Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

He reached over and brushed the hair back from her face, smoothing it, taking her in. “I like your freckles,” he said lazily.

“I used to have more.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. You lose them as you get older. Like hair,” she said, touching his bare temple.

“Careful.”

She smiled, her eyes catching the dim light. “I was right, wasn’t I?” She kissed him lightly, then snuggled closer. She reached down to pull up the covers, but he stopped her.

“No, I want to look at you.”

“Then close the window. I’m getting goosebumps.”

“Where?” he said, running his hand along her hip. But he got up and went over to the window, closing the pane but keeping the curtains open to the street light.

“I love the way it jiggles,” she said from the bed, looking at him. “How does it feel when it bobs around like that?”

“Little,” he said. He stood by the bed for a moment, his eyes moving along her body.

“Oh,” she said, turning away slightly from his gaze. “Don’t. I feel so-exposed.”

No secrets. He bent over and kissed her breasts, feeling her shiver when he opened his mouth on her.

She was already dressed, putting on lipstick at the mirror. He felt the air on his behind, jutting out of the tangled sheets, and covered himself.

“Well, it’s alive,” she said.

“What time is it?” He glanced at the bedside clock. “Christ.”

“Sleep well?” she said. “It must have been the-” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, then put two fingers to her mouth, pretending to draw in smoke. “You know what.”

“Oh, that’s what it was.”

“What else?” She came over to the bed and sat on the edge, touching his chest. “Morning skin. Like a baby’s.”

He took her wrist, drawing her to him, but she shook her head. “You’ll muss. Anyway, I’m off.”

“Where?”

“See the sights. He wanted to meet you alone, didn’t he? Narodni Gallery. Better get cracking.”

He got up, holding the sheet. “You always this cheerful? Where is it, anyway?”

“By the castle. Take a number 22 tram. You can’t miss it. God, look at the bed. What will the maid think?”

He grinned.

She picked up her raincoat, then stopped. “Nick?”

He looked up, waiting, but she shook her head.

“Never mind.” Then, hesitantly, “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

He nodded, still smiling as she closed the door.

In the lobby, he wondered if everyone could tell, read his mood, like a permanent flush on his skin. His face felt loose, ready to break into a loopy grin, but he came down outside, deflated by another dreary Prague sky. The rain had left the city damp and grimy, as if nothing could wash away its essential grayness. For the first time, the thought of seeing his father depressed him.

On the tram, bottle blondes and grim faces; no one talked. Had this conductor been someone else once? They creaked through the old streets, the passengers’ heads nodding with stolid patience, dazed with routine. No one had spent the night in someone else’s body, alive with sex. When they crossed the river, even the Baroque stucco of the Mala Strana, pale yellow in the sun that first day, had turned dark, a dirty mustard.

The gallery seemed to be arranged chronologically, so that the rooms began in the Middle Ages, static allegories with pudgy Slavic babies and soldiers holding lances and spiked shields, Christ rising from his coffin, his feet still dripping blood from the crucifixion nails. Artists painted what they saw; here they’d seen atrocities, a culture of occupation.

He looked around for his father, but the rooms were empty. A guard, bored, stared at his feet. Nick thought he should wait near the entrance, but the room was oppressive and he moved along to the next-Italian, flesh pink with light, bowls of fruit. What would he say today? Another theory of history?

Nick found him in the room beyond, staring at a picture. He smiled when he saw Nick and lifted his hand to touch him, then withdrew it. They stood there awkwardly, a chance meeting in public. Nick glanced at the painting.

“The fatted calf,” his father said, following his eyes. “A lot to expect, don’t you think? After all that.”

“The prodigal,” Nick said automatically.

“You see how happy everyone is? Even the jealous brother.” His father smiled shyly. “Maybe that’s why we have stories. So things come out better.” He paused. “It means wasteful, you know, not wandering. He wasted his inheritance, his gifts. Well.” He turned to Nick. “So you got back all right? Anna was worried. We don’t have much time,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’m sorry. There’s a service for Frantisek’s brother. I have to go. It would be noticed.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“A tourist? That wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said gently. “They’ll all be there, watching. To write about Masaryk after all these years-everything about him is still political. Even a funeral.”

“Then why go? Won’t you be-”

“I have to go, for Frantisek. He and Anna were children together. If we don’t go, it’s political. It would mean that we knew what he was doing. Not just writing stories.”

“I thought everyone knew. He said-”

His father nodded. “Now we pretend we didn’t. Welcome to Oz. Walk with me to the Loreto. It’s worth seeing-all the tourists go. The service isn’t far from there. It’ll give us a few minutes.”

Nick followed him out of the room, then past the walls of impaled martyrs. “But we have to talk.”

“We will. Later.”

They were out on the cobblestoned square.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you exactly what to say.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an envelope.

“I can’t carry anything out,” Nick said, flustered, physically drawing away from it.

His father looked at him, then smiled, holding out the envelope. “No. These are tickets, for tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Benny Goodman. They’re hard to get. Everyone wants to see Benny. Nothing changes, you see.”

Nick said nothing, feeling teased. An evening out.

“I didn’t know he was still alive,” he said finally. They were crossing the square toward the Czernin Palace. There were no cars.

“Oh yes. He’s very popular here-we’re a little behind. His goodwill tour. You’ll enjoy it. We can eat afterward.”

Nick stopped, annoyed. “Look, I need to talk to you.”

“I know,” his father said, putting a hand on his arm. “You’re worried. There’s no need. You’ll see.” He continued walking. “This is where Masaryk was killed, by the way.” He indicated the high palace walls. “In the interior courtyard.”

“They found the lighter,” Nick said suddenly.

“What lighter?” his father said, still walking.

“Yours. The one Mom gave you.”

Now he stopped, his face bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“They found it in the hotel room. That night. It’s in the police report.”

His father frowned, as if he’d misunderstood, then looked away, thinking to himself. Nick watched him as he stared at the ground, apparently at a loss. Was he thinking of what to say?

“That’s interesting,” he said finally, but not to Nick, working instead on some interior puzzle.

“Is that all you can say?” Nick said, thrown by his response.

“But how is that possible?” his father said, again to himself.

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“A police report? But it’s a mistake. The FBI handled the case, not the police.” He paused, still thinking. “Of course they would have been called first. At the hotel. But the FBI took it over. It was a Bureau case always. There’s nothing like that in their file.”