“It must be strange.”
“It is strange. And good. And sad, as well. Sometimes I think I’d like to stay, then I change my mind… I don’t know. It’s hard, emotionally, you know.”
Perhaps dealing with Evgeny on top of all that was just too much, thought Lydia, understanding his attitude a little better.
“I can see why you would want to stay,” she said. “It’s so beautiful here, and so weirdly unspoilt. It’s like nothing’s changed since 1863 or something…when really your history is so full of upheaval.”
Milan made a rueful face. “I know. Nothing has stayed the same for long here, except the buildings. And our spirit. We never lose that.”
“What was it like here when you were growing up? Was it very different?”
“It was quieter. The streets are overflowing now—it wasn’t like that when I was a boy. We still had tourism, but not to this extent. It was a good place to live, but not such a happy place as now. I grew up with this fear of the secret police, always wondering if I was being watched or listened to. Which is crazy, because eight-year-old boys aren’t usually political dissidents. But it was just there, you know. This ghost hand on your shoulder.”
Lydia shivered.
Milan rattled his soup spoon against the side of his empty bowl.
“But all that’s changed now,” he said breezily. “What do you want to see next? The Charles Bridge? The Jewish Quarter? The Astronomy Clock? Maybe a trip down the river?”
Lydia almost didn’t want to ask, but she forced the words out.
“I want to go somewhere that means something to you. I want to know more about you, Milan. I feel I hardly know you at all…and I have a chance here.”
Milan said nothing, frowning at the sky for a while.
“Please,” she half whispered.
He looked back at her.
“That’s a lot to ask,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’m not the person who lived here any more. I’m not that boy. I’ve almost…cut him out of my memory.”
“That’s…sad.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.”
He looked so unhappy Lydia had to cover his hand with hers.
“It’s okay. If it’s too painful—”
“No, no.” Milan stood abruptly. “Perhaps it should be done. And I think I can trust you. Can’t I?”
“Yes.” Lydia’s heart thundered. Was she finally close to knowing this man? Was their relationship capable of reaching that higher level she craved?
He went to sort out the bill, grabbed his jacket—and Lydia—and strode out on to the cobbles, heading back down the hill to the heart of town.
At the square near their hotel, they caught a tram and Lydia pressed her face to the window, watching the stunning architecture and smiling people pass by. They crossed the river, passed through the densely packed Old Town. Then the gracious buildings, while still elegant, grew steadily more chipped and graffitied, the façades greyer and the people less cheery. It was clear that they had rapidly left the tourist heartlands, although Wenceslas Square, with all its shops and hotels, could hardly be more than a mile away.
The tram stopped in a scruffy, raffish street of bars and strip clubs.
“Come on,” said Milan. Then, once they were on the pavement, “Welcome to the Free Republic of Žižkov.”
Chapter Eleven
“This is where you grew up?”