"Um, yes! Yes, I am." Prochazka smiles at him empathetically. "I'm the Noble of Translation, Radomir Prochazka. Or Mirek, if you prefer." He added quickly, "Mirek, it's a diminutive, a nickname. Like in your country, a man named Michael might go by Mike, and so on and so forth."

He sits down next to Daniel and beams at him for a while. "So, you're an American! That's exciting. I don't know much about America. You've got, ah, your jazz, and your rock music. I knew somebody once - this was during Soviet times, when I was living in Russia - who used to make tape copies of Western bands that we couldn't get under Melodya, Melodya being the official government-controlled record label that imported a few groups, harmless stuff, like The Beatles. So what he did was like samizdat, but with music. I never did find out how he got the tapes."

He takes out a battered pack of methols from his pocket and a Zippo. He sticks one of the cigarettes in his mouth and lights it.

"It was interesting ... jazz and rock used to be completely forbidden in the USSR at some point in time, but everyone listened to it anyway, and the government just sort of forgot that it was illegal, I think." He smiles. "So, that's my entire experience with America, more or less. You want a cigarette?"