Have tales, will travel

I stood on the seven hundred-year-old bricks of The Charles Bridge, looking out at Prague as it sparkled and winked, keeping many of its secrets to itself. The golden city was majestic and unspoiled.
“Excuse me you know this bridge?” The young man’s voice was light and happy.
“It’s the Charles Bridge.”
“Yes! From most famous Czech King, King Charles,” he proclaimed, hand on his chest, “I know this, I am Czech. You are American, yes?”
I told him I was an American student studying writing.
“I write stories too. I work for Czech tabloids,” he said laughing. “Come,” he grabbed my hand, “I show you Prague! I know the Ministry of Culture.”
“What happens there?”
“Nothing it’s just nice building! I know Beethoven’s house, and Chinese Embassy.”
His name was Ondrej, and he was unlike the other Czech citizens I had met. He was never dour, always had a smile and was proud to show off his city.
Late in the night, after having been to corners of Prague that weren’t on any map, Ondrej said he had to go but he wanted to make a deal.
“What kind of deal?”
“We meet for walks, I teach you about Czech people and Prague and you teach me about America. It will be fair trade. No money, only tea.”
For the next few weeks I was taken to hidden gardens, eloquent opera houses, and Ondrej’s favorite places tearooms, where over cups of tea he asked me about life in America.

“Tonight I show you important statue for Czech people,” Ondrej said on our last evening, taking me to The Disappearing Man statue. Erected for victims of Communism, the statue was a man, intact, behind him was himself again with parts missing, and behind him more and more was gone until he was only one foot. He read the plaque out loud listing the numbers killed, wounded and imprisoned.
“In the beginning Communism was good idea for people, but later it took away until we are nothing.” His voice had become small and far away, he was no longer smiling. Folding his hands he closed his eyes. “Now, I want to show you a weird monster.”
Down a tiny street that wound in on itself, Ondrej pointed to a hole in the side of a building. “He lives there,” he whispered. “I will call him to come.” He made a high melodic whistle into the hole. Together we stood holding our breaths, willing the creature to come out. “This is good for your stories, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Will you write a story of Prague?”
“I can write about you.”
“Oh,” he yelped, “can I live in a house made of tea?” He smiled, telling me his deepest wish.
“Yes.”