The bar was deserted except for a short gray-haired man at the end, chain-smoking and nursing a beer. Nick had become used to the furtive glances of Prague, but this one stared openly, frankly taking Molly in, a barroom appraisal. They ordered Pilsners.

“I never know where I am with you,” Nick said, automatically lowering his voice so the words became a murmur in the room.

“That’s what you said you liked.”

“I did?”

“Well, you implied it. At the Bruces‘.”

“The Bruces‘? When was that, anyway? A year ago?”

She smiled. “At least.”

“And you had that dress.” He took a sip of beer, then put it back slowly on the coaster. “We didn’t go to bed that night either. You had a message to deliver.”

“Yes.”

“But now we’re here. End of message.” He reached over and ran his finger along hers, barely touching, but she moved it away.

“Let’s not start this, okay? It was just a kiss.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Oh, how would you know?” she said suddenly. “Has it occurred to you, you’ve had kind of an emotional day? You’re all–I don’t know. Excited. I want it to be me. Not like this. When it’s just us.”

He looked at her, surprised. Her mood seemed to come out of nowhere, a shift in the wind. “Okay,” he said quietly. He brought his hand back, but she stopped it, covering it with her own.

“Look,” she said, “when I started this, I didn’t know it was going to be you. Who you are, I mean.”

“Who I am,” he echoed, not following her.

But now she backed away, almost tossing her head to clear the air. “I want this to be over. God, I hate being here.” Then, hearing herself, she turned to her beer. “Everybody watching. Everybody not watching. You can’t breathe. Politics,” she said, almost spitting the P.

Nick said nothing, waiting for the calm to return, a cartoon husband, lying low. “How about him?” he said finally, trying to change the subject. “He doesn’t look very political.”

“Is he watching us?” she said, not looking up.

“Well, he’s watching you,” Nick said.

She turned and the man held her gaze, studying her face as if he were trying to place her.

“You’re right,” she said, moving back to Nick. “That’s not politics. He doesn’t even pretend not to look. Men. I suppose it must work sometimes or they wouldn’t keep doing it.”

“Well, you try.”

She smiled, the squall gone. “Good luck,” she said, taking in the empty bar. She stood. “I’m going up. No, it’s all right.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Finish your beer. I’d rather pass out with a good long soak.” She stopped, hesitating. “Look, don’t mind me. I’m just nervous, I guess. About tomorrow.”

“Why?”

But she ignored the question and leaned over. “Don’t talk to strangers,” she said playfully, glancing again at the gray-haired man. “You never know.”

He turned on his stool, watching her leave.

“Fight, huh?”

At first Nick thought it was a foreign phrase, a bar order, but the voice was unmistakably New York, and he turned back to see the gray-haired man smiling at him. Nick shrugged, a universal non-answer.

“Better give in,” the man said. “No matter what it is. That’s the way it works.” He got off his stool, moving unsteadily, and it occurred to Nick that the man was drunk, hazily eager for contact. Nick took another sip of beer, anxious now to finish. “You’re American,” the man said flatly, taking the next stool. Nick raised his eyebrows, a question. “The shoes,” the man said, nodding toward Nick’s feet. He extended his hand. “Marty Bielak. Where you from?”

“New York,” Nick said, and then, because some kind of response seemed called for, “You?”

“I’m from here.”

“You live here? I didn’t know there were any Americans here.”

“A few. Of course, we’re not Americans anymore.” He paused. “Except we are. They think we are.” He was drifting into his beer. “I came over in fifty-three. Long time ago.”

“You came here?”

He smiled a little at Nick’s confusion. “I’m a Communist.”

Nick looked at him more carefully. His eyes were shiny, but the words had been flat, without belligerence.

“You’re too young. You wouldn’t know about that. They were arresting everybody then. I didn’t want to go to jail, so I came here.” He said something in Czech to the bartender, who brought him another beer.

“What did you do?”

“Do,” he said, a kind of snort. “I voted for Wallace. You didn’t have to do anything. Just have a card, you know? The summer they killed the Rosenbergs I thought, that’s it.” He stared at Nick. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Anyway, it was all a long time ago.”

“You like it here?”

The man shrugged. “Same as anywhere. What was it like living there? You couldn’t take a piss without somebody reporting it. That’s what it was like there. You think I’m kidding? My wife got fired. She’d go to work, they’d have guys following her. It got to the point—” He stopped, taking another sip. “The hell with it. You’re too young. My daughter, she couldn’t wait to see it. Last year, when you could travel, she goes to the Bronx, to the old building, and it’s crawling with Schwartzes and she says no wonder you came. She thought we lived in a slum. But it wasn’t like that then. That’s not why.”

“So you never went back?”

“What’s to go back for? Last year–well, she went. I didn’t have money for all of us. Maybe someday. Anyway, it’s all different, isn’t it? I mean, they don’t even have the Giants anymore. What’s New York without the Giants?”

“What do you do here?” Nick said, intrigued now.

“Radio. I monitor the VOA broadcasts. Well, I did. But now I’m American again. You know, after last year. Even the old Reds. But that’ll change. We’re going through an adjustment now. You have to expect that.”

A believer’s rationale, still. Nick thought of the index cards in Wiseman’s study, all the facts of the witch-hunt, which had somehow overlooked Marty Bielak in a misplaced file. This is where some of them had ended up, perched on a barstool, stranded, like debris swept up on the beach by a storm.

“Can I ask you something?” Nick said impulsively. “Why did you? In the first place?”

“What, become a Red?” He looked back at his beer. “You think we have horns? Let me tell you, we didn’t. Who else was there? You think anybody cared about the working man? Anti-Semites playing golf. That’s what it was then. Anti-Semites playing golf.” He stared at the glass, then caught himself. “It’s the beer talking,” he said, trying an apologetic smile that stopped midway. “You ask me, you know what I’d have to say? Who else was there? That’s it.” He picked up the glass. “Anyway, here I am talking –it’s good, you know, the English–and you’ve got a pretty girl to go to. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Just seeing the sights,” Nick said easily. The man nodded. “Not so many come now. Unless they have family. You have family here?”

“No.” He shook his head. “My grandmother was Polish, though,” he said, improvising. Molly was right. You could learn to do it fast, part of the other game.

“And that’s close enough,” Bielak said, laughing to himself. “You’d have to be American. They’re the only ones who think it’s the same thing.” He paused, then looked up at Nick. “Let me ask you, could you use a guide? I know this town inside out. I could use a little cash.” His voice, the brash sound of the Polo Grounds, had dropped an octave, suddenly older. Nick caught the embarrassed pleading in his eyes, still shiny with beer. “Dollars, if you have them. My sister, she still sends, but these days–I have the time.”

Nick looked at him. Not an index card. “I don’t think so. We’re only here a little while. Thanks, though.”

“Just see the castle and on your way. Okay. Don’t miss the Jewish cemetery–it’s the best thing. Sounds crazy, but it is. Well, think about it.” He reached for a pen, wrote a number on the coaster, and handed it to Nick. “If you change your mind, I can show you the stuff the tourists don’t see.” Nick heard his voice begin to slur. “A special tour. You want to see all the old Reds? That might be interesting,” he said, his voice suddenly sarcastic.