stucco of the Mala Strana, pale yellow in the sun that first day, had turned dark, a dirty mustard.
The gallery seemed to be arranged chronologically, so that the rooms began in the Middle Ages, static allegories with pudgy Slavic babies and soldiers holding lances and spiked shields, Christ rising from his coffin, his feet still dripping blood from the crucifixion nails. Artists painted what they saw; here they’d seen atrocities, a culture of occupation.
He looked around for his father, but the rooms were empty. A guard, bored, stared at his feet. Nick thought he should wait near the entrance, but the room was oppressive and he moved along to the next-Italian, flesh pink with light, bowls of fruit. What would he say today? Another theory of history?
Nick found him in the room beyond, staring at a picture. He smiled when he saw Nick and lifted his hand to touch him, then withdrew it. They stood there awkwardly, a chance meeting in public. Nick glanced at the painting.
“The fatted calf,” his father said, following his eyes. “A lot to expect, don’t you think? After all that.”
“The prodigal,” Nick said automatically.
“You see how happy everyone is? Even the jealous brother.” His father smiled shyly. “Maybe that’s why we have stories. So things come out better.” He paused. “It means wasteful, you know, not wandering. He wasted his inheritance, his gifts. Well.” He turned to Nick. “So you got back all right? Anna was worried. We don’t have much time,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’m sorry. There’s a service for Frantisek’s brother. I have to go. It would be noticed.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“A tourist? That wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said gently. “They’ll all be there, watching. To write about Masaryk after all these years-everything about him is still political. Even a funeral.”
“Then why go? Won’t you be-”
“I have to go, for Frantisek. He and Anna were children together. If we don’t go, it’s political. It would mean that we knew what he was doing. Not just writing stories.”
“I thought everyone knew. He said-”
His father nodded. “Now we pretend we didn’t. Welcome to Oz. Walk with me to the Loreto. It’s worth seeing-all the tourists go. The service isn’t far from there. It’ll give us a few minutes.”
Nick followed him out of the room, then past the walls of impaled martyrs. “But we have to talk.”
“We will. Later.”
They were out on the cobblestoned square.
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you exactly what to say.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an envelope.
“I can’t carry anything out,” Nick said, flustered, physically drawing away from it.
His father looked at him, then smiled, holding out the envelope. “No. These are tickets, for tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Benny Goodman. They’re hard to get. Everyone wants to see Benny. Nothing changes, you see.”
Nick said nothing, feeling teased. An evening out.
“I didn’t know he was still alive,” he said finally. They were crossing the square toward the Czernin Palace. There were no cars.
“Oh yes. He’s very popular here-we’re a little behind. His goodwill tour. You’ll enjoy it. We can eat afterward.”
Nick stopped, annoyed. “Look, I need to talk to you.”
“I know,” his father said, putting a hand on his arm. “You’re worried. There’s no need. You’ll see.” He continued walking. “This is where Masaryk was killed, by the way.” He indicated the high palace walls. “In the interior courtyard.”
“They found the lighter,” Nick said suddenly.
“What lighter?” his father said, still walking.
“Yours. The one Mom gave you.”
Now he stopped, his face bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“They found it in the hotel room. That night. It’s in the police report.”
His father frowned, as if he’d misunderstood, then looked away, thinking to himself. Nick watched him as he stared at the ground, apparently at a loss. Was he thinking of what to say?
“That’s interesting,” he said finally, but not to Nick, working instead on some interior puzzle.
“Is that all you can say?” Nick said, thrown by his response.
“But how is that possible?” his father said, again to himself.
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“A police report? But it’s a mistake. The FBI handled the case, not the police.” He paused, still thinking. “Of course they would have been called first. At the hotel. But the FBI took it over. It was a Bureau case always. There’s nothing like that in their file.”
“How do you know?”
His father looked up at him. “Because I’ve seen it. Don’t you think I would have remembered that? Why would they leave it out?” He shook his head. “It’s a mistake.”
“No,” Nick said. But what made him so sure? “It’s in the police report. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? You can’t go back. They know.”
“Know what?” He looked at him again. “Oh, I see. I left it there. After I-” He paused, a new idea. “Is that what you think?”
“You tell me.”
“Nick, how could I have left it? I already told you-”
“You don’t tell me anything. Except what you want me to hear.”
“I’ll tell you again,” his father said quietly. “I wasn’t there.”
“Then how do you explain this?”
“I can’t.” He looked down. “I don’t know what it means. I have to think.”
“Let me know what you come up with. But maybe you should think twice about traveling. They think you were there. The statute of limitations doesn’t run out on this.”
His father touched Nick’s elbow. “You know who was there. We’ll find him. Trust me.” The cord again, pulled tighter.
“No questions asked,” Nick said. “I’m not supposed to know what’s going on. You said last night you had something valuable. What? Or am I not supposed to know that either?”
“It would be better.”
“No. I need to know what you’re doing. What I’m doing. You need to trust me. I’m not just a messenger.”
“No,” his father said. “You’re the key to everything.”
Nick stared at him.
“Listen to me, Nick. They’re not going to accuse me of anything. Not some old crime.” He glanced up. “Which I didn’t commit. They’re going to ask for me.”
“They’re what?”
“How else do you think this can work? A rescue mission to smuggle me out? I’m not worth an international incident. The Americans would never do that. It has to be a trade, a quiet trade. I can’t escape-think what that would mean for Anna. I have to go legally. A plane from Ruzyne. With the comrades waving.”
“What’s the trade?”
“They can offer Pentiakowsky, a prize catch. For one broken-down defector. Do you think Moscow would resist such a deal?”
“Why would they do that?” Nick said, trying to follow the thread. “Why would they ask for you in the first place?”
“Because you asked. You and your mother. A humanitarian request. You came to see me-I know, all this secrecy, but that’s only for now, until we’re ready. Once the arrangements start, it’s in their interest to protect me. They’ll have to know you were here so the story makes sense. There’s always the personal element, even in politics. You were shocked by what you saw. My health. I need an operation. That’s true, by the way, I do. They know that. I can’t get it here. So the trip would have a certain appeal, even to a dedicated old socialist. How we
