“They were such fun. You should have seen Isaac in his evening clothes all dolled up for a concert-he always had a white carnation; it had to be white, red wasn’t any good-and handmade shoes. You’d think he was a proper little monkey but when he played- my God, it would make the hair stand up on the nape of your neck. That soulful music and then he’d be out on the town till the small hours, dancing and cracking jokes. It’s awful to think what they’ve done to him.”
“Do you ever think of leaving Germany?”’
“I think of it. But I’ve a mother and a brother — my father pushed off. Working in the cabaret helps… and sometimes… you know, I get other work. I can make good money like that.” She stretched out her arm and watched the gold bangle on her wrist with pleasure. “He had no call to give me this; he paid me for what I did and I’d have done it for nothing. But Marcus is like that; he’d give anyone the skin off his back. People used to think he was rich, but he wasn’t, he just never seemed to count up what he had.”
“How long did you know them in Berlin?”’ “Oh, most of the time Marcus was there-and I went on seeing Isaac till the Nazis came. They were such friends those two; it did you good to see them. So different… Isaac never stopped finding people to help Marcus; it was he that got him a break as a conductor. And they weren’t ever jealous of each other like people so often are when they’re in the same line of business. Even over women, though it must have been hard for Isaac.”
“What must?”’
“Well, he’d pick up some girl in a nightclub maybe and bring her back to his table, and chat her up-he was always falling for women-and Marcus wouldn’t say much; you could see him making himself quiet, sort of trying to be like one of his trees so that Isaac could have her, but by the end of the evening it was Marcus the girl wanted.”
“It doesn’t seem fair.”
“No. But what’s fair about life-turning a nice bloke like Isaac into an outcast because he’s got a nip in his foreskin.” She broke off. “Sorry, don’t mind me. But I can tell you, when I met Marcus at the station and he asked me if I’d be willing to make a bit of a diversion if it was needed so as to help Isaac get through, I was as pleased as Punch. And I’ll tell you though you haven’t asked: no, I didn’t do it with Marek, not on the train-not ever, in point of fact, though I’d have done it like a shot. It was strictly business.”
Ellen smiled at her, “I wish you’d stay longer, Millie. You’ll be so tired travelling back tonight.”
But Millie shook her head. “I have to go, Ellen, but if ever you come to Berlin…”
“Or you to London.”
There was a knock at the door and an elderly maid announced the arrival of the taxi for the station.
The girls embraced.
“Take care,” said Millie. And at the door: “Are you in love with Isaac?”’
Ellen shook her head. “No. I’m terribly fond of him, but—”’
“Oh that!” Millie waved a dismissive arm. “He’s got it badly over you.”
“It’s just because I found him and sheltered him.
As soon as he’s out in the world again he’ll forget me.”
“Maybe.” Millie put on her scarlet beret, adjusted the angle. “What’s funny is that I don’t see Marek trying to be a tree.”
The dining room of the Kalun Spa Hotel was a cavernous room whose heavy swagged curtains, dim chandeliers and dusty Turkish carpets gave off an air of sombre melancholy. It was as though here the authorities had finally given up hope of putting the town on the map of Great Spas of Europe, had accepted the fact that Queen Marie of Rumania or Alfonso of Spain would never now drink the evil waters of the pump room. The few diners already assembled were in the last stages of disintegration, sitting in wheelchairs or precariously propped on cushions with their walking frames beside them; the smell of hydrogen sulphide blotted out the odour of frying onions from the kitchens and the waiters were as ancient and arthritic as the guests.
Entering the dining room, Ellen saw Marek at a table by the window scribbling something in the large menu, bound in maroon leather, provided by the management. As she reached him, and he got to his feet, she realised that what he had been writing, between the announcements of liver broth with dumplings, boiled beef with noodles and other delights- was music; and for a moment she felt as though a door had been opened on his other life; a life from which she must always be excluded whatever he wrote on menus.
“Please don’t let me disturb you,” she said.
He shook his head, put away his propelling pencil. “It’s of no importance. I’ll finish later.”
“Like Mozart,” she said.
He grinned. “Oh, exactly like Mozart.”
“I mean he was supposed to write anywhere and not mind being disturbed.”
He shrugged. “It’s not so mysterious, you know, composing. If you were writing a letter and I came in, you wouldn’t fuss.” He pulled out a chair for her. “You look charming. Where did you get that delightful dress?”’
“I made it; the material comes from an old sari; it’s a Gujerati design.”
Marek raised his eyebrows. The workmanship of the short blue silk jacket, the swirling skirt with its stylised design of roses and stars and tiny birds, was remarkable. “I’m afraid you’re unsettling the old gentlemen. I can hear the crunch of vertebrae as they try to turn their heads.”
“Perhaps it’s you they’re looking at because you’re healthy and can get in and out of your dinner jacket by yourself. It makes one feel guilty, doesn’t it?”’
“Our turn will come,” said Marek. “And Isaac? Is he on his way?”’
She shook her head. “He got ambushed by the masseuses. I think the excitement of having someone with an otorhinolaryngological complaint went to their heads. They’re giving him a special supper in his room and weighing him and God knows what. I tried to persuade him to come down but he saw two people he thought were policemen in the corridor. I’m sure they were only fire engine inspectors, but I think the thought of tomorrow is making things hard. It must be so awful to start running again.”
“He’ll be all right, you’ll see. Let me pour you some champagne. The wine list was not encouraging but this is Dom Perignon, and it makes a very acceptable aperitif.”
They clinked glasses. “Water is for the feet,” she said obediently. And then: “Where does it come from, that toast?”’
“I got it from Stravinsky. He always says he conducts best with a couple of glasses of cognac inside him. Mind you, I could show you a place where water isn’t for the feet.”
“At Pettelsdorf.” It was not a question. “Yes. There’s a well in a field behind the orchard-it has the clearest and coldest water in Bohemia. The village girls go there after their wedding and draw a glass of it to take to their new husbands. It’s supposed to ensure a long and faithful marriage.”
Not only the village girls, he thought. Lenitschka had told him of his mother, making her way between the apple trees, shielding her glass, when the Captain brought her as a newlywed from Prague.
But their waiter had now managed to reach their table. He seemed to be in his early eighties; his grey face suffused with anxiety as he set down their plates of soup. Beneath the circles of congealing grease, they could make out a posse of liver dumplings, like the drowned heads of ancient ghouls.
“At least one doesn’t feel that Isaac is missing anything,” said Ellen. “I promised I’d go up later and see that he’s all right. A nurse shouldn’t abscond to the dining room like this.”