Second, our waiter speaks perfect English, a disappointment, as Mimi was looking forward to doing battle with the cacophony of Czech consonants. His name is Jacob, and he’s delighted to discover we’re Canadian.

“I’m from Brno,” Jacob tells us, “but I did a modern-language degree at the University of Toronto.”

Third, not only is there no menu posted outside the restaurant, there isn’t a menu inside either. Nothing for Mimi to hold. Nothing for her to read. No chance for her to compare prices.

And this is when we realize that we left our novels back at the hotel. At home, whenever we go out to dinner, we take books with us, so we can read while we wait for the food to arrive. Now we’re faced with the real possibility of having to talk to one another.

Jacob explains the choices. Three dishes. Pasta, fish, and meat. He describes each selection, the ingredients, how the dish is cooked, and what comes with it. I choose the pasta. Mimi chooses the fish.

It’s only after Jacob leaves that Mimi notices the music for the first time. She looks at me as though I’m responsible.

“Is that . . . ?”

The pasta is excellent, as is the fish. Mimi orders a beer for me and a glass of wine for herself. Both the beer and the wine are from the Czech Republic, and this makes Mimi feel somewhat better.

Jacob comes over to ask if we are enjoying our meal.

“We are,” Mimi tells him, “but some vegetables would have been nice.”

“Vegetables?”

“Green beans, cauliflower, eggplant?” says Mimi. “That sort of thing.”

“There is cabbage,” says Jacob, “and we have a wonderful tiramisu.”

“What about traditional Czech desserts?”

“You mean like a medovnik or a makovy kolacek?”

Mimi’s face lights up. “Yes,” she says, “like that.”

“No,” says Jacob, his voice repentant, and I can see that Mimi is somewhat sorry she has asked. “Just the tiramisu.”

I’m tempted to raise the question of the pommel horse, but I don’t.

THE SPECIALIST IN TORONTO was a heavy-set blond man with a ruddy face and a brisk British accent. This was oddly reassuring. His crisp consonants gave him an air of compassion and wisdom. I made the mistake of sharing these thoughts with Mimi.

“And he has a penis.”

I protested. “That’s not it.”

“Remember that specialist you saw for the saliva glands. You didn’t trust her, because she was a woman.”

“She was young.”

“And she was a woman.”

“She stuck a tube up my nose and told me it wasn’t going to hurt.”