tale Europe where people listened to Mozart in gardens. “Christ,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and scorn. “And it didn’t change a thing.”
There were shouts in the square as they reached the hotel and they ducked in quickly, finally safe in the cocoon of art nouveau woodwork and faded chairs. The usual newspaper readers had thinned out so that the few still there glanced up at once, on the alert. Molly took his arm, the clinging fiancee, and there it was again, the jarring feel of her.
“Pan Warren,” the desk clerk said, handing him the key. “You had a pleasant evening? It was not too cold for the concert?”
Nick took the key, feeling somehow watched. But of course he had arranged for the tickets. It was nothing more than the oily smoothness of a concierge with too few clients. “No. The music was wonderful.”
“Yes, it’s good, the Wallenstein. I’m sorry for the disturbance,” he said, his eyes indicating the protest outside. “It is too bad. Perhaps a drink in the bar? Our Pilsner beer is excellent. It should not be too much longer.” He glanced at his watch, as if the demonstration too had a closing time. “A half-hour at most. There will be no problem with the sleeping.” He was smiling. A weary familiarity with protests, or some more practical arrangement with the police? Business went on. Jan Palach had become an excuse for a nightcap.
“I don’t think so,” Nick said. “It’s late. Oh, I’ll need my car in the morning.”
“Your car?”
His question took Nick by surprise. He hadn’t expected to explain himself. But why couldn’t it be just a bland inquiry?
“We wanted to see Karlovy Vary,” Molly said quickly, leaning into him. “Is it too far?”
“Karlovy Vary. Yes, very beautiful. Far, but you can do it.” He looked at them hesitantly, then brought out a tourist map and marked it with his pen. “For the benzin,” he explained. “You can fill there. It’s sometimes difficult in the countryside. I’m sorry,” he said, spreading his hands, an apology for the country itself, short of fuel.
Molly was leaning over the map. Her body was still close to his, and when she leaned back she brushed against him and he felt it again, the heat on her skin. If he reached down, he could run his hand along the curve of her hip. Instead he saw them in bed, her figure turned over onto itself, away from him.
“Well, maybe one drink,” he said, nodding to the desk clerk and drawing her away to the bar.
“What was that all about?” he said as they walked.
“His brother probably owns the gas station.”
“No, Karlovy Vary,” he said carefully, trying to get it right. “Whatever the hell that is.”
“Karlsbad. It’s a spa. I couldn’t think of anything else, right on the spot.”
“You’re good at this.”
She glanced at him. “All women are,” she said lightly. “You learn to think fast. It’s just part of the game.”
“Like saying no when you mean yes?”
“Like saying no when you mean no. Do you really want a drink?”
“No, but if we go to bed now we’ll start something.”
She stopped and touched his shoulder, smiling. “Try the plum brandy, then-you’ll pass right out.”
The bar was deserted except for a short gray-haired man at the end, chain-smoking and nursing a beer. Nick had become used to the furtive glances of Prague, but this one stared openly, frankly taking Molly in, a barroom appraisal. They ordered Pilsners.
“I never know where I am with you,” Nick said, automatically lowering his voice so the words became a murmur in the room.
“That’s what you said you liked.”
“I did?”
“Well, you implied it. At the Bruces‘.”
“The Bruces‘? When was that, anyway? A year ago?”
She smiled. “At least.”
“And you had that dress.” He took a sip of beer, then put it back slowly on the coaster. “We didn’t go to bed that night either. You had a message to deliver.”
“Yes.”
“But now we’re here. End of message.” He reached over and ran his finger along hers, barely touching, but she moved it away.
“Let’s not start this, okay? It was just a kiss.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Oh, how would you know?” she said suddenly. “Has it occurred to you, you’ve had kind of an emotional day? You’re all-I don’t know. Excited. I want it to be me. Not like this. When it’s just us.”
He looked at her, surprised. Her mood seemed to come out of nowhere, a shift in the wind. “Okay,” he said quietly. He brought his hand back, but she stopped it, covering it with her own.
“Look,” she said, “when I started this, I didn’t know it was going to be you. Who you are, I mean.”
“Who I am,” he echoed, not following her.
But now she backed away, almost tossing her head to clear the air. “I want this to be over. God, I hate being here.” Then, hearing herself, she turned to her beer.
“Everybody watching. Everybody not watching. You can’t breathe. Politics,” she said, almost spitting the P.
Nick said nothing, waiting for the calm to return, a cartoon husband, lying low. “How about him?” he said finally, trying to change the subject. “He doesn’t look very political.”
“Is he watching us?” she said, not looking up.
“Well, he’s watching you,” Nick said.
She turned and the man held her gaze, studying her face as if he were trying to place her.
“You’re right,” she said, moving back to Nick. “That’s not politics. He doesn’t even pretend not to look. Men. I suppose it must work sometimes or they wouldn’t keep doing it.”
“Well, you try.”
She smiled, the squall gone. “Good luck,” she said, taking in the empty bar. She stood. “I’m going up. No, it’s all right.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Finish your beer. I’d rather pass out with a good long soak.” She stopped, hesitating. “Look, don’t mind me. I’m just nervous, I guess. About tomorrow.”
“Why?”
But she ignored the question and leaned over. “Don’t talk to strangers,” she said playfully, glancing again at the gray-haired man. “You never know.”
He turned on his stool, watching her leave.
“Fight, huh?”
At first Nick thought it was a foreign phrase, a bar order, but the voice was unmistakably New York, and he turned back to see the gray-haired man smiling at him. Nick shrugged, a universal non-answer.
“Better give in,” the man said. “No matter what it is. That’s the way it works.” He got off his stool, moving unsteadily, and it occurred to Nick that the man was drunk, hazily eager for contact. Nick took another sip of beer, anxious now to finish. “You’re American,” the man said flatly, taking the next stool. Nick raised his eyebrows, a question. “The shoes,” the man said, nodding toward Nick’s feet. He extended his hand. “Marty Bielak. Where you from?”
“New York,” Nick said, and then, because some kind of response seemed called for, “You?”
“I’m from here.”
“You live here? I didn’t know there were any Americans here.”
“A few. Of course, we’re not Americans anymore.” He paused. “Except we are. They think we are.” He was drifting into his beer. “I came over in fifty-three. Long time ago.”
“You came here?”
He smiled a little at Nick’s confusion. “I’m a Communist.”
Nick looked at him more carefully. His eyes were shiny, but the words had been flat, without belligerence.
“You’re too young. You wouldn’t know about that. They were arresting everybody then. I didn’t want to go to jail, so I came here.” He said something in Czech to the bartender, who brought him another beer.
