Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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“He’s all right. He wants us to leave separately,” he said to Molly outside.

“He doesn’t look all right.”

“I know. He’s been sick.”

“You look a little shaky yourself,” she said, studying him.

He led her toward the last of the crowd funneling through the garden door.

“I can’t stand it,” she said. “What did he say? What did you talk about?”

He looked at her, unprepared. Why not tell her?

“He’s not just sick. He thinks he’s dying. That’s why he wanted to see me,” Nick said, surprised at how easily it came out. It had begun already, the convenient half-truths, covering tracks.

“Oh,” she said, deflated. Then, an afterthought, “I’m sorry. How do you feel?”

“Ask me later. Right now, I’m not sure.”

The street was a small eddy of Tatras and Skodas, loud motors and clunky headlights shining on the cobblestones. In the square a large crowd bundled in coats waited for late trams. Instinctively, Nick headed away, toward the bridge, where couples were still loitering by the statues.

“What else did he say?” Molly said. “I mean, why doesn’t he want anyone to know you’re here? What difference would it make?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want anybody to know he’s sick. You summon the family, it’s a land of tip-off. I don’t know.”

She shook her head. “There’s something else.” But when he stopped and looked down at the water, she let it go, sensing his reluctance.

“This is the way cities used to look,” he said. “Just enough light to see where you’re going.” A delayed thought from the walk over, when he had taken in the streets without ads and lighted shops, just corner lights like sconces and recesses that were really dark.

“Nick? What was it like, seeing him? Do you mind my asking?”

He turned to her. “It was easy. It was him.” He looked back at the mist gathering along the surface of the river. Soon everything would be covered, insubstantial. He glanced over his shoulder as if he could catch a last glimpse of his father on the streets twisting up to Hradčany, a proof he’d really been there. “All this time. For years–years –I thought he was, I don’t know, on the other side of the moon or something. But he’s been here. In an apartment.

“All you have to do is drive in, spend a few dollars. All this time.”

She put her hand on his arm. “He hasn’t always been here.”

“Moscow, then,” he said, a little annoyed. “What’s the difference? The point is, he’s been somewhere. I could have seen him. They stamp a passport. That’s it. What did I think it was? Some fucking Checkpoint Charlie? I could have seen him, not waited until he was sick. So why didn’t I?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Nick, you’re not the one who left.”

Nick nodded. “I know.” He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and handed her one. “He wrote to me.”

“Wrote to you?” Her face was caught in the glare of the match.

“In the beginning. He says. Anyway, I never got them.” He lit his own and exhaled a long stream, looking back at the water. “It’s like I missed a train. And I don’t know why.”

She took his arm, leading him away from the railing. “Come on. You’re tired,” she said, her voice familiar, as if they were already a couple. “Maybe this wasn’t as easy as you thought.”

Karlova fed into the Old Town Square, where the clock was ringing to nearly deserted streets. There were no cars; the town had reverted to its medieval life. He could hear the click of her heels. Like him, the city was brooding and quiet, slipping back into its own past.

They were on one of the side streets that led toward the lights of Wenceslas when they heard the whistle, an urgent shriek of authority, and the clomp of boots, the sounds of a dozen war movies. Two figures were racing toward them, chased by a group of uniforms. Shouts, indistinguishable words, a Gestapo bark, and then the whistle again, flying toward them like a pointed finger. Nick froze. The sound of fear, always directed at you, so that even when it was merely overheard, you felt caught too. Here, in the foreign street, it had the anxious confusion of a bad dream–it was coming to get you. Shoes cracked against the pavement.

Before the men were halfway down the street, he felt a yank, Molly pulling him into the dark shadow of a doorway. She put her arms around his neck, drawing him to her, and the figures at his back became lost, just a background sound rushing past while they pretended to be lovers. No one stopped. He heard the boots, more shouts, all of his senses alive now with the adrenalin release of the whistle. Her breath was on the side of his face and suddenly he smelled her–skin, not perfume–and felt her against him, a touch as loud and surprising as the whistle. He kissed her almost by reflex, not thinking about it, and the kiss was surprising too, immediate and natural, like the smell of her, so that when he pulled back to look at her he seemed puzzled, not sure how it had happened.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, her voice low in her throat, as if they were still hiding from the police.

He leaned into her again, and this time the kiss was sexual. Her mouth opened to him and he could feel his body react, another reflex, unwilled. He moved his hands behind her, low, and she let him pull the curve of her closer, until she was pressed against him, warm beneath her clothes. She drew a breath, a swimmer’s gulp, before his mouth was on her again, pressing now, the kiss itself a kind of entry. She gave in to it, her mouth rubbing against his, then pushed away, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“No, don’t,” she said, a whisper, still catching her breath.

“I thought—”

“So did I.” She shook her head, then looked up at him. “It’s different.”

He said nothing, the silence an open question.

“You have other things on your mind.”

“Not now, I don’t.”

She smiled a little, then put her hand on the side of his face. “Yes, you do. No complications, remember?”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” he said, moving closer, but she held him away.

“It will be, though. I’m not as easy as you think, either.”

He stared at her, then dropped his hands.

“Come on,” she said, moving into the street. “The police must be breaking up the demonstration. We don’t want to get caught in that.”

“Sorry,” he said, embarrassed to hear the sulk in his voice.

She turned. “No, don’t. It’s not that. It’s just not right. Not now.”

“Is that a rain check?”

“I guess.” She looked up, biting her lip. “But things never work that way, do they?”

They walked without touching, keeping a space between them, but when they reached the long sweep of Wenceslas, alive with lights and patrolling soldiers, she took his hand again, slipping them back into their roles. The students with candles were bunched near the mounted statue, surrounded by police, who appeared to be moving them off one by one. The chase in the alley must have started this way, a sullen resistance that broke ranks, an unexpected scuffle. Now things moved with a ritual formality. No trouble. Several of the students were holding up an enlarged photograph on a poster.

“Jan Palach,” she said, nodding at the picture. “It must be a memorial service.” He looked at her quizzically, reluctant to speak English now that there were people around. She was moving them away from the top of the street, skirting the crowd to skip across unnoticed. “He set himself on fire in January, to protest the invasion.”

Nick stopped, appalled. “Like the Buddhist monks,” he said, seeing the image before him, the shaved head and saffron robes in flames, the black gasoline smoke. But that was in another world, tropical and alien, not fairy-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 fiancée, 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.

“What did you do?”

“Do,” he said, a kind of snort. “I voted for Wallace. You didn’t have to do anything. Just have a card, you know? The summer they killed the Rosenbergs I thought, that’s it.” He stared at Nick. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Anyway, it was all a long time ago.”

“You like it here?”

The man shrugged. “Same as anywhere. What was it like living there? You couldn’t take a piss without somebody reporting it. That’s what it was like there. You think I’m kidding? My wife got fired. She’d go to work, they’d have guys following her. It got to the point—” He stopped, taking another sip. “The hell with it. You’re too young. My daughter, she couldn’t wait to see it. Last year, when you could travel, she goes to the Bronx, to the old building, and it’s crawling with Schwartzes and she says no wonder you came. She thought we lived in a slum. But it wasn’t like that then. That’s not why.”

“So you never went back?”

“What’s to go back for? Last year–well, she went. I didn’t have money for all of us. Maybe someday. Anyway, it’s all different, isn’t it? I mean, they don’t even have the Giants anymore. What’s New York without the Giants?”

“What do you do here?” Nick said, intrigued now.

“Radio. I monitor the VOA broadcasts. Well, I did. But now I’m American again. You know, after last year. Even the old Reds. But that’ll change. We’re going through an adjustment now. You have to expect that.”

A believer’s rationale, still. Nick thought of the index cards in Wiseman’s study, all the facts of the witch-hunt, which had somehow overlooked Marty Bielak in a misplaced file. This is where some of them had ended up, perched on a barstool, stranded, like debris swept up on the beach by a storm.

“Can I ask you something?” Nick said impulsively. “Why did you? In the first place?”

“What, become a Red?” He looked back at his beer. “You think we have horns? Let me tell you, we didn’t. Who else was there? You think anybody cared about the working man? Anti-Semites playing golf. That’s what it was then. Anti-Semites playing golf.” He stared at the glass, then caught himself. “It’s the beer talking,” he said, trying an apologetic smile that stopped midway. “You ask me, you know what I’d have to say? Who else was there? That’s it.” He picked up the glass. “Anyway, here I am talking –it’s good, you know, the English–and you’ve got a pretty girl to go to. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Just seeing the sights,” Nick said easily. The man nodded. “Not so many come now. Unless they have family. You have family here?”

“No.” He shook his head. “My grandmother was Polish, though,” he said, improvising. Molly was right. You could learn to do it fast, part of the other game.

“And that’s close enough,” Bielak said, laughing to himself. “You’d have to be American. They’re the only ones who think it’s the same thing.” He paused, then looked up at Nick. “Let me ask you, could you use a guide? I know this town inside out. I could use a little cash.” His voice, the brash sound of the Polo Grounds, had dropped an octave, suddenly older. Nick caught the embarrassed pleading in his eyes, still shiny with beer. “Dollars, if you have them. My sister, she still sends, but these days–I have the time.”

Nick looked at him. Not an index card. “I don’t think so. We’re only here a little while. Thanks, though.”

“Just see the castle and on your way. Okay. Don’t miss the Jewish cemetery–it’s the best thing. Sounds crazy, but it is. Well, think about it.” He reached for a pen, wrote a number on the coaster, and handed it to Nick. “If you change your mind, I can show you the stuff the tourists don’t see.” Nick heard his voice begin to slur. “A special tour. You want to see all the old Reds? That might be interesting,” he said, his voice suddenly sarcastic.

Nick stood up, putting the coaster in his pocket. “Night,” he said, almost a mumble. He threw some crowns on the bar, not bothering to count them. “Good luck.”

“Luck.” Marty Bielak winked. “We don’t need luck here. We have socialism.”

When he got to the room, Molly was still up, reading by one of the two dim bedside lamps. The flannel nightgown was back and her face glistened with cold cream, an almost comic body armor. The heavy drapes, drawn tight by the maid, still sealed the room, and he crossed to open them, hungry for air.

“What happened to you?” she said. “I was about to give up.” She closed the book and snapped off her light, leaving only the small glow by his side of the bed.

“You were wrong about that guy,” Nick said, opening the windows. “He’s an American. He lives here. It was your English.” He began unbuttoning his shirt, looking down at the street lamps.

“Lives here? You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, Nick,” she said in mock exasperation. “Who do you think hangs around the Alcron bar talking to foreigners?”

He stopped, his hand still on the button. “You think?” he said quietly.

“Who else could afford it?” When he didn’t answer, she turned over. “Goodnight.”

He continued staring out the window, not wanting to turn around. What if she was right? What was that like? He saw Marty Bielak writing up reports on tourist conversations, taking another step for the working man. Do you have family here? Did that make it easier? Maybe cadging dollars for a tour was worse, a seduction without even the self-respect of betrayal.

The protesters had gone, just as the desk clerk had predicted, leaving behind their candles. Now the police were clearing them away, tipping over the lights until the space under the good king was empty again, a patch of dark. He’d set himself on fire. How many ways are there to take away your life? A lost family, as irretrievable as childhood. A careless exile, eavesdropping in bars. At least Jan Palach had only done it to himself. But you always take somebody with you. There must have been parents, left with a martyrdom and an empty house. And sometimes somebody did it for you, flinging you out the window before you had a chance to hold on.

Molly moved in bed, and the sound carried to him, a disturbance in the air. It pricked at him, not letting him drift, and as he raised his hand to draw on the cigarette he suddenly saw her at the window in Bern, a reverse image. Maybe she had felt it then, the same disturbance, something right here, not some feint with ghosts. Now it was his turn. He thought about her in Durnstein, then down in the bar, and he saw that they kept colliding and moving on, like electrons. What if he made the same mistake as the others? Losing everything for an idea. He stood still. In the courtyard with his father, he had felt that his life had come back to him, but it was only a piece of the past that had come back. It was the side street that had been alive with an adrenalin touch. Maybe there was no idea. Maybe it was as simple as a rustling of bedclothes that wouldn’t leave you alone, a disturbance.

No more than that. So that if you didn’t hear, it came and then, like the luck Marty Bielak didn’t need, slipped away for good.