a moment and felt something twinge in his chest when he noticed there were no stars to be seen. He'd grown used to a clearly defined milky way in Africa, and on a good day, could usually identify six or seven constellations, though never by their actual names. The Prague sky was not so much black as a deep charcoal gray, and the lack of natural light made the cold seem that much harsher.
He supposed he ought to buy a hat.
Xander paused for a moment under a statue of the Madonna and an attending saint, one he didn't recognize. The features of the statue were all but lost in the shadows of the enormous medieval tower that capped the end of the bridge, and Xander was struck by the age of the city. Only three years ago he'd thought of Boston and Philadelphia as old, but when these statues were new, the historic towns of America hadn't even been thought of. He turned his back on the tower, the Madonna looming on his "good" side, and gazed back across the bridge.
The sky was moving.
Tiny spots of cold blossomed on his cheeks and his eye socket began to ache fiercely.
It was snowing.
He definitely needed to buy a hat. Maybe one of those gray-furred soviet ones, to complete his depressed image. He turned around again and stepped into the archway under the tower. He could see lights from tourist shops on the other side and thought it might be a good idea to get some shopping done now, before his paranoia got the best of him and he spent the next four weeks holed away in his room at the pension.
An old man knelt in the middle of the arch, his elbows on the cold cobblestone and his forehead on his arms. His pale, knob-knuckled hands clenched around a shaking McDonald's cup. The tourists all ignored him. Xander dug the last of his change from dinner out of his pocket and dropped it into the cup without breaking his stride.
"Dekuju."
Xander froze, then shook himself. It was just an old beggar saying "thank you". He realized after a moment that those were the first words anyone had said to him since he'd left the restaurant more than an hour ago.
"You're welco--um, pro-prosim." Xander turned to offer the old man a weak smile. The old man lifted his head and stared back.
"You are American."
"Yeeeeah."
The man nodded, then lowered his head back onto his arms. Xander walked away, but he still caught the man's words over the cries of the merchants, sailors, and tourists around them.
"She's waiting for you."
"Who--?" Xander turned again, then folded his arms across his chest and shivered.
The old man was gone.
-----
I love ficiton.
Then I wrote it, and this old guy showed up, and the whole thing changed completely.
Previous parts are here
Maybe it was the left overs of the St. Nicholas music, maybe it was the statues looming in the darkness of the nearly moonless night, silohuetted against the bright lights of Mala Strana and the castle. Or maybe, Xander was willing to admit, it was his own sense of unease and loneliness that transformed the Charles Bridge into something ancient and eerie.
It certainly wasn't the tourists, who, despite the cold weather and the dark hour (though, Xander noted with a bit of amusement, it was only about seven o'clock), packed the bridge from end to end, filling the Vltava with a cocophany of different languages. As he started to wander towards the old town on the other side of the river, Xander felt more like one of the statues than one of the sightseers. The tourists were too busy with their own vacations to take notice of a solitary man in a gray overcoat, even one sporting an eyepatch. He found himself walking silently through the gaps in the crowds like a ghost without ever touching any of the people that surrounded him. The only response he got as he walked between the thirty statues of the bridge was from an older man playing an elaborate music box, who tilted his hat mechanically when Xander dropped a handful of his change from dinner into the waiting basket.
The temperature had dropped during the performance by the stairs, and Xander's breath made perfect, pure white puffs as he walked. He tilted his head to the sky for a moment and felt something twinge in his chest when he noticed there were no stars to be seen. He'd grown used to a clearly defined milky way in Africa, and on a good day, could usually identify six or seven constellations, though never by their actual names. The Prague sky was not so much black as a deep charcoal gray, and the lack of natural light made the cold seem that much harsher.
He supposed he ought to buy a hat.
Xander paused for a moment under a statue of the Madonna and an attending saint, one he didn't recognize. The features of the statue were all but lost in the shadows of the enormous medieval tower that capped the end of the bridge, and Xander was struck by the age of the city. Only three years ago he'd thought of Boston and Philadelphia as old, but when these statues were new, the historic towns of America hadn't even been thought of. He turned his back on the tower, the Madonna looming on his "good" side, and gazed back across the bridge.
The sky was moving.
Tiny spots of cold blossomed on his cheeks and his eye socket began to ache fiercely.
It was snowing.
He definitely needed to buy a hat. Maybe one of those gray-furred soviet ones, to complete his depressed image. He turned around again and stepped into the archway under the tower. He could see lights from tourist shops on the other side and thought it might be a good idea to get some shopping done now, before his paranoia got the best of him and he spent the next four weeks holed away in his room at the pension.
An old man knelt in the middle of the arch, his elbows on the cold cobblestone and his forehead on his arms. His pale, knob-knuckled hands clenched around a shaking McDonald's cup. The tourists all ignored him. Xander dug the last of his change from dinner out of his pocket and dropped it into the cup without breaking his stride.
"Dekuju."
Xander froze, then shook himself. It was just an old beggar saying "thank you". He realized after a moment that those were the first words anyone had said to him since he'd left the restaurant more than an hour ago.
"You're welco--um, pro-prosim." Xander turned to offer the old man a weak smile. The old man lifted his head and stared back.
"You are American."
"Yeeeeah."
The man nodded, then lowered his head back onto his arms. Xander walked away, but he still caught the man's words over the cries of the merchants, sailors, and tourists around them.
"She's waiting for you."
"Who--?" Xander turned again, then folded his arms across his chest and shivered.
The old man was gone.
-----
I love ficiton.