The Diplomat's Wife(65)
I let the curtain fall again and walk to the mirror, studying my reflection for the hundredth time: dark skirt, cream blouse. Barely able to sleep in the cold, strange room, I awoke early, washed and dressed, painstakingly taming my curls into a low knot. I wanted to look like someone Marek, and hopefully Marcelitis, could take seriously. But the eyes that look back from behind my glasses are hesitant; what am I doing here? I smooth my hair once more, wishing I had thought to bring an umbrella. Then I pick up my coat and bag and walk from the hotel room, locking the door behind me.
“Good morning, madam,” the concierge says to me in Czech as I descend the stairs into the hotel lobby. I eye him suspiciously. Why is he talking to me? He gestures to the restaurant. “Will you be joining us for breakfast this morning?”
I hesitate, noticing the smell of coffee and fried eggs for the first time. But my stomach is too knotted for food. “No, thank you. I really must be going.”
Outside the hotel, I look both ways down the narrow, winding street. The rain has stopped and the cloudy sky is brightening, as though the sun might break through in a few hours. But for now it has not, the breeze reminds me sharply, blowing icy gusts of air upward and sending old newspapers dancing along the pavement. I draw the neck of my coat closed until it meets the edge of my woolen scarf.
In the distance, a clock chimes nine. It is still three hours until my meeting with Marek, too early, I know, to leave for the park. But I’ve never been to Prague before, and once I deliver the message to Marcelitis, I will be leaving again. If all goes well, I might be headed for home as early as tomorrow. This morning might be my only chance to see the city.
The previous night, when she dropped me off a block from the hotel, Renata offered to drive me to my meeting.
“Marek told me to come alone,” I reminded her.
She waved her hand impatiently. “I can leave you at the edge of the park. Wait somewhere else, where Andek won’t see me.”
“Um, that’s very nice of you, but I don’t think it will be necessary.”
Renata looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Alone means alone. I don’t want to chance him seeing me with someone else.”
“But the park is all the way on the outskirts of the city.”
“I’m from this part of the world, remember? I can still navigate the buses.”
“They may be the one thing the communists do well,” she replied, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. You can take the C bus from the corner on the far side of the hotel. The park is the second stop from the end.”
“Thanks. Does the same bus run through the Mala Strana?”
“No, that would be the sixteen…” Renata hesitates. “Why? Where are you planning to go?”
“Nowhere,” I replied quickly. “I mean, I just want to take a quick walk around the Old Town before my meeting. This might be my only chance to see Prague.”
“I don’t like it, Marta. The city is dangerous right now with all of the unrest.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I don’t like it,” Renata repeated. “But I can’t stop you. Just stay in the central public areas, Wenceslas Square and such. And don’t talk to anyone.”
Remembering now the map I consulted in the hotel room the previous night, I turn left and begin walking in the direction of the Old Town Square. The narrow, winding streets around the hotel are humming with morning activity, deliverymen unloading wagons in front of shops, women walking with bags of groceries. At the corner, there is a man selling snacks from a wooden cart. I fish some of the coins Renata gave me from my bag, buy a coffee and two braided rolls. As I continue walking, I tuck one of the rolls into my bag for later. Then I take a bite of the other, washing it down with a sip of coffee.
At the next corner, I turn right, then stop. Across the street stand three policemen, watching the crowd. My pulse quickens. Easy, I think. They are not interested in you. I force myself to keep walking down the street, trying to look like I belong. As I pass, I sneak a glance at them out of the corner of my eye. Have they noticed me? On the next corner, there are two more policemen. Perhaps Renata was right about this walk not being a good idea. Still looking sideways at the police, I bump into something. “Excuse me,” I say in Czech, turning to find that I have collided with a woman exiting a bakery with a small child. I bend to pick up her package, which has fallen to the ground. Her eyes do not meet mine as I hand it to her. She looks nervously from me to the police, then back again before dragging the child down the street.
I watch the woman as she disappears around the corner. She is afraid. Just like we were during the war. I recall seeing the Gestapo drag a man from a store as I crossed the market square in Kraków on an errand. Caught stealing fruit, I gleaned from a passerby. People hurried quickly away from the commotion, not stopping or looking as the police pushed the man against the wall of a building. A lone gunshot rang out across the square. Later, when I passed the site on my way home and the police had gone, I crossed back to the site. The man lay motionless on the ground, his blood seeping into the pavement, still clutching the apple he had taken. Crowds continued to walk past his lifeless body, eyes averted, too afraid to acknowledge what had just happened. It is like that here, I realize. The people do not want to draw attention to themselves. They are terrified.
I continue walking, and a few minutes later the street ends at a large, open plaza. Tall, Gothic houses with ornate, sculpted roofs line two sides of the oddly shaped square. On the third side sits a larger stone building, the Old Town Hall. There is a colorful, elaborate clock on the front of the building. I study the design: a gold circle with numbers one to twenty-four run along its inner rim, a smaller circle, ringed with Roman numerals, inside it.