A Table in a Prague Tavern
Probably my favourite time to sit at a table as one of 4 strangers was on a train in England from Crewe to Birmingham.
An Englishman, an Irishman, an Australian, and a Hong Konger, who’d never met before and never would again. For so early in the morning it was an extraordinary conversation about politics.
But I have a soft spot for a memory of another table where I wasn’t part of any conversation. I was in Prague with a bicycle. And it was quiet until a man sat down beside me shaking.
He was shivering violently. His leather jacket was plastic. Under the table I could see he wore no socks although his shoes were brand new.
His hair unwashed, his face unshaven, his fingers were blue and went well with the cigarettes he freely offered. He tries to buy drinks for everyone and pays with a 1,000kc note.
There are now 4 of us at the table. The new bloke with the cracked fingers and the old woman who so far has scared off 4 people, across from him. Opposite me is a young man with elegant long brown hair who gives me bemused smiles as free drinks collect around him.
The crazy old woman now takes out her tin of threads and shows the young man, but is interrupted by the plastic-jacketed wild one who, it seems, toasts life.
This crazy couple now converse for a prolonged period. The first time she’s managed it with anyone. Previously she had resorted to taking beer-mats out of people’s hands and attempting to roll them along the table. It never worked; the beer-mats are octagonal.
This unsuitable couple talk aggressively, respectfully and equally. It seems to be political. My bemused friend seems trapped. If he drinks to leave, his glass is topped up.
I’ve been presented with another beer I didn’t want but yet did. Postcards are written and stamped. I must leave and buy presents for the people I have been thinking of.
The young innocent man gets his table wiped. When his glass was filled it was over-filled. The sunlight through the window on the stained wood tells me the sun is going down. I must be careful and plan the rest of today well. This is my last beer. At least until the shops close.
Our aggressive friend breaks conversation regularly to stare at me. I stare back every time. Now he doesn’t stop but simply points at me while others look. Fists are being clenched. I’m being looked at a lot.
The old woman seems reluctant to continue. She rarely speaks now and not in agreement with the increasingly verbally aggressive man. Her hips move, her head moves, but she appears confused, frightened. No sound comes out. He stands up and reaches across, offering to shake hands. She refuses. He persuades. She timidly accepts. He keeps talking, standing up, holding her hand. Slowly he lets her go and sits again.
Now she’s alone again, reluctantly. She gesticulates. So does he. My young compatriot opposite regularly breaks into a huge smile and I get giddy.
They go through the shake hands scene yet again but with aggression this time. Hands and words are everywhere. Benches are swaying. He looks sincere like any drunk and she afraid like any old woman. Still she indulges him like others recently indulged her. He looks at me. What can I do but smile?
The scene will surely now dwindle into nothingness, accelerate into violence, or just carry on forever. It’s time for me to leave.
3 quarters of an hour later after walking unsuccessfully hoping to find interesting things to buy I decide the handiest place to go to the jax is back in the tavern.
As I approach the door it opens for me. 4 large sober men carry and drag out the wild drunken old tablemate of mine. He’s shouting and trying to fight them off but unsuccessfully.
I walk straight in and on to the jax glancing over me left shoulder towards that table. Only the old woman is left. She is sitting there, visibly fretting.
As I walk into the toilet the young fellow with the long hair comes in after me, shaking his head and kind of laughing at the next urinal. In Czech I tell him I don’t understand.
When I leave the tavern the drunken one is outside and making his way back in. I don’t look back.
More Tales of Taverns and Travel:
• Christmas: A Drinking Story
• Good Friday: A Drinking Story
• St Patrick’s Day: A Drinking Story
• Pub Crawl Memories
• Cycling Across America
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
This could be published in a short fiction anthology as-is. All you have to do is find one willing to publish it.