Letters From Prague (24 page)

‘You don't need to
say
,' called Marsha.

Harriet did not answer.

When they had changed, and put their clothes into a battered locker, they went through a footbath and out to the pool, which was crowded. Municipal green and white tiles lined the walls, and the pool itself, so that the atmosphere was less of summer-blue skies, as they were used to in London, and more of a steamy pond. Children bobbed about in the shallow end; three or four teenage boys raced along the side, whistled at sharply by a lifeguard with an earring. They leapt into the water, laughing. Adults swam up and down marked lanes. Harriet looked for Christopher.

‘There he is.' She saw a large figure in pale blue boxer trunks at the far end, sitting on the edge with his legs in the water, a towel slung over his shoulder. He looked overweight and out of place, and as she watched him survey the swimmers, she wondered that he had chosen to bring them here, and was touched by his consideration for a child in a hot city. He turned, looking around; he saw her watching him and raised his hand, getting awkwardly to his feet. His stomach bulged over his waistband, his shoulders were fleshy and full. His legs were long and straight and he towered over everyone, but it was clear, as he came up the side towards them, that he didn't quite know where to look.

‘I'm going in.' Marsha dropped gracefully into the shallow end in a gap between toddlers, and struck out. A strong swimmer, taken to their local pool by Harriet since babyhood, she was soon halfway down, avoiding the noisy group of boys.

Christopher and Harriet moved towards each other: she, more than anything, to save him from having to continue his ill-at-ease approach. He smiled down at her, approving her plain black swimsuit.

‘You look good.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Well.' He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘Shall we swim?'

He dropped his towel on the ledge running alongside the pool, and they walked back down to the deep end. Children jumped in wildly; Marsha had turned, and was coming back again, sleek and straight.

‘She's good.'

‘Not bad. Better than I was at her age. I still have to go in down the steps.'

‘Do you really?'

They had reached the end; she crouched by the top of the metal rung, and watched him walk round, and stand for a moment on the edge, waiting for a space amongst the swimmers in the lane beneath him. He ran a hand through his hair, raised heavy arms, and lifted his enormous body weight on to the balls of his feet. He plunged, and then she could see why he'd brought them. He was extraordinary: powerful and smooth, moving through the water like an animal, taking possession of it in a steady, rhythmic crawl, reaching the far end and turning without a pause. He was coming back down towards her; he hauled himself up on the side again, gasping.

Harriet gave him a clap. ‘You're a pro.'

‘Not enough puff.'

‘Too much puffing.'

‘True.' He wiped the water from his eyes and smiled, coming to join her.

‘Aren't you going in?'

She swished her feet. ‘In a minute. Here's Marsha.' She watched her daughter's approach. ‘Did you see Christopher swim?'

‘Yes.' Marsha held on to the edge of the railing. ‘Aren't you coming in?'

‘I am, I am.' Harriet slipped down the steps and struck out. And Marsha swam alongside, as he did in London, as she had done since she was small. Harriet usually enjoyed this companionship, and the feeling of achievement: she had given a skill to her child, and now they could share it. But in London there were often other children, or Harriet's own friends; she and Marsha could come and go from each other. Here, now, it felt as though Marsha were clinging, deliberately drawing her into an exclusive twosome. And again, with a pang of guilt – they were in a strange place, in a foreign city; they knew no one except for Christopher, of course Marsha clung – she thought: can't I have time to myself?

Up at the shallow end a few little girls were playing with an inflatable ball. They were younger than Marsha, seven or eight, but they looked happy and carefree, and as the ball made an arc through the air and landed in the lane beside her, Harriet, picking it up, said: ‘Why don't you join them?'

‘They don't speak English.'

‘So? You don't have to speak German to play catch.' Harriet lifted the ball above her head and threw it across the markers to the furthest child, who leapt up, and threw it back, laughing. Harriet passed it to Marsha. ‘Go on.'

‘You just want to get rid of me.'

‘Don't be so silly. I want you to have fun with other children.'

‘I don't
know
them.'

‘You're usually so sociable.'

The circle of little girls was waiting, listening to this exchange between foreigners. One of them bobbed up and down, waving.

‘Her wesen! Her wesen!'

‘That means throw it over here. Go on – throw it. Go and play.'

‘Oh, all right.' Marsha threw, and ducked under the markers. She came up next to the circle of children, and stood there, waiting her turn. Harriet, with a mixture of guilt and relief, watched for a moment, then swam away.

Christopher was standing at the edge of the deep end, watching her approach. Harriet swam slowly, not acknowledging this, trying to concentrate on her steady breast stroke, on avoiding the other swimmers. Were she and Christopher going to swim together? How would that feel? Shrieks and shouting echoed all around her: in this public, crowded place, those charged, still moments in the empty dining room felt distant and dreamlike. She longed to recapture them.

Was that true?

It was true.

She wanted – oh, how she wanted – to be seated opposite this man again, to feel his gaze upon her, to return it, to sense between them – what? What was between them now?

Susanna knows about my wife, but it's a long story
–

What did that mean?

Someone coming the other way bumped into her; Harriet moved aside, and looked up. Christopher Pritchard, tall and heavy and almost naked, was still on the edge of the deep end, waiting.

You could only swim so slowly. Harriet, more than halfway down the pool, swam slowly on, thinking, as she had not thought for a long time, of other naked bodies she had known. Not many. Not Karel's, so long and lean and beautiful, so much desired. There had been Martin's, well-made and compact and – yes, it was true – often turned away from her. One or two others before him, one or two others since. None of them, at this moment, seemed to have mattered much.

The body Harriet knew best was Marsha's – slender and straight and boylike. As for her own …

She had come to the end of the pool. Above her, Christopher was lowering himself, slipping into the water beside her. ‘Marsha seems happy.'

‘Does she?' Harriet turned, holding on to the edge with one hand. Down in the shallows the circle of children had widened, and Marsha, the tallest, was in the middle, throwing the bright striped ball and laughing. Guilt evaporated, and with it came a sense of freedom. She was, after all, doing what a child should be doing.

Christopher said: ‘Will you have supper with me tonight?'

‘That would be nice. But Marsha –'

‘We don't have to eat late. Scheiber's got a sitting room – she could stay in there with the cats.' He looked at her questioningly. ‘Does that sound all right?'

‘It does.' Harriet wiped her face. ‘Thank you.'

‘Good. Well – shall we swim?'

‘I'd never keep up with you.'

‘Try.'

She followed him through the water.

Herr Scheiber's sitting room, up on the first floor, was more of a snug: the kind of room which in Harriet's experience as a waitress in long-ago student days was only to be found in small hotels and restaurants, where almost all family life was lived in public and the one room marked Private was consequently precious, and crammed with belongings which in an ordinary house might be spread all over the place.

Marsha was curled up with the kittens on a low sofa behind the door, watching television. A window on the far wall overlooked the little garden where they'd had lunch; the hot summer sky was cooling and darkening, now, smoky fingers of cloud stretching towards each other above the hill of Prenzlauer Berg. Harriet, watching their gentle drift, saw lights come on in the streets below and in the tenement buildings. She imagined families returning from work, preparing a meal, watching whatever Marsha was watching now, and she imagined herself, watching Christopher Pritchard across the white linen tablecloth in the hotel dining room.

Light spilled out from the kitchen window below on to the square of garden; through the open back door she could hear dishes and saucepans clattering, and then Frau Scheiber, to whom they had been introduced on their return from swimming and tea in the park, came out of the door with a crate of empty wine bottles, dumping them down on the flags. Harriet turned from the window.

‘Shall I draw the curtains?'

Marsha shrugged. ‘If you want.'

Against the wall opposite the window stood an upright piano, with heaps of yellowing music piled on top and a mildewed mirror on the wall above. Next to the television an embroidered screen stood before the fireplace. There were bookshelves, a chair piled high with clean aprons, stacks of magazines on the floor. The walls were hung with family photographs, going back to distant pre-war days. The room could not have been cosier; Marsha, even with kittens, could not have been grumpier. Harriet left the curtains as they were.

‘Right,' she said briskly. ‘I'll see you in a bit.'

Marsha gazed fixedly at the screen. ‘I don't understand a
word
of this.'

‘Shall I switch it off?'

‘No. It's better than nothing.'

‘Have you had enough to eat?'

‘Yes.' She had been given a cutlet and fried potatoes and salad down in the kitchen by Scheiber's granddaughter, whose name, they discovered, was Liesel. This had been followed by a pancake with a hot vanilla sauce, the presentation of the kittens, and the freedom of the snug. Harriet, faced with such mulishness after such treats, did not feel inclined to pander to moods any longer. She gave Marsha a peck on the cheek, which was not returned, and went to the door.

‘I'm downstairs if you need anything. We'll leave about half-past nine and take the U-Bahn home.' She had said it all before.

‘It isn't
home
,' said Marsha, addressing the screen.

Harriet gave up and left her. It was true.

She went to the bathroom along the landing, and washed her face and brushed her hair, which was rather flat after the swimming. She put on some lipstick, and looked in the mirror once more before leaving. The woman who returned her gaze seemed apprehensive. ‘Come on,' said Harriet aloud. ‘Let's see what's what.'

She went down the steep stairs into the hall and into the dining room. Christopher Pritchard was sitting at the same table they had occupied at lunchtime, smoking and looking at the wine list. Now there were no shafts of sunlight, but candles. There were other guests, at other tables, but Harriet did not take them in as she crossed the room towards him, and he rose, and kissed her on both cheeks. They sat down.

‘Well,' said Christopher, picking up the menu.

‘Here we are again,' said Harriet.

Liesel came to take their order. She brought them a bottle of wine and a basket of bread, and Harriet broke a roll into little pieces, absently. Wax trickled down the side of the candle, whiter than white; smoke from his cigarette drifted in and out of the flame. The voices of other guests murmured through the room.

They looked at each other in silence.

‘Tell me about your wife,' said Harriet. ‘Tell me about Susanna.'

‘They are one and the same,' said Christopher. He put down the glass and his hand was trembling. He drew in smoke and blew it away from her. ‘So. Now you know.'

The room seemed to rock, and then it was steady again. Harriet,

sitting absolutely still, knew that she had gone white: she could

feel the blood drain from her face – as though, in a great gush, it were flooding out of her body entirely, leaving her lifeless, a white shocked thing of no use to anyone.

Christopher said: ‘Harriet –' He was leaning forward, his face full of concern. He was speaking to her from a long way away, from down in a tunnel, dark and endless. ‘Here.' He put her full wine glass into her hand. ‘Or perhaps you should have a brandy. Would you like a brandy? Harriet?'

‘I –' she raised the wine glass and spilled it, and wine spread everywhere, like blood.

She watched it seep into the white linen cloth. From a long way away came the murmur of voices: she saw herself standing, a long time ago, at the half-shut door of her parents'dining room, hearing the murmur of a voice inside, a river of words which she could not catch. Legs in long grey socks swung back and forth beneath the polished table, fingers drummed. A child so lonely, so locked away. Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Harriet – please – I'm so sorry –'

‘It's all right, I'm all right.' The tears were hot and comforting, a release, but she could not cry here, in front of everyone.

Susanna cried in front of everyone. She cried in galleries and gardens and in her apartment at night, and could not stop.

‘
I've been like this all my life
–'

Christopher was passing a handkerchief. Harriet swallowed and wiped her eyes. She drank what was left in the wine glass – quickly, all in a rush. There.

‘Are you sure you're all right?'

‘A bit better.'

She sprinkled salt from an old-fashioned salt cellar on to the wine stains and covered it all with a white linen napkin, remembering, in the kind of association you might make in a dream, Lot's wife, who had dared to look back on Sodom, and was turned into a pillar of salt. How extraordinary, how absurd: why salt? But still – there was a lesson: never look back.