Chapter One

A Man of the Country

All fairy tales have in common not “once upon a time” but an unlikely pairing of characters who under normal circumstances would never have met. Like a former waiter from Madison, Wisconsin, and a giant.

Jirka is tall and tlusty, which translates roughly into “thick.” It is an equally useful word for describing people who weigh over two hundred pounds as well as books that clock in at over a thousand pages. His nose, chin, and fingers are fleshy and full of life. The only subtle thing about his looks is his smile, which curls up in the corners of his lips as if he’s winking at you.

We met on a subway platform. I was standing under an ad for the new Pizza Hut, my nose buried in a book with the cover wrapped in brown paper. A guy from Minnesota advised me to cover all my English books to avoid being hassled by undercover ticket inspectors on the subway.

Jirka picked me out of the crowd to ask if he could take a picture of my nose.

“It is regret I do not understand what you have said,” I told him in Czech.

“Where are you from?” he asked. He wore a bright yellow knit cap over his mangy curls and a dull blue winter jacket that looked like he’d slept in it. I wore a full-length Czech gray raincoat to hide my American clothes.

“I am a man of America but I speak a little of Czech.”

His eyes, already big and round like moons, widened. “You are American and you can speak Czech?”

I said, “Is it contrary to a law for an American to speak Czech?” Sometimes I was reckless in languages that were not my own.

“W