The Night of Wenceslas (10 page)

She was wearing two pieces herself, in black sharkskin. I could hardly keep my eyes off either of them. Below the top-piece there wasn’t an ounce of surplus flesh on her magnificent body, the waist flat and golden, legs long and smooth. She was leaning over on one elbow, moodily nibbling a blade of grass, gorgeous breasts pendant.

We were lying in a river meadow, a long tram ride from town, at the bathing station of Zluta Plovarna. Willows hung limply in the heat. It was somewhat overcast. Josef’s storm had not come yet. The river was narrower here and gurgled between green banks. I longed to lie about in it, but desisted. The Norstrund was wrapped in my towel; I had hired the towel and a pair of somewhat skimpy shorts at the kiosk.

The girl had seemed rather moody when we met and had been severely rationing her conversation since we came out on the grass. I wondered uneasily if some physical deficiency of mine had upset her.

I said, after a lengthy silence, ‘You seem sad. Is anything the matter?’

‘No. No.’

‘Don’t you like the heat?’

‘I don’t mind it.’

‘Did you wear yourself out at the piano last night?’

‘No,’ she said, unsmiling.

I stretched out, baffled.

‘You will go tomorrow!’ she burst out, glumly.

I looked up at her, flattered and surprised. I had only taken her out once. It was hard to know what to say. ‘Oh, I expect I’ll come back again.’

‘You think so?’

‘I might.’

‘No, you won’t. Ah, I wish I could go, too,’ she said passionately. ‘How I wish I could leave this country.’

‘Haven’t you ever been away?’

‘Once. To Hungary,’ she said scornfully. ‘It was just the same.’

‘Well, this is a very nice country. I mean,’ I said lamely, ‘you’ve got beautiful scenery and everything. The weather in England is terrible.’

‘The people are free to travel.’

‘Most of them never leave the country.’

‘They can if they want to. Anyway, they are free there. There are so many things.’

It seemed to be time to try and edge her out of it. I smiled at her. ‘Like knowing whether to wear a one-piece or a two-piece?’

‘That’s a part of it.’

‘And rock and roll?’

‘Oh, the rock and roll! You will not forget it …’ She was smiling all the same, and seemed to have cheered up a bit.

‘Did you make good business here?’

‘I did what I came to do.’

‘What was that?’

‘Look round glass works and have discussions.’ I looked up at her curiously. ‘You know all that.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘What else?’

‘I don’t know. You’re not working for the Americans – to come and see things and tell them?’

‘Why should I be?’ My heart had started to flutter a bit.

One hears stories. They say all Westerners are spies for the Americans. Isn’t it so?’

‘Of course it isn’t.’

‘I don’t mind if you are. You know what I feel.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ I said shortly. ‘You mustn’t believe all that rubbish, Vlasta. I’m here on business.’

‘Would you tell me if you were working for the Americans?’ She was smiling down at me. The nasty patch seemed to be over.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I could tell,’ she said. She tickled me with the grass stalk. ‘I know your face very well now.’

‘You haven’t seen it very often.’

‘I think I know it all the same.’ She edged nearer, tickling my nose. ‘It is quite – quite a comical face. I can tell what you are thinking, little merchant.’

The twin luscious bombs in black sharkskin hung a few inches from my face. I stared at them hypnotically.

‘What am I thinking?’

‘I know,’ she said, tickling with the grass stalk. ‘I know. I know. …’

So that seemed all right.

The terraces of Barrandov were quite a sight. We had fallen asleep at the bathing station and it was after dusk when we took the tram to the
Terasy
. The little nightspot shimmered like an iridescent shell in the velvety darkness. The rock-pool was a mussel-shaped depression hacked out of the rock, several yards below ground level. Running down to it, and following the same conformation, were the stepped terraces like the galleries of the Roman Colosseum. Floodlights picked out bits of statuary
and shrubs in pots. A dance band was playing. Shadowy figures were sitting and strolling around the various levels, and here and there a few couples were dancing; it was early yet.

All this was more than satisfactory, and we swung along to the entrance, arm in arm, full of fresh air and with healthy appetites. The girl had gone into the river for a dip when we awoke in the half light, and had emerged, dripping, laughing, and so athletically radiant that I could scarcely contain myself to see what happened on the nights her father didn’t wait for her.

The band was playing from a large building adjoining the pool. A few score people were dining and dancing inside.

‘You would like to eat here or outside?’

‘As you please.’

‘Outside is a cold buffet. It’s very good,’ she said, smiling.

‘All right, outside.’

We walked through to the terraces and found a table near the pool and then walked over to the buffet. This was a large table, supervised by several efficient-looking men in short white jackets, and supporting some dozens of trays of
hors-
d’
œuvre
. We made a selection and the plates were brought over to us.

It was very pleasant. The dancing reflections on the water gave an illusion of coolness in the warm, humid night. She was wearing a little bolero over a sun-top, and she took it off. I ordered a bottle of wine, and watched in some fascination as she cleared her plate. I was setting to myself, but had still not half finished when she wandered off to the buffet again.

‘I am hungry,’ she said when she returned.

‘So I see.’

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘For the food, I mean,’ she said, flickering.

‘That’s what I mean. How’s your father?’ I said, responding to her smile with a leer of my own.

‘He is well.’

‘What’s he doing tonight?’

‘He plays at a concert at Pilsen.’

‘Good show.’

‘What is that?’

‘I hope he has a good concert. What time will he be back?’

‘Very late.’

‘Then here’s to music and Pilsen,’ I said, raising my glass.

She responded to the toast, eyes flickering over her glass. ‘I think you are a bad man, little merchant.’

‘Don’t scream till you’re hurt.’

It took her a moment or two to work this out, and seemed to afford her rich amusement. She spilled her wine, fairly glowing at me over her heaped plate.

‘I never scream, little merchant.’

Better and better.

At eleven o’clock, I said, ‘Like to go now?’ We had drunk another bottle of wine and danced a bit.

‘If you like.’

She put on her bolero and we left.

The music followed us into the black void. The road was bordered by thickets; it seemed to be almost in the country.

‘Do you live far away?’

‘Not far.’

‘Anywhere to sit down round here? I thought we might smoke a cigarette.’

‘There is a seat by the telephone box a little farther along – on the other side of the road.’

We crossed and found this seat, a sturdy rustic piece. The telephone box was unlighted, I was glad to see.

‘Cigarette?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I don’t think I will, either.’

‘Wasn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Not all I wanted.’

In the dizzy, fractional pause, I kissed her.

She responded swiftly, her two arms whipping out like pythons – not, as I momentarily feared, to repel me. I found myself crushed in an embrace of powerful ardour. She wore no perfume or lipstick. She had a curious odour of her own, of
tanned skin, fresh air, some kind of spice, a Slav smell, very stimulating.

‘
Milacek
,’ she murmured a minute or two later when I found strength to draw back for air.

It was a word I had forgotten.
Milacek
. Darling. It came back powerfully over the years. … I returned to her in the blackness. And then all hell seemed to be let loose.

There was a single tearing razor flash of lightning, an instant eruption of thunder, and the sky fell in. A sheet of water seemed to drop solidly out of the air.

Josef’s storm had begun.

It happened so quickly we were drenched even before we got off the seat. The girl cowered against me, muttering. I swore evilly.

‘Quick. Nip in the telephone box,’ I said, and led the way. We stood pressed together inside, sodden and dripping. The night sounded suddenly like a river in full flood.

‘Maybe it will soon stop,’ I said miserably.

She shook her head. ‘I think not. We have these storms sometimes. It will last one hour, perhaps two.’

We stood without speaking for some time, our clothes beginning to steam in the hot, close air. One or two people raced past, splashing. The night was now brilliant with lightning, reverberating with thunder. Water streamed like a plastic film down the window.

‘Now what?’ I said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe it will ease off after a bit.’

‘Maybe. We could try to run to my home.’

‘Will your father be back yet?’

‘Not yet. Not until twelve or one o’clock.’

‘All right.’

We waited in the noisy, flashing darkness.

‘I think it is not so bad now,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘Come, we can try. We will have to be quick. It will start again.’

We pelted out of the box. It seemed suddenly cold outside, the
rain still falling heavily, but not flooding down as before. The road was running, fantastically, with water, an inch or two deep already.

We splashed hand in hand for some minutes and turned right up a side road. ‘The white house. Look, you can see,’ she said, as lightning began to flash overhead again. It stood by itself, a small bungalow. A cluster of others stood near it

The rain began to belt down fiercely again as we got to the gate. She fumbled for her key and opened the door and we stumbled in, streaming. She put the light on and looked at me and leaned against the wall, laughing. ‘To see yourself! You have had your swim, after all.’

I sneezed, not sharing this joke.

‘I am sorry. Come in. Take off the wet coat. You will catch an illness.’

I thought I’d caught one already. The unusual exercise through the puddles – she had dragged me along with racing, Olympic strides – in addition to the damp and debilitating session in the box, seemed to have taken their toll.

‘Give me it. I will put the electric fire on. So. It will dry a little.’

My trousers were equally sodden. There didn’t seem much to be done about them. I stood there, damply uncomfortable, while she brought in towels and we dried our hair.

‘Now who is sad?’ she said. ‘Come, smile for me, little merchant.’ The brisk run seemed to have done her good. She was lively and cheerful, eyes sparkling. ‘I will make you some coffee, then I will change. Maybe I can find something of my father’s for you to wear while your clothes dry.’

She disappeared into the next room and I looked sourly round. There seemed to be three rooms, one of them a kitchen-dining room. A cottage piano stood in the living-room. There was also a divan, made up as a bed. A large round clock was mounted on the wall. It registered a quarter to twelve. Her father would be back soon. A fine night this had turned out to be.

She came back after a minute with her hair down and in a dressing gown, inspecting a suit at arm’s length. It was of brown
tweed and evidently made for some circus freak. ‘My father is bigger than you,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘Try it anyway.’

I slipped the jacket on, to her excessive merriment

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Keep it on, anyway. Put on the suit.’

‘How about your father.’

‘He cannot mind. It is only till yours is dry. Go in the next room. Oh, little merchant, you will have to grow!’

I was beginning to tire of this description, and also of the massive, humorous girl. There didn’t seem much else to be done, however. I went in the next room and changed into the enormous trousers, and shuffled back in them, nerving myself for the expected peals of laughter.

They didn’t come. She was sitting on the floor near the electric fire, and smiled only sombrely when I appeared. ‘So. This is the last time we meet, Nicolas.’

I said, ‘Not necessarily,’ half-heartedly, and sneezed again.

‘You had better have a drink. You are cold. The coffee isn’t ready yet.’ She got up and fetched a bottle of slivovitz from a cupboard and poured me out a glass. It was fiery stuff with a mule-like though humanizing kick. I took a less jaundiced look round the room. It was quite large and tastefully furnished. There was a balalaika on a small table.

‘Is that your father’s instrument?’

‘No, no. He is a cello. The balalaika is mine.’

‘How about a tune?’

‘I don’t feel for it. I will see to the coffee.’

I didn’t feel much like a tune myself. My suit was steaming away on a chair. It was two minutes to twelve. I wondered how the hell I was going to get back. I thought it would have to be a taxi. I had noticed a phone in the hall. I finished the slivovitz and put the glass down and sat down in an easy chair, wishing with all my heart that I was tucked up snugly in the Slovenska awaiting the morning chimes and the ten o’clock plane.

She came in with the coffee, and we drank it rather silently.

‘Another glass of slivovitz? Your suit is not yet dry.’

‘Thanks.’

She had one herself, and raised the glass. ‘To the success of your business, Nicolas.’

I couldn’t think of much to say to this, and merely raised mine with a cheerful nod.

‘Do you think you will really come back?’

‘Well, it’s possible. In business you never can tell.’

‘When could it be?’

‘Hard to say. Quite soon, perhaps. I
would
like to hear you play the balalaika,’ I said, to change the noisome conversation.

She smiled moodily and picked up the instrument and sat down on the rug and began to play. It was a Slovak song my mother sometimes hummed, and presently she began to sing. It was something about pine trees and love and death. I listened, at first pleasantly surprised, and then astonished. She sang wonderfully, a husky, thrilling voice, mournful, perfectly attuned to the dolorous rhythm.