Chapter 7 – Something happened to my words

He had actually returned to the Hot Grill for no reason at all.

Or perhaps he did have a reason, but didn't want to admit it to himself.

Christmas knew what he wanted. That was the paradox of the last few weeks. He wasn't lost in the selection, in the system, or in the world. He knew exactly.

Hamburger.

Small fries.

Ketchup.

Water.

A few ordinary words. A simple Czech sentence he had known since childhood, because he had ordered his first hamburger as a boy, back when a hamburger was still an exciting thing, the American dream for thirty crowns. Back then he knew the sentence and didn't have to think about it.

The line moved forward.

Christmas was standing in the Hot Grill and the light above the counter was white and too harsh. The steam from the deep fryer smelled of oil, meat and a hint of ketchup. It was warm in there, that specific bistro warmth that sticks to your jacket and follows you outside.

People were standing behind him—a woman with a handbag, a man in a work jacket, a couple of students. The queue moved steadily. Each order took thirty seconds or less, because the Hot Grill was a bistro on the run.

Christmas was holding his phone.

On the screen, he had a translator open. Not because he needed it to take in information. He understood Czech. He understood the menu above the counter, the price tags, the questions of the woman behind the counter: large or small, with what, card or cash. Everything came in clearly and correctly.

The problem wasn't input.

The problem was output.

For the first time it took shape a few weeks ago in the kitchen. Before that it had been a fog, a strange inability to respond that could still be blamed on nervousness, fatigue or anything else sufficiently normal. Then one morning he was standing by the counter with his hands braced against the cold surface, heard a common Czech sentence on the radio, knew what it meant, wanted to answer it—and instead of Czech, Chinese came out.

Wǒ shì… ne. Wǒ slyšel. (I heard.)

A hybrid that didn't make sense. A Chinese sentence structure with a Czech word inside, as if speech had rearranged itself within him and Czech remained accessible only in pieces. Christmas was standing by the assembly line back then, saying that sentence over and over, trying it out in Czech.

And Chinese always came.

The line moved forward.

Christmas was second in line.

The woman behind the counter served the customer before him. A man in a work jacket, a quick Czech order, card on the terminal, receipt number, step aside. The woman looked at Christmas. Middle-aged, a bit tired, with the expression of friendly neutrality that belongs to a counter and a long day.

„Yes, please?“

Christmas knew what he wanted to say.

Hamburger. Small fries. Water. By card.

The sentence formed in Czech inside him, precise and correct. All the words in place. They were there, finished, ready to pass out.

He opened his mouth.

„Wǒ xiǎng yào hànbǎo.“ (I would like a hamburger.)

The woman behind the counter looked at him.

Christmas heard his own voice like someone else's, from a slight distance. The voice was his, but the words weren't. Or they were his, just in the wrong language, in the wrong key. As if someone had transcribed a song correctly, but in a different key.

He heard the Chinese he had spoken, and at the same time the Czech he had intended to speak.

The gap between them was exact and crushing.

„What?“ said the woman behind the counter.

Christmas took his phone and tilted it toward her. The translator was open. He typed quickly in Czech:

Hamburger and small fries and water.

Writing it in Czech was possible. His fingers knew what his head knew. His fingers were not a voice. His fingers were a different channel.

The woman behind the counter looked at the screen.

Someone sighed behind Christmas. Not loudly. Just the quiet exhale of a person in a queue where things were moving slower than they should. Christmas heard it as pressure from behind.

The woman punched in the order.

“Seventy-two.”

Christmas tapped his card against the terminal.

Bip.

Card went through.

The woman handed him a paper slip. Number twenty-four. Christmas took it and stepped aside, to the spot where people wait for their order and look at the pickup window.

He stood there.

Phone in one hand, number twenty-four in the other.

He looked at the screen. Translator still open. The Czech sentence he wrote to the woman behind the counter. Correct Czech. Perfect grammar.

Beneath it, a sentence from the morning remained in history, which he had tried to say to a friend over the phone to explain where he was. Instead of Czech, Chinese came out, and the friend said: what is that, I don't understand you. Christmas hung up, because what else.

Wǒ zài náměstí. (I am on the square.)

Correct information.

Wrong language.

He locked his phone.

The bistro buzzed around him — the queue, orders, pickup counter, plastic trays, steam from the fryer. People came and went with food, drinks, and their days. The speakers played a Czech radio station. Commercial, music, the host's sentence, music.

Christmas heard everything.

He understood everything.

Something happened to my words.

At the counter, under the white light, between the fries and the card terminal.

Something had happened to his words.

It wasn't a metaphor. The words worked — in writing, in Chinese, in comprehension. Only the Czech voice had broken off. The output went somewhere else.

He didn't know when exactly it had started.

He remembered an October day in a store. He had felt sick to his stomach. The world had just disconnected for a moment. The shelves shifted a bit further away, the fluorescent lights were too bright, the saleswoman's voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. Then it was better again. He walked home. He told himself he was tired. Overstimulated. That these things happen.

That was the first time a Czech sentence in his mouth switched to Chinese.

Then again.

And again.

Eventually Christmas stopped trying to speak Czech, because it hurt about as much as when a voice assistant doesn't understand what you want from it, and you can say it over and over again, but it's useless anyway.

Takeaway window.

“Twenty-four.”

Christmas took the tray. A hamburger, small fries, water in a plastic cup. The tray was light and the food on it was exactly what he expected: a diner hamburger, good enough for hunger and nothing more.

He went to look for a place.

The bistro was almost full.

One free stool at the counter by the window, too visible and without a backrest. One table for two where a woman sat with a laptop and a bag on the other side — a table occupied in a way that says: do not sit here. By the back wall, a small square table, free.

Christmas went there.

He sat with his back to the wall, facing the bistro. The tray in front of him. He unwrapped the hamburger. The paper wrapper was a bit greasy to the touch. A piece of pickle fell onto the tray. Christmas put it back.

Christmas jedl a díval se na bistro a bistro se dívalo jinam.

A new queue formed at the counter.

Christmas watched her. People came, ordered in Czech, got their food, sat down, ate, stood up, left. The rhythm of the bistro. He used to know how to do that too. Come, order, get food, eat. Now he comes in, types a sentence into his phone, and the woman behind the counter looks at him in that way where she doesn't know what to make of it.

The phone on the table vibrated.

Message from mom.

How are you, don't forget to eat normally.

Christmas looked at the message. The answer appeared in his head in Czech: I'm doing well, I'm eating normally, I'm just eating a Christmas a Hamburger. He knew that if he tried to say it out loud, it would come out in Chinese.

So he wrote it with his fingers.

I'm doing well. I'm eating a hamburger right now.

Sent.

Mom replied quickly:

awesome

And a thumbs-up emoji.

Christmas turned his phone face down.

He kept eating.

Christmas dipped his fries in ketchup, they were a bit soggy.

The window by his table looked out onto a quieter street. Wet pavement, gray sky, people in jackets. The snow outside had gotten weaker or stopped. He wasn't sure.

The bistro door opened.

The cold air rushed in like a wave. Outdoor temperature, humidity, December. Christmas felt it on his hand and face.

A man stood by the door.

Not old, not young. Around twenty-five, maybe more. Dark jacket, high collar, cool clothes. Scarf wrapped once. A small gold hoop in his ear, glasses.

He was looking at the menu above the counter.

Christmas watched him not because he decided to watch. His eyes went where they went. The man stood by the door, read the menu, then joined the queue. There was only one person in front of him. He stood there in the dark jacket with the gold hoop and looked at the menu like a man who knows what he wants, but looks anyway.

Christmas returned his gaze to the tray.

He picked up the second half of the hamburger.

Someone stood up by the window, a stool scraped against the tiles, a tray shifted. Christmas registered it.

The man at the counter ordered in Czech. Christmas didn't watch him directly, but saw him out of the corner of his eye. A simple sentence, a card to the terminal, a number, aside.

He waited near the pick-up counter.

Christmas finished his hamburger and had a few fries left. Water from the cup through the straw, already a little warm.

The man in the dark jacket walked up to the counter and took his tray. A hamburger and a large fries. He turned around and looked for a place to sit.

There were fewer seats in the bistro than before. The woman with the laptop was still sitting at the table for two. The counter by the window was occupied. At the back wall, Christmas was sitting alone at a square table for four.

The man looked in his direction.

Christmas was looking at his last French fries.

A man came up to his table.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

Czech. Plain Czech. A hamburger on a tray as proof of the question.

Christmas looked up: the man, the tray, the bistro, the square table, two empty spots.

He nodded.

The man sat down opposite, but slightly to the side, the way strangers sit at a shared table to maintain distance. He set down his tray. He unwrapped his hamburger with the same movement Christmas used to unwrap his.

Christmas finished his fries.

He picked up the cup of water and looked out the window.

The silence at the table was normal silence. The silence of strangers sharing a space. No one speaks, because speaking would be weirder than not speaking. Christmas knew that kind of silence. It was simple, weightless.

Outside the window, a woman was walking with a child.

The child had a red hat and walked beside her, but not holding hands. They walked independently, with the childhood confidence of not yet knowing that sidewalks are dangerous. The woman walked slightly behind, within reach, with a calm vigilance, better than anxiety.

Christmas watched.

The thought came in Chinese:

Hǎo māma. (Good mom.)

A simple thing.

He let it be.

A man at the table was eating.

Christmas perceived him out of the corner of his eye — the way he held his hamburger, the way he took a drink. Nothing special. Just a presence.

Meanwhile, at the counter, a routine bistro scene was playing out. A new customer in a bulky winter jacket was ordering, then wanted something else, but didn't know exactly what. The woman behind the counter waited. He thought aloud. People were standing behind him.

Christmas watched without interest.

Then he looked at his tray.

An empty tray. Hamburger gone, fries gone, left behind were a paper cup, hamburger wrapper and crumbs. He had no reason to stay. Still he didn't get up. He felt comfortable at the table. The man opposite, the warmth in the bistro.

He stayed.

He picked up his phone.

He unlocked it. The translator still open. He didn't look at the history. He opened notes, an app where he kept sentences from the last month. Or rather, a dumping ground for sentences he wanted to say and couldn't.

I'm doing well, really.

I wanted to call you, but I couldn't.

I don't know what.

Then emptiness.

He scrolled through.

Then he closed the app.

The man opposite finished his hamburger. He ate the fries slowly, one by one. He probably wasn't hungry. He ate calmly. Christmas watched him.

The phone buzzed.

A message from Dominik.

Hi. How are you?

A greeting and three words with a question mark.

Christmas looked at it and wondered when Dominik had last written. Three weeks ago? Four? A short message of a similar kind — hi, what are you up to — which he had answered in Czech back then because writing in Czech was fine. Dominik replied a day or two later.

Then silence.

And now again.

Hi. How are you?

Christmas typed a reply with his fingers:

Fine. You?

Sent.

Simple, true.

He put the phone down on the table.

A tram stopped outside the window. Further down the street, around the corner, just a flash of its golden side. Then it drove away.

Christmas pulled his collar tighter.

It was cold outside and the bistro was warm. The warmth of a bistro doesn't last. It belongs to a foreign space and cannot be taken with you. When he gets up, a different cold will come. He sat and for a moment the cold still didn't come.

That was enough.

The man opposite finished his drink.

A cup onto the tray. Then he looked out the window — through the very same window Christmas had looked through. The street, wet pavement, grey sky, people. The man watched it with an expression Christmas couldn't read, because he was seeing him from the side. Tired, focused, or simply blank. That expression people have when they stare out the window into the rain.

Christmas looked away.

He picked up the empty cup and turned it in his hand. The paper was slightly crushed. The bistro's logo on the side:

Hot Grill.

Hamburger.

The word had the same form in both Czech and English.

That was an interesting thing.

Christmas stared at the word on the cup. Sitting next to him was a man who had ordered a hamburger. Christmas had ordered a hamburger. The bistro was called Hot Grill. None of this was connected in a way that made sense. Just the same word in two languages and a table where two strangers sat.

Then came the moment. A lapse of attention. The bistro door opened. A group of four or five people walked in all at once, noisily, speaking Czech, in jackets wet from snow. And Christmas knocked over his own cup with his hand. He caught it quickly.

The man opposite reacted at the exact same moment. A hand shot across the table to catch the cup, but Christmas was already holding it in his hand.

Their hands missed each other by centimetres.

The man pulled his hand back.

He looked at Christmas.

Christmas looked at the man.

It was their first direct eye contact at that table. Not peripheral, not three-quarter view. Christmas saw the face. Transparent frames. Eyes tired or attentive. A gold hoop in the ear. He saw the man realize that Christmas had caught the cup.

The man said:

“Alright?”

In Czech. A quiet, practical sentence. A question for a situation where someone might have dropped something and didn't.

Christmas knew what he wanted to say.

He opened his mouth.

„Méi shì.“ (It's nothing.)

Silence at the table.

The man looked at him intently.

Christmas picked up his phone.

His hands were trembling slightly.

He typed in Czech into the translator:

Nic se nestalo.

He showed the screen across the table.

The man looked at the display.

Then at Christmas.

Again at the display.

Then he said quietly, not overly kindly, just matter-of-factly:

"Ok."

One English word. Ok asked no questions. Christmas looked at him and thought: ok. The man said ok.

Silence.

Whatever had landed between them on the table like a snowflake was lying there now. It hadn't melted.

Christmas placed his phone on the table screen down.

The man ate the leftover fries.

Christmas sat with an empty tray and an empty cup and with fingers that were still trembling a little. He placed his hands on the table, one next to the other, and looked at the space between them. A plastic table, a bit dull, with rings from other people's cups and other lunches.

The speaker was playing a Czech commercial.

Then the man slowly leaned forward.

"Do you speak Chinese?" Czech. A direct question.

Christmas looked at him.

Then he nodded.

Slowly.

Yes.

That's a fact.

The man nodded back.

Christmas picked up his phone.

He wrote in Czech:

I used to speak Czech. Now Chinese.

He turned the screen around.

The man read it and then looked up.

“Wann ist das passiert?” he asked in German.

Christmas looked at him.

The man paused for a moment. As if he had registered what he’d done himself. German had come of its own accord and now sat down next to the insert on the table between them.

Then he said in Czech:

“When did it happen?”

Christmas just stared.

When.

He had an answer, but it was in Pinyin transcription, not in Czech. So he typed in Czech on his phone:

A month or two ago. I don't know exactly.

The man read it.

Then he turned away from the screen and looked at his tray. Almost empty. The last french fry, cold and lonely. He took it and ate it.

Christmas looked out the window.

A street. Wet pavement. Snow again, light, quiet. A woman with an umbrella, useless in such snow, and yet she carried it open above her head. A man on a bicycle.

Another commercial was playing in the bistro.

The man opposite smiled for a moment. Perhaps he caught a joke in the commercial, perhaps just the absurdity of the tone. Christmas didn't know.