Pavel sat back in his chair and shrugged.
“What about her husband, Filip?” I asked.
They looked at each other. Martina smoked. Pavel drank his coffee. Finally, Pavel said, “Filip was safe. He didn’t demand anything from her. Mira was daring. Adventurous. Her parents wanted her to marry and stop creating scandal with men and women. She was very free. So Filip stepped in. I don’t know if she asked him to do that or if it was a gallant gesture on his part. They got married, but Mira still had her affairs. Filip looked the other way and that seemed to suit them both.”
“He wasn’t jealous?”
“Filip?” Martina shook her head. “I don’t believe so.” She looked at Pavel. “He’s what? Ten years older than us?” She turned to me. “We all know him, but not well. I don’t think it’s possible to know him. He’s very quiet. He’s always there, hovering in the background. I always wondered what Mira saw in him.”
I thought about how Filip was an invisible ghost at the hospital.There but not there. Mira had said she’d never been in love with him, that she’d never properly been in love with anyone.
“He was her first cousin, you know,” Pavel said.
“So she said,” I said. “Were they planning on having children?” I had to ask because of Mira’s cryptic remark about the baby being Paolo’s.
“Mira?” Martina smiled. “Not in the least. She never wanted children. I’ve known her since she was this high.” Martina indicated the level of the bistro table. “Not once did she ever say any different.”
Unless they asked, I wasn’t about to tell them Mira had arrived at the hospital presenting a miscarriage. But I felt an aching sadness. For Mira. For the loss of her talent. For the cavalier way news of her death was being received by the two people in front of me.
I excused myself and started to get up. That was when I realized I still had the canvas bag my hostess had loaned me. I’d forgotten to giveThe Waitingto Petra.
“There will be more friends of Mira’s at the exhibition tonight. Petra’s big show. Why don’t you come?” Pavel wrote the address on the napkin. “Where are you staying?”
I gave him the address and he told me which tram to take to the gallery.
I decided to walk to my lodgings. It seemed as if I’d been sitting for days. And as long as I was in Prague, I wanted to take in as much of this world as I could. After all, I might never pass this way again. Meandering through New Town, I caught a whiff of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread, scented soaps and dusty stone. I sidestepped trams and horse droppings. Down the wide boulevard facing Wenceslas Square, I admired elegant women’s couture through shop windows. A woman walked out of the Bata shoe store with her children carrying several shopping bags. At a leather goods shop, I decided to buy a belt with a small purse in which to carry my money. Back on the boulevard, a barbershopposter promoted the benefits of well-groomed beards. I stopped to look at an ad in a pharmacy window, which promised a lush cleavage and the secrets of looking younger. I smiled at these claims—outrageous, so similar to Bombay adverts, yet still appealing.
Finally, I made my way to Old Town Square. My Baedeker’s encouraged a stop at the Astronomical Clock, a favorite tourist spot. It told Old Bohemian time, Babylonian time, German time and Sidereal time, not to mention the journey of the sun and moon across the constellations. Everywhere I went, I wondered if Mira had stood in that same spot, what she’d been doing there, what she’d been thinking and whom she’d been with. If I closed my eyes and pictured her face, imagining her singular linseed smell, I could almost feel her next to me.
Finally, I arrived at my lodging. I wanted to bathe and change out of my uniform. I had just enough time to dash off a quick response to Dr. Stoddard before going to the exhibition hall.
Dear Dr. Stoddard,
I never thought I would miss our steamship casino. You’ve turned me into a gambler. Next time we meet you’ll have to teach me a new game, preferably one where you have a chance of winning against me. (This is where you groan at my arrogance.)
I arrived in Prague safely and am now settled in a lovely apartment overlooking the Vltava River. The food is every bit as delicious as you predicted, especially the Beef Tenderloin with Cream Sauce. I didn’t let them skimp on the sauce!
The city is so beautiful and so different from Istanbul or Bombay or Calcutta. Everywhere I look, there are church spires and cobblestone streets anda golden fog that envelops everything. It makes me think of Mister Rochester at Thornfield Hall and how Jane Eyre felt seeing his house for the first time. (Pay no mind. I’m being a silly schoolgirl with her schoolgirl fantasies.)
Thanks to you (and Edward), the embassy helped me find Petra, Mira’s girlhood friend. She was so forthcoming about Mira’s life here. It seemed idyllic. Petra introduced me to other friends of Mira’s, who were able to enlighten me further. Tonight, they’ve invited me to an exhibition Petra has organized of her own work. So I must dash.
Lovely to hear from you.
Yours humbly,
Sona Falstaff
I hated lying to him. But if I were to tell him the truth—there had been no beef tenderloin, Petra had not been particularly friendly—he might worry. His health was fragile; I couldn’t do that to him. Still, I wished I could confide in someone about my dwindling funds. Keeping it to myself was giving me a bellyache, which was why I had to—very reluctantly—turn down the meal my hostess offered. I smiled at her, gesturing with my watch that I needed to leave.
It was a fine May night, mild, requiring nothing but a sweater. I took the tram to the Manes Exhibition Hall, a functional monochromatic building so unlike the Gothic or Renaissance or Art Nouveau architecture of the city. Manes was partly on the waterfront and partly on the Vltava. Jazz, the kind heard at the British clubs in Bombay, blared from the open windows and doors. There seemed to be no one at the entrance taking tickets or monitoringthe event. I walked into a brightly lit space with high ceilings. It was so crowded that the waiters had to hold trays of canapés above their heads to snake through the exhibition space. The Czechs looked British but they dressed better, like the French. The young women wore impossibly long chiffon scarves around their necks, the ends of which reached their behinds. They wore shapeless sheaths cut from expensive silks or pleated trousers with satin tops. A few men had goatees like Pavel. Others had long hair to their ears or shoulders. Many wore colorful suspenders as an accessory. I felt underdressed in my sweater, homemade tweed skirt and cotton blouse, but no one took notice of me. I was invisible once again, and that suited me just fine.
I caught snatches of French conversation as I walked through the maze, looking for Petra and Pavel.
“More villas are going up at Baba Colony. They’re so modern…”
“I can’t say I’ve read it, but everyone is talking about it. Before her book came out, were you aware that Gertrude Stein…?”
“I heard they’re cracking down on the plays at the Liberated Theater…”
