“Is everything okay, then?” she whispered, not sure if she should break Milan’s meditative state as they descended the stairs. “Are you forgiven?”
“Maybe,” said Milan. “I told her to come to the concert tomorrow—to come backstage. We can talk about her moving to London. She didn’t say no.”
“That’s wonderful. Really wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at her.
“Are you? You really care?”
“Of course I do.”
He slung an arm around her shoulder, walking back into the street with her.
“I’m glad I met you,” he said.
She wanted to burst with happiness, here in the middle of this grimy urban street.
“Now, I owe Cervenka a drink, then we can continue with our tour, yes?”
“Yes.”
As she watched the sunset over the River Vltava from the Charles Bridge, Lydia felt that she had found her ideal of perfect happiness, right here in Prague with Milan. He stood behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, his hands clasped beneath her ribs, whispering magical tales of Czech folklore directly into her ear. On her right towered the castle and cathedral, and on her left the bridge disappeared into the seething cobbled streets of the Old Town. Ahead, pleasure boats cruised lazily up and down the river, lit up with strings of bulbs while the faint strains of jazz bands drifted up from under the bridge.
Since the meeting with his mother, Milan had seemed different—lighter, younger. It was as if he didn’t have to put on the mask of the charismatic virtuoso, and could just be. She thought perhaps he would be like this all the time if they stayed in Prague and let the orchestra go home. She daydreamed of a future for them, living in a beautiful town house with his mother, playing together in the Czech Symphony Orchestra. She would have to learn Czech, which wouldn’t be easy…but Milan would teach her.
“What if I stayed here?” he said, breaking into her thoughts with such prescience, Lydia wondered if he had read her mind.
“I think it would be good for you,” she said. “You seem so happy now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy before.”
“I’m happy when I’m with you,” he said, with a jarring touch of false gallantry.
“Don’t. I’m serious.”
“So am I. What would you think, if I stayed?”
“If it was what you wanted, I would accept that. You have to do what’s best for you.”
“You are very special, Lydia. I don’t think anyone’s ever cared about me in that way before. It’s always been about what people can get from me. Fun, excitement, patronage, sex.”
“That’s not true. Everyone’s in love with you, and you know it.”
“Not the right kind of love. Not like you.”
A golden shaft of late sunlight rippled on the river’s surface. Lydia watched it break up and reform, mesmerised, feeling that she would always remember the sights and the sounds of this moment.
“You don’t fawn all over me like the others,” he continued. “If you think I’m doing something wrong, you tell me. You don’t join in like everyone else does. You challenge me. Nobody else does that.”
“Somebody has to, or your rampant ego would run away with you.”
He laughed.
“You know me.”
“I love you.”
“I know. If I stayed, what would you do?”
She looked up at him. What did he want her to say? Did he want her to offer to stay with him? Or did he just want a declaration of mad love, to satisfy his aforementioned ego? He seemed to want honesty tonight. Should she take that risk?