Sam was sure it was. He managed to move the conversation away from such matters on to the personal. What might she do once she’d finished her studies? Travel abroad, improve her spoken English, perhaps in London. There were possibilities now the shackles of the past twenty years were being thrown off.
Sam tried to picture her in London. What might she ultimately become? A writer? An academic? A full-time journalist? That kind of thing was imponderable, whereas Sam’s fate was altogether clearer: he would soon enough be Head of Chancery in some forgotten ex-colony, married to Steffie, with two children and a mortgage on a house in Surbiton that would be suitable for the retired ambassador he would inevitably become. Maybe he’d even acquire a K: Sir Samuel Wareham. Terrifying how quickly the options closed down. One moment the world seems your oyster; the next you see it for the mollusc it really is – an octopus that has grabbed you with its tentacles and will not let go.
‘At least now I’d get an exit visa,’ Lenka said. ‘Now things have changed for the better. You see, with my background I was lucky to get to university.’
‘Why lucky?’
Her mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Politics. Now everything may be different, but however hard they try to rewrite it, they can’t change history.’
‘What history are you talking about?’
‘My family’s.’ She attempted a smile, that ironic, Iron Curtain smile that Sam had long ago come to recognise. ‘Let’s talk about other things. Maybe I’ll introduce you to my mother sometime and then you can find out. But not now.’
So they talked about other things, and it was easy enough – the new freedoms, the freedom to write what you liked, report whatever concerned you. Food came and went. They had a bottle of Moravian wine which was not as dreadful as usual, and she wanted to know about London, swinging London, Carnaby Street, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles. Hippies. Hash. And then himself. Why exactly was he taking her out to lunch? He’d never said, the first time she asked.
‘Because I find you attractive. That’s not a sin, is it?’
‘It all depends. You say you have no wife.’
‘No.’
‘And is there no girlfriend?’
He hesitated with the tense. ‘There was. She’s called Steffie. She works for the Service, although she’s not a diplomat.’ He tried to pretend it was of no importance, but there was the snake-like slither of guilt running up his spine. He’d had a letter from her that morning, a brief but heartfelt missive enclosing a postcard of Cologne cathedral. Having a lovely time, wish you were here, was scrawled on the card. The letter said the same thing, but without the irony: Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so hasty, she had written. It’s being apart that makes me understand how good we are together.
‘She was posted back to England.’
‘And your heart is broken?’
‘We didn’t break up exactly. It’s just…’ Momentarily, he felt himself floundering beneath her steady, interrogator’s gaze. Blue eyes, narrowed against the light. ‘It’s always been a difficult relationship. When you are on post, when you meet such a limited range of people, things are always difficult. Artificial, I suppose.’
‘And now?’ It was a challenge, and he deflected it.
‘Now you must tell me about yourself. That’s only fair.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘No boyfriend?’
‘There has been. Not recently. Not serious, anyway.’
‘What’s serious?’
‘If they matter to me. One did. He played in a group. You know? Guitars, pretending to be The Beatles? We were together a couple of years. Since then…’ She let her voice trail away into silence.
For dessert they had the inevitable palačinky, pancakes, with a sharp cherry filling and too much whipped cream. Sam glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’ve got to get back to the office. People to see, minutes to write.’
‘Of course.’
‘Perhaps I can see you again?’
‘Why not? There is – I do not know if you are interested – there is a concert coming up. My flatmate is in the orchestra so I get tickets. You met her – Jitka.’
‘Of course.’ He thought for a moment, riffling mentally through his social diary and deciding that no one would notice if he didn’t turn up to the reception at the Swiss embassy to celebrate what? Their national day, presumably. Madeleine would notice but she could go hang. ‘Yes, that’s fine. Where? What time? Maybe we can get something to eat afterwards.’
Again that shrug. ‘The House of Artists. At six. On the steps. There will be others there. Friends.’
6
The concert. A scrum of people going up the steps into the auditorium, and Lenka grabbing Sam’s hand to lead him through a side entrance and up stairs to one of the balconies. ‘You’re with the poor students now, Mr Diplomat,’ she said. They shuffled sideways into narrow seats. He was introduced to some of her friends, faces that were familiar from the political meeting – the Barboras and Terezas, the Mareks and Pavels. There was a buzz of excited conversation as they peered down on the audience in the body of the auditorium. ‘There’s Smrkovský,’ someone said, and everyone craned to look at the tough-looking man taking his seat in the stalls.
‘Do you know who he is?’ asked Lenka. It was hot up there just beneath the ceiling. Her forehead and upper lip were beaded with sweat.
‘I’m political, remember? Of course I know him. I’ve even met him.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Talked with him. For about three minutes.’
‘So what do you think of him?’
Sam considered for a moment. Far below people were pushing and shoving to get a moment’s contact with the man. He smiled round, shaking hands. A pugnacious, genial face, a short brush of grey hair. A member of the Central Committee of the Party, he was one of Dubček’s closest associates. ‘I think you’re looking at a man riding a tiger. You know about riding a tiger?’
‘Hard to get off?’
‘Exactly.’
People applauded. The applause began close to Smrkovský and spread out like a wave in a pond until everyone in the auditorium was clapping, from the stalls to the gods, until the man was settled into his seat. More applause greeted the orchestra as it filed on stage. Lenka pointed. ‘There’s Jitka. Second violins, next to the bald-headed man. I rent a room in her flat.’