Berenblum’s, a block away. She had been slicing bread when they rang the bell and, alarmingly, answered the door with the knife still in her hand, but she had rooms.
“ Zwei Zimmer,” she said to Molly.
Nick, who understood this much, said, “Tell her we only need one.”
“ Zwei Zimmer,” she repeated, glowering at him and pointing at Molly’s ringless finger.
“Two rooms,” Molly said. “She’s worried about my virtue. If she only knew. Cheer up, though, we get to share a bath, and you never know where that’s going to lead. Want to get the bags? She already thinks you’re a pig, so try to be polite.”
Frau Berenblum nodded through this, evidently because she thought Molly was asserting herself. Then, knife still in hand, she guided Molly up the stairs, leaving Nick to play porter.
The rooms were spotless and plain, down quilts rising high on the beds like powder puffs, but the bathroom was wonderful, with an old Edwardian box tub with rows of colored bath salts along its shelf, and after dinner Molly claimed it, soaking for what seemed hours. When she finally appeared at his door, her head wrapped in a towel turban, Nick was half asleep, nodding over the map. Then it was his turn to sit in the tub, listening to the sounds below — the slap of dough on the wooden table as Frau Berenblum kneaded tomorrow’s bread, the faint background of radio music. He wondered if she were listening too, cocking her ear for the telltale creak of springs. It was absurd. They weren’t tourists. They were wasting time.
He could smell the dope as he passed Molly’s door, and paused, not believing it. He tapped lightly, more aware than ever of the lights downstairs, and opened the door, still hoping it was his imagination.
She was sitting on the bed painting her toenails, small wads of cotton wedged between her toes, and she looked toward the door in surprise. The flannel had been replaced by silk, held at the back by two thin straps and cut low in front, and as she leaned over to apply the polish her breasts seemed on the verge of tipping out of the fabric. She had hiked the skirt up to mid-thigh to keep it out of the way, so that her entire leg was exposed in an arch of flesh.
He stopped for a moment, taking her in. It was the first time, in all the flirting and awkward sleeping arrangements, that he had really wanted her, wondered what it would be like to run his hand along her inner thigh, where she would be warm, quick to the touch. Then he saw the ashtray on the bed, the bulky home-rolled joint, a thin stream of sweet smoke still rising from the tip.
“Are you crazy?” he whispered.
She angled her head toward the open window. “It’s okay.”
“She’ll smell it. I smelled it.”
She grinned. “You think she’s with the DEA?”
“It’s not funny. Christ. You brought it? Over the border?”
She nodded, a little surprised at his anger. “Tampax. They never look. Never. It’s okay.” She swung around on the bed, dropping her leg so that she faced him in the low-cut nightgown, her skin white. He looked at her, an involuntary glance, then moved over to the ashtray.
“It’s not okay,” he said, putting out the joint. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to get rid of it, that’s why. When were you planning to dump it? Just before we hit the iron curtain?”
“Iron curtain,” she said. “It’s just a border.”
“I don’t believe this,” he said, his voice rising. “If you want to spend some time in a Communist jail, save it for your next trip. Did you ever think what might happen if you got caught? To both of us?”
“All right, stop yelling at me.” She went over to the cosmetic bag, took out a tampon, and tossed it on the bed. “There.”
“Is that all of it?”
“Would you like to search me?” she said, spreading her arms.
“Christ, that’s all we need, to get nailed for drugs. Then what?”
She walked over to the bedtable and lit a cigarette, annoyed now. “I don’t know. You’ve got connections. Maybe your father would get us off.”
“That’s not funny.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m sorry. What do you want? I thought it wouldn’t matter. It’s not legal in the States either, you know.”
“We’re not in the States. We’re in fucking Austria, with Lisa Koch downstairs and a trip to Husak’s workers’ paradise just down the road. They put people in jail for reading Playboy, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, they don’t.”
“You know what I mean. You want to test them? ”Welcome to Czechoslovakia — you’re busted.“ Christ, Molly, what were you thinking?”
“All right. You made your point. Go flush it down the toilet.” She walked over to the open window. “Boy Scout.”
As she stood by the window, he could see the length of her, the filmy material of her nightgown outlining the lean body, and he bounced between being aroused and irritated, his senses made alert by contradiction, as if the air around him were scratchy. It always seemed to work this way with her, feeling taunted and protective at the same time, then becoming impatient with himself for being distracted. He saw, looking at her, that it wasn’t going to go away, the static, and that most of it was coming from somewhere outside them, the larger interference of the trip and what he would find. Meanwhile, they rubbed against each other, not sure why they were nervous in the first place.
“Sorry,” he said, quietly now. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”
He picked up the tampon and walked toward the door.
“Nick?” She came over to him, a peace gesture, and held out her palm. “I’ll do it. What if Frau Berenblum’s out there?” She smiled. “How would you explain this?”
He handed it to her. “I was looking at the map before. If we backtrack to Freistadt, we can head straight up to Dolni Dvoriste tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she said quickly. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” he said, puzzled at her reaction.
“We’re supposed to be in Vienna. I thought we had to keep to a schedule. You know. Anyway, don’t we have reservations?”
“We’ll cancel. Change of plan.” He turned away from her. “I want to get this over with. We can see Vienna later.”
“But-” She paused. “Are you angry? About the dope? Is that what it is?”
He shook his head. “Forget it. I just want to get there, Molly. Don’t you? What’s so important about Vienna?”
She looked down, at a loss. “Nothing, I guess. It was the plan, that’s all. A little more time.”
“We can be in Prague tomorrow. We’re so close. A drive away. I used to think it was impossible-to go there-and it’s just a drive away.”
“Only from this direction,” she said.
They had their last salad in Freistadt and drove to the border through gently sloping, wooded country, still and empty during the long rural lunch time. He had expected the road to the border to be grim, but the land was placid and rich, neat farms and stretches of old forest promising mushrooms. Then the road curved and the woods fell away and they were looking across a long cleared tract to the checkpoint. Beyond it another empty stretch rose uphill to the Czech crossing. In these open fields it would be impossible to hide.
Without thinking, Nick slowed down, already intimidated. He looked at the guardhouse, the tall watchtower, fences of barbed wire, all the props. But real to them. If you ran out across the field, you would be shot. The Austrian farms ran right up to the border like some jaunty declaration of freedom, but on the Czech side the land was empty. Just the fence. There would be searchlights at night. The guards, playing by the rules, wouldn’t hesitate for a minute. So you kept away, behind the other side of the forest. Maybe nobody ever came this close, to see the elaborate watchtower. If you don’t see the bars, you can pretend you’re not in a cage.
The Austrian border police were bored and perfunctory, stamping their passports and waving them through. Nick wondered how useful they’d be to any escapees. He put the car in gear and moved slowly up the broad hill,
