Letters From Prague (36 page)

‘There hasn't been much time yet. We're staying in Malá Strana, the Little Quarter –'

‘It is charming there. And so convenient for the President.'

‘Quite. Last night we went to the Charles Bridge, of course, and today I've visited the cemeteries. Somehow I hadn't realised that it was the anniversary –' she broke off, suddenly, recalling his earlier frown at her reference to the invasion. Perhaps she should be careful, not tumble over herself with references to a past they had shared so briefly.

‘You are hesitating?'

‘I – I think I must have expected some sort of celebration, something to mark the end of that time.'

He refilled her glass, his mother's glass. ‘Celebration? If you had been here in 1990, yes – you would have seen something then. Cars turned over, everyone out on the street … Now? Now we are getting on with living again. Rebuilding.' He turned to his mother, translating. She nodded. ‘You see,' he said to Harriet, ‘my mother has been through a great deal. She and my father hoped for so much after the war – they had been communists since the early days. They suffered in the war, and then afterwards – they suffered in ways they had not expected. Now, sadly, my father is no longer with us, and my mother she looks for the good life at last, though without him it will never be the same. Still –' He smiled at her. ‘All this is part of many conversations. I ask you about tourism.'

‘I've told you, I visited Kafka's grave –' And walked into a well of sadness, but this she could not talk about, yet, either. Not the past of twenty-five years ago, nor the more recent past of this journey.

‘We haven't come all this way to see the sights,' said Marsha all of a sudden. ‘We've come to see you.'

He bowed towards the end of the table. ‘That is a charming thing to say.'

‘It's true. We didn't know if we'd find you, but I thought we would, and as soon as I saw you I thought –'

‘Marsha –' said Harriet firmly.

‘What?' She turned to Harriet, flushing. ‘Can't I say what I want?'

Hannah, watching in amusement, turned to Karel for explanation. There was a small flurry of Czech, then he said kindly to Marsha, ‘Sometimes parents are a great problem. Gabrielle finds it the same, isn't that so, Gaby?'

She nodded. ‘Especially you, Father.'

He spread his hands. ‘You see? Even with the nicest father in the world. So. Who is going to have a little more? Marsha? Your dumplings are vanished. Surely they cannot be all in that English tummy?'

She held out her plate.

The difficult moment passed: they all had second helpings. And then plum tart, groaning. And then they could not move.

‘You would like coffee?' Karel asked Harriet. ‘A glass of tea?'

‘Coffee, please.'

‘She's a coffee addict,' said Marsha.

He looked at Harriet. ‘This is true?'

‘I suppose it is.' She smiled at Hannah, gestured at the table's remains. ‘Thank you for a wonderful meal.'

Hannah nodded; the girls asked permission to get down, and made an unseemly scramble for the door. Harriet offered to help with the washing up and was refused. Hannah made fresh coffee in a metal pot with a glass lid which reminded Harriet of something from her childhood. She made a glass of lemon tea for Karel. She put all this on a tray and gave it to them.

‘Go. Talk.'

Karel took the tray from his mother and kissed her.

In the sitting room, he leaned back in an armchair, drinking, his long legs stretched out in front of the television. Harriet, in another, drank her coffee, watching him. Now. Where should they begin? Should she ask about his life? Careful, careful – she thought of Dieter Scheiber, in East Berlin: defensive, asking her little. Karel, similarly, might not wish to be questioned about his activities, personal or political. Should she talk about herself? She had, all at once, something of the same, disconcerting sensation she had experienced on the first day in Brussels: of seeing her life in London become small and distant, an unknown quantity, even to herself. And Karel, certainly, even though he was welcoming, charming, was an unknown quantity to her now. Everything in his country had changed; how much, over two and a half decades, had that changed him?

He finished his tea and leaned forward, putting the glass down on a low, spindle-legged table. He smiled at her – such a heavenly smile and she was taken all over again to that basement bedsit: to a smile, a glass of lemon tea, a cigarette …

‘You don't smoke,' she said suddenly.

‘No, not for a long time.'

‘Everyone smokes in Prague.'

‘This is true.'

‘And you used to smoke all the time.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes, Marlboro, don't you remember –'

Long, elegant fingers unwrapped the cellophane, tapped the packet. He inhaled deeply, talking rapidly.

‘
In my country we are fighting for the essentials, for liberty to meet and make discussions, to move without the police spies, to publish
…'

He was frowning again. ‘I remember some things about those days, and some of them become a blur. Everything that happened then – it was made small by events afterwards.'

‘Of course.' Yes, yes, of course it was.…
watching the faces of her parents and her brother as they listened to the news, realising, even then, that nothing could last for ever, and that falling in love, which had seemed to encompass everything, was, in the scale of world events, only a little thing really
…

‘But I remember I was smoking a little in London,' Karel said now. ‘It was Marlboro, even then? You see them everywhere now, like McDonalds.'

‘When did you give up?'

‘When I married. My wife does not like smoking, and she is right; of course.'

‘Of course,' she said again.

‘Mind you, it was hell.'

She laughed. ‘And your wife –' she hesitated. ‘She is working with you now? Gabrielle mentioned that you are both lawyers.'

‘Yes. In the same bureau – office, I should say – but our specialisations are different. She is a property lawyer, so she is very busy these days. Restitution is our buzz word now – people are claiming their rights to property taken over by the regime – land, old family houses. Danielle is an expert in this field.'

Harriet thought of the Scheibers, and the family hotel reclaimed in Prenzlauer Berg. She wondered about Danielle.

‘But there are many problems,' Karel went on. ‘Such places are often too big to look after nowadays, so they are rented out, turned into hotels, and so on. All the foreigners come, and the local people cannot afford what then is in the shops. They move out. The butcher becomes a boutique. It is a kind of economic destruction of a class, a downside of the new capitalism, and people – I am not talking about people like your brother, you understand, but many people from the West are taking advantage. We have had to create a new legal system, new tax structure and so on – while we are working it all out, the big fat cat makes a big fat profit.'

‘Yes,' said Harriet thoughtfully. ‘He normally does.'

In the dining room in Brussels the polished table shone. Bruise-coloured clouds went past. He leaned forward, lighting a cigarette from a candle flame, his hand trembling a little.

‘
Buy here, sell there, or vice versa – they need practically anything I can get them, I'm delighted to say … the whole of Western Europe has its mitts in Eastern Europe these days
…'

He looked at her. ‘I am talking too much? You are interested in these things, in politics?'

‘Of course I'm interested. I'm a political person.' She leaned forward, pouring coffee. ‘Tell me what your own field is. Danielle is property, and you –'

‘Civil rights.'

‘Ah. In that case –' she stopped again.

‘Go on. In that case. Why are you so cautious, Harriet?'

‘I just don't like to intrude, to keep asking questions. And if you are active in civil rights then perhaps there are things from the past years you don't want to talk about.'

‘In that case,' he said gravely, ‘I will not talk about them.'

He was leaning back in the chair again, long slender fingers pressed together, watching her intently. She returned his gaze, looking at the face she had for a few weeks known so intimately, craved to see so ardently after his departure. It was fuller, with more lines; there was grey not just in his hair but in his eyebrows. But it was the same face: well-made, clever, full of vitality. And now there was confidence and assurance there, too: he was impressive-looking, there was no denying it – this was someone who knew what he was doing, whom you would turn to for guidance, and could trust.

‘Mum?' Marsha was in the doorway.

‘Ah, my English friend.' Karel turned and smiled at her: Marsha blushed, and smiled back.

‘Mum? Gabrielle says we can go to the park. Is that okay? It's only a couple of blocks.'

Gabrielle appeared behind her, looking sensible.

Harriet looked at Karel again. ‘What do you think? Is it all right to go there without a grown-up?'

‘Gabrielle goes there, and I used to go there myself at her age. Before that my grandfather took me – he made me a little boat, for the pond.'

‘Have you still got it?' Marsha asked.

‘I have. Gabrielle and I used also to sail it, didn't we, Gaby? I think it is perfectly safe there, but you never know. Would you permit me and your mother to accompany you? Harriet – would that suit you? We can continue our conversation while they play on the swings.'

‘Yes, that sounds fine.'

‘You could bring your boat,' said Marsha.

He looked at her in amusement. ‘I could.'

They left Hannah resting; they walked the couple of blocks. The park was like any park anywhere: trees, railings, old people on benches by the flowerbeds, children on the swings. When there was nothing else to do, you went to the park: there was always that feeling, thought Harriet, as they walked through the gates. And it was the end of the summer: a dryness and dustiness hung over the grass. But there was the warm light breeze, and there was the pond. Ducks swam, and preened themselves on a little island of bushes and mud. Children leaned forward with bread crusts and mothers pulled them back. It was the same everywhere, but it still had charm. And Karel had brought the boat.

It was a simple little sailing boat, its sides painted in a utilitarian blue which was chipped and faded. The deck was white, yellowing with age, like the two cotton sails, run up on fraying string.

‘It's sweet,' Marsha had said, when he took it out of a cupboard in the corridor.

‘You think so?' He examined the chips, the drooping sails. ‘It has been through a storm, I think. But it is well made – my grandfather was so good at these things.' He held it out. ‘You would like to carry it?'

Marsha shook her head: she was, after all, ten, not six.

But now, as he set the boat carefully in the water, and it rested, steady and upright, she was enchanted. Impossible not to feel a lift of the heart as he gave a push and it moved alongside them in the breeze, the sails filling a little, stirring a little, the water parting. People stood watching, small children ran after it.

‘It's lovely,' said Harriet, as they walked alongside.

‘Yes. It brings back happy memories – with my grandfather, and with my daughter. She is too old for it now, of course, but –'

‘I don't think you're ever too old for something like this.'

‘Exactly.'

A large Muscovy duck came waddling up the muddy slope at the edge.

‘She's afraid,' Gaby said.

‘She's almost as big as the boat,' said Karel.

The breeze fell, the little boat slowed and stopped. For a while they tried to encourage it along with a stick, but it didn't work. The boat rested on the water, rocking a little as ducks went by; then it was steady and still again.

‘You would like to swing?' Gaby asked Marsha.

They ran off over the grass.

‘So.' Karel reached out, and drew the boat in; he picked it up, dripping, and shook off the water. ‘We were talking, I think.'

‘We were.' Harriet watched him, wiping the sides of the boat with a hanclkerchief; she turned to watch the girls, racing towards the swings. The last time Marsha had been in a playground was in the Berlin Zoo, the morning after their arrival.

She told Karel this, as they walked away from the pond.

‘There was a boy there who looked a little like you,' she said. ‘He might have been your son.'

‘Yes? And instead we both have daughters. We are fortunate – they are both good children, I think.'

‘Yes. And it's nice for Marsha to have someone of her own age, after travelling just with me for two weeks.'

‘Brussels, Berlin – it is a long journey. You could have flown here.'

‘We could, but –'

But I wanted to follow your route, to think of you, travelling by train, crossing the Berlin Wall, coming back to an occupied city –

She could not possibly say all this. Caution had long been part of her nature – had been there, probably, ever since Martin left: she had not quite expected to feel it now, but feel it she did. She and Karel had only just met again: it was early days, and who knew what course the rest of this week might follow?

‘But I wanted to see my brother,' she said. ‘And get to know my sister-in-law a little. I must phone them this evening, we haven't spoken since we left, though I tried in Berlin. I had to visit Berlin, now the wall is down. As for Prague – it's a dream city. Everyone wants to come here now.'

She could hear herself talk fast; she felt like a skater, skimming over the ice, over everything of importance.

They had come to the playground: Marsha and Gaby were standing up on their swings, going high. Marsha took off a hand and waved, Gabrielle's plaits swung out behind her. Harriet waved back; they stood for a few moments, watching. The girls began to play a game, trying to catch each other's hands as they swooped past.