In The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Milan Kundera implies that he feels a bit ashamed at having to name his characters. The number 18 tram (or the number 22) has stopped in front of the Botanical Gardens. We are at the corner of Vyšehradská and Trojická. I know Prague well, so I can imagine the tram's number (but perhaps it's changed?), its route, and the place where Gabcík waits, thinking and listening.
Lying alone on a little iron bed, did he hear, from outside, beyond the shutters of a darkened apartment, the unmistakable creaking of the Prague tramways? I want to believe so.
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