Letters From Prague

by Sue Gee

  Marsha yawned. Karel yawned.

  ‘Excuse me – it has been a busy week.’

  ‘You haven’t had your Saturday rest,’ said Gabrielle.

  ‘I’m sorry, Karel,’ said Harriet. ‘We’ve disturbed your routine …’

  ‘You have, it is thoughtless of you. I should say to you: you travel eight hundred miles to visit, I’m sorry, I’m having a rest.’

  They all laughed, getting up to go, walking back through the hot narrow streets, climbing the now welcome cool stairs to the apartment. Hannah was out, visiting a friend. She had left a note on the kitchen table, and a cake. No one could eat a crumb.

  Karel put the little boat back in the cupboard. He opened the windows and gave the girls glasses of Coke, which they took back to the sitting room, to watch Czech television. He and Harriet sat at the kitchen table, drinking their lemon tea.

  ‘This is so nice,’ said Harriet. ‘Thank you for looking after us so well.’

  ‘It is a great pleasure.’

  Voices and the sounds of occasional traffic drifted up from the street; looking out of the open window Harriet’s eyes rested once more on the trees of the Olsanská Cemetery. She thought of the morning, and of visiting Kafka’s grave in the New Jewish Cemetery beyond: of its emptiness and melancholy, and the sadness she had felt there, thinking of Christopher and Susanna.

  ‘I have scarcely anything in common with myself –’

  Karel was not like that. He knew who he was: she could feel it.

  She said, sensing now that she did not have to keep to impersonal conversation: ‘This morning, out there in the cemetery – the Jewish Cemetery – I had a great feeling of sadness.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Not for me, or at least I don’t think so. For people I’ve got to know recently – quite a lot of things have happened on this journey. I wasn’t expecting them.’

  ‘No. That is the nature of journeys. Perhaps you will tell me?’

  ‘Yes. But perhaps not yet.’

  The curtain stirred at the open window, voices came up from the street again, and then it was quiet. They sat looking at each other.

  She said: ‘I kept all your letters.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Karel. ‘I did the same.’

  The sun sank lower, the air became tranquil and still. The city was bathed once again in the rich golden light which Harriet and Marsha had first experienced yesterday, leaning out of their pension window, looking over the tiled rooftops of the Little Quarter.

  Now, they were sitting at a café table near the Jan Hus monument in the Old Town Square, on their way home. Karel and Gaby had seen them to the tram stop in Žižkov; they were meeting them here for lunch tomorrow, but getting off the second train, in Celetna, Harriet had not been able to resist walking through, and getting a first glimpse.

  ‘We’re in time to hear the Astronomical Clock strike six,’ she told Marsha.

  ‘Big deal.’ But Marsha, though tired, was in a good mood as they made their way through the throngs of tourists, past medieval houses with freshly painted façades in shades of ochre, pink and green, and came out into the square. They found, after searching, an empty table; they found, in a while, a waiter; they sat drinking lemonade and looking about them.

  ‘This place reminds me of somewhere,’ said Marsha, surveying the cobbles, the pastel-coloured houses, mellow in the evening sun. She frowned. ‘I know – it’s that place in Brussels, where we went the first morning.’

  ‘The Grand Place,’ said Harriet. ‘Yes, you’re right. I thought we might phone Susanna and Hugh this evening – would you like that? To tell them we’ve got here?’

  ‘And that we’ve found Karel. And Gaby. And that they’re really nice.’

  ‘Is Karel how you’d imagined?’

  ‘Even better. He’s lovely. Why did you stop me, at lunch, saying what I thought?’

  ‘I suppose I was still rather nervous. I wasn’t quite sure what you were going to say.’

  ‘Only that I thought he was lovely. Can’t I say things like that?’

  ‘Sometimes you can, and sometimes you can’t.’ Harriet finished her drink. ‘And I don’t just mean because of me, either. I mean for yourself, when you grow up. Declaring yourself can be –’ She broke off. ‘Why am I lecturing you? What’s the time?’

  Marsha looked at her watch. ‘It’s half-past five, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She sipped her lemonade. ‘Half the time I don’t know what Gaby and Karel are talking about, either. How come Gaby speaks such good English? Why can’t I learn Czech?’

  ‘Why can’t you? Behold the phrase book.’ Harriet pulled it out from her shoulder bag. ‘Look: greetings, food, where is the railway station, days of the week …’ She passed it over. ‘What’s dumplings in Czech?’

  It was unpronounceable. Marsha tried greetings, practising Dobry den, good day.

  ‘That’s easy.’

  ‘That’s what Karel said this morning, when we met.’

  ‘Is it? Didn’t he say Darling-Harriet-I-thought-I’d-never-see-youagain-come-into-my-arms?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. Don’t be so silly.’

  They sat contentedly for a few minutes, looking things up and trying to pronounce them. Some of the words were given in Slovak, too, which didn’t help.

  ‘The months of the year aren’t too bad,’ said Harriet, when they’d given up on Thursday, which had five consonants before a vowel. ‘They’re rather poetic, and apt. Look – January is leden – ice, February is unor – hibernation … June is red, and July is redder.’

  ‘What’s August, where we are now?’

  ‘Sickle. For the harvest. And so it goes on. The year ends with leaves falling, and supplication.’

  ‘What’s supplication?’

  ‘Begging for something. It’s almost religious, like a prayer. That is rather beautiful, I must say.’ She put the book down. ‘There’s a calendar showing the months on the Astronomical Clock. Come on, it must be almost six.’

  ‘Ten to.’ Marsha looked at her watch with affection. ‘Thank you for this, I do love it. Mind you,’ she added with insight, ‘I’d love anything today.’

  They walked hand in hand across the square, to where a group of tourists was gathering on the mosaic of blue and grey cobbles beneath the Town Hall Tower, gazing upwards. Two great dials were set one above the other in the facade, watched over by painted stone figures.

  ‘Why is there a skeleton?’

  ‘That’s Death, waiting.’

  Above stood an angel, between two shuttered windows.

  ‘When the clock strikes,’ said Harriet, who had slipped into the guidebook on the tram, ‘you’ll see the windows open and the Twelve Apostles go past the angel.’

  ‘See who?’

  Harriet sighed and explained. ‘In medieval times,’ she went on, ‘They believed that the clock didn’t just record the passing hours, it actually created them.’

  ‘Like God.’

  ‘Like God. Look. The inner circle of the dial below has the signs of the zodiac, can you see?’

  Marsha craned her neck. ‘Not really. Which one’s Virgo? That’s me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll have to buy a postcard, so we can see properly.’

  ‘What sign is Karel?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Libra,’ said Harriet, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I don’t believe a word of it, but Libra. Balance.’

  She moved out of the way of a large German knapsack. For a moment she remembered the young American, at Jan Palach’s grave, then she forgot him again.

  ‘Anyway, there’s the rural calendar – all the months.’ She peered at painted figures on gold, looking for ice, and falling leaves.

  ‘What’s the dial on top, all those wheels and things?’

  ‘That’s the actual clock. It’s much older than the zodiac dial; it shows the time, the movement of the sun and moon round the ea
rth – that’s what they thought, whereas in fact, as you know well –’

  ‘The earth goes round the sun.’

  ‘Exactly. There’s the phases of the moon, the rising and setting of the stars, and I don’t know what else. Look – quick – the hand’s just coming up to the six. Watch those two little windows, quick –’ She picked Marsha up, something she could hardly do any more. ‘Can you see? Now listen.’

  The crowd was waiting, talking, pointing things out in accents mostly German and American. And then it came, the first rich chime sounding out over the square, and everyone went quiet.

  One – two –

  The doors on either side of the angel opened, the twelve Apostles went past him, one by one.

  Three – four –

  A hush had fallen.

  Five – six –

  The sun was sinking, the last note sounded, and faded, and died. The doors on either side of the angel closed, and then, into the quietness, came the sound of a bell, as Death, far above them, rang out his warning.

  Harriet felt a long, deep shiver run through her.

  ‘It must be so strange,’ said Marsha, as the crowd thinned, and they walked away. ‘To live all your life believing the wrong thing.’

  Harriet looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but I was thinking about what you said about medieval people – believing the clocks made the hours, and the sun went round the earth. I mean – imagine believing things like that, and dying, and never knowing the truth. Or coming back again, centuries later, and finding you’d been wrong. I mean, like in Victorian times, believing your child had died because God willed it, and all the time it was just because there weren’t any antibiotics.’

  Harriet listened, trying to shake off a sense of unease. ‘Every age has its own beliefs. Those are very grown-up thoughts, you know, Marsha. You do think about things, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. I am quite grown-up. Ten’s old.’

  Harriet put her arm round her. ‘What do you want for supper, ancient one?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘After all those dumplings?’

  ‘I’m starving.’

  The familiar cry. They wandered into the path of the setting sun, feeling its warmth on their faces. ‘We could eat by the river,’ suggested Harriet.

  ‘Yes. I wish Karel and Gaby could have come with us.’

  ‘We did rather land on them – we can’t expect Karel to drop his arrangements for the evening.’

  ‘Why can’t we go out with him, too?’

  ‘Sssh, that’s enough. Now, shall we telephone Hugh and Susanna?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m dying to talk to them.’

  A yellow phone stood in a booth on the corner, but that took only single koruna, for local calls. Discovering this, Harriet realised she didn’t know Karel’s phone number. She must ask him tomorrow.

  Finding a phone box for an international call proved difficult. She looked in her guidebook.

  There was the main, twenty-four-hour post office on Jindris˘ská, off Wenceslas Square – that was the poste restante address Christopher had given her. No. She didn’t want to think about him now. There were a couple of modern, stress-free digital phones on Wenceslas Square itself, but visiting the square was a pilgrimage to make in its own right, with Karel tomorrow; she didn’t want to walk down there this evening. The thing to do, it seemed, was to find a grey phone and, unless you had a mountain of five-koruna coins, reverse the charges.

  They found a grey phone outside a nearby restaurant. Harriet made her request in stumbling phrase-book Czech. The operator replied in perfect English.

  ‘One moment, please.’

  Harriet waited. She smiled at Marsha, but was suddenly filled with nervous apprehension. Could she do it? Could she skim smoothly over Berlin, and everything she had learned there? Who might be more difficult to talk to – Hugh or Susanna?

  There was a series of clicks, and then she could hear the phone begin to ring. That lovely, sad apartment. She pictured the early evening light at the balcony windows, the quietness of the drawing room, Susanna sitting on a corner of the sofa beneath her portrait, waiting for Hugh’s return: turning the pages of a book, trying to concentrate, putting it aside. She rose, and began to pace: up and down, up and down, thinking not of Hugh, but –

  The phone rang and rang.

  Harriet turned to distract herself, looking across the square again, to the golden path of the sun on the cobbles, trying to keep calm. Pigeons were fluttering, someone who looked a bit like Karel was lighting a cigarette, putting the lighter back in his pocket. Everyone smoked in Prague.

  ‘They must be out,’ said Marsha. ‘Let’s try again after supper. I’m starving.’

  ‘Sssh. Wait.’ Something wasn’t right. If they were out, the answerphone would be on. Marsha moved restlessly away from the booth and went to watch the pigeons.

  Harriet waited, her stomach in knots. There was a click, an answer. Hugh, curt, out of breath. The English-speaking operator made her request. Yes, yes of course. Then –

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Hugh? Is everything all right?’

  ‘No, not really – let me sit down. I’ve only just walked in – I forgot to do the answerphone. You’re in Prague –’ He drew breath. ‘Is Marsha with you?’

  ‘Sort of. She’s wandered off – I mean, I can see her, we’re in the Old Town Square, but – Hugh, what is it? Can you tell me? Shall I ring back?’

  ‘No. No, I’ll tell you, it’s such a relief to talk to you.’ Another breath. ‘Susanna’s taken a massive overdose.’

  Harriet leaned against the plastic dome of the phone booth, and everything around her – the golden light, the fluttering pigeons, the tourists at the tables in the square – all fell away into darkness.

  ‘No. No –’

  She closed her eyes, and in the darkness listened: to yesterday’s discovery, and the note:

  All my life I’ve been looking for

  God, and this is the only way I can

  find Him.

  Chapter Four

  The window of the pension bedroom was open to the night. Harriet lay turned towards it, looking at an infinity of stars.

  Behind her, Marsha was sleeping deeply. She had been given an edited version of the phone call: a smooth, emergency version from adult to child. Susanna was in a clinic, recovering from a nasty stomach bug; Hugh had just returned from visiting and was tired. He sent his love.

  ‘Poor Susanna.’

  ‘Yes. Not very nice. But she’ll be home soon.’ Harriet walked on trembling legs across the cobbles. ‘Now, where shall we eat? Down by the river?’

  They wandered through the narrow streets of the Old Town, heading towards the Charles Bridge. The evening was warm, the streets crowded, the air full of music – Mozart in cafés, rock pounding from beer cellars beneath medieval arches. German and American accents were everywhere. Amongst the press of people, Harriet began to feel faint.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Just a bit – I think I need to sit down.’

  They bought mineral water; she drained the bottle. They glimpsed a little square through an arch, a church on the other side.

  ‘There?’ Marsha suggested.

  Inside, in the coolness, a string quartet was playing.

  ‘A concert. Like in Brussels, the one we went to with Susanna, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet.

  They found chairs at the back, behind the crowded pews, and sat listening. Dvorak, mournful and tender, went straight to the gut. There wasn’t another sound, only the strains of violin and cello rising, rising –

  All my life I’ve been looking for God –

  After a while the performance ended; after a while they left the emptying church and found a waterfront café. They ate looking out at the path of the setting sun on the river, the black-headed gulls wheeling above the silhouettes of saints all along the Charles Bridge, the slow drift of swans th
rough the arches.

  ‘Just think,’ said Marsha. ‘This time yesterday we were on the other side of the river, wondering if we’d find Karel. I’d never even met him.’

  ‘Just think of that.’

  ‘And now –’

  And now a shadow had fallen, and night approached.

  The canopy of stars above the rooftops brought some comfort. Susanna had not died. She had been brought back from a dark frontier, retching and heaving, to a white bed, an open window, daylight. Hugh, who had found her, had been beside her. Her parents were flying from England.

  Was that what she had wanted? People knowing, despair made public, everyone crowding round? If it wasn’t, Harriet could not envisage her being able to say so.

  Susanna doesn’t allow herself to hate anyone – she turns it all in on herself –

  That was Christopher, in the candlelit dining room in Berlin. He knew her. Perhaps he knew her better than anyone. Was her howl of anguish for him, to come back and reclaim her?

  I have watched you and watched you: at last you are mine –

  Harriet slowly got out of bed and went to the window. The streets of the Little Quarter below the Cathedral were starlit and gaslit: looking down over the descent of tiled rooftops she could glimpse, through a gap between houses, softly illuminated cobbles, and somebody walking down the hill. It was very late.

  In the winter of 1916, Kafka used to write all night not far from here, in the little house in Golden Lane his sister had rented. As dawn broke, he walked through the deserted streets and through the massive gateway to the Charles Bridge, drawing his coat about him as the chill rose from the river. His footsteps sounded on the cobbles; there was hardly a soul about.

  I am a memory come alive –

  In each of the three cities Harriet had visited on this journey, a spirit from the past had in some measure taken possession of her. Here it was Kafka, travelling deeper and deeper into himself. In Berlin, Rosa Luxemburg: passionate, political, meeting a terrible end. In Brussels, where Susanna lived, a fictional creation, a mirror of Charlotte Bronte’s own torment: Lucy Snowe, pacing the walled-in garden and schoolhouse on the Rue Fossette.