They drove toward the cobbled streets of the Mala Strana, and Nick could see that beneath the dust and the scaffolding the city was beautiful. There was no color-no ads, no splashy shopfronts, not even the usual variety of cars in the street-so the buildings themselves became more vivid. Their Baroque facades of light mustard and green and terra cotta dressed the town. The architecture seemed to have been put down in layers, one period after another, until the unremarkable hills along the river had become an astonishing city, one of those places where Europe rises to its high-water mark, rich and complicated. Mozart had introduced operas here. In the afternoon light, the city was a painting, full of brushstrokes and perspectives and lovely forms. It was also falling apart. Up close, some of the wonderful houses were buckling, the lemon plaster torn with cracks. The scaffolding he saw seemed like a finger-in-the-dike attempt to shore up the years of neglect. The buildings, unmaintained, were slowly dying. How the Russians must hate it, Nick thought. The whole city was a beautiful reproach. The gifts of centuries were wasting away in a system that could not even produce salad.
They crossed the Vltava, past the imperial National Theater and the nineteenth-century streets of the New Town to the hotel on Wenceslas Square. To Nick’s surprise, there was a doorman and an old man to help with the luggage, a service class he thought did not exist. The room was heavy and ornate, deep red that wouldn’t show the dirt, wardrobes instead of closets. The old porter lingered, pretending to adjust the drapes, clearly expecting a tip. Their windows faced the street, and Nick could hear the tram bells outside.
“Did I give him enough?” Nick said after the man left. “He looked disappointed.”
“He was hoping for dollars. Technically, they’re not supposed to get anything, so don’t worry about it.” Molly started walking around the room, looking at it. “Well, here we are. God, I’m dead. Aren’t you? All that driving.”
Nick shook his head. “Now what? It’s still early. Should we call my-”
She put a finger to his lips, then raised it and pointed around the room.
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“I don’t think so. The Alcron was popular with journalists. They all stayed here last year. So we have to assume-”
Nick stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or be frightened.
“The phone too?”
“That for sure. How about a little air?” she said, moving toward the window. Traffic sounds floated in with the spring air. When he came over, she leaned close to him. “I’ll call,” she said to his ear. “Just be careful. No names. You’ll get used to it.” He felt her breath, warm and smooth, on the side of his face, and it startled him, as if she had just whispered an erotic secret. He pulled back. “What?” she said.
He shook his head, to make the feel of her go away. “Nothing.”
She went to her purse and took out a small address book, then started toward the phone. The tapping on the door surprised them both, as if someone had been watching them. But it was only a difficulty about the car, a few minutes of Pan Warren’s time, if he would come down to the desk. Nick followed the old man, feeling, crazily, that he was being taken away.
The difficulty turned out to be an extra fee for the garage-he could not park in the street. Nick was so relieved that he forgot to be annoyed. “I’m sorry for all these bothers,” the desk clerk said, and Nick found the English charming. He paid and looked around the lobby, imagining it buzzing with reporters just a few months ago. Now it was nearly deserted, an elderly couple having tea and a man hidden behind a newspaper, so obvious that Nick thought he couldn’t actually be a policeman. Outside some students were gathering in the street, walking in a half-march toward the university. He didn’t care about any of it.
She was saying goodbye on the phone when he opened the door, and he stood there for a moment, waiting and apprehensive.
“Dinner?” he said finally.
She shook her head. “Some other time. They’re busy tonight.”
Nick looked at her in disbelief, the tone of her voice, social and pleasant, making the moment unreal.
“Busy?” he said dumbly.
“Mm. A concert,” she said evenly, looking straight at him. “At the Wallenstein. We might think about that, actually. It’s pretty. What about it? Are you too tired?”
“What’s the Wallenstein?” They were going to see him.
“A palace in the Mala Strana. They give concerts in the courtyard. It’s nice. What do you say?”
“Can we get in this late?”
She pointed to the phone. “Try the concierge.” She raised her voice, taunting the microphone. “You have dollars. You can get anything you want with dollars.”
