Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,54

to seal it.

After that, Marta would think later, everything was ruined.

The following morning Max’s foreman, Hans, arrived at the flat. Together he and Pavel were running the show in Max’s absence. Marta took his overcoat and said, “Welcome, Mr. Novak.”

He tsked. “Call me Hans.”

“Yes, Mr. Novak,” she said.

He was a man with a large stomach, and jowls that made her think of a hound-dog. The sort of man, Marta thought, about whom women would say He’s got such a nice smile, or He’s got beautiful eyes, but only because they liked him and it did not seem fair that someone so kind should be so unpleasant to look at.

Marta showed him into the parlour, where Pavel had lit a fire in the hearth. The men took off their leather shoes and stretched their legs towards the heat, Hans with his hands folded over his enormous belly. Marta served café au lait from the silver service while they sucked on their pipes. Her trolley was covered with a white linen cloth. “A whore’s breakfast,” Hans joked. “Coffee and tobacco.”

Pavel smiled.

“There are pastries too,” Marta said, smiling. She had bought tiny plum donuts, dusted with confectioner’s sugar, and two little Linzer tortes from the beautiful patisserie in the Vinohrady. Pavel liked Czech pastries, but served in the French way. He liked to peruse them with the silver tongs in hand.

Marta moved towards Pavel to let him have his pick but found she could not look him in the face. The memory of their kiss was like an ailment spreading throughout her body, making its presence known in her chest, then on her cheeks, then in that unfamiliar tug low in her belly. It had been so unexpected, so out of the blue. And yet she felt, somehow, that she’d loved him all along. The mess with Ernst lifted from her mind like a ribbon of grey cigarette smoke. This is what it was like to be kissed by a decent man, a man who respected you. And she realized it was true—Pavel did respect her, without a doubt. The situation was complicated, compromised, but his feelings about her were pure.

For his part, Pavel acted breezy, at ease. As if nothing unusual had happened. He selected a pastry without looking at Marta. “Intermarium,” he said to Hans. “What do you make of it?” He set the donut on his plate and held the tongs out in front of him.

“A pact between Poland, Romania, and the Hungarians.”

“But what about us?” The tongs snapped closed.

“We’re lost already.”

“I went down to the Swiss embassy to try to get entry permits,” Pavel said. “I put a small envelope on the edge of the diplomat’s desk. He waited until the end of my appeal and then he threw it back in my face.”

Marta registered this new piece of information: so Pavel had tried to bribe the Swiss for entry. He too wanted to leave Czechoslovakia. But had he changed his mind too late?

“We’re stuck here,” he said, as if answering her thought.

His voice seemed strangely loud, Marta noticed. Perhaps he wanted her to leave, to give them some privacy. She moved her trolley into the corner of the room but one of the wheels was sticking; she had to stop and kneel to adjust it.

Hans carefully set down his cup on the china saucer, the dainty gesture comical in contrast to his size. He took on a businesslike tone with Pavel. “You’ll get a little reprieve before the Wehrmacht arrives,” he said. “I’ve received word that you’re needed to go to the Hungerland factory. On a flax-buying mission.”

“Received word from who? Max?”

But Hans ignored the question. “We will need to be prepared,” he said. “The borders will close. We need stock in order to stay relevant.”

Marta thought she caught an unspoken criticism of the way Pavel had handled things in their old town. If he had been prepared, Hans seemed to imply, he might have avoided the factory’s occupation. But Pavel didn’t pick up on it or else chose not to indulge the foreman. “I see,” he said. “To Paris?”

“No, not to Paris. To Zürich.” Hans enunciated the city’s name clearly. “You are requested to buy as much flax as possible. And meet with the son, Emil. No, not Emil; sorry, he’s the one . . .” Hans circled his forefinger beside his temple to show the man was crazy.

“If only we could really spin flax into gold.”

“Emil’s brother, Jan. He’ll be with Mr. Hungerland Senior. There will