Peace, Love & Petrol Bombs
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D. D. Johnston. Peace, Love & Petrol Bombs
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She smiled and lit a cigarette like a movie star.
We started from where we had last seen the black bloc and followed the graffiti, the broken windows and smouldering barricades, until the trail faded and the streets we walked through had a quiet normality. We passed a middle-aged couple in matching Jubilee 2000 anti-debt t-shirts, and a group of Italian disobidienti wearing white boiler suits stuffed with padding. We followed the tramlines back to Námestí Míru but found the square empty except for the International Socialist contingent, their placards drooping as they traipsed in the shadow of the charcoal-coloured church. A helicopter swung over the church and a black kitten ran across the tramlines, through the trampled flower beds, where it stopped, looking up at us with a pet-me meow. “Le chat,” she said, dropping onto one knee and extending a finger. The cat padded forward, sniffed her finger, and then rubbed the side of its face against the back of her hand. It rolled on the ground so she could tickle its belly and then, suddenly bored with this, stood up and stretched, arching its back before bounding across the square scattering pigeons. As we walked on, she said, “When I am sixteen, I buy a cat.”
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