Appassionata

The girl clasped her hands

‘I know I have years of hard work in front of me, Maestro, I am willing to practise eight hours a day and more. All I want to know is if you think I can ever make it as a soloist.’

Rannaldini examined his fingernails.

‘Not in a million years,’ he said smoothly. ‘You will be able to give your friends and your family a lot of pleasure, I advise you to leave eet at that.’

‘You were a bit rough on that poor kid,’ reproved Helen.

‘I save her ten years of wasted time,’ said Rannaldini.

They were sitting in a little cafe in the main square which looked like an Ideal Home Exhibition of best architecture down the ages. They had breakfasted on croissants, damson jam, slivers of cheese, rolled-up slices of ham with cream billowing out of each end like brandy snaps and black expresso laced with cognac.

‘Usually I go off my food if I’m attracted to a man,’ said Helen, sounding perplexed. ‘But when you’re around I seem to eat like a labrador.’

‘That’s because the strict doctor,’ Rannaldini ran a leisurely hand up her thigh into her groin, ‘has ordered his little patient to start eating again.’

Helen flushed, horrified she should have been so wildly exhilarated by last night’s games.

Rannaldini waved for the bill.

‘Come. I have one hour to show you Prague. Let us go to Charles Bridge which, thank God, is closed to cars.’

As they walked down to the river Helen gave a cry of joy. On the opposite bank the old city stretched itself luxuriously in the first sunshine of the day. All higgledy piggledly, cupolas, turrets, domes, roofs and spires in soft pink, ochre, peppermint-green and drained turquoise, rose like casually stacked stage-sets. Against the blue skyline was a cathedral with a faded sea-green dome topped with a gold star, next to it stood a tawny castle with crenellated battlements like a child’s fort.

‘Who lives there?’

‘Havel,’ said Rannaldini smugly, ‘I dine with heem on Thursday.’

But most breathtaking of all was the river itself. Mist was rising filling the great arches of the bridges, curling in wisps over the icy water. The result was a million shifting shadows. The trees and the houses on the bank cast different shadows on the mist and the moving water. The shadows of the mist, wisps themselves, and the swans and ducks gliding in and out of these wisps, cast and received shadows of their own.

‘Everywhere Zeus is searching for Leda,’ said Rannaldini softly. ‘And see how the sooty black statues across the bridge cast the darkest shadows of all.’

Furious not to have mugged up the city and because Malise had always praised her recitations, Helen launched into The Tempest.

‘The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.’

‘This rake is not going to be left behind,’ mocked Rannaldini, putting his arm through hers to lead her over the bridge.

‘You are getting cold. The Russians may have left Prague, but icy wind still blow straight from Moscow.’

Sixties music was belching out of a loud speaker. The people pouring over the bridge, as if to repudiate any accusation of Communist drabness, wore brilliant collars: violet, turquoise, shocking pink, but their bulky anoraks and strap-under-trousers looked very out of date.

As the mist thinned in the sunshine, the river seemed to be strewn with cobwebs. The statues, on the other hand, were covered in real, frozen cobwebs, which glittered on the sad, strong Slav face of Christ on the cross like a veil of tears.

‘I theenk of Prague as Sleeping Beauty that’s only just awaked. Two sleeping beauties,’ Rannaldini turned and kissed Helen’s lips, his dark glasses only an extension of his black impenetrable eyes. ‘And last night you awake.

‘There’s St Christopher.’ Moving on, he pointed to more statues. ‘And St Cyril and St Barbara, patron saint of miners. Kafka wrote story about bridge, describing her beautiful hands. The statues ’ave to be restored and rebuilt every year.’

‘Like a face lift,’ said Helen.

‘You will never need one,’ Rannaldini touched her cheek, ‘You have eternal youth.’

They had reached the centre of the bridge. Upstream the river still steamed like a race horse. Downstream it was as smooth and green as creme de men the with a striped pink pleasure launch chugging towards them, and cafes with their umbrellas down on the bank.

‘Now we come to Prague’s most famous saint, St John of Nepomuk,’ said Rannaldini, ‘who was the Queen’s confessor in fourteenth century. Her husband, King Wenceslas IV, was a thug. The story about him setting out in snow with page boy, wine and pine logs to cheer up some peasant, ees balderdash.’ Rannaldini’s eyes creased up with malicious laughter. ‘This Wenceslas was insanely jealous of his beautiful wife and torture her confessor to reveal her secrets. When Nepomuk refuse, Wenscelas pull out poor man’s tongue and chuck him in river.

‘But,’ Rannaldini pointed to a brass plaque set into the side of the bridge, showing the unfortunate monk being heaved over the side, ‘where he land, five bright gold stars spring out of river, and hover there until Nepomuk’s dead body was fished out.

‘This is spot where he went in.’ Picking up Helen’s hand, Rannaldini placed it on ajagged gold cross on top of the bridge wall. ‘Over centuries lovers come to touch the cross together,’ Rannaldini spread his big hand over hers, ‘in the hope that their love will last and prosper.’

Burying his face in Helen’s neck, he breathed in the last vestiges of Jolie Madame.

‘Now you know why I breeng you here.’

‘What a beautiful story,’ sighed Helen, glancing back at the plaque, ‘the body of the poor monk is bright gold, too.’

‘That is where people have rubbed his body for luck over the centuries.’ Rannaldini stretched out his hand, idly caressing the upside-down Nepomuk.

The plaque also showed the Queen making her confession to Nepomuk through a grill. Nearby her cruel handsome husband idly stroked an adoring lurcher. But the tension in his body showed how hard he was listening. How often during her first marriage had Helen lurked on landings and outside rooms trying to overhear Rupert making assignations?

‘The King even looks like Rupert,’ she was thinking aloud now. ‘He’s got the same Greek nose and long eyes.’

‘He love his dog more than his wife,’ teased Rannaldini.

‘I nearly cited Rupert’s dog Badger as co-respondent,’ said Helen bitterly.

‘I think you are more in mourning for your first marriage than the second,’ mocked Rannaldini.

‘My first one nearly destroyed me. I can’t go back to that again.’

The mist had almost disappeared. Upstream a flotilla of air balloons hung like teardrops. Artists were setting up easels. A street musician playing ‘Lili Marlene’ on the accordian was tipped with unusual generosity by Rannaldini.

‘We could have done with you in the orchestra last night, my friend.’

‘Thank you, Maestro.’

‘How good you are to everyone,’ sighed Helen.

‘One more saint.’ Rannaldini led Helen beyond the bridge and down some stone steps to the water’s edge on which stood a lone statue of a slim young knight with a lion at his feet and a gold sword glittering in his hand.

‘Now listen carefully,’ Rannaldini paused in front of the statue. ‘St Brunswick save the lion from a cruel and wicked dragon. Consequently the lion became Brunswick’s devoted companion and also the symbol of Prague. Brunswick’s job was to guard the city.’