Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,76

stood very close to Marta. She could smell his aftershave. Something sharp and sugary, like cedars in the sun. “Is he any better?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I wanted to teach him some English before he goes.”

“Hello?” Marta had recently learned the word.

“Good morning.”

“And Where is the toilet?”

“Good one.”

“I’m hungry.”

“And what about I love you?”

Pavel turned away from her, averting his eyes.

Pepik’s sick stomach had reasserted itself and Pavel wanted to prop his son up to be sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit. Pepik’s body was difficult to manipulate, as if its owner had vacated and left a heavy lead dummy in his place. It took Pavel and Marta several minutes to arrange him, leaning him sideways against the oversized pillows. Their hands touched twice during the operation, sending little sparks up Marta’s arm.

The fever burned between them.

“Should we call the pediatrician?” Marta asked.

“We already did.”

Marta waited.

“The summons was ignored.”

It was the Jewish thing. Pavel didn’t say so, but Marta knew.

There was still no improvement by the third night, and the whole family gathered round Pepik’s bed. He was flat on his back with the thermometer sticking out of his mouth at a ninety-degree angle, as though from a pork roast. His fever had reached 103 degrees, and Marta had a feeling that they were gathered around a campfire, something hot and dangerous, crackling and spitting. Pepik seemed to sense their presence: his hallucinations came fast and strong as if he were up on stage before them, an actor charged with holding a vast audience’s attention. He spat out the thermometer and pulled at the flesh on his cheeks and puffed them out. He began to recite Der Struwwelpeter in a high, whiny voice. He pushed back his sheets and made to stand up on the bed, and when Pavel tried to move him back under the covers, he bit his father’s hand.

Time had seemed elastic to Marta during the worst of the illness, but with only two days left until Pepik’s departure it snapped firmly back into place. Anneliese had to settle on the final contents of the suitcase—she would send the winter pajamas with the feet attached but leave the suspendered bathing costume and cap. She also slipped her diamond watch down into the side pocket of the valise. Marta saw the note: For my boy who knows how to tell the time. A lovely gesture. Still, she thought, it was a large gift for such a small child. Perhaps Anneliese had other reasons for wanting to be rid of it.

Marta was responsible for putting a picnic into Pepik’s rucksack: two crabapples, some sausage, a small loaf of dark Czech bread. She taped a note to a bottle of Aspirin with instructions that Pepik should take one every three hours. The note was addressed to nobody in particular, and there would be nobody on the train to administer it, but it seemed to comfort Anneliese to include it, and Marta had to admit she felt the same way. Maybe there would be some older girl who would see that Pepik was sick and take him under her wing. It was like putting a message in a bottle: they had no idea if it would arrive.

“Marta.” Anneliese drew the strings on the rucksack. “There’s something I think I should tell you.”

“Those Aspirin have expired?”

Anneliese paused, leaned in closer. Marta saw new wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. “It’s just that—” Anneliese started, but stopped when Pavel came in with the suitcase. He fiddled with its lock for several minutes before laying it on the parlour table. It stayed there overnight, like a body before burial.

It was Marta who spent the last evening with Pepik, up in the room that had belonged to his Uncle Max. In the pantry she found a white tray patterned with blue windmills and brought him up a bowl of chicken soup and a little dish of cherry preserves for dessert. “Are you hungry, darling?” she asked.

She didn’t wait for him to answer. “You’re leaving in the morning! What a lucky boy,” she said. “And we will come and meet you in Scotland.”

Pepik nodded gravely. His eyes had cleared and he was eating the soup quickly, like a starving man.

“You’ll meet me?” he asked, the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Your mamenka and tata will come as quickly as they can.”

“And you too?”

“And me too,” she promised. “And me too, miláčku.” She didn’t want to think about the fact that Pepik was leaving—leaving for real—but nor