Lydia burned to hear him say the words in his own language, spoken to her. She felt silly and a little embarrassed at how much it meant to her.
“You are going to say this to someone?”
“Maybe.” She blushed.
Evgeny smirked, enjoying the potential for humiliation she had exposed herself to.
Lydia lowered her eyes. Milan was not going to play.
But then he swooped forward and took her hand, a melodramatic gesture that forced her to meet his gaze. He raised her fingers to his chest and placed them at his heart, covering them with his palm. His eyes held hers until she trembled and a flood of something like nausea filled her from head to toe.
“Miluji te,” he said.
If only you meant it. I’d give anything, everything, to have you mean it.
She let out an uneven sigh, momentarily overwhelmed.
“Say it,” he said. “Repeat it to me. Miluji te.”
She felt almost angry. How dare he play with her like this? But she mouthed the sounds—’meelweecha’—and he squeezed her fingers in response.
The air between them shimmered, the moment stretching like elastic.
The elastic snapped.
“Milan Kaspar?”
Behind Milan, a small group of young people hastened towards their table, fumbling in backpacks for notepads and pens.
Their leader began questioning Milan in rapid Czech, gesticulating and almost bouncing with excitement while his friends clasped hands to their faces and poured loving looks on their countryman.
“He is quite famous here,” said Evgeny laconically, as Milan signed a succession of music scores.
“So I see. Did they get The Next Big String over here?”
“I suppose. But he is famous anyway. Czech people love their music.”
The fans wound up the conversation and drifted away, looking over their shoulders at Milan every so often.
“Students at the Conservatoire,” he explained airily, though his cheeks were pink with pleasure at being recognised. “It’s near here.”
“I suppose you went there,” said Lydia.
Milan looked away.
“No. No, I didn’t.”
He turned back.
“Are you ready to climb a hill? I’m going to show you the castle and the cathedral. Come on.”
Clicking his fingers, he rose to his feet, showering coins on the tablecloth before taking Lydia’s arm, leaving Evgeny to trail behind.
They walked up a long, steep, cobbled street. Lydia, enchanted by all the tiny shops selling hand-painted wooden marionettes and Czech jewellery, pictured Milan as a boy climbing this selfsame street on his way to visit the castle.
“How long is it since you were here?”
“Maybe two years. Another concert.”