Sailboat on a Vignette

Marie skipped taking her morning run. It was long past 8:00, and the light streaming through the curtained window hurt when it hit her sleepy eyes. The dream interrupted by awakening had not yet evaporated away, so the images and the indescribable lingering sensation still hung in her fading memory. The essence from a jumble of phantasmal stories. Only men appeared in them. Her father with his serious countenance, dying and then rising from the dead. Luboš, grinning in his new car, the one that now belonged to Marie. And the unknown, young Adonis, fair-haired and with an irresistible smile.

The apartment was scorching hot already from early morning, from the preceding days and tropic nights. She stood at the sink in just her white underpants and prepared breakfast for herself. It seemed to her that she was trying to catch her last chances and hopes in life in the tea-strainer. There was a single message on her mobile phone. It was Katka, apologizing that she would have to delay by a week her summer visit to Krumlov. Milan had already written at the beginning of the summer holidays that he and Šárka would be coming to Krumlov on a trip, that they were looking forward to it, but since that time only silence. Maybe it’s better that way for both of us, Marie thought, for Milan and for me. So the loneliness continues. A threat of summer fires looms somewhere beyond the apartment building’s walls, and Marie is on the watch with a pair of opera glasses pressed to her eyes. It was the last pale ray of a dream that hung on in the breezeless mugginess. It was a loneliness she knew from that novel by Jack Kerouac, who had gone to Desolation Peak as a fire lookout. He had endeavored to be alone there with his thoughts, and to kill time he was writing haiku and dreaming of how he would get drunk with friends when he returned from that desolate place. Marie got the idea that she should catch the bus and go back to Prague immediately. But back to another empty apartment? Katka was going there to air it out and to water the plants. For some time, Marie’s thoughts drifted back and forth along the fine line of making a decision.

For a long time, she studied her face in front of the bathroom mirror. There were the signs of aging. Then she was doing her make-up. In the bedroom she was putting on her clothes and in the hallway she was taking them off again, and so it went for nearly an hour until her wardrobe offered nothing new and both of her suitcases were completely unpacked.

The way from the neighborhood of apartment buildings to the historic city center did not take her long this time. She trudged along the walls and tried to stay within the shade of the buildings. In the bookstore, there was a crowd of people. She took a random book from the English language section and discovered that it was just two steps up into a little passage where there was an out-of-style creaky sofa. She sat down. There was distinctly less light there, not really enough for reading. Across the way was a closed narrow door, and down to the right was a view of the counter. From time to time she looked at the shop assistant, then turned her head back again, the paperback book closed and lying on her knees. When suddenly he was standing in front of her, she did not actually even know what book she was holding.

“For which couple of sentences did you come by today?”

This was something awkwardly new, with him standing so close to her in that narrow passage.

“And did you notice the lady in that portrait looks almost like you?”

She had no idea what book she had taken. She looked at the cover, then at him. He was wearing the same delicately patterned shirt as he had been the first time. It was a kind of green, flowing soft cloth.

“Is that why you chose Henry James?”

“Why what?”

“Because of the resemblance?”

It was as if she was incapable of conversing with him. She felt like somebody else was speaking instead of her.

“And do you know – since you are an aspiring writer – that Henry James used to draft long studies for his novels? Many times those notes were longer than the novel itself.”

“I was looking for that sentence from Kundera’s novel you were reading here last time. There are many of them,” he laughed, “but maybe I know which one it was.”

Marie stood up from the sofa, slipped past him with her eyes downcast, then descended the little stairs. With the book in her hand, she headed to the counter. He followed after her.

“I realized that I’m not a very good customer. So this time, I really will leave with a book.”

“Excellent. One Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.”

She paid and turned to leave.

“Are you going already? I know the answer to your literary quiz.”

“Really?” She turned back to the counter with the cash register.

“And what was that question again?”

“Don’t pretend, you don’t remember. Aschenbach, Tadzio…”

“Ah. And your answer?”

“Death in Venice, Thomas Mann.”

“Correct.”

“Now, you sound like some kind of teacher.”

She laughed.

“I understand now why I remind you of that Polish young man.”

“Why?”

“If a plague should break out in Krumlov now, would you leave? Or would you stay?”

“And why should I stay?”

“So that you could be near to me.”

Now, his look seemed to her provocative. But it did not feel unpleasant.

“But plague did not break out in Venice.”

“I know, it was cholera. And even though Aschenbach was afraid, he didn’t leave because of Tadzio.”

“And is Krumlov threatened by the plague?”

“That’s a bit of the city’s history. There were several epidemics here.”

“How do you know that?”

“From the girls who work as guides up at the castle. I live with them in a lodging house.”

He had not a wrinkle on his face. No lines under the eyes. Marie unwittingly touched her make-up with the fingers of her right hand.

“So tell me, would you leave to save yourself from the plague? Or would you want to stay here with me?”

“You said that I’m a teacher, so I’ll ask the questions.”

“So ask.”

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“Filip.”

“So, that’s all. I have to go.”

“Wait! What’s your name?”

“Marie.”

“That can’t be… look...”

He held a smart phone up to her face. A colored image was glowing on the display.

“You have the Virgin Mary on your wallpaper?”

“You said it precisely, I have her on my wallpaper. I’m writing a novel about her.”

“Hm, that’s interesting. But I really need to go.”

“Will you read a part of the manuscript?”

“Maybe next time.”

“And when will be next time?”