Letters From Prague (9 page)

Susanna said: ‘That's the whole point, isn't it? I always seem so –'

Yes, and I sensed it almost as soon as I arrived, thought Harriet, perhaps even before then: that how you seem and who you are don't begin to come together, are most disturbingly at odds. ‘Go on,' she said again. ‘I'm listening.'

Susanna said nothing. People came and went through the tall glass doors: relaxed, enjoying a holiday. They felt, to Harriet, just for a moment, like alien beings.

Susanna said: ‘We should go and look for Marsha.'

‘No, we shouldn't. She'll be fine.'

‘She's lovely. You're very lucky.'

‘I know.' Of course, Harriet heard her mother saying, over the flower arrangements, of course, if they had children there'd be none of this nonsense, there wouldn't be time –

‘Please,' she said to the still, sad figure beside her. ‘Tell me. What do you mean, you've been like this all your life?'

Susanna shrugged. ‘Do you know about depression?'

‘Not really. No, I don't think so. Not in the way you mean.'

‘No.' Susanna's slender foot, in a narrow shoe, with a narrow chain, moved slowly across the gravel, up and down. ‘It's hard to explain. It's nice of you to listen.'

‘Of course I'll listen. I want to get to know you.'

She shook her head. ‘You wouldn't if you knew what I'm really like.'

Harriet thought: that's how depressed people think, isn't it? That they're worthless. She remembered a very young teacher at school, ages ago, doing her probationary year. She, come to think of it, wept in the morning, in a public place. In the staff lavatory, actually, during the break. She locked herself in, and came out smiling, saying she was fine. It wasn't just the pressure of school, they discovered later, it was much more than that.

Susanna said: ‘People die of it. They hate themselves so much they do themselves in.'

‘Oh, Susanna, please. You don't feel like that, do you?'

‘Sometimes. It comes and goes. I was free for a while, and then –' The ball of the narrow foot pressed into the gravel, moving from side to side.

‘And then –'

Susanna drew a long breath. ‘Everything seemed to change when I met Hugh. He was everything I needed, but –'

This is it, thought Harriet, recalling the intensity of her feelings yesterday afternoon, when she had stood on the balcony, wet from the afternoon rain, and dreaded hearing what she was about to hear.

‘But what?'

‘But we can't have children,' said Susanna. ‘That does seem cruel.' And shook her head slowly, slowly, a bear in a cage, as Marsha came out again, through the gallery doors, approaching them with a paper bag full of postcards, smiling, asking: ‘Are you feeling better now?'

After that, it was not possible to talk any more. Susanna went to the loo to wash, and Marsha questioned Harriet, who refused to be drawn. ‘She's just feeling a bit low, that's all.'

‘But what?'

‘I don't really know, we didn't have time to go into it – I expect she'll feel better soon.'

They waited out in the flagstoned hall, which was beginning to fill with more groups, more guides, and when Susanna rejoined them she was almost as she had been yesterday: smiling, in charge. Her face was pale and her eyes were still swollen, but brushed hair and lipstick drew attention away from this, and as her bag bumped the arm of an elderly man with a stick she apologised with as much poise and charm as if she were running the place. Which perhaps she should be, thought Harriet, observing. She's clever and creative – you can see that by the way she runs the apartment. Shouldn't she be doing more than cooking Hugh's meals and making everything nice?

Susanna touched Marsha's arm. ‘Drink? Ice-cream? Both?'

‘Are you all right?' Marsha asked gravely.

‘Yes, I'm fine now, thanks. I don't know why I –' She was shepherding them out, into the sunshine; she put on dark glasses.

‘Have you got PMT?' asked Marsha. ‘Mum's awful when she's got it.'

‘Thanks,' said Harriet.

‘Or perhaps it was just too much culture.' Susanna led them over the cobbles. ‘Let's have a break.'

They sat at a table laid with a white cloth, waiting for a waiter.

‘What are we going to do next?' asked Marsha, fiddling with a bowl of sugar lumps.

‘What would you like to do?' Susanna caught the waiter's eye.

They had coffee, and complimentary chocolate, dark and rich. Marsha had ice-cream; they planned the rest of the day.

‘I must see Marx's house,' said Harriet.

Marsha yawned.

‘We're meeting Hugh for lunch, remember.'

She brightened.

‘Behind all this,' said Susanna, gesturing at the square, ‘is what's called the Ilôt Sacré – it's a warren of narrow little streets, you'll like it, Marsha, it's full of nice shops and things. We'll have a wander there, and then meet up with Hugh. And this afternoon – shall we see how we feel? There's Tintin in the Comic Museum, there's the Toone Museum, that's a puppet place, there's the park and the Royal Palace …'

Marsha dropped a sugar lump into her ice-cream and moved it about. ‘I'd like to see Tintin.'

‘Fine. And then we'll go home.'

‘And then the bully's coming.'

‘Marsha …'

‘Sorry.' She spooned up the sugar lump, covered in strawberry ice, and ate it with relish. A light breeze lifted the comers of the tablecloth. They paid the bill, left a tip, and walked towards Marx's house.

‘At least I think that's it.' Susanna was pointing towards a house a few doors down from the Hotel de Ville. She pushed up her glasses, pushed back her hair. ‘Can you see a swan? Above a doorway?'

‘I think so.' Harriet peered. She looked at Susanna. ‘Sure you're okay?'

‘Sure.'

‘What about tonight – it won't be too much for you?'

She shrugged. ‘I'm used to it.'

‘To being nice when you're feeling awful.'

‘Well …'

‘Were you feeling awful yesterday? When we arrived? Were you dreading it?'

‘Stop it. I love having you here.'

Marsha was trailing behind them; Susanna put out a hand. ‘Can you see a white plaster swan over there?'

‘No.' She was squinting against the sun, growing brighter.
‘I
need dark glasses.'

‘We'll get you some.'

They made their way through the flower stalls; they stood before the house, a restaurant now, with plate glass, an open door,
La Maison du Cygne
flowed in gold across the glass; they craned their necks to look at the swan in the lintel, craning his. Inside, a young waitress was moving amongst the tables, setting out silver, and vases of summer flowers.

‘What do you know about Karl Marx?' Susanna asked Marsha. ‘Anything?'

‘I've seen his grave, it's in Highgate cemetery. We went one weekend, and it rained.'

‘Oh, dear.'

‘It was okay.'

‘It was, wasn't it?' said Harriet, who had initiated this outing. Here, in the bright morning sunshine of a summer's day in Brussels, she recalled them, walking along damp paths between overgrown graves, one Sunday afternoon last autumn. Leaves drifted from the trees; from somewhere nearby came the voices of people clearing weeds and brambles and overgrown ivy from amongst the crowded headstones; there was the sound of a rake, of shears. They came to a neater, better-tended area, where the grass was cut. A dark head loomed high up before them. It began to rain.

‘That's him,' said Harriet, putting up her umbrella.

‘He's
huge.'

They drew near; they stood amongst other umbrellas, a handful of foreign visitors, looking up at waves of bronze hair, and bushy beard, and brows above a deep-set gaze. The plinth was a pale granite lettered in black. KARL MARX 1818-1883. WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE.

‘He changed the world,' said Harriet. The rain fell harder, people walked away.

‘How?'

‘By thinking. By writing.' Harriet watched rainwater trickle down the great bronze features. Pigeons flew by, making for the trees. ‘He had a vision of a world where everyone was equal – where working people had control over their own lives. It was a great vision but it went wrong. That's why we had the Iron Curtain – remember? That's why my friend Karel went back to Czechoslovakia.' It was pouring now. ‘Let's go.'

They walked back along the path, holding the umbrella.

‘He's got a nice face,' said Marsha.

‘Yes. And he lived in London for years and years – longer than anywhere else. I think. He and his family were very poor, but he went to the British Museum every day and wrote and wrote. Before that he was always on the run.'

‘Why?'

‘Because governments thought he was dangerous. He was. He fled from Berlin to Paris, and from Paris to Brussels, and from Brussels to London. He died here. When we go to Brussels next summer, we'll see the house where he stayed.'

‘Oh.' Marsha dropped hands and jumped over a puddle.

‘Did you understand any of all that?' Harriet asked her.

‘Not really. Can we go and have tea now?'

That was last autumn, and here they were now, in the city where the
Communist Manifesto
had been written, a prosperous and expensive city, Western Europe's head office, a monument to capitalism. Harriet stepped back and looked at the upper windows. Which had been Marx's rooms?

Heavy footsteps climbed a narrow flight of stairs, a key was pulled from a pocket with a hole in it, a door unlocked. Inside, a table was spread with papers, a bed unmade. The windows needed washing, the floor was dusty. He didn't notice. He stood looking out of the window, absently surveying the flower market, the songbirds in their cages. Behind him, Engels stacked up pages of notes, and poured out grainy coffee.

Was that how it had been?

Laughter came from inside the restaurant. Harriet saw Susanna turn away from the doorway.

‘We're meeting Hugh at half-past twelve,' she said composedly. ‘Shall we go?'

Marsha had begun to stray. They recaptured her from outside a window of cashmere sweaters and recrossed the Place, which by now was full of tourists. Susanna led them into the maze of the Ilôt Sacré.

The air was warm, the little streets were crowded. Rock music throbbed from small boutiques, shoppers with glossy carrier bags pushed in and out of doorways. People meeting for lunch caught sight of each other and waved and called; the smell of good food was everywhere. At two minutes before half-past twelve Susanna indicated the restaurant where they were meeting Hugh: they found him ready and waiting at a table in the window. This organised punctuality seemed to say everything about their lives: it was hard to imagine that either might ever be late for the other, or, indeed, for anyone, despite Susanna's revelation of her inner battle. Perhaps it was all the more important, with an inner battle, to keep everything just so.

Hugh rose to greet them. They kissed, they sat, they looked at the menu.

‘Gosh,' said Marsha.

‘Quite,' said Harriet.

Hugh, sitting next to Marsha, smiled at them in avuncular and brotherly fashion respectively. His gaze fell upon Susanna, studying the entrées. Harriet saw his flicker of concern, his noting of her paleness, her eyes still swollen. Was their life together always like this? When had Hugh discovered Susanna's true nature? Perhaps it had been kept at bay in the early days. ‘It comes and goes,' she had said this morning, scraping her foot up and down on the gravel path.

Perhaps children would have made it better. Perhaps children would have made it worse.

I shall take her aside, thought Harriet, seeing Hugh's almost imperceptible flicker of disappointment, Susanna's strained little smile of reassurance. I shall get to the bottom of this. She returned her own gaze to the menu, wondering at the burden they were carrying.

Mobiles of Captain Haddock and Professor Calculus, Tintin in boots and brave little Snowy moved gently in the air conditioning; the Thompson twins glared beneath their bowler hats. The walls were lined with frame upon neat frame of wild adventure: together, Tintin and Snowy outwitted villains in Egypt, in China, in South America and Tibet. They got lost in the world of the Incas, shot off in space suits to the moon. The galleries were full of happy people, reliving childhoods brightened by –

‘The dagger has gone! Look, it was here on the table
…'

‘It's growing dark now. We'll camp for the night, Snowy, and make a fresh start in the morning
…'

‘Rameses II, go back at once to the place where you saw the eyes … Go!'

Steam trains thundered towards helpless victims, feathered chieftains scowled, chauffeurs stepped back in alarm, approached by armed men in masks. A torchbeam pierced dense shrubbery beyond a shuttered mansion, sleek limousines slid in and out of the frame.

‘Mr Tintin? I'm the head of World Vaudeville Inc., and I'm signing you up for one thousand dollars a week. And here's my cheque for five thousand dollars expenses
…'

‘He was a genius,' said Susanna. Footsteps came and went on the polished boards; someone was laughing aloud.

‘He was also a right-wing bastard.' Harriet stepped back from framed first-edition pages of
Tintin in the Land of the Soviets.
That had been Hergé's first, in 1930.

‘He was of his time.'

‘He may have been a collaborator.'

‘There were quite a few collaborators under the occupation here.'

‘That doesn't excuse it.' Harriet paused before pictures of full-lipped Negroes, behaving idiotically. ‘He was a racist.'

‘He was of his time,' Susanna said again.

‘He only died ten years ago.'