Letters From Prague (45 page)

Harriet was not used to thinking like this. She had grown used to thinking like this. She leaned on the sill of the pension bedroom window and looked out: at the moon, at the star-filled sky, at one or two lights in other windows. Someone was walking down the hill, through gaslit streets, towards the river. It was very late.

Not far from here, one winter, Kafka had written all night in a rented house, feverish fingers racing across the page, drawing his coat about him as the fire sank low, coughing and coughing. His sister, asleep in another room, woke and heard him.

‘Franz?'

He spat into his handkerchief, his pen scratched the page, writing, writing …

I have scarcely anything in common with myself –

Harriet put her head in her hands. She listened to Marsha, breathing unsteadily, restless. She listened to the footsteps, walking away down the hill, growing fainter. A church clock chimed, then, almost at once, another: single, sombre notes. One o'clock. Again, in another part of the city. Again. Like the sound of a funeral bell, tolling the years of a life.

Was that how Christopher would be buried? Would wish to be buried?

They had left him there in the barn, on sacking –

Somebody else would have to –

Papers, an inquest, a flight back to London –

‘Mummy?'

Prickles rose on the back of her neck; she turned round, shivering.

‘I thought you were asleep.'

‘I can't.' Marsha was sitting up in bed. ‘I can't, I can't.' She held out her arms.

‘No,' said Harriet, ‘neither can I.'

She climbed into bed beside her; they lay with their arms wrapped rond each other. Harriet heard herself murmuring, comforting, trying to make everything right.

The moon rose, and light fell through the window, touching the end of the bed, the chest of drawers, the wooden box of letters which had brought them here.

They were walking along the waterfront. Behind them, the children were following slowly, keeping their distance. Barges went past, going north, going south; black-headed gulls cried above them.

Harriet said: ‘And now I have told you everything.'

‘Thank you.'

She said: ‘Do you understand? How it is possible to care so much? Even when –'

‘I think so. I am not sure, but I think so.'

‘I don't,' said Harriet.

They stopped, and the girls caught up with them. For a while they walked on together, the Charles Bridge behind them, the islands ahead. The sun was sinking, the air was tranquil and still. They leaned on a railing, watching the swans.

Marsha said: ‘I feel a bit better, now.'

‘Good. Why don't you and Gaby walk on? You lead the way for a bit.'

‘Okay.'

They left the railing; the sun sank lower; the river shone.

Harriet and Karel followed the children, walking slowly.

She said: ‘You have never been troubled by doubt, or self-dislike –'

‘Not in the way you have spoken of, no.'

‘You know who you are.'

‘I think so. Yes. I think that is true.'

‘I used to be like that. I think that is how I used to be –'

‘And now?

‘Now I'm not certain. Nothing seems certain. I have to pick up my life again –'

How was that possible? What should she do?

They came to the stretch of gabled houses, ochre and cream beneath tiled roofs. Havel and his family lived near here. She remembered something.

‘Karel? I read – I think I read somewhere that since the Revolution something has gone from politics now. The existential kick, I think that's what I read. Is that true?'

He thought about it. ‘Yes, in a way. But still – I feel I have plenty to do.' He looked at her, walking so slowly beside him. ‘We are talking again about the public arena –'

‘What happened – in the mountains – for you that was very much in the public arena.'

‘But not for you.'

‘No. I'm in different territory, now.'

The children were tiring. Time to go back.

He said: ‘I feel we still have a great deal to talk about. Not now. Now you are too distressed. But I should like to – to keep in touch. Yes? May I come to London? To visit you and Marsha?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. We should love it. You have been wonderful.'

‘Thank you. You also, I think.'

They stopped; he turned her towards him, his hands on her shoulders.

‘And perhaps – one day, perhaps you will come back here. When you are calmer. When you are ready.'

‘Yes. Yes, I should like that.'

He drew her towards him; he kissed her forehead. The children were calling. He held her away again.

‘Shall we see?' he asked gravely.

She looked at the face which had haunted her, for months after his departure, twenty-five years ago, when she was young. Clever and vital and loving. And now she had found him again.

A bell was ringing, a single note, sounding across the water. She felt herself on the threshold of a journey, which began here, now, in this moment of grief and consolation, and ended – where would it end?

First published in 1994 by Century

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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Copyright © Sue Gee, 1994

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