More than anything I want coffee. “That is not a problem. We’ll find you a place.” He steers me down the street and around the corner and there you have it: Wenceslas Square, a wide expanse marked by a memorial toward the top of its slope. “This is for Jan Palach,” Jaroslav says. “He protested by setting himself on fire.”
For a minute, I can see it, hear it, feel it, smell it: the crackling, the burning. What is the last thing you feel when flames are surrounding you on all sides? What do you think about? What do you wish for? Most of all, do you have regrets? I don’t.
But I’ve never burned to death.
“Here,” Jaroslav points to a second-story window. “Coffee.”
Dunkin’ goddamned Donuts. He must assume that an American would be drawn to it. Well, whatever. Beggars, choosers, and me.
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