Eli, 18, shows up north in Bohemia in the winter of April.
Bohemia... a place of questions and answers, but only a few thin ones out on the fringe.
Writer’s note
There is that idle question of what is the language of love? Three languages are involved in this story: Czech, Russian, and English. And the boys understand one another pretty well. Partly because they all speak English but also because some things unsaid still come across. And what about those sweeter sounds of Czech and Russian? You do get to pick whatever you like for the language of love.
A here-goes-nothing American boy - open to the things out there in the world - gets deeply involved with the boys of an Eastern European cult. But he's got the situation under control: his exit plan, the train to Budapest, will take him away whenever he wants. The one thing that Eli doesn't see coming is what his own feelings could do to him.
Passage at Amazon Your Nihilistic Tea House
The beginning of the story…
BOHEMIA HAS got the best beer in the world, which is why I went there. I had graduated from high school in December and wanted to have some fun in the spring. I was not a troubled man, and I didn't have any plans for joining somebody's church.
My plan was to stay there until the money ran out, then go home. I didn't expect to really meet people, because I didn't speak Czech, but I had already met a few.
I noticed one day that this kid named Charles was in the hotel lobby like he always was. He said he knew who I was looking for. That would have been my Russian drinking buddy.
"I will tell him you want him," Charles said.
It dawned on me that Charles had studied me since the day I checked in. When I came down the stairs or I turned a corner, there he was, looking at me. His eyes were nearby planets coming over the horizon. He wanted to see what this foreign world of mine had to offer.
"How old are you, Charles?"
"15, sir."
"I'm not sir, I'm 18." I got out some money to give him.
"No, sir." He wouldn't take it. "I am your friend."
I gave him a smile. "Tell him to meet me at the tea house around 4 o'clock."
I wanted tea for a change. Plus, Sergei made more sense when he was sober.
"Consider it done," Charles said, and turned to go.
"Wait," I said. "Where did you hear a phrase like that?"
He stopped but wouldn't answer the question. Still, everything about him, from his eyes to his blue-and-orange plaid shirt, said that he wanted to talk.
"Let's have a seat," I said.
"But the message."
"We have time."
We found a green sofa under a large mirror. The brown carpet kept the lobby gloomy, as if the effect was intended.
"I am very curious," he said.
"About what?"
He made me feel like I knew something I didn't know. I didn't see how he could take me seriously. The shirt I had thrown on to go downstairs was as wild as something the jazz band would wear. They were the house band that played across the street from my room, loud and very late in the night. I could never escape the music, which I didn't like.
"What do they talk about at the tea house?" Charles said.
I had to think. We never talked about anything personal. I couldn't describe, or remember, what we did talk about. "Nothing," I said.
"Do you ever talk about real things?"
I felt stupid sitting there in the lobby. Every conversation at the tea house suddenly seemed absurd. And the conversations in the jazz club were mostly incoherent. I leaned against the cushions.
"You're a believer," I said, "aren't you?"