by Joseph Kanon
When he heard the footsteps behind him, he froze. Had someone been watching? The steps grew nearer, then passed-a man in a long winter coat, glancing at Nick out of the corner of his eye. He stopped a little farther along and turned, and Nick waited for him to speak, but instead he whistled, and then Nick felt the dog sniffing at his feet. The man said something, presumably apologizing for the dog, then called and began to walk again, looking back once over his shoulder, suspicious. Nick smiled to himself, relieved. What if everything were just as it seemed? A man with a dog. A friendly invitation to tea. Maybe she did like to talk about books, ordinary after all, just a dumpy woman with a magical name. Maybe they were all what they seemed here. Except his father.
He turned down the hill, toward the Mala Strana, replaying the conversation in his head. Easier not to know them. Was he any different? He remembered them shooting blindly into the jungle, everyone in his platoon, ten minutes of random fire. And then the odd stillness afterward, no sound at all, his ears still ringing. You couldn’t trust yourself there either, all of your senses on alert. A twig snapping was enough to set them off. They were lucky that day, no snipers when they located the bodies. One had been shot in the face, his jaw blown open, hanging slack with blood and pieces of bone, and Nick had stared at him, wondering if he had done it. There was supposed to be a connection, the thud of your bullet hitting a body, maybe a scream, but he hadn’t heard anything over the noise of the fire. Some actually claimed victims, like pilots after a dogfight, but they were lying. No one knew. It was easier. Later, in his safe job at the base, he walked around the airstrip with a clipboard, taking inventory on the shipments, and he would see the body bags lined up for the flight home, plastic, like garbage bags, held together with tape. He checked his list, then handed in the manifest and went for a beer. That easy, if you didn’t know them.
He stopped for a minute on the street near some scaffolding where workmen were replastering an old melon-colored facade, and he realized he was sweating. When you started thinking about it, all of it came back, even the heat.
He followed the streets downhill, zigzagging as if he were shaking off a tail, a real spy game, so that when he reached the river he saw that he had overshot the Charles Bridge. It was warmer near the water, the trees in late bloom, and he stood for a few minutes looking at the city, couples huddled on benches, trams, everything ordinary. He started walking downstream toward the next bridge. Could a voice be the same if it lied? What did you trust, a muddled story full of loose ends, or an old man’s hand, the same touch, unmistakable. He stopped to light a cigarette, leaning against a tree. It was when he looked up, blowing smoke, that he saw her on the bridge.
She was standing with a man, talking down at the water, and Nick, startled, moved further behind the tree. Who did she know here? His anger surprised him, a jealousy that went through him like a quick flash of light. Jiri, whom she wasn’t going to see again. When had she arranged it? This morning while he was still asleep, drunk with sex? Nick leaned forward to see what he looked like. But he was ordinary too, his body hidden in a raincoat, his face down, a head full of brown hair. Anybody. But they’d been to bed, making private sounds, holding each other afterward. Until he’d moved on, feckless. Why see him again?
Now they seemed to be arguing, Molly shaking her head. He put his hand on her and she brushed it away. He took her by the arms, turning her toward him, saying something, but she broke away, stepping backward, and Nick realized suddenly that he had got it wrong. Not a meeting she’d wanted. She shook her head again, and Nick could imagine her refusal. No. There’s someone else. He felt a flush, possessive. There was someone else now. Was she as surprised as he had been? Maybe she was tying up her own loose ends, sure now that it had happened. The one thing you could trust. Eyes deceived, not bodies. When he had been inside her, he had felt it, a different touch, just as unmistakable.
Jiri was talking again, and Nick saw her nodding, not looking at him. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, a goodbye, and this time she didn’t resist it, letting his mouth stay next to her until he was finished and turned away. Nick saw him reach the end of the bridge and dodge across the street, not even a wave back, and felt in spite of himself a last prick of jealousy. Just an old boyfriend, but still a part of her he would never know.
He had moved away from the tree, but she continued staring at the river, absorbed, and even when she looked up her eyes went past him, not seeing what she didn’t expect. Was she thinking about what to say to him later? I saw Jiri. He imagined her voice, breezy and matter-of-fact. I mean, I was curious. Wouldn’t you be? But he’s just the same. Her face, however, was somber, not jaunty at all, and in a minute she looked at her watch and walked away. Should he follow her? There was still the afternoon. But by the time he reached the bridge she was already gone, getting on a tram, her secret safe.
She was gone for hours. He lay on the bed waiting, listening to the maids pushing their carts in the hall, gossiping in Czech.
“You’re back,” she said when she opened the door, surprised. “What happened?”
“He had to go to a funeral.”
“Oh. I wish I’d known,” she said easily. “We could have spent the day together.”
He looked at her. She wasn’t going to say a word. Why not? “Where did you go?”
“The usual. Old Town Square, the clocktower.” Not a word.
She held up a Tuzex bag. “Shopping. I got something for your father. Remy, no less. Not cheap, either, even with dollars.”
“That’s the last thing he needs.”
“I know, but it’s what he’ll want.”
“That was nice.”
“We didn’t take anything yesterday. You know, for a house present. So I figured-” She smiled at him. “I’m a well-brought-up girl.”
“You could have fooled me.”
She grinned. “Yeah. Well.”
“So you’ve been busy.”
“A little bee. What about you? Have you been here all day?”
“No. I took a walk. Down by the river.”
He watched, expecting to see her hesitate, but she was fishing for something in her bag. Not a nicker. “Look what else I got.” She held up tickets. “Laterna Magika. The hit of the Czech pavilion.”
“The Czech what?”
“You know, at Expo, in Montreal. Don’t be dense. Everybody’s heard of them. We can’t go without seeing Laterna Magika.”
“Yes, we can.”
“No, really, they’re good. I promise you. Don’t you like mimes?”
“I didn’t mean that.” He reached into his shirt pocket for the other tickets. “Benny Goodman. My father got them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s very big here. So I’m told.”
She sat next to him on the bed, taking the tickets. “What time? Maybe we can go after. Anna looks like the early-to-bed type.” She slipped the tickets onto the bed. “Okay, no Magic Lantern. He’s full of little surprises, isn’t he?”
“All the time.”
“What happened today?”
“Nothing. That was the surprise. We didn’t even get to talk.”
“So do you want to go out? Do something?”
“No.”
“Nothing?” She leaned over him. “We have the afternoon.”
“Let me think about it.”
“I only do it once, you know.”
“What?”
“Seduce you. After that you have to ask.”
He looked at her. What had she really said on the bridge?
“So ask,” she said, bending to him.
When he reached up to her he was sure again, the feel of her skin as familiar now as his own.
Chapter 11
It was late when they woke up, the bed tangled again from lovemaking, and they had to hurry to dress. The concert hall was nearby, in the New Town, and it seemed his father was right-the bright doorways were crammed with people, a mix of middle-aged suits a
nd young people in jeans. Everybody loved Benny. Prague, usually so reserved, almost sullen, had turned noisy and eager. Inside, people shouted to each other over the crush, passing beers along from the lobby bar, and Nick wondered if the high spirits themselves were a kind of defiance, if simply listening to American jazz, even thirty-year-old jazz, had become a political act. But the mood, whatever its source, was contagious, and for the first time he began to look forward to the evening, ready for a good time.
His father and Anna were already in their seats, looking slightly frumpy in the younger crowd. Why such a public meeting, where everyone could see? Or was this part of the plan too, something that could be verified later? Anna was friendly, pleased to see them, but his father seemed preoccupied, as if he already regretted having come, bothered by the noise. When the lights blinked on and off, no one paid any attention, still talking in the aisles. Then the curtains opened on the band playing ‘Let’s Dance’ and there was a roar of recognition applause and a scrambling for seats. An emcee appeared at the mike, speaking Czech, then Benny in English saying how happy he was to be here, then the opening notes of ‘Don’t Be That Way’, more applause, and the evening, in this unlikely place, began to swing.
The music was wonderful. It was the standard program-next the ‘King Porter Stomp’-but the audience made it seem fresh, their enthusiasm flowing up to the band with such force that Nick saw some of the sidemen grin, bending into their instruments to send it back. “You Turned the Tables on Me‘, with its funny, innocent lyrics. How many of them knew what the words meant? But the music, just as they always said, was its own language, and the audience was answering it, some actually tapping their feet, squirming in their seats to the beat. Nick thought they might leap up to dance, and he saw that in the back of the hall, where the bar was, some of them had. Upstairs in the ring of boxes there were men in bulky suits, Party bureaucrats, their wives fat and shining with costume jewelry, but the crowd on the floor ignored them. There were no uniforms anywhere. Just the music, an official time-out. ”Elmer’s Tune’, where the gander meandered. American music, the happiness of it, as much a part of him as childhood stories. He smiled at Molly, who was drumming her fingers.
When Goodman started the clarinet lick of ‘When It’s Sleepy Time Down South’, the notes jetting out like liquid, he turned to his father. Nick expected to see his face soft with nostalgia, but it was cramped, white, and he realized that his father hadn’t been preoccupied but worried. Even the music couldn’t reach him, wherever he was. Nick looked at him for a second, wondering what was wrong, then made himself turn back. Don’t ruin it. He’d find out later. Now they were here, not in some troubled past, not even anymore in Prague.
There was an intermission after ‘Avalon’ and he went with Molly to the bar, his father staying behind, sitting it out. The lobby was filled with smoke and spilled beer, and the crowd was even more energetic than before, loud with drink. It took a while to get the beers, then a few more minutes to find Molly. She was standing near the door, her back to him, talking to someone. For a moment Nick hesitated. Jiri again? Then she moved slightly and he saw that it was Marty Bielak. Why not? It was his music too.
“Hello,” Bielak said. “Enjoying it?”
I was, Nick wanted to say, but just nodded, handing Molly her glass.
“Of course, I remember the Meadowbrook,” Bielak said. “Before your time. Helen Ward was the vocalist then. And the Long Island Casino. That was something.”
Nick tried to imagine him young, skinny, with a date by the bandstand, raring to go.
“The good old days,” Nick said.
Bielak glanced at him. “Well, the music was good. Maybe not the days.” And then, wanting to be pleasant, “It was another time. Everybody danced. It was always dance music, you know. Not for sitting. To think I’d be here in a concert hall-”
“In Prague,” Nick finished.
“Yes, in Prague. But the music doesn’t change.”
The lights flashed, the signal to return.
“Well, it’s good you could come,” Bielak said. “A taste of home, eh?”
Did he really think this is what they still danced to? An exile’s memory, stopped in time. Nick saw his father suddenly, walking down streets he thought he knew, amazed at buildings that shouldn’t be there.
“They seem to like it,” Nick said, nodding to the crowd.
“What’s not to like? Well, it’s that time.” He tossed back his drink.
He seemed to be waiting for them, but when Nick said, “We’ll just finish these,” he nodded and said, “Enjoy. I’d better get back upstairs. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“You’re in a box?” Nick said involuntarily. With the Party men. A bird’s-eye view, to look over the crowd.
Bielak smiled weakly. “No, higher. The cheap seats.” He moved toward the stairs.
“C’mon,” Molly said, “they’re starting.”
“No. I don’t want him to see us.” A legman. “Wait a minute.”
The crowd had started yelling and clapping, and Nick heard the opening drums of “Sing, Sing, Sing.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t you think it’s funny, his running into us like that?”
“Maybe. Anyway, he has seen us, so what’s the difference? Come on.”
But he held back. Were their seats visible from the balcony? “Not yet. Give it a minute.”
“Okay. So what’s our cover?” she said mischievously. “Want to dance? Can you?”
“Can you?”
“In this crowd?” She laughed, and Nick took in the couples around them, exuberant but awkward, as if they had picked up the steps from old movies.
“Chicken,” she said, leaning into him. On the stage, the brass section stood up, horns blaring, infectious.
“Say that again.”
“Chicken,” she said, putting her hand in his to start the movement. And then suddenly he didn’t care who was there and he swung her out and they were dancing, his arm reaching over to turn her around, then lead her back, laughing at the surprise in her face. How many years had it been? You’ll never know when it will come in handy, his mother had said. Mrs Pritchard’s class, an agony on Tuesday nights. The girls tall, in flats to mitigate their growth spurts, the boys resentful, shirts never quite tucked in. When am I ever going to have to know the rumba? On boats, darling, she’d said. They dance on boats. And the lindy, another generation’s dance, learned step by step but now, like riding a bicycle, all familiar and fluid, so that he could do it fast, Molly trying to follow, arm over, then back, finally come in handy, here of all places.
He felt the heat in his face when the drum solo began, but Molly was smiling at him, excited, and they kept up with each other now, the pleasure of the movement like a kind of foreplay that made everything else disappear. He noticed vaguely that people had made space around them, watching and stamping their feet, but he kept his eyes fixed on her. The song started its false diminuendo, everything running down and building at the same time, and they danced close, keeping pace, waiting for the break. Sweating. “Wow,” she said, laughing, panting a little. “No, you,” he said, meaning it, because he didn’t dance, not like this. Then it came, the sudden loud blast of the finale, irresistible, and they were dancing wildly, grasping hands to hold on, their circle of movement spinning wider to fit the music, until the dramatic up-tempo crash, the real climax, and they hung on to each other, winded, while the entire hall shook with applause. Goodman’s crowd-pleaser, the same frenzy.
The applause was for the band, not for them, but he heard it like an alarm clock, bringing him back. They were supposed to be inconspicuous, not drawing a crowd. He dragged Molly outside the circle of people and stood for a minute against the wall, catching his breath.
“Who would have thought?” she said, smiling, hanging on to him. She reached up and wiped his temple, smoothing back the damp hair.
“We’d better get back,” he said, but when he looked
up he saw that his father had come to find them and was standing there watching. He felt embarrassed, as if they’d been caught necking. Molly followed his gaze and turned.
“Did you see?” she said to his father, still smiling.
“A killer-diller,” his father said wryly. “We were wondering what had happened to you.”
“My fault,” Molly said lightly. “I couldn’t resist.”
His father looked around. “How about a cigarette?” he said. Then, to Molly, “Tell Anna we’ll be right there.”
Molly looked surprised at her dismissal, but he took Nick’s arm before either of them could say anything and led him out the door. Nick felt the night air on his sweat and shivered.
“Outside?”
“Yes,” his father said, still leading him.
“Sorry. We shouldn’t have done that.”
His father waved it aside, a matter of no importance. “Here,” he said, lighting him a cigarette. “Listen to me, Nick. Carefully, please. We don’t have much time.”
Nick leaned against the building, still sweating, and took a gulp of air. Now what?
“We have to make a change.”
“What’s wrong?” he said, alert now.
His father shook his head. “Just listen. I need you to do something for me. Tomorrow morning go to the train station and buy a ticket for Vienna-you’ll need your passport. The Berlin train at eight-ten. You shouldn’t have any trouble. An American. Even at the last minute.”
“What are you talking about?”
He put his hand up. “Just listen. If it comes up, which it shouldn’t, you had a quarrel with Molly-these things happen. Take a bag with you, what you’d take if you were leaving. After you buy the ticket, go to the men’s room, the one near the platform. First stall on the right as you enter. You leave the ticket there-an accident, but you don’t realize it. You don’t miss it until the train is about to leave, so you retrace your steps, but you can’t find it. Too late. You don’t report it. But missing the train-maybe it’s a sign you should make up. So you go back to the hotel. You do make up-no need to take the train after all. But leave that afternoon. Drive to Vienna. Don’t stay in Prague any longer.” He paused, as if he’d forgotten a detail in the rush. “Don’t talk to anybody at the station. That’s important. You don’t see me, not even if we’re alone there. Do you understand?”