Lydia stepped out into the air, feeling its fresh spring chill as a relief to her fever-hot skin.
“Lydia.” A voice from the small landscaped area across the path.
“Milan.” She ran to where he sat on a bench, smoking. “You’re smoking.”
It seemed a stupid opening, given the enormity of the night’s events, but she could think of nothing better.
“Yeah,” he said.
His voice sounded cracked and low.
“Oh, Milan. Did you see him?”
“See who?”
“Evgeny, of course.”
“Evgeny?” Milan sounded genuinely confused. “You think I give a shit about Evgeny when my mother is dead?”
Lydia inhaled so deeply she had to grab the arm of the bench.
“Oh no,” she said. “Oh no, no, no. That can’t be true. That’s too cruel.”
“It’s true. It’s cruel. Maybe it’s what I deserve.”
“Jesus, Milan, don’t…”
She reached out for him but he turned away, puffing violently on the cigarette.
“I abandoned her. I didn’t deserve her anyway. I’m a piece of fucking shit.”
“Milan,
you aren’t. I’m so sorry.”
“Use your brain, Lydia, and get away from me. Far away. Somewhere I can’t touch you or ruin your life. Go on.”
“Let me help you. I want to help you. I love you.”
“Love? Forget that. Go.”
“I can’t forget you. How can you ask me to forget you?”
“Forget me.”
“I can’t.”
She threw herself upon him, finding reserves of strength she didn’t know she had, determined that he could fight her as much as he wanted but she wouldn’t let go unless he threw her off.
He stiffened at first, then he yielded, slumping back against the bench, holding her close while the pair of them wept and clung until the sun came up.
“I’ll stay here with you. Help you sort out the funeral,” she whispered. “What are we going to do, Milan? What’s going to happen to us?”
“You will be fine. Me? I don’t know.”
Lydia saw the orchestra back off in the tour bus before collecting her and Milan’s belongings from the hotel room and taking them to his mother’s apartment in Žižkov. Nothing final had been said to Mary-Ann about resignations, and Lydia knew that both she and Milan had their positions held open. The Trust would grant Milan compassionate leave, of course, but Lydia was less sure of her own situation. Just at that moment, though, she couldn’t have cared less. Milan was her priority and she couldn’t think of anything else.
When she arrived at the apartment, Milan lay on his mother’s bed, drinking from a bottle of apricot brandy and smoking again.