Letters From Prague (8 page)

Harriet could not sleep. The ferry made its progress across the Channel, and gulls shrieked in its wake. The train pulled out of Ostend station, gathering speed in the rain. There was a family reunion in a foreign city.

Here Charlotte Brontë had suffered and wept. Tomorrow they would visit the house where Marx had taken rooms. Harriet thought about her black-bound notebook, tipped in Chinese red.
Brussels
, she had written, and page after page of facts. Lacemakers/convents/ the Belgian Congo. Invasion / capitulation / resistance / Jews in hiding. Architects and designers. Horta and art nouveau. Surrealist painters: Magritte had trained in Brussels; so had Paul Delvaux.

Harriet lay in the darkness and silence of her brother's apartment and revisited the iconography of these painters: Magritte's faceless men in bowler hats, the body of his faceless mother, covered in a sheet, lifted from her suicide in the river at Charleroi. She saw Delvaux's long, haired, wide-eyed, naked women, drifting after dark through deserted city streets: moonlight shone pale and still on broken buildings; somewhere a train breathed through the night.

Beginning to drift towards sleep at last, Harriet took these images with her, into her dreams, so that when, in the small hours, she woke, suddenly, unable to think where she was, she did not know if it was one of these sexual, somnambulic creatures whose cries had woken her or whether, somewhere in the dark apartment, she had heard Susanna: weeping, weeping.

The morning was bright and fresh. By just after ten, Harriet, Marsha and Susanna were walking over the cobblestones in the Grand Place, breathing in the scent of carnations, late summer roses, blowsy stock in soft, mothy shades of lavender, dusty pink and cream. The flowers lay in boxes or stood in cool metal buckets, presided over by women in headscarves. A waiter moved through an open-air café on the far side, smoothing heavy white cloths, straightening up and yawning. There were one or two people drinking coffee, and a middle-aged man with a jacket round his shoulders sat smoking and reading the paper, but it was early still, with few people about, the shops empty and inviting. In places, in the shade, the pavements were still wet from the cleaning lorry which moved through the streets with brushes and a sprinkler, leaving them spotless.

Harriet, in what Victor Hugo had once called the loveliest city square in Europe, looked up at the richly decorated façades, Gothic and baroque, of the houses all around them, gilded blues and greens and greys, elaborate gables rising in harmony to the morning sky, and despite the anxious moments of the night she felt her heart lift. She was on holiday, for the first time in a long while, and what yesterday, standing in the spacious bedroom, had seemed uncertain and unsettling, now felt light and carefree.

Beside her, Marsha and Susanna briefly touched each other, stepping out of the way of an ice-cream cart. They smiled at each other, and their hands fell back to their sides.

Harriet observed them, noting their obvious affection, grown from the memory of a wedding four years ago and the acquaintanceship of a few hours. Susanna, this morning, looked at ease, relaxed. She was wearing her linen trousers, with an open-necked shirt and a pale blue sweater; a fine gold chain was round her neck, and tiny stud earrings showed when she pushed back shining hair. Surely this picture from
Vogue
could not have been overheard weeping in the small hours: it was hard to imagine Susanna weeping at any hour, so perfect had her control seemed yesterday, so composed did she seem today.

‘In the Middle Ages,' Harriet told Marsha, as they walked over the cobbles, ‘this place was a marsh. Then it was drained, and became the market of Brussels. All these heavenly buildings went up, blasted to bits at the end of the seventeenth century by Louis XIV. It was rebuilt extraordinarily quickly – by powerful tradespeople, dedicated to the glory of commerce.'

‘And to God,' said Susanna. ‘Look at that spire.'

They craned their necks.

‘That's the Hotel de Ville,' said Harriet, who had seen pictures.

‘It is.' Susanna touched Marsha's shoulder. ‘The Town Hall, to you. See the figure right at the top? The weathervane?'

Marsha leaned back, shading her eyes. ‘No. Yes. I think so.'

‘That's the archangel Michael. He fought the devil and won, and now he keeps watch over the city.'

‘Gosh,' said Marsha politely.

Elaborately decorated with sculpture, the building stretched almost half the width of the south side of the square.

‘I think we should see inside, don't you?' Susanna asked Harriet. ‘There are tapestries – they're rather wonderful.'

‘Yes, I've read about them.'

Susanna smiled. ‘You've read about everything.'

‘I wanted to get the most out of it. I almost felt I'd been here.' Harriet looked about her. It had grown warmer, and the square looked bright – almost, already, too bright. Neither the Grand Place nor the Hotel, nor any of the streets through which they had walked to get here was, in reality, quite as she had imagined: she felt as though, like Alice through the looking-glass, she had strayed from within the pages of a book and found herself looking at the mirror image of what had, before, been the only reality. Did these soaring buildings feel in some Ways less substantial than those she had carried in her head? Well – yes, they did. And thinking this, as the others, ahead of her, entered the foyer, she was surprised to feel, again, a moment of uncertainty and unease, and, as yesterday, found herself thinking of Lucy Snowe, enduring the loneliness of the empty school, the empty city, during the long vacation.

She followed Susanna inside.

The main entrance led to an interior courtyard, where fountains played. Marsha's face lit up.

‘Just what we needed.' Susanna watched her run her hands through the water. ‘You'd better not do that,' she said after a minute. ‘Everyone's terribly proper here. I think we'd better look for a guide.'

Marsha was disappointed. ‘Can't we just wander round by ourselves?'

‘I'm afraid not.' People were assembling in a corner. ‘That lot's German. There must be – yes.' They joined an English group at the entrance to the city council chambers, and wandered from room to stately room, gazing at the substantial desks of burgomasters, at eighteenth-century panelled ceilings, triumphant flourishes of lamps, noble bookcases, marble busts on marble plinths, paintings of the city. They stood before great tapestries in dull crimson and gold, where saints'heads fell at the stroke of a sword, and sweet-faced musicians raised trumpets to their lips.

Tall windows overlooked a garden; there was the murmur of voices, footsteps on polished floors. Marsha, growing restless, detached herself from the adults and went across to one of the windows: she stood looking out at formal flowerbeds, running a finger up and down the glass. Harriet turned to Susanna, to suggest they moved on, and found she was no longer at her side but standing before a tapestry in a shadowy far corner, gazing up at it, her back to everyone. Distance and detachment hung about her like a shroud: Harriet, sensing this, did not approach her, but followed her gaze.

The tapestry was large and complex: maidens, musicians and dancers at court, narrow-haunched hounds at rest. Susanna was looking at a detail: Harriet moved closer, and saw two lovers touch. She, in faded cream and blue, raised her face to his; he, in dusty green and gold, lifted her hand to his lips. Their profiled faces were long and fine and concave – in-bred, over-bred, delicate faces, her hair drawn back from a high forehead, taken in a hood, his curling gracefully to a collar. Their eyes met, their lips curved in a hesitant smile:
I have watched you and watched you: at last you are mine
…

Susanna was weeping. Harriet froze in consternation. Across the room, light from the tall window washed the polished floor and Marsha slid a finger up and down the glass. Heads in the guided groups of tourists turned at the squeak.

‘Stop it,' said Harriet, automatically, and Susanna wiped at the corners of her eyes, her body quite still, save for her long pale fingers brushing the slow-moving tears, over and over, as if she were simply smoothing away a wrinkle with face cream, as if the tears simply happened to be there, a natural phenomenon quite unconnected with how she might be feeling, what she might be thinking.

What might she be thinking?

‘Mum? Can we go now?'

Marsha had stopped squeaking along the glass and was looking at her mother.

‘In a minute,' said Harriet. ‘Can you just –'

What could Marsha do?

A door led out to the garden.

‘Go on,' Harriet told her. ‘You go out in the fresh air. I'll be with you in a minute.'

Marsha stepped through the open door and made her way along a gravel path bordered by lavender, hung about with bees. The garden was small, with beds of standard roses set in the grass and espaliered fruit trees trained against a brick wall facing south. Seats were placed here and there. Birdsong and the faint scent of grass and lavender came through the door, fastened back with a hook. A security guard yawned, and looked about him.

Susanna continued to wipe the outer corners of her eyes in the repetitive stroking movement which put Harriet suddenly in mind of a bear in a bear pit: the head swinging back and forth, back and forth, an inverted arc of boredom and despair. Her back was resolutely turned to Harriet, who realised that she dare not move for fear of showing her distress.

Harriet approached her. She touched her arm. Susanna shut her eyes, and shook her head. Other people came to admire the tapestry.

‘Susanna,' said Harriet quietly. ‘Let's go outside.'

Tears fell on the polished floor.

Their guide had marshalled the group around him: he began to describe the tapestry, commissioned from a convent in Liège. He pointed out the dancers and the dance, announcing, Harriet was dimly aware, that an early-music quartet would be playing the great hall later in the week. He pointed to the lovers, to their delicate glance of desire. It was thought they were portraits of the son of the house and his betrothed bride, who died, aged seventeen, in childbed.

The tourists murmured. Susanna looked at the floor and wept. Harriet put her arm round her and shepherded her across the room and out through the door to the garden. Two seats were occupied by couples; Marsha, on the third, was swinging her legs, contentedly stripping stalks of lavender.

‘I'm so sorry,' said Susanna brokenly. She fumbled for her bag, for the clasp. ‘Don't take any notice.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

Marsha had looked up and seen the tears. She frowned. Harriet made an incoherent gesture. Susanna had found a handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Marsha slid off the seat and scrunched on the gravel towards them.

‘What's the matter?' The scent of lavender clung to her: she put out a hand towards Susanna and withdrew it again. ‘Why don't you come and sit down?'

They made their way to the garden seat. Little birds hopped about in the fruit trees, and pecked at ripening pears. A bumble bee sailed past on a current of air. It could not have been a more beautiful morning.

‘Have you got a headache?' Marsha asked.

‘Sort of –' Susanna blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

‘Smell this.' Marsha held out a lavender stalk; Susanna sniffed, and tried to smile.

‘Lavender's blue, dilly-dilly …' Marsha, who had quite a sweet voice when she put her mind to it, began to sing, trying to comfort.

‘Lavender's green.

When I am king, dilly-dilly,

You shall be queen.'

Susanna covered her face and sobbed. Harriet and Marsha looked at each other. Harriet wanted to ask Marsha to leave them alone, but felt that was unfair; she did not know, herself, whether to go or stay. Not since she had wept on Victoria station, saying goodbye to Karel all those years ago, had she known anyone cry like this: uncontrollably, in the middle of the morning, in a public place. What should she do?

Marsha got off the seat and touched the purse that hung round her neck. ‘I'm going to look at the postcards. I'll come back in a little while.'

Harriet, in familiar London, would have issued automatic instructions: come straight back, don't talk to any strangers, don't spend all your money, be sensible – Here, in a foreign city, an unknown public building, she simply nodded in gratitude. Marsha was already sensible, she'd be okay for a bit. ‘Don't be too long.'

‘I won't.' And she left them, entering the tall doors to the gallery with a smile to the attendant, poised and grown-up, as Harriet turned back to Susanna.

‘What can I do for you? How can I help?'

Susanna, at last, stopped crying. She blew her nose again and wiped her eyes and she sat beside Harriet looking straight ahead: at the well-cut grass, the well-trained fruit trees. Water poured from the mouth of a small bronze lion head, set in the wall, into a shallow basin; a sparrow flew down and alighted; it began to bathe, busy and contented.

‘Tell me,' said Harriet, watching the bird. ‘Tell me what's wrong.'

Susanna said slowly, ‘I've been like this all my life.'

Harriet felt a prickle of apprehension, as if a door were opening into a dark room which someone had once told her about but which she had never entered. She could hear her mother, and people like her mother, say briskly, ‘Don't be ridiculous, what are you talking about, this is all out of proportion.' She knew that what she would most like now would be to get up, look for Marsha and take the morning back, warm and ordinary, a mother and daughter with time to themselves, for once: relaxed, enjoying each other's company. She knew that this pleasant and desirable state of affairs was, for the moment, quite unreclaimable. Who was Susanna? What had gone wrong?

She started to say: ‘You always seem so –' and stopped. There was a silence. ‘Go on,' she said. ‘Tell me.'