Chapter 13: And What Then

She got up earlier than him. She usually got up earlier.

She came out of the bathroom with wet hair and walked over to the window. She opened the curtain a crack. The light fell on the floor, and Petr watched as she ran a towel over her neck and then draped it over the back of a chair.

Movements he knew.

He knew them so well that he had stopped seeing them.

He got up, sat on the edge of the bed, and watched her search for something in her bag. She pulled out a cream. She opened the lid. She dabbed it on the back of her hand and rubbed it in.

Petr told himself: and what then.

What comes after.

After Malta.

After returning home.

After this summer.

Žaneta closed the cream lid and placed it on the table.

„Don't you want a shower?“

„In a moment.“

She nodded and went to the mirror.

Petr watched her from behind. Her hair, her shoulders, the way she held a strand and ran a comb through it.

Twenty-five years.

Žaneta put down her comb.

Petr got up and went to the bathroom.

He closed the door behind him and stood by the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water and looked into the mirror.

There was no answer there.

＊ ＊ ＊

The promenade was crowded at this hour.

Tourists with shopping bags, children with scoops of ice cream, a couple of old men on a bench watching the sea as if guarding it. Peter walked next to Markéta, trying to match his pace with hers.

She walked slowly, without a destination.

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

"No." She looked at the sea. "I'm fine like this."

Petr nodded.

They walked in silence for a while. Markéta held back her hair, which the wind was driving across her face, and then let it go.

"They say it's going to be windy tomorrow," she said.

„Hmm.“

"Jára said the sea is different after that. That it has a different color in the morning."

Petr looked at her.

"Jára?"

"Yassin." She stopped and leaned against the railing. "I call him Jára sometimes. It's easier."

Down below them, waves were crashing against the stone. Petr leaned against the rail beside her.

He watched as a young man who walked past looked at her. Markéta either didn't notice or ignored it. Petr couldn't tell which was worse.

"Dad, are you alright?"

„Why?“

She shrugged.

"I don't know. You look tired."

"I'm fine."nejmenší

Silence again.

Markéta turned her back to the sea and leaned her elbows on the railing. Petr looked at her in profile. A nose like Žaneta's. A jawline like his own.

He realized that he didn't actually know when exactly it had happened. When she stopped being the little girl who slept with a stuffed dog.

When she started living her own life.

With her own Jára.

With her own things that she would never tell him.

"Is he coming for dinner?" he asked.

"Who?"

„Yassin.“

Markéta looked at him. There was something cautious in her gaze.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'm just asking."

"I know you're just asking."

She pulled away from the railing.

„Shall we go?“

Petr looked at the sea for a moment longer.

„Dad.“

„I'm coming.“

＊ ＊ ＊

Petr stepped inside and instantly knew that he no longer wanted to look at the piano.

It was for the first time during his entire stay.

The room was full as always. Guests at the tables, waiters moving among them, candles already lit. The lights dimmed to an orange hue. The air sweet from the air conditioning and the scents from the bar.

The piano stood in its place.

The lid closed.

Nobody was sitting with him.

Petr headed straight for the table by the pillar and sat down.

The waiter came without being called.

"Beer."

The waiter nodded and left.

Petr looked around.

Three men in shirts were standing by the bar, talking quietly. Two women in the corner were looking at their phones and laughing occasionally. An older couple by the window sat without speaking, each of them watching a different part of the room.

No one was watching the piano.

Because there was nothing to watch.

Petr realized that all week he had been waiting for Radúz to come. For a green dot to appear. For a message to arrive explaining where he had been and why he hadn't written.

Instead he found an empty apartment.

Medication in three rows.

A photograph of a woman on a stone wall.

And a key in his pocket that had stayed there the whole year.

He got a beer. He took a sip. It tasted the same as every evening.

He took out his phone.

Radúz. Delivered. Unread.

He hid it.

He remembered the conversation from a few nights ago.

I don't need it.

Back then, he thought she was talking about money.

Now, he wasn't sure.

Radúz never looked like a man who was waiting for something. For a decision. For salvation. For a new life.

Rather like a man living his own.

Mother on Gozo.

Ferries.

Medication.

Work.

Peter took a drink.

Perhaps all year he had been imagining something that had much less to do with Radúz's actual life than he thought.

Perhaps he had been imagining the man he kept meeting in the lounge.

Not the man who was walking home after the concert.

He set down his glass.

He looked at the piano.

Empty.

Silent.

He no longer looked to it for an answer.

He finished his beer.

He stood up.

And he left.