Before he made his trips political, Sam and I went to Prague together. It was some years ago, 1984 I think. We both loved travel back then. He bought me a miniature bust of Lenin, and we laughed about it as we walked on the Charles Bridge, between those statues, the Czech kings looking down on us. We were a little drunk, I think, laughing about the little bust in my hand. I rocked it back and forth and used it like a ventriloquist would. Sam’s face got very pink in the cold. I remember that. Then there was the boy. He appeared out of nowhere, silent at my elbow, and suddenly he had my Lenin in his hands. He was so quick. He bolted to the edge of the bridge, and I thought he was going to throw himself over. Sam had started moving toward the boy, then we saw the bust again, over the boy’s head—he hurtled it into the air—it rose and fell. Shit, muttered Sam, and when I caught up to him and looked down to the river, there was no sign of my little Lenin. When I turned to look, the little boy was gone too. Alone there on the bridge, and on the walk back to the hotel, I had the feeling Sam and I were being watched. It followed me to the airport and back home. Years later, I still haven’t been able to shake that feeling.