THE ELEVENTH
When the blue Soviet Fiat pulled up at the fence of the Na společenstvu garden restaurant, Martin Vrána had been sitting there a good half hour, cursing himself for not getting up already and leaving, as he should. Figura spotted him immediately, picking him out at once from among all the other long-hairs and regulars of the tavern, which was the supposed asylum for those who, in their imprecise thoughts, oscillated around the concept of an Underground. Besides this, it was a fertile hunting zone for all types of informers, panhandlers, thugs and grungy hippies, long in the tooth, slithering around after girls and drinks. And yet if a person were young and stupid enough, he might get the sense that all this here was kind of anti-Communist. The police had an eye on the place,
