By Anton Verma

Pavel slouched in his favourite chair, a relic from a Vinohrady flea market, nursing a Pilsner Urquell and scrolling through the absurdity of Prague’s news feeds. The city, with its cobblestone charm and penchant for existential debates, never failed to deliver. Today’s headline screamed: Infant Jesus of Prague Weeps Blood—Miracle or Hoax? He snorted. “Of course it’s a hoax. What’s next, Charles Bridge sprouting wings?”

His phone buzzed, shattering the moment. The screen flashed Marek, a name he hadn’t seen since their last ill-fated pub crawl ended with a debate about Nietzsche and a near fistfight with a tourist from the American Bible Belt. Pavel sighed and answered. “What’s it now, Marek? You selling indulgences or just lost in Old Town again?”

“Pavel, I’m in deep,” Marek’s voice rasped, low and urgent, like he was hiding in a confessional. “It’s about that statue thing in the news. The weeping baby Jesus.”

Pavel’s eyes flicked back to his laptop, where a grainy photo showed the Infant Jesus of Prague, its waxen face streaked with suspiciously red tears. “It figures,” he said, his atheist heart rolling its eyes. “What, you think it’s real? You’re supposed to be agnostic.”

“I know it’s not real,” Marek hissed. “I did it.”

Pavel nearly dropped his beer. “You what?”

Marek spilled the story like a man unburdening his soul to a sceptical priest. His grandmother, a devout Catholic clinging to life in a Malá Strana hospital, had one regret: she’d never witnessed a miracle. For years, she’d prayed at the Church of Our Lady of Victories, home to the famous Infant Jesus statue, a pint-sized icon draped in gaudy robes that drew pilgrims from across the globe. Marek, ever the dutiful grandson but not exactly a model believer, decided to grant her wish.

“So, I rigged it,” he said. “A little tube, some red dye, a timer. Snuck in at night, set it up behind the statue’s head. Figured it’d leak a few ‘tears,’ make the evening news, Gran would see it, and she could go in peace. Done and dusted.”

Pavel massaged his temples. “Marek, you’re an idiot. You faked a miracle in Prague? This city eats drama like goulash. You didn’t think this would blow up?”

“I didn’t think it’d go this far!” Marek’s voice cracked. “It was supposed to be a quiet little story. Now it’s everywhere—TV, online, even some nutters on the r/Prague subreddit calling it the Second Coming.”

Pavel pulled up a new tab. Sure enough, social media was ablaze with #PragueMiracle. Pilgrims were flooding Karmelitská Street, locals were selling ‘holy tear vials on Etsy, and a group called the Czech Rationalist Brigade—a militant atheist outfit Pavel grudgingly admired for their snark—had issued a challenge. They demanded to inspect the statue, calling it ‘a cheap parlour trick.’ The church, ever diplomatic, agreed but insisted a Vatican official oversee the process. The inspection was set for Friday, three days away, and would be broadcast live on Česká Televize, turning the whole thing into a sceptic-versus-believer circus.

“So what’s the problem?” Pavel asked, leaning back. “They’ll find your little toy, prove it’s fake, and you’ll be the guy who pranked the Pope. Sounds like a laugh.”

“The problem,” Marek said, “is I didn’t cover my tracks. My fingerprints are probably all over it. I have form with the vandalism stuff a while back, remember. My prints are on the system. But I figured I’d sneak back in, remove the thing, and no one would care. Only now there’s security—guards, cameras, the works. They’re saying it’s to stop the atheists from tampering with it to ‘prove’ it’s fake.”

Pavel chuckled despite himself. “So you’re screwed. Gran finds out her miracle’s a lie, and you’re in handcuffs. Why am I involved?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Marek pleaded. “And you’re smarter than me. Help me fix this, Pavel. Please.”

Pavel sighed. Marek was a fool, but Marek was also his fool. “Fine. Meet me at U Fleků in an hour. Bring your brain, if you can find it.”

– – – – –

The Church of Our Lady of Victories loomed over Karmelitská Street, its baroque façade glowing under the afternoon sun like a smug saint. Pavel and Marek, blending into a gaggle of tourists snapping photos, sized up the situation. The entrance was flanked by two burly guards in ill-fitting suits, and a sign warned of ‘enhanced security due to recent events.’ Inside, the Infant Jesus sat in its gilded altar, a tiny monarch under a velvet canopy, oblivious to the chaos it had sparked.

“No way we’re getting near that thing,” Pavel muttered, eyeing a CCTV camera swivelling above the nave. “It’s a regular Fort Knox.”

Marek tugged at his cap, sweat beading on his forehead. “What about the back entrance? I got in that way before.”

They circled to the rear, only to find a locked gate and another guard scrolling on his phone. Pavel shook his head. “Forget it. We need to stall this inspection. Buy time to figure out how to grab your stupid gadget.”

“Stall, how?” Marek asked. “It’s on TV. The Vatican’s sending some bigwig. You can’t just cancel the event.”

Pavel smirked. “You don’t cancel it. You make it impossible to take place.”

– – – – –

Back at Pavel’s flat, a cluttered shrine to scepticism with Dawkins and Hitchens on the shelves, they scoured the church’s website for leverage. A press release caught Pavel’s eye: The Church welcomes all to a morning tea before Friday’s inspection, fostering dialogue between believers and sceptics.

“Morning tea?” Marek said, baffled. “What, they’re serving cupcakes to the Rationalist Brigade?”

“Exactly,” Pavel said, a grin spreading. “They’re playing nice, showing they’re not afraid. Everyone will be sipping tea, arguing about God, and watching the statue. No one’s watching the kitchen.”

Marek’s eyes widened. “You’re not suggesting—”

“We spike the tea,” Pavel said. “Something harmless, just enough to make everyone a little off. Inspection gets postponed, we get breathing room to plan the real heist.”

Marek hesitated. “That’s…insane. And illegal.”

“Says the guy who turned a priceless religious icon into a ketchup dispenser,” Pavel shot back. “Look, I get that it sounds like the sort of thing you’d normally come up with on your own. But I don’t know what else to do other than string things along till we figure this out. You in or not?”

Marek sighed, imagining the bars of Pankrác sliding shut on his cell. “In.”

– – – – –

Thursday night, in a Žižkov dive bar reeking of bad choices, Pavel’s shady cousin—a ‘pharmacist’ who lacked any formal degree—handed them a vial of mild sedative—“nothing dangerous,” he claimed. The plan: fake a fridge repair order, slip into the church kitchen during prep, and doctor the tea. Classic Marek logic, now with a side of pharmacology.

By Friday morning, they were unrecognisable in borrowed overalls, toolboxes in hand, and a forged repair slip courtesy of Marek’s cousin’s printer. Pavel’s heart thudded as they approached the church’s side entrance, where a harried nun checked their paperwork.

“Fridge is acting up again?” she sighed, waving them in. “We really need to get a new one.”

The church buzzed with pre-inspection chaos: The Rationalist Brigade, a dour bunch in “Reason Over Faith” shirts, glared at the statue, a cassocked Vatican envoy made small talk, and the priest mangled his English for Česká Televize. It was already a full-service farce.

Pavel and Marek slipped into the kitchenette, a cramped room smelling of instant coffee and sanctity. The fridge hummed like a dying choir, but they ignored it, focusing on the urns of tea and coffee set out for the morning tea.

“Quick,” Pavel whispered, pouring the sedative into the urns while Marek kept watch. “Stir it in. No one’s looking.”

Marek fumbled with a spoon, nearly knocking over a tray of pastries. “This is nuts. If we get caught—”

“We won’t,” Pavel said, though his palms were slick. “Now let’s get out before the nuns notice we didn’t touch the fridge.”

They were back in the nave, blending into the crowd, when the morning tea began. The Rationalists, clergy, and media sipped dutifully, exchanging awkward small talk. Pavel’s stomach knotted as he watched. Come on, work.

Ten minutes later, it did. The Vatican official’s speech slurred mid-sentence, his hand waving like a conductor gone rogue. The local priest, translating for the cameras, giggled uncontrollably, mangling his English. A Rationalist rep, mid-rant about “empirical evidence,” swayed and mumbled about quantum physics. The news anchor dropped her mic, cackling as she tried to retrieve it.

Things quickly spiralled, like the waters of the deep springing forth. Pilgrims gasped, guards shouted, and the cameras kept rolling, capturing every inglorious second. The inspection was promptly cancelled, with the church citing ‘unforeseen circumstances.’

Pavel and Marek slipped out, high-fiving in an alley. “We did it,” Marek panted. “We bought time.”

“Yeah,” Pavel said, his grin fading. “But that juice seemed a little strong. Anyway, now we just need an actual plan to get that device. Because this circus is only getting bigger.”

Pavel and Marek huddled in a Malá Strana café, the kind where overpriced svíčková came with a side of tourist selfies. Outside, Karmelitská Street was a zoo—pilgrims clutching rosaries, vendors hawking ‘Infant Jesus Tears’ energy drinks, and X users livestreaming the chaos with hashtags like #PragueMiracle2. The morning tea fiasco had only poured fuel on the fire.

“Spiritual intoxication, my ass,” Pavel muttered, scrolling through his phone. A local bishop had gone on Česká Televize, claiming the slurring, stumbling spectacle was a sign of ‘ecstatic union with the divine.’ The Rationalist Brigade, meanwhile, was screaming conspiracy, insisting they’d been drugged by ‘religious fascists’ to discredit their inspection. The irony was thicker than Prague’s fog.

But Pavel was glad that things hadn’t gone too far, after finding out his cousin was a little less competent than he made out. Mild sedative? Bullshit, Pavel thought.

Marek, nursing a black coffee, looked like he hadn’t slept since Václav Havel was president. “This is worse than I imagined. Gran’s glued to the news, thinking it’s all real. And we still can’t get near the statue.”

Pavel tossed his phone down. “Yeah, genius, spiking the tea bought us a couple of days, but now we’re starring in a Kafka novel. Security’s tighter, and the rescheduled inspection’s tomorrow. Got any bright ideas?”

Marek rubbed his eyes. “Pray?”

Pavel snorted. “Pray your agnostic God sends a lightning bolt to fry your contraption. Come on, we need a plan.”

They didn’t have one. Their recon attempts were futile—more guards, more cameras, and a crowd that made Wenceslas Square at Christmas look tame. Desperate, they joined the pilgrim queue snaking around the church, hoping proximity might spark inspiration. The line crawled like a penitent’s penance, two days of shuffling through incense-scented chaos. Marek muttered about divine irony; Pavel muttered about needing a beer.

By inspection do-over day, they were bleary-eyed and no closer to a solution. The church loomed ahead, its spires stabbing a grey sky. The Rationalist Brigade arrived, their Reason Over Faith shirts now paired with protest signs: No More Lies! The Vatican official, looking like he’d rather be in home in Rome settling down to a good book, greeted them on the steps with the local priest, who was still recovering from his televised giggling fit. Camera crews jostled for angles, and pilgrims chanted prayers, drowning out the atheists’ megaphone.

Pavel nudged Marek. “This is it. Your maybe-God better show up, because we’re out of moves.”

Marek opened his mouth to reply when a blinding light erupted overhead, like a star going supernova in broad daylight.

The crowd screamed, some dropping to their knees, others bolting in panic. Pavel shielded his eyes, heart pounding. “What the hell is that?”

“Miracle!” a pilgrim shrieked nearby.

“Bomb!” yelled someone else.

Pavel grabbed Marek’s arm. “Screw it—move!”

In the chaos, they sprinted towards the church, shouting, “Bomb! Terrorism! Everyone out!” Pilgrims, guards, and even the Rationalists scattered like startled pigeons. The Vatican official was hustled away by his entourage, and the priest fumbled with his rosary, muttering in Latin. The camera crews, torn between filming the light and fleeing, tripped over their own cables.

Inside, the church had, very quickly, become a ghost town, the Infant Jesus statue gazing serenely from its altar. A ladder, set up for the inspection, leaned against the velvet-draped platform. Pavel shoved Marek towards it. “Go! Now!”

Marek scrambled up, his hands shaking as he reached behind the statue’s head. The contraption—a Warsaw Pact-era timer paired with a squirt of red dye that looked suspiciously like it dated back to his kindergarten art kit—came free with a faint pop. He stuffed it into his jacket, nearly toppling the ladder in his haste. Pavel kept watch, his pulse hammering as distant shouts echoed outside.

“Got it!” Marek hissed, sliding down.

They bolted for the side exit, blending into the panicked crowd spilling onto Karmelitská Street. Sirens wailed in the distance, and pilgrims were already posting about ‘the light of God’ on X and other platforms. Pavel dragged Marek into an alley, both gasping for breath.

“That,” Pavel panted, “was too close.”

Marek clutched the device, his face a mix of relief and disbelief. “What was that light? I mean, the timing…”

“Don’t start,” Pavel snapped. “Let’s get out of here before someone decides we’re terrorists.”

– – – – –

Back at Pavel’s flat, the dining table was a shrine to their victory: Marek’s contraption, a tangle of plastic and wires, sat between two Pilsner Urquells. Pavel’s laptop streamed the news, where talking heads dissected the day’s madness. The mysterious light, it turned out, was no divine intervention. The Rationalist Brigade soon claimed responsibility—they’d launched a drone with a magnesium flare, hoping to ‘prove how easily miracles can be faked.’ Their stunt had backfired spectacularly, fuelling believer fervour and earning them a police investigation for public endangerment. It also transpired that the goofball who’d loaded the charge had misread the instructions and packed ten times the amount into the drone’s payload than he was supposed to. Pavel suspected the idiot was an associate of his cousin.

For now, though, it was time to take the win, regardless of what act of monumental stupidity was responsible for handing it to them on a plate. He raised his beer. “To the Rationalists, the only people more irrational than you.”

Marek joined the toast, a wry smile breaking through his exhaustion. “You have to admit, though, the timing was impeccable. I mean, what are the odds?”

“Coincidence,” Pavel said, leaning back. “The universe doesn’t care about your grandmother’s feelings or your lunacy.”

Marek took a swig, staring at the contraption. “Maybe. But if there is a God, He’s got a hell of a sense of humour. That drone, and the guy who prepped it, gave us the exact window we needed.”

Pavel rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable. Next you’ll be lighting candles at the foot of that statue.” He paused, a smirk creeping in. “Mind you, if another ‘miracle’ like that ever happens, I might just get down on my knees myself.”

Marek laughed, the first real chuckle Pavel had heard from him in days. “Deal. I’ll pray for a meteor shower, just for you. Or maybe a crate of free beer.”

“I think that’s less likely than the signs in the heavens,” Pavel replied.

The laptop droned on, pilgrims already flooding the church again, undeterred.

A woman on the news, clutching a rosary, called the light ‘a sign of God’s mercy.’

A Rationalist rep, red-faced, insisted it was ‘a warning to reject superstition.’ He also said that the group member who had packed the drone had been expelled from their ranks.

The priest, caught in the middle, mumbled something about unity, encouraging the Rationalist rep to extend forgiveness to the drone prepper, and then dodging follow-up questions about the cancelled inspection.

The journalist then speculated that yet another attempt would likely be made, before making an awful joke about the inspection rising from the dead on the third day.

Pavel muted the stream. “Look at them. All shouting past each other. And here we are, the only ones who know the truth.”

Marek nodded, his expression softening. “Gran saw the news earlier. She’s at peace now, Pavel. That’s all I wanted.”

“Good,” his friend said, draining his beer. “Because if you ever pull another stunt like that, I’m personally sacrificing you to the god of the Rationalists on the front steps of St Vitus Cathedral. Greater love hath no man and all that but there’s a limit.”

– – – – –

The next day, Prague carried on, its spires and scandals untouched by the fleeting drama. The Church of Our Lady of Victories reopened to pilgrims, the Infant Jesus back to its silent vigil, no worse for wear. The Rationalist Brigade issued a new manifesto, the Vatican issued a vaguer statement than its usual platitudinous fare, and the media moved on to a politician’s latest gaffe. Marek visited his grandmother, who clutched his hand and whispered about miracles. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. But if he had, he figured he would have said the drone was a bona fide miracle. Because it had saved his ass.

Pavel, meanwhile, walked along the Vltava, the river glinting under a rare spring sun. He passed a street preacher ranting about signs and wonders, and for a moment, he thought of the drone’s blinding light. Coincidence, sure. But the absurdity of it all—Marek’s harebrained scheme, the tea-spiking, the Rationalists’ own goal—felt like the city itself was in on the joke.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Prague,” he muttered, “you magnificent bastard.”

And somewhere, in the haze of belief and doubt, the Infant Jesus of Prague continued to smile, ever so faintly, as if it knew something they didn’t.

© Anton Verma, 2025