“It’s not going to give me back my mother.”

I agreed that it wouldn’t.

“And it’s not going to give my mother back her six children.” Tolmar had sat in the chair and waited for me to say something.

“I don’t want another apology,” she said. “You can tell those bastards to keep their apologies in their pants.”

I turned off my tape recorder and slipped it into my pocket.

“Why waste your time writing about something that can’t be changed? Where is the good in that? What do you expect will happen when you publish this story?”

That evening, I dropped the rental off at the airport and caught the red-eye back to Toronto.

SUDDENLY, ON THE STREET below, singing breaks out, first on one side of the median and then on the other.

Oz points his fork at the far side of the square. “The Czech national anthem.”

Some of the politicians begin smiling and waving at the crowd.

“And here,” says Oz. “On this side, ‘Close the Gate, Little Brother.’ Do you know the song?”

“No.”

“‘The wolf hungers for the lamb, brother, have you closed the door?’” Oz sings the words softly, under his breath. “Karel Kryl.”

More songs break out, and the square is filled with a cacophony of sound, with no form other than volume and enthusiasm.

“Wonderful,” says Oz. “Such singing is good.”

My nose starts to bleed again, and I have to pinch it shut.

“It is hard to kill each other when we sing together.” Oz sits up suddenly, as though he’s been hit. “But where is your Mimi?”

“We split up. Just for the day,” I add quickly. “She wanted to go off by herself and sketch.”

“Sketch? She is an artist?”

“She is.”

“And you are just . . . wandering?”

“I am.”

“Ah,” says Oz. “Just a Bear looking for honey.”

The rally breaks up slowly, like winter ice on a pond. The singing stops, the banners and the flags are put away, and the people begin drifting back into the city.

“You see,” says Oz, “like all protests. Great emotions. High spirits. Firm resolve.”

“It was pretty impressive,” I say.

“And in the end, little changes.”

Oz stares out the window. There are still a great many people in the square, but all of the passion is gone.

I scrape up the last of the chocolate cake. “I went by the Sex Machines Museum this morning.”

Oz turns back to me and smiles. “But did you go inside?”

“No,” I say. “I was tempted, but I came here instead.”

“Such a shame,” says Oz. “You missed the giant wood dildo.”

XIV

When I come out of the building, the square is still busy, but the demonstration is over. The boulevard is littered with flyers and pamphlets, with coffee cups and plastic water bottles. Fast-food containers.