The Glass Room (20 page)

Watching them cross the lawn Viktor contemplates chance. It is nothing else. The coincidence might seem some kind of predestination but he knows that it is not so — it is pure caprice. You can call it malicious if you like but in fact it is neutral. Things just happen. One country occupies another; people flee, scatter across the countryside, some here, some there, like thrown dice. Contingency. One fetches up amongst thousands at the railway station at Mĕsto; helpers try and organise them; do-gooders do good; and there she is. What was one chance in a million suddenly becomes a certainty. Because it has happened.

And life goes on. That is the astonishing thing. As normal. Streams are an obvious metaphor — currents, turbulence, dark depths beneath the surface wavelets, drowned bodies out of sight amongst the mud and the weeds. The possibilities of metaphor are almost limitless.

‘There’s a piano recital tomorrow evening,’ Liesel tells him a few days later when he’s sitting in the library, reading the newspaper. A radio is on but for the moment there is no news, just some discussion about gardening. When is the best time to take cuttings from fuchsias? It seems absurd to be talking about fuchsias when the world is falling to pieces. ‘Oh?’

‘Hana has got us tickets. That Kaprálová girl, you remember? Kundera is giving the première of one of her works. Variations on something or other.’

‘They are always variations on something or other. Must we go? I suppose we must.’

‘Hana tells me she’s trying to renew her scholarship, to get back to Paris.’

‘Hana is?’

‘You’re not paying attention, are you? Kaprálová. Vitulka. You know she got that scholarship to study in Paris. You remember. Now she’s trying to get it renewed.’

He folds his paper and puts it aside. ‘She’s probably seen the writing on the wall. I’m going to have a word with your father.’

‘Papi? What about?’

‘The business, the company. Just a chat. I think we must consider getting Landauerovka out of my ownership. If they come …’

‘Oh, Viktor. Not that again. You are such a pessimist.’

‘I’m a realist. Look at what’s happening. The so-called Sudeten German Party makes absurd demands and the Hitler government just eggs them on. German troops are massing on the border. We could have a war on our hands within days, Liesel. Read the papers, for God’s sake!’

‘I do read the papers.’

‘You read the fashion pages.’

He walks round to his father-in-law’s house. The exercise will calm him down. He might have picked his way down through the garden, the path past the
chata
, but he chooses not to and instead goes round by the streets, along Schwarzfeldgasse, černopolní, Blackfield Road, to the street of steps that leads down to the park, Lužánky Park as it is called now; the Augarten as it used to be and will doubtless be called again when disaster strikes. In the park there is a group of children with their teacher. Maybe they are from Ottilie’s school. He stands at the railings for a while trying to see her. Children concentrate the mind wonderfully. He watches them laughing and chasing each other. Three of them are on the swings, with others waiting their turn. ‘You must wait patiently,’ the teacher tells them but they push and shove just the same. None of them seems to be Ottilie. Maybe it isn’t even her class. Maybe it isn’t even her school. They chatter like swallows, he thinks, and turns away to cross Parkstrasse and walk up the drive to the front door of the big house where a maid answers and shows him into the study where the old man is reading the newspapers and smoking.

Liesel’s father is always welcoming. There is none of his wife’s peculiar reserve, none of her sideways glancing at Viktor as though to reassure herself that Jewishness is a not a blemish that you carry, visible, like a birth mark on your face. ‘Viktor, how
lovely
to see you,’ she is wont to say when they meet, but always with that faint tone of surprise, as though she was expecting much worse. ‘Viktor, how
good
to see you,’ her father says, and appears to mean it. The old man tries to settle him down in one of the leather armchairs, offers him a cigar and calls for some coffee. ‘What’s it all about, my dear fellow? Tell me what it’s all about. This stuff’ — he waves his copy of the
Prager Tagblatt
— ‘looks pretty grim, doesn’t it?’

Viktor declines to sit. Despite his walk he is still impatient, even agitated. He wants to pace about the room, from library shelf to window, back and forth as he does up and down in front of the windows of the Glass Room; but instead he feels that he should appear calm and collected. ‘I’m thinking about the future.’

‘The future?’

Viktor stands still for a moment, staring through the window at the fine slope of lawn and the trees, at the rise of ground that leads up steeply to the house, his and Liesel’s house that you can’t quite see from here because of the trees. ‘A
possible
future.’ The
chata
is couched amongst hedges so that only its roof is visible. ‘As you know we have both families’ interests represented in the firm at present. I think that it ought to come entirely under your control.’

The old man coughs on his cigar. He seems startled, but surely it is obvious, isn’t it? ‘How can that be so?’

‘I’ve spoken to my father and he agrees. And my lawyer. Oh, I’d continue to run everything, but it would be under your ownership. Legally speaking. I’d just be an employee. It’s just that as things stand, I fear …’

‘We all fear, don’t we old fellow? We all fear.’

‘But this isn’t irrational fear, is it? If the Germans come …’

‘Come?’

Viktor stops his pacing and turns to the old man. ‘Invade. If there’s a war. If there’s a war I think that I may have to leave. As a Jew, I mean. Liesel will of course be in a different position.’

‘But isn’t that a bit pessimistic?’

‘Is it? Look at Austria. Next it’ll be the border territories. What’s the difference between the borders and the rest of the country? In the eyes of the Nazis, I mean.’

‘Have you discussed this with Liesel?’

‘Briefly. Like you, she thinks I’m being pessimistic, but I think you have to be pessimistic at this point. And plan. You have to have a plan.’

‘And your plan is …?’

‘I’ve just told you. I’ll have the company lawyer draw up an instrument for the transfer of ownership …’

The conversation goes on. It is one of those conversations that are the norm these days, partly apocalyptic, occasionally optimistic, usually full of foreboding. ‘We’ll come through,’ his father-in-law decides in the end, and Viktor has to agree with him.

‘I’m sure we will. But who knows where we will be by then?’ He is still standing at the window, looking out on the garden. He asks, without turning, ‘How is that woman getting on in the
chata
?’

‘The Viennese woman? She’s one of yours, isn’t she?
žid
.’ The old man uses the Slav word but his grasp on the language is uncertain.
židovka
, he should say. Jewess. ‘I hardly notice her. She seems a bit surly to me. The little girl’s enchanting though. Calls me Opa.’ He laughs. ‘Theresa got quite indignant about such familiarity but I said, let her be. The little mite probably never had a grandfather of her own, so let her be. She’s a bastard, you know that? Maybe you don’t.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Theresa asked her mother point blank — where is the father? what’s he doing about looking after you? — and the woman must have got angry because she snapped back that there was no father, that she had never been married to him and she had no idea where he was. And furthermore it was nobody’s business but her own. Which made Theresa’s eyes water a bit, I can tell you.’

Viktor turns from the view. ‘I thought she was a widow.’

‘That’s what they all say, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘So I’ve heard tell.’ The old man grins at him through his moustaches. He is a figure from the past, from the days of the Monarchy — bearded and stiff-collared. Women are something to be hallowed or despised; there isn’t much in between.

‘Heard tell?’

‘You know what I mean.’

But Viktor doesn’t. He doesn’t understand any of this, the jovial exchange of confidences, the sly and off-colour jokes. ‘Maybe I’ll walk back through the garden and see how she’s doing. I can report back to Liesel.’

‘She’s probably not there. She seems to go out early and doesn’t come back until lunchtime when her daughter gets back from school.’

‘You’ve been watching her?’

‘Theresa tells me.’ He laughs gruffly, puffing on his cigar. ‘She reports everything to me. Even what I’m doing myself.’

‘I’ll go and see.’

He finds his own way out, through the French windows that open onto the grass. Who, he wonders, is watching his progress across the lawn? But when he glances back at the house the windows merely reflect the plain white of the daylight. One window is open, high up beneath one of the turrets. A maid’s room, perhaps. He turns and continues towards the tall hedges that hide the
chata
. Liesel and he used to come there when they were courting. They’d let themselves into the summerhouse and kiss and cuddle a bit while he hoped, vainly, for something more. ‘Not here, not now,’ she’d whisper, putting his hand aside.

He rounds the end of the hedge and there is the building. It’s the kind of construction you might come across in the country, one of those holiday cabins that are so popular these days. Brick footings and dark, creosoted wood and a tarpaper roof. The place is silent in the morning air, and somehow threatening, like something from a fairy tale or a half-remembered dream, a cottage inhabited by a witch who eats children. He goes up to the door and knocks.

‘Anyone there?’

There is no reply. He looks round. The hedges cut him off from view of the downstairs windows of the house. Only the top storey is visible, and the grey roof with its twin cupolas. A maid has hung bedding out of the open window.

He knocks again — ‘Anyone at home?’ — and then tentatively turns the handle. The door opens. The atmosphere inside is warm and resinous, replete with the heat of distant summer days.

‘Frau Kalman?’ But there is no one there, just two low beds, neatly made up, and on one side, opposite a small gas stove, a cane table with two chairs.

The floorboards creak as he crosses the cabin. Her things are all around — some dresses hanging over the chairs, shoes on the floor. A piece of string has been fixed across the room as a washing line. Two pairs of knickers hang from it, and a vest with tawdry lace trimming and a brassiere. He pulls one of the knickers towards him and presses the gusset to his nose, but it gives him nothing more than the smell of clean cotton. It is the pillow on one of the beds that holds the smell of her, a warm and complex scent that he recognises instantly. He straightens up and stands there indecisively, part intruder, part acolyte, wholly captivated by the small hints of her presence.

At that moment there is a footfall outside. He turns to find Kata standing in the doorway. There is a hiatus, a pause in the whole progress of time, while they watch each other.

‘I was wondering when you’d come,’ she says. ‘Please, make yourself at home. Don’t worry about me. After all—’

‘I’m sorry. I found the door open—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

He’s confused, like a child caught entering his parents’ room. ‘I just wanted to see how you are getting on.’

‘I’m sure you did.’ She closes the door behind her. She’s wearing a plain coat, the same coat she wore on that first day in the house, and the same lace-up shoes. Her hair is gathered up anyhow, stray wisps framing her face. Her delicate jawline and the impudent ornament of her ears give her a beauty that belies the dowdy clothing. Ornament is crime, he thinks.

‘I gather that Ottilie has been to play with Marika.’

‘Once or twice. They get on well together.’ She lifts a shopping bag onto the table and begins taking things from it. A jar and some tins go into the wall cupboard. There is a loaf of bread, a bag of potatoes, some vegetables. She takes her coat off and hangs it on a peg behind the door, then turns to the washing line. ‘I’m sorry if it’s a bit of a mess in here. It’s not that easy keeping things in order in such a small space.’

He watches the reach of her arms, the quick, efficient fingers. ‘You’ve stopped biting your nails,’ he observes.

She glances at them, almost as though surprised at the discovery. ‘You told me to.’

‘I’m surprised you took any notice. How are you for money?’

‘All right.’

‘I can give you some if you need—’

She looks round. ‘I’m all right, thank you. The committee gave me something to start, but now I’m earning a bit. Your wife has helped. She’s given me things to do, adjusting some dresses, things like that. And recommended me to some of her friends. She’s been very kind.’

He takes one of the chairs and sits down. There is something domestic about the scene: his sitting there watching while she sorts out the laundry. He never sees the laundry being done at the house. It is the province of Laník’s sister, down in the basement. Occasionally they encounter each other as he is coming out of the darkroom. Laníková blushes and apologises for her presence and Viktor feels awkward at invading her territory. But there is no such awkwardness now, more a kind of uncertainty, as though the actors don’t quite know their lines or understand the thrust of the plot.

‘Does she know you’re here?’ she asks.

‘My wife? I told her I was going to see her father.’

‘Be careful with your alibi.’

‘It’s not an alibi. It’s the truth.’

She finishes folding the clothes and looks round for somewhere to put them.

‘Didn’t you get my letters?’ he asks.

‘I got them.’

‘But you didn’t try to get in touch.’

‘No.’

A cat, he thinks. The same introversion, the same precise quick movements disguised as languor. ‘I’ve missed you more than I can say …’

She turns. She has something in her hand, a black dress, one of Liesel’s dresses that she is adjusting, something sheer and silk with a label that proclaims Schiaparelli. Hana brought it back from Paris, insisting that it was just perfect for Liesel. ‘Isn’t all that over? It was a piece of business, and you were very kind to me and gave me the possibility of escape, and now it’s over.’