Not for the first time, Lydia found herself wondering why on earth Milan wasn’t a virtuoso soloist. He had everything it took, and more. There had to be a story behind his lurking in orchestral obscurity. But what was it?
By the time Milan lifted the bow from the last savage chord, a sizeable mob had gathered, whooping and whistling for more, but he bowed and handed the violin back to its owner, commanding the crowd in English to ‘Dance to the music’. Lydia’s heart flipped when he took her hand and pulled her into an energetic Bohemian peasant dance, which ended with the pair of them laughing into each other’s flushed faces, forgetful of anyone and everyone around them. Including Evgeny.
“Where is he?” asked Milan, looking around the crowd. “He was here.”
They elbowed their way through the admiring throng, the Czechs among which called out Milan’s name, until they spotted their missing cellist, fast asleep with his back to the castle wall, blocking the viewpoint for various disgruntled tourists.
“Oh dear,” sighed Lydia.
Milan simply rolled his eyes, yanked the incapable Evgeny to his feet and decanted him into the back of the nearest taxi with instructions to the driver to take him straight to the hotel, along with a bumper-sized tip.
“He’s not happy,” said Lydia, watching the yellow taxi roll over the cobbles and away.
“Neither am I,” said Milan. “Because I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
Over some kind of dumpling soup Milan had ordered for her, along with a small glass of excellent Czech beer, Lydia tried to broach the subject of Evgeny’s increasingly unmanageable jealousy, but her lover didn’t seem to want to think about it. He was too absorbed in being a citizen of Prague again, engaging the waiters in long conversations about politics and sport, judging by the few familiar names that came out of the flood of unrecognisable sounds. Lydia, locked out of the chat, watched the blue-uniformed soldiers march up to the castle for guard change.
Halfway through their meal, he turned back to Lydia and reached out to stroke a stray hair from her face.
“Am I neglecting you?” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that being back here…you know.”
“It must be strange.”
“It is strange. And good. And sad, as well. Sometimes I think I’d like to stay, then I change my mind… I don’t know. It’s hard, emotionally, you know.”
Perhaps dealing with Evgeny on top of all that was just too much, thought Lydia, understanding his attitude a little better.
“I can see why you would want to stay,” she said. “It’s so beautiful here, and so weirdly unspoilt. It’s like nothing’s changed since 1863 or something…when really your history is so full of upheaval.”
Milan made a rueful face. “I know. Nothing has stayed the same for long here, except the buildings. And our spirit. We never lose that.”
“What was it like here when you were growing up? Was it very different?”
“It was quieter. The streets are overflowing now—it wasn’t like that when I was a boy. We still had tourism, but not to this extent. It was a good place to live, but not such a happy place as now. I grew up with this fear of the secret police, always wondering if I was being watched or listened to. Which is crazy, because eight-year-old boys aren’t usually political dissidents. But it was just there, you know. This ghost hand on your shoulder.”
Lydia shivered.
Milan rattled his soup spoon against the side of his empty bowl.
“But all that’s changed now,” he said breezily. “What do you want to see next? The Charles Bridge? The Jewish Quarter? The Astronomy Clock? Maybe a trip down the river?”
Lydia almost didn’t want to ask, but she forced the words out.
“I want to go somewhere that means something to you. I want to know more about you, Milan. I feel I hardly know you at all…and I have a chance here.”
Milan said nothing, frowning at the sky for a while.
“Please,” she half whispered.
He looked back at her.
“That’s a lot to ask,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’m not the person who lived here any more. I’m not that boy. I’ve almost…cut him out of my memory.”
“That’s…sad.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.”
He looked so unhappy Lydia had to cover his hand with hers.
“It’s okay. If it’s too painful—”
“No, no.” Milan stood abruptly. “Perhaps it should be done. And I think I can trust you. Can’t I?”
“Yes.” Lydia’s heart thundered. Was she finally close to knowing this man? Was their relationship capable of reaching that higher level she craved?
He went to sort out the bill, grabbed his jacket—and Lydia—and strode out on to the cobbles, heading back down the hill to the heart of town.
At the square near their hotel, they caught a tram and Lydia pressed her face to the window, watching the stunning architecture and smiling people pass by. They crossed the river, passed through the densely packed Old Town. Then the gracious buildings, while still elegant, grew steadily more chipped and graffitied, the façades greyer and the people less cheery. It was clear that they had rapidly left the tourist heartlands, although Wenceslas Square, with all its shops and hotels, could hardly be more than a mile away.
The tram stopped in a scruffy, raffish street of bars and strip clubs.
“Come on,” said Milan. Then, once they were on the pavement, “Welcome to the Free Republic of Žižkov.”
Chapter Eleven
“This is where you grew up?”
“Yes.” He looked around. “It’s a little bit nicer than it was. I think it’s…what do you say…the next popular neighbourhood?”
“Up-and-coming,” supplied Lydia.
“Yes. Up-and-coming neighbourhood. When I was here it was a down-and-going-nowhere neighbourhood.”
He took Lydia’s hand and walked with her past students and staggering drunks, headscarved women and loitering men in ripped vests.
“But you’re an international-level violinist. This looks like a really poor area.”
“It is a really poor area.” Milan laughed. “We were really poor.”
“So…how did you get to be a famous musician then?”
He stopped and scanned a bar on the corner.
“It’s changed its name,” he said. “Let’s try it anyway. Come in and I’ll tell you.”
Inside, the bar was dark and rickety and empty save for a whistling barman drying glasses in a corner. Milan ordered them a half-litre glass of Staropramen beer each and looked around.
“It’s been painted, and the pictures on the wall are different.” He shrugged and sipped at his beer. “I grew up on this street. I got drunk in this bar the night before I left Prague.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen. They shouldn’t have served me, really. But they knew me. And, like I said, the rules are different in Žižkov. They don’t apply.”
“So…you were going to tell me how you came from here to where you are now?”
“Where I am now? I’m in Žižkov. Full circle.” He grinned wolfishly, then switched the smile off like a light. “No. I’ll tell you. I wasn’t born here. I was born a little to the south, in Vinohrady. Now, Vinohrady is a nice neighbourhood, very bourgeois, and we lived there in one of those lovely, pink-painted houses you see everywhere. There was a little garden and we had a better lifestyle than most families. Why? Because my father played in the Prague Symphony Orchestra, and our Communist overlords liked good classical musicians. Not as much as they liked good sportsmen and women, but almost as much.”
“Did your father play the violin?”
“He did. He was the leader of the orchestra, in fact. He met my mother at the Conservatoire—she played the harp. She gave up when my brother was born, though.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Yes. He is a lot older than me. Ten years older.”
&n
bsp; “Where does he live?”
“Hush, listen and I’ll tell you. So, we are all living together, as happily as a family can live under a totalitarian regime, when something happens. What happens? My brother, Jan, is a wonderful violinist also. At the age of fourteen, he is selected to compete in an international competition. This is an incredible honour and everyone is very excited for him, even me, though I am only four years old. Because he is still a boy, my father accompanies him to San Diego, USA, where the contest is being held. I don’t know if he wins or not, because they never come back.”
Lydia’s mouth dropped open. The first thing to spring to her mind was an air disaster, or some kind of terrible illness.
“What…happened to them?”
Milan shook his head and tutted. “You are so young, Lydia. You don’t know how it was. Nothing happened to them. They just didn’t come back.”
“Oh! I see! You mean they… What did they used to call it…?”
“Defected. Yes.”
“They stayed in America? Are they still there?”
“I know Jan is. He plays for some orchestra in Seattle.”
“Are you… Do you see him?”
“No.”
“And your father?”
“I don’t know. He tried to contact me last year, apparently, through my agent, but I didn’t call back.”
“So…you’re still angry about it? After all these years?”
“Hell, yes,” hissed Milan, so vehemently that Lydia flinched. “I’m still angry. Even though I’m no better than them. I was four years old, Lydia, and the son of an enemy of the state. That was my life. My mother and I lost the beautiful house and had to live in one room, here in Žižkov. It was quite a fall from grace. She tried to make a living giving music lessons, but not many people around here want to play the harp, and those in the better suburbs aren’t prepared to come here to learn.”
“But you learned the violin?”
“My grandfather taught me, before he died. I was good at it, so the state helped me. My mother hated my playing, though. She wouldn’t let me play at home. I had to practice at school or at my grandfather’s flat.”
“She wouldn’t let you play at home? That’s awful.”
“She hated all violin music after my father left. I suppose she thought it had taken everything away from her. She tried to get me to play the harp, but…” He shrugged. “I’m not a harp man. I’m a violinist, through and through. It’s what I am. I can’t be anything else.”
“That must have been a tense situation.”
“It was. She didn’t understand. She thought I was doing it to hurt her. I was doing it because it was the only happiness I had in my life.”
“What was it like, growing up here?”
“Interesting. You grew up fast and you learned a lot about survival. You got used to seeing apartments raided and people taken away. People you knew disappeared sometimes. You always needed money.”
“So you left when you were seventeen?”
“I had just been offered a place at the Prague Conservatoire. I played a piece at a concert in the cathedral and, afterwards, a man in the audience asked me if I was interested in studying in Paris instead.”
“Oh!”
“I took him up on the offer. It was the year after the Velvet Revolution, so cross-border travel was not a problem any more. My mother didn’t understand. I asked her to come with me, but she wouldn’t. Just said I was abandoning her, like everyone else.”
“I suppose it must have been hard on her.”
“I know.” He stared into his beer. “I was young and I wanted to see a bit of the world. I felt as if I’d been suffocating all my life. I thought she’d forgive me in time, but she never did.”
“Is she still alive?”
“I send her money. It gets sent back.”
“She rejects it? Like you rejecting your father.”
“We are all the best of enemies. What a family! Is yours like that?” He essayed grim humour, but there was deep sadness in his eyes.
“My family never had to deal with what yours did. I must admit, I can see why you’re angry with your father. What he did—leaving you and your mother like that—was quite shocking.”
“But I can completely see why he did it. I know it was for Jan’s sake. I can understand it. I just can’t forgive it. Can’t get past the poverty and the misery, somehow…”
“It’s natural. I think I’d feel the same.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a watery smile. “So now you know a little about the fuck-up that is Milan Kaspar. Aren’t you glad you asked?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. It’s given me a lot to think about.”
“You think about me?”
“I hardly think about anything else.”
“That’s not good. That could drive you mad.”
“You might be right.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“This bar makes me want a cigarette,” he complained. “Even though it’s ten years since I smoked.”
The door crashed open and a man half fell into the bar, slurring something in Czech at the barman. He somehow made it to the counter without falling over, and the barman wordlessly poured him a measure of something pale amber in colour while Lydia watched with horrified curiosity.
“Maybe we should go now.” Milan sighed, rising to his feet, but the drunk turned and pointed to him, ranting unintelligibly.
Lydia watched as he swayed over, aggression written all over his red, thread-veined face. Then he stopped dead and widened his bug eyes even further.
“Kaspar,” he said.
Milan frowned at the man, clearly perplexed for a moment, then the clouds lifted from his face and he said, “Cervenka!”
They fell into a mutual back slap, the drunken man falling against Milan’s chest, then down on the chair beside him, launching into a great ramble in the middle of which Milan made occasional interjections. Lydia cursed her lack of understanding, desperate to hear the tales of old times that she might be missing out on.
Milan turned to explain. “Cervenka and I were at school together.”
“Really?” He looked older and much less healthy than Milan, but then again, a man as drunk as Cervenka seemed to be at four o’clock in the afternoon probably wasn’t an athlete.
“He says my mother still lives in this street. He is offering to take me to see her.”
“Oh, my God, are you going to go?”
“I’m not sure she’ll want Cervenka knocking down her door,” demurred Milan.
“But Milan—your mother.”
“You think I should go?”
“How can you not?”
Milan put his head in his hands. Cervenka rubbed a consoling hand on his friend’s back and leered at Lydia before saying something in Czech.
“Lydia,” Milan answered, with some more incomprehensible words.
How was he introducing her? As a friend? A lover? A colleague?
Cervenka held out a hand to Lydia, who took it and let him shake hers much too vigorously. He pointed to Milan and said something presumably intended to be jovial. She smiled in reply.
“Okay,” said Milan, rising fully to his feet this time. “Lydia.”
“You want me to come? I can wait here…”
“Oh no, no, you can’t,” said Milan, shaking his head firmly. “This isn’t a place for a young woman to be on her own. Come on.”
Taking Milan’s hand, she left the bar with him, following the voluble Cervenka into the street.
Outside, a car stood on bricks at a crazy angle diagonal to the pavement, which was sticky with gum and cigarette butts. They walked on through a canyon of huge, gloomy tenement blocks, the lower parts of the walls thick with tangled black graffiti, until Cervenka stopped at a metal entry door scratched all over with names and burns and paint splodges.
“Is this where you lived?” whispered Lydia, intimidated by the neighbourhood’s surroundings. There was n
owhere like this in Surrey.
“Yes,” said Milan tersely. He was nervous, she realised. The hand in hers was slick with sweat.
There was no security for this building—Cervenka simply pushed the door open with his shoulder and led them into a dank, unlit lobby area that smelt of piss and bleach.
Up the crumbling stairs they climbed, past walls that glistened with damp, until they reached the fourth floor. Cervenka hammered at one of the many battered doors with ham fists, shouting, “Pani Kasparova! Pani Kasparova!” to no apparent avail.
Lydia felt an obscure terror, as if a spectre might appear in the doorway rather than an elderly woman, and she clung to Milan, hoping he would think she meant only to offer him support.
Nobody came, even though Cervenka kept up the battery for a good few minutes. Eventually, an irate man in a vest with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth opened the door of the neighbouring flat. He uttered a few choice phrases.
“He says she is out,” muttered Milan to Lydia. “She is shopping.”
They turned, shoulders drooping in unison, to be confronted by a wraithlike figure in a headscarf at the top of the stairs. Her net bag fell open, and oranges and apples rolled out over the stairwell floor.
“Milan,” she said.
“Matka,” he replied.
Neither seemed to want to move first.
After a few split seconds of petrified stand-off, Milan swooped forward, gathering up the spilled fruit to give to his mother. She took it.
Lydia thought there was something metaphorical about the gestures.
She stuffed the fruit back into her bag and looked from her son to the other two. Eventually she said something that must have been the Czech equivalent of ‘okay’, and let them all into her flat.
The room was dark and shabby, but it was scrupulously clean, with a screened-off bed in one corner, a stove in another and a little table and chairs by the window.
Milan’s mother put down her shopping on the table and sat herself heavily in a rocking chair, saying something that sounded like an apology or excuse. Maybe it was something about tired feet and needing to sit down, Lydia thought.
Highly Strung Page 13
