When I reached my hotel, the very first thing I did was to organize an internet connection, dialing reception for a password. I logged onto the livegirls site immediately. I could still access it, she had not complained to the site operator and had me banished permanently. But I was still blocked from entering her chat room. Never mind, I could still see her biography, and the photos, and I knew there was a button there called “send me a message.” I clicked on it, and it opened a form, into which I could type a message, that would be sent to her directly, by email. I thought carefully about what I would write. The words flowed easily, and quickly. It was still bonkers, but it was worth one, final, pleading note. Now that I was here. After that, and after she had stood me up for the final time, and blocked me, and probably had my membership of the site revoked altogether – then maybe I could move on, enjoy the rest of my time in Europe, go back home, and get over it, and put her, and Prague, behind me! My fingers danced over the keyboard. I read it through once, corrected two typos, and then moved the cursor over the “send” button. My finger lingered over it, but a voice within was telling me that if I thought about it for too long I would hesitate, and lose my nerve, and spend the rest of my two days here walking about, wishing I had sent it, before my time here came to an end, as it must. A text box flashed up on the screen – “your message to sweetgirl34 has been delivered.” Now all there was to do was to wait, and to eat lunch in the old square, at the restaurant I had visited that day.
It was on the second day, my last day in Prague, that she came. I was half way through the bratwurst and onion – I was addicted to it now – with tomato sauce and chili smeared over my lips, when I became aware that she was standing there, right in front of me, just inches away. I knew it was her, before I saw her. I was sitting at the very end of the rows of cane chairs and linen topped tables, just in case. So I could look for her, across the square. But I hadn't noticed her approaching. The food was just too good, and the beer was cold. But there she was. Standing erect, brown hair lifting gently in the breeze, with Jan Hus rising over her in a reddish bronze.
“Ryan,” she said simply.
“Svetla. You came. Sit down.”
She did. Her smile was just as radiant, and just as exhilarating, as it was online, only more so of course, in real life, not just real time. And she was every bit as angelic as I had pictured her, and as I knew she would be, in the flesh. It was a thin smile though, and her expression was one of some discomfort, as though she were not sure she ought to be here. As she looked, expectantly, across the little table between us, I knew two things immediately – One, it was over now, I could go home, and live out the rest of my life, just grateful for this moment. Two, I had been a jerk.
“I’m sorry, for taking things too far, online,” I told her with genuine regret. “You were right to block me. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”
The waiter appeared alongside us.
“What will you have?” I asked her.
“Wine. White.”
He nodded, and turned in the direction of the restaurant interior.
“This is a beautiful city,” I said dreamily. “You told me it was, and it is.”
“It's not all cobblestone squares and old buildings,” she said stiffly. “The part where I live is not very much like this at all. Lots of concrete and glass and asphalt.”
“Thank You for coming. To meet me. I can't thank you enough for doing this.”
“You came all this way, to Prague, to meet me?” she said. It sounded like a question. I thought it was. I nodded vigorously.
“Absolutely.” I added, knowingly – “wild horses couldn't keep me away.”
She drew a sheet of paper from the yellow purse she was nursing on her lap. She read from it.
“I meant every word I said to you. Not one thing was a lie. Nothing. When I said to you, as I say to you now, just one drink, one time, one chance. No pressure, nothing. No expectations. I meant that too.”
She was reading from my message, sent just two days ago, from my hotel room on Kampa Island.
“It got a bit mushy and very corny,” I admitted. “But it was all true.”
“What does this mean, mushy and corny.”
It was hard to translate – “well, let's just say, the sort of things you might say to someone, when you are really, head over heels, crazy about them.”
She considered this in silence momentarily.
“I think I know what you mean,” she offered eventually.
“Well. I meant it,” I reiterated.
“Did you mean it too?” she was asking, “when you said to me, online, I’m in love with you?”
At that moment the waiter reappeared, and placed her glass of wine on the table.
“Do you want something to eat?” I asked quickly.
“Yes, okay,” she agreed. “Maybe the same as you.” She told the waiter what she wanted in Czech.
“Yes I meant it, of course I meant it.”
“But you are the married man. You told me.”
“My marriage is over. It was over years ago.”
“But you don't know me, at all, not really.”
“Yes I do,” I told her firmly. “I feel like I know you better than some people I have known for years. Just talking, the way we did. You are beautiful, and very clever, and lots of fun. I know you. The only thing I don't really know is your name.”
“It's Svetla,” she said instantly.
“Your real name?”
“It’s Svetla.”
This time she laughed. That familiar, girlish giggle, with the head slightly tilted back.
“Never before, have I ever told anyone my name, my real name, not online.”
“Why me?”
“I think, after maybe some weeks, I saw that you were different. I think it was that time, when I said to you, shall I take all my clothes off, and you said no. It was at that time, I realize, you really do like me. Me. Not just my body.”
“I meant it,” I told her with conviction. “Like I said in my mushy note. I meant everything I said.”
“Mushy,” she repeated, smiling at the word. “I will not get use to this word.”
“You will, if you spend any more time around me,” I warned.
Her bratwurst arrived. She thanked the waiter in Czech.
“How do you say that?” I asked. “How do you day ‘thank you’ in your language.”
“Mockrát dekuji,” Svetla said slowly. “It means ‘thank you very much’.”
I tried to say it.
“I will have to learn this,” I decided. “If I’m going to spend any time at all in Prague.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Two days.”
She finished chewing a piece of sausage, reached for the wine, took a sip, and then said sweetly, smiling broadly at the end of it – “perhaps you need someone to show you around?”
10
The only awkward moments came at times like these. Most of my friends, of what had been “our friends,” knew bits of the story. We had met, whilst I was overseas, and fallen for each other. Most of them had known about Paula’s affair too, a good year before the knowledge was shared with me. But I had never told anyone how, or where, Svetla and I had met, nor that it had in fact been prior to my leaving for Europe on that trip. Some time prior, and online. The work functions were the most awkward, and the most tedious.
“Now you must be Svetla,” Jefferson said, gripping the hand she extended, and surveying her only mildly adventurous cleavage as he did so.
“Pleased to meet you,” she replied courteously.
“Isn't she marvelous,” he gushed, looking at me as he spoke. “How on earth did you meet a gorgeous woman like this?”
“Long story,” I answered, smiling weakly. I was looking for an escape route. Jefferson was a bore, and he had a reputation for groping.
“Well, I want to hear all about it,” he was saying loudly. “Maybe one day I will be as lucky as Ryan
here, and meet a gorgeous young thing like you. Can you give me a hint?”
I thought it, but the words, of course, didn't leave my lips – “Yes Jefferson, you jerk, here’s a hint, try www.livegirls.com.”
“As he said,” Svetla was responding, her voice animated, playful. “It's a long story.”
“I’m all ears,” Jefferson assured her, opening his arms in front of him.
“Svetla thought about this for a moment, then she said crisply – “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. It involves the internet, the old town square in Prague, and the Rolling Stones singing ‘Wild Horses’.”
I saw my chance, and moved her gently in the direction of our table, as Jefferson looked on confused. When we were seated, I asked her – “what can I get you sweetgirl? “And she looked up at me, smiling. That smile. I would never get sick of it. I never wanted to.
“Just some wine please,” she said, adding in a hoarse whisper, the name by which she had first known me – “randydaddy.”
For further works by Dominique de Forest
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Wild Horses Page 3
