“That is the sadness of travel. Everything is much the same.”

“We were almost robbed.”

Oz’s face fills up with concern. “A robbery?”

“Almost.”

I tell Oz how I got sick in the park. How two young men pretended to be police. How Mimi had saved the day.

“Wonderful,” says Oz when I’ve finished. “A thrilling story. You will tell this story when you go back to Canada?”

“Probably.”

“Of course, probably. And these young men had a badge?”

“The one guy had drawn it on a piece of cardboard. It was pretty good.”

Oz leans in. “In many places, criminals buy police uniforms on the Internet for this exact purpose. In other places, the police themselves rob you.”

“They were just kids.”

“In the United States,” says Oz, “the police are the new army of the powerful. This has always been true in Russia and China, but now is also true in Germany and France. Spain as well. South Africa. Did you go to the zoo? It is very near Stromovka. There you will find honest animals.”

“I’m not crazy about zoos.”

Oz smiles sadly. “And yet we live in one.”

I look at the buffet. I should be hungry, but I’m not. “Where will you go?” I ask. “When you leave Prague?”

“Ah,” says Oz, “that is the question. There are few safe places left in the world. Copenhagen. Stockholm. Perhaps Amsterdam.”

I remember Mimi’s concerns about New York.

“At one time, New Zealand was a possibility,” says Oz, “but now it is not.”

“Don’t go to the US.”

“Of course not.” Oz frowns. “Yet you were born in California. And now you are Canadian. How did this happen? Do you find that Canada is safe?”

“You should talk to Mimi,” I tell Oz. “She likes to tell that story.”

Oz taps the envelope. “This is for you,” he says. “And for your Mimi.”

The envelope is thick and heavy, the kind of envelope that you see in movies when blackmail or bribery is involved.

“Here is the story of Uncle Leroy. I have typed it, so you do not have to argue with my handwriting.”

“The story you made up? The one about Uncle Leroy and his Czech family in the town with the hot springs?”

“Karlovy Vary,” says Oz. “Yes. I’ve added a few extra possibilities that you can keep or take out.”

I leave the envelope in the middle of the table.

“Your uncle Leroy. Dead, but now brought back to life through postcards and travel. Such a resurrection.”

I’m not sure I want to encourage Oz in his inventions and philosophizing, so I turn my mind to remembering the names of the seven dwarfs.

“Story and memory. Memory and story.” Oz rubs one eye. “Together they are history.”

I get six of the names right away but can’t think of the last one.