Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,42

very important business.” He motioned for Pepik to come over, forehead furrowed, focused all at once on the task at hand. He had played the role of Saint Nicholas for Pepik since the boy was born. Every year the same charade. He was good at it, Marta had to admit.

He was good at all sorts of charades.

“Are you . . .” Ernst consulted a piece of paper in front of him, “Angus Bengali?”

Pepik was eyeing the Devil warily and clinging to Marta’s skirt. He shook his head no.

Ernst feigned confusion, crumpling his forehead again. “Oh,” he said, “I thought . . .”

He peered more closely at his list, which Marta could see was a newspaper article clipped out of Lidové noviny. “Herman von Winkledom?”

“No,” said Pepik, a smile starting to show.

“Ludwig von Twicky-Twacky?”

“No!”

“It says here . . .” Ernst said, bringing the paper close to his face. “I left my spectacles with Krampusse.” He ran his forefinger down the fake list. “You’re not . . . I don’t suppose you’re . . . Pepik Bauer?”

“I am!” shouted Pepik, who had now completely forgotten about the Devil. “I’ve been good!”

“Have you?”

Pepik nodded enthusiastically and then, unable to contain himself, he made a lunge for the sack of gifts. Ernst held it above his head. He paused, his eyes far away. “Have you really been good?” he asked.

A shadow crossed Pepik’s face. He drew back and crossed his small arms in front of his chest. He said, “No.”

“No?”

“I’ve been bad.”

The Devil gave a little laugh. “Finally I get some action!”

Ernst laughed too, but Marta could see he was unprepared for this. He was struggling just to keep his balance, swaying unsteadily on his heels. “Well,” he said, eyeing Marta slyly, “everybody is naughty sometimes. It’s never too late to correct one’s mistakes.”

She felt the heat rise straight to her face.

“Hear, hear.” Pavel raised his glass, unaware of what he was toasting.

“What I meant to ask,” Ernst continued, “is have you been good most of the time?”

But it was too late. Pepik shook his head gravely. “Ne.”

The whole thing had taken on the air of some kind of religious ritual, something akin to the confessions Marta remembered from her youth, and so she was not surprised when Pepik said, “I was bad. I let the water man put his water on my forehead.” He looked up at the Saint. “To make me not Jewish,” he clarified.

The room fell silent. The Devil and Saint Nicholas looked at each other. Anneliese lowered her head. It was Pavel who spoke first. “You were—” he glanced at his wife, whose face was in her hands, and back to his son. “You were baptized?”

Marta heard Ernst mutter something that sounded a little like amen.

“Miláčku? The priest put water on your forehead?”

Pepik nodded, hesitant, his eyes moving between his parents.

Pavel stood up. “I can’t . . . I don’t . . .” He looked at Anneliese, who would not meet his gaze. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at his son and at the Devil and the Saint, and said, without expression, “If you’ll excuse me.”

The parlour fell silent. Only the teenaged Lucifer seemed oblivious to the implications of what had just taken place. “Who baptized you?” he asked Pepik. Marta saw that the Devil’s face was thin and there were two large boils on the side of his neck. It was Ernst’s nephew, she remembered—Armin? Irwin?

Pepik was fighting back tears. “Father Wilhelm,” he said.

Marta was astonished that Pepik had remembered the priest’s name—he could barely remember the letters she was teaching him. Then again, perhaps he knew what the important things were, where to place his attention. Perhaps he remembered more than they gave him credit for.

There was more strained silence, the remaining adults looking nervously at each other. Saint Nicholas inserted his fingers under his fake beard and scratched vigorously at his face, suddenly desperate to get the whole thing over with. “Pepik,” he said. “I see here now, on my list”—he peered at it again “—it says you’ve been good. So I’ve brought you a present.”

He shoved the box at Pepik, who held it uncertainly, as if it were a bomb about to go off.

“Go on, open it,” Saint Nicholas said. “I’ve got lots of other children left on my list.” He lifted his sack, which was clearly empty.

Pepik set his gift on the table. He sat down in front of it. He peeled back a piece of tape carefully.

“Go on!” Saint