So small. The tall body reduced to a bowl of ash. He could hold it in his hands.
“Perhaps you would bury it somewhere he liked. At the country house.”
“It was sold,” Nick said numbly.
But no list. In a minute he would have to go, turn his back on the flat for good, leaving the list behind. But was it here? What had his father said? The echo again. There isn’t time now. But why wouldn’t there be time if it had been here in the flat with him? He was careful. The passport had been safe with Anna Masaryk. Not at the flat.
“Nicholas, do you hear me?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“If it’s not possible in the country, then wherever you think best.” She handed him a slip of paper. “This is the document. You’ll need it for customs, so they won’t open it. It’s sealed.”
Why tell him that? Was she afraid they’d violate the remains, spilling ashes in a clumsy search through the luggage?
“I can’t take this.”
“You must.” Her eyes on him, an order. She nodded. “For him.”
Unless it wasn’t just ashes. He stared at her. His father had sent her away that night. Visiting relatives, or a last errand? Now that she had it, she’d be careful too, speaking in code for the listening walls. He looked down at the urn again, his hands clammy on the cool metal. Sealed. Was it possible? His father would carry it out after all. “Thank you,” Nick said finally.
“Be careful with it. The seal is easy to break.”
“I understand.” Another glance. “So he told you.” She looked hard at him, her face as closed as it had been at the police station. “Nothing,” she said.
She led him out of the room. At the door, when he leaned to embrace her, she stepped back awkwardly, extending her hand instead. “ Na shledanou,” she said, using Czech to move away, no longer connected to him.
He carried the urn all the way back to the hotel, covering it with his raincoat, not risking a tram. The room was empty, and he locked the door before he sat down at the writing desk. He looked at the urn for an edge of wax or plastic, but there was nothing but the lid. Maybe the seal was only a tightly fitted groove, like the top of a jam jar. He took the urn and tried to twist the cover, his hand slipping on the smooth metal. A handkerchief. He gripped it and tried to unscrew the top. What did you do with jars? Run the top under hot water. Tap it with a knife. He squeezed again, straining, putting his weight into it. Then a tiny jerk, a loosening, and the lid began to turn slowly. He followed it around, then turned again. Easier now, coming off. He lifted the cover and looked in. Not the black- and-white ash of a fireplace, different. An unexpected brown mixed with gray.
He stared at the urn, queasy again. Human ash. He touched it gently, as if it might still be warm, but it was cool, so fine that it left a smudge, like cigarette ash. He pulled back his hand. He took a pen from the writing pad, poked it in, and stirred. It wouldn’t be paper. Film. His father had said you could copy things on film, even a whole manuscript, like Frantisek’s brother’s. He pushed the pen through the brown-gray ash, as light as powder but dense, as if the pen were moving through fine sand. Better to think of it as anything except what it was.
A clink, something hard. He worked the pen around and hit it again. Impossible to bring it up like this. He reached in with two fingers and pushed the ash aside, searching for the round cylinder. Then he felt it, smooth. He drew it out, careful of the ash, and looked at it. A piece of bone. He dropped it back in the ash, his stomach jumping, then took the pen again and poked more frantically. Another piece of bone. Once more through the ash, knowing now that it wasn’t there but unable to stop. No film. His father hadn’t told her. It’s here, he’d said, tapping his head.
Nick took the pen out, covered with ash, feeling sick. Then he looked at his fingers, covered the same way, dirty with it, and ran to the bathroom and held his hand under the running tap until the smudges washed away, coloring the water like faint gray blood. He stood against the basin for a moment, breathing hard, ashamed. His hands in it, digging, like a grave robber.
But the list had to be somewhere. His father hadn’t intended to rely on memory. He knew they’d want more. There just hadn’t been time to get it. Nick went to the desk again, staring at the urn as he screwed the top back on. Bury it somewhere he liked. The country house. A formal name for a simple cabin. Reproduced here, a private place away from the prying world. Of course. Not with another Anna Masaryk, around the corner. But there wouldn’t have been time for a run to the country. He’d have to leave without it. So it must still be there, waiting to be found. Where? Nick felt the pricking at the back of his head. Simple, if you knew him. People don’t change. And if he was wrong? A wild goose chase. But with no other options, it was worth, at least, a try.
He left Molly a note-‘back later, don’t worry’-and rushed out of the room. He’d have to hurry to get back before dark. He ran down the stairs, making a plan-could he lose the watchdogs in the back streets? — so that he missed the expression on the desk clerk’s face when he asked him to call the garage.
“But the police have the keys, Pan Warren. There is some problem with repairs, I think. Were you planning to leave Prague?”
Nick imagined for a second the clerk’s hand on the phone, ready to send out the alarm.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s just the trams. I suppose I can take a taxi.”
“Of course. Shall I call for you?”
“I’ll find one,” Nick said vaguely. Why had he thought they’d let him go? He stood in the middle of the lobby, knowing the desk clerk was watching him but unable to move. There had to be a way. In America there would be fleets of rental cars and drivers for hire, but movement was a luxury here, the great privilege in a country under house arrest. He thought of Jeff, tearing easily through Prague with his close-shaven Marine. Who else?
His eyes scanned the room and stopped at the entrance to the bar, where Marty Bielak was already perched on his stool. Who would want to stay closer? His legman, tempted with a scoop.
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s just that I don’t know anyone else to ask.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to borrow a car. Just for a few hours. I’ll pay for the gas. Mine’s in for repairs.”
Bielak looked at him, waiting for more.
“I need to get something. You know Walter Kotlar was my father.”
Bielak said nothing, too interested to pretend he hadn’t known.
“He wanted me to have something. You know, a memento. But it’s in the country, and I don’t have any way to get there. Would you mind? I’d really appreciate it.”
“I’ll take you,” Bielak said, almost eagerly.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No, I do. See, over here-you’re a foreigner. We can’t lend-” He paused, apologetic.
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m just taking up space here. Let me get this.” He put some money on the bar. “Sorry to hear about it, by the way. To go that way. Sad. Must be hard for you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“At least I got to see him again. That’s something, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you want anybody to know? If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, collecting the change.
“He didn’t want it. He was afraid-you know, if the press got hold of it. He wanted it to be just family.”
“I heard he was sick.” Bielak hesitated. “Is that why he did it?” A trial balloon for the party line.
Nick nodded. “I suppose. I don’t know.”
“No. We never do, do we, when they go like that. Not really.”
“No, not really.”
Bielak got up from the stool. “What did he leave you, anyway? That we’re going to pick up. If you don’t mind my asking.”
“What? What would he have left? ”The Order of Lenin,“ Nick said, leaving Bielak, for once, with no reply.
Outside, he saw the tails come to attention, their faces registering surprise at Bielak’s appearance.
