Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“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 Hradcany, 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 fiancee, 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?”