3 Irish Whisky

  'He loves Irish Whisky, take him a bottle.'

The narrow lanes and passageways of the Mala Strana district on the west bank of the river weave intricately like lacework gathered around the foot of the Castle Hill and make even a short walk seem labyrinthine.
'We can call Seifert from here,' said Marta. The small office we were standing in was empty but for a desk and a few chairs. It was only a short walk from the cafe but it seemed we had double-backed before entering a side door and I was unsure, looking though the window onto a small shaded courtyard, from which direction the sun was spreading it's mid-morning light. To my surprise Marta told me we were in part of the Wallenstein Palace, a government building.
Marta dialed, the phone was answered by a woman's voice, and then a man's. Marta spoke in the comfortable and familiar tones of a family friend. After a few short minutes she replaced the receiver. 'He's feeling too unwell to meet and the house is being watched. He asked me to say to you that he is very sorry.'

I'd been told that that Seifert loved Irish Whisky. Walking through Prague after leaving Marta I felt the small flat bottle in my pocket and wondered if I should drink it myself. I felt like it. It seemed that I'd come for nothing. But the heat of the day was beginning to beat up from the cobblestones and gather in corners as if oven doors were being opened. I made for the pools of shade under the trees on the Kampa Island. I would buy a sausage and a beer, I would sit near a bandstand and listen to the Czech Army band play their Boosey & Hawkes instruments, and look at the girls in their loose tops. I would think again about Prague's famous poet and why I was being about as successful as Kafka's 'K' in reaching my own particular castle.

I've supped on potatoes and groats and am waiting to be sick. How about you?
I supped like the Lord in Heaven.
And what does the Lord in Heaven have for supper?
Nothing. 
(Jan Neruda)