Free Complication by Isaac Adamson Page A

rowboat with rented gear. None of us knew what the hell we were doing, though my Dad talked a good game, having spent the previous afternoon reading A River Runs Through It. He insisted we not call them fishing “poles” but “rods” and talked about a four count rhythm and keeping our casts between ten and two o’clock, never mind that we were using lures rather than flies. No bites all afternoon, although we nipped at each other plenty, bickering about lures, the best spots in the lake to fish, whose fault it was we had forgotten to bring the cooler.
    Then out of nowhere Paul had a hit, rod jumping as if touched by something electric. He started reeling the fish in too fast, and the thing leapt out of the water trying to spit the hook. Biggest fish I’d ever seen, a bass, its enormous black spine breaking the surface of the lake as Paul cranked on the reel, his rod bowing like a curled, twitching finger. I remember the look of terrified concentration on his face as the thing thrashed and twisted. We didn’t even know enough to put a net under it, my dad and I just standing there in our bulky orange life jackets giving him useless advice, reel him in, pull, you got the sonofabitch . Paul somehow hoisted the fish into the boat without ripping the hook out of its mouth. The fish flopped around, dull thuds sounding as it
smacked its tail against the floor of the boat. Then Paul dropped his fishing pole and grabbed the bass in both hands and it stopped fighting as he raised it aloft, its only movement the gills opening and closing like a slow bellows, and for one victorious moment, all the tension that had built up the whole weekend vanished.
    Then the fish jerked to sudden life. In one spasm it twisted free of Paul’s hands. Its midsection hit the edge of the boat as it plummeted, and the next moment was like watching a free throw bouncing on the rim, the ball trying to decide which way to go. The fish just as easily could’ve landed in the boat. But it went the other way, slipping into the water almost without a sound, disappearing into the depths of the lake. It raced away and took the rented fishing pole with it as Paul stared at his empty hands.
    We got stuck in traffic on the way back into Chicago and spent four hours in the car listening to talk radio and staring out different windows, nobody speaking a word. Years later it became one of those stories we’d laugh about, part of family lore. Remember when Paul dropped that fish and it made off with his pole? Paul would smile as my dad told the story, shake his head. Tragedy plus time equals comedy. But I could tell Paul didn’t really like remembering it. There wasn’t much of that summer any of us wanted to remember.
    And here I was remembering it anyway.
    I took out the card Soros had given me, the one belonging to journalist Bob Hannah. After a few moments, I gave in and I dialed. If nothing else, it gave me an excuse to see if my localized cell phone SIM card actually worked. A few rings and then a beep sounded. No human on the other end, no voicemail greeting, just a long tone and silence. I left brief message along with my number and hung up.
    I looked up the Gallery Čertovka in Prague Unbound .
    The place was just across the river.

    I was up and moving before I could talk myself down.
    After wading through tourists for the next ten minutes, I found myself in front of a large waterwheel sitting motionless in the canal, black wood cracked and corroded. Vera’s famous postcard waterwheel. Above it sightseers cattled endlessly across the Charles Bridge, only a few veering from the castle route in order to take in what my guidebook called Prague’s Little Venice. Little was an understatement, as its only waterway was a walled ditch maybe half a mile long that separated Malá Strana from a small outcropping in the river called Kampa Island. Houses capped with red tiled roofs backed up to the water’s edge on