The Dangerous Road

(Monday morning, in the warehouse kitchen outside Ostrava. David is making coffee.)

David: You’re alive. How’s the new road?

Martin: Beautiful. Twenty kilometers through the valley. No traffic, no people, nothing.

David: And the rocks?

Martin: There’s a yellow sign at the top. Falling rocks, next eight kilometers.

David: Eight kilometers of falling rocks. So what’s the plan?

Martin: I drive that part extremely fast.

David: That’s it? Speed?

Martin: A rock has to hit a small car doing a hundred and twenty. That’s a hard job for a rock.

David: My bridge is worse. The sign says three tons maximum. Under it somebody wrote in black pen: good luck.

Martin: In pen? On a bridge?

David: Somebody writes it again every year. It’s a tradition now.

Martin: That’s not a tradition. That’s a warning.

David: You know what’s strange, though? Twelve years on that bridge and I’ve never had a problem. Not one.

Martin: Of course not. Everybody’s scared on it. Scared people drive beautifully.

David: So the dangerous road is the safe one.

Martin: Exactly. In twenty years I’ve had one accident. Here. In our parking lot. Going backwards at two kilometers an hour.

David: Going backwards into what?

Martin: Into a green Škoda.

David: Martin.

Martin: In April.

David: That was you?