CHAPTER 4: Question Marks Behind Drawn Curtains

Morning came with a louder noise than Petr expected. White light shone through the blinds, and voices penetrated from somewhere in the corridor — children, judging by the tone, and parents trying to persuade them into something.

Žaneta was no longer in bed.

Petr lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

The restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel was almost full at this hour. Tourists in beachwear, families with small children, a couple of older pairs who were reading at their tables and paying no heed to the noise around them. The staff moved quickly and quietly between the tables.

Žaneta and Markéta were already seated. Yogurt and coffee stood in front of Žaneta, while Markéta had a plate of toast in front of her, from which she had broken off one corner while continuing to browse her phone. Petr brought eggs and a roll from the buffet and sat down.

"Good morning."

Markéta looked up and lowered her eyes again.

Žaneta slid the pitcher of juice closer to him.

Petr poured himself a glass.

Breakfast continued like any other breakfast. Markéta occasionally said something about what she had seen on the internet overnight. Petr nodded. Meanwhile, Žaneta browsed a map on her phone and pointed at various places they could visit.

"There's a market here. Good according to the reviews."

Petr looked at the screen.

"Provided it fits with that museum."

"We can easily reschedule the museum."

Markéta finished her toast.

„I might get in touch with Karimah.“

Petr looked up.

„Who is Karimah?“

„A girl I met by the pool.“

Žaneta nodded, as if she had known about it all along.

Petr looked at her first and then back at Markéta.

„I missed that.“

„I told you yesterday.“

Maybe she said.

Petr could not recall it.

Markéta apologized that she was going to the restroom, slid her phone into her pocket, and disappeared between the tables.

Petr drank some juice.

Žaneta kept moving the map with her finger. He watched her hand. Her fingers were long and she moved them slowly, as if she were reading text rather than looking for a route. In the morning, she had braided her hair into a loose plait that fell over her left shoulder.

It occurred to him that she was somehow quiet.

Then he remembered yesterday. They had arrived, walked part of the coast, and sat outside for a long time in the evening. Maybe she was simply tired.

He reached for a bread roll.

„You alright?“ he asked.

Žaneta looked up.

„Why?“

„Just like that.“

She stared at him for a moment, as if waiting for him to add something to the question. When he didn't, she went back to the map.

„Right.“

At the next table, an entire family suddenly burst out laughing. The father was showing the children something on his phone, and the mother was laughing so hard she had to put down her coffee mug.

Petr turned back around.

Žaneta didn't reproach him for anything. Not in the evening. Not now. He pulled out his phone and quickly checked the screen under the table.

Nothing from the boss.

Not from Radúz either.

He'd hidden his phone again.

Žaneta zoomed in on the map with two fingers.

„The market is about an hour's walk,“ she said. „Or I can take the bus.“

„The bus is better.“

„I don't care.“

Petr looked up.

Normally she would have insisted on walking. She always insisted on walking. She claimed that walking was the only way to truly get to know a city.

This time he let it go.

Markéta se vrátila a znovu si sedla.

“So, the market?” she asked.

„Market,“ confirmed Žaneta and put her phone down next to the plate.

Petr finished his juice. The restaurant around them hummed. Somewhere outside the window, a scooter was starting up.

Suddenly he realized that he didn't actually know whether Žaneta had slept during the night.

Or whether, just like him, she lay awake staring into the dark.

He didn't ask.

 

* * *

 

Žaneta went back to the room for her bag.

Petr went after her, but she was already heading back out into the hallway. She slung the canvas shopping bag over her shoulder that she brought on every vacation and checked her wallet.

"Markéta is going to Karimah," she said. "So I'm going alone."

"Shall I come with you?"

"You don't have to. I'll be gone an hour, maybe two."

She took the room key from the table by the door and went out.

Petr remained standing in the middle of the room.

For a moment he listened to the footsteps in the corridor. Then he heard the elevator. The doors opened, closed, and there was silence.

He walked over to the window and pulled back the blinds.

In front of the hotel was a small roundabout with parked taxis. A moment later, Žaneta came out through the main entrance. Over her shoulder she had a bag, on her head a baseball cap she had bought the year before last in Venice. She turned right and without hesitation set off down the street.

He watched her go.

She didn't stop. She didn't look in the shop windows. She didn't take out her phone.

She walked faster than she did at home.

After a few seconds, she disappeared around the corner.

Petr left his hand on the blinds.

It occurred to him that he actually had no idea where Žaneta went when she was by herself. Not on Malta. In general.

He knew what kind of coffee she drank. He knew she hated cilantro and that she had been ordering almost the exact same things in restaurants for twenty years. He knew what her face looked like when she had a headache, and what she looked like when she read in bed.

But he had no idea where she had just gone.

He walked away from the window.

Her book lay on the bedside table. Open, the spine a bit broken, the bookmark somewhere in the first third.

Petr looked at the cover. Přízraky v Umagu.

He didn't know what it was about.

He never asked.

He picked up his phone.

Nothing from the boss.

He put it down.

The room was suddenly strangely quiet.

Petr sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the door through which Žaneta had just left.

He wondered when was the last time he knew anything about her day before she told him herself.

He didn't figure it out.

 

* * *

 

Žaneta returned with the oil, a bottle of wine, and a small glass fish, which she had wrapped in her bag in several pages of the local magazine.

In the afternoon they set out along the coast.

Markéta walked between them for only a little while. Then she gradually moved forward a step, two steps, until she was actually walking alone and they stayed behind her. On the way, Žaneta was drawn to a shop window displaying hand-woven fabrics. She stopped and pressed closer to the glass.

„Go together, I think I'll be a while here.“

Petr continued on.

He caught up with Markéta by the low stone wall above the harbour. She was leaning against it with both hands, looking down at the boats.

“Karimah said they do catamaran trips here.”

"Yeah?"

“They're supposed to be good.”

Petr looked at the harbour. The boats were barely moving. Only the ropes shifted slightly on the surface now and then.

„Možná.“

“I'd go.”

“Well, go then.”

Markéta looked at him.

“I meant sometime during the trip.”

„Ah.“

„We don't have that many plans.“

Petr smiled slightly.

„Tell that to Mom.“

Markéta laughed.

They stood next to each other for a moment, looking at the water.

"Karimah would go too," she said after a while.

"It seems you've become friends."

“Yeah.”

They set off further.

The promenade was full of people. Tourists were sitting outside restaurants, waiters were weaving between the tables, and a mixture of the smell of salt and fried fish was drifting in from somewhere by the sea.

"Karimah studies in Paris," Markéta said. "She's going into her second year now."

Petr nodded.

“She hated the first year, they say.”

"And now?"

“She's fine now.”

Markéta dodged a pair of tourists and continued on.

„And how long have you known her?“

„Why, the day before yesterday, I ran into her.“

She looked at him as if the question made no sense.

„By the pool.“

„Right.“

„Dad, that's normal. People meet each other here.“

Petr laughed.

„I'm not saying anything.“

„You are saying something.“

„I'm not.“

Markéta shook her head and smiled again.

Petr realized he hadn't seen her this relaxed in a long time.

At home she was shut in her room most of the time. At school. With friends. In her own world, which her parents only peeked into occasionally.

Here, she seemed lighter.

As if two days were enough for her and she already belonged somewhere else.

„And there's another boy too,“ she said after a moment.

„What boy?“

„Karimah's friend.“

She shrugged.

"Some Yassin."

Petr nodded.

The name meant nothing to him.

They stopped by a water stall. He bought a bottle and handed it to Markéta. She took a drink and handed it back.

"We want to go to Mdina tomorrow," she said.

"You?"

"Me and Karimah."

"That's nice."

Petr remembered the narrow streets and stone walls baking in the sun. The silence between the houses, which felt completely different from the rest of the island.

“You would like it there.”

„So that's why we're going there.“

They continued on.

After a moment, Markéta moved another few steps ahead. She stopped by the railing and took out her phone. She was taking pictures of the harbor.

Petr walked more slowly.

He watched her.

Suddenly, he had the strange feeling that he was catching up to her again. Until recently, he knew who she spent her afternoons with, what annoyed her, and what music she listened to. Now, in the span of two days, she had met people he had never seen, was planning her own schedule, and took it all for granted.

Perhaps it was obvious.

When he reached her, she was still taking pictures of the ships.

"Are you coming with us?" she asked.

She didn't even look at him.

She just asked a question.

„We'll see.“

She nodded, as if the answer were enough for her. Then she picked up her phone again and took another picture. Petr leaned on the railing next to her. The sea to their left reflected the sun so intensely that he had to squint. For a moment, he forgot to check his phone.

And he realized it only a few minutes later.

 

* * *

 

The lounge was almost full in the early evening.

This time it felt different than the previous evenings. The terrace was open, the doors towards the sea remained wide open, and warm air mixed with the salty scent of water flowed inside. A few guests were standing at the bar, the waiters were moving among the tables faster than usual, and a mix of English, Italian, and German echoed from various corners of the room.

Petr sat down at the same table as the previous evenings.

Žaneta ordered wine. Markéta brought lemonade and left her phone lying next to the glass. Unlike the previous days, something was happening in the lounge. It wasn't just a backdrop for the evening. The room had its own energy.

Radúz was sitting at the piano.

He played several familiar pieces that Petr couldn't name, but had heard somewhere before. People were tapping their feet to the rhythm, someone at the bar laughed louder than the others, and a group of younger guests started recording short videos.

Then Radúz transitioned into another piece.

Petr recognized it after just a few bars.

Polygot.

Radúz once sent it to him as a work-in-progress recording. At the time, what Petr remembered most was how absurdly confident it felt. As if it had been written by someone completely different from the man who could sit in silence for hours and look out at the sea.

The piano started up faster.

A light electronic track played from the speakers joined the rhythm, and the lounge instantly came to life.

Lejl it-tajjeb, sinjora, ejja, ejja, call me Polygot, I translate desire, not just words…

Several people at the bar turned toward the piano.

Radúz sang with an ease Petr wasn't familiar with. He wasn't the man from the terrace or the man from the morning news. He was a person who could command the entire room.

…fluent in body language, consent whispers allow, allow…

Žaneta se usmála.

„Tohle je dobrý.“

Petr nodded.

The guests began to react. Someone applauded in rhythm. A short whistle came from the bar. A pair of Italian women sitting near the window were laughing, and one of them was recording part of the performance on her phone.

Radúz continued.

Polygot, poly-got, I've got just what you need, sentence by sentence, step by step…

Petr watched him over the heads of the other guests.

It was strange to see him like this. Public. Loud. Confident.

Last year he had grown used to a different Radúz. A man who would sit in silence for a long time and only reply after several seconds. A man who kept most things to himself.

This Radúz belonged to the room.

He belonged to the light, the laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

Petr realized that this was precisely what unsettled him more than he would have expected.

Perhaps because he had never admitted to himself that Radúz existed outside of his own memories.

The song was building to a crescendo.

At several tables, people began to sway to the rhythm. A waiter carrying a tray stopped for a moment and shook his head with amusement. Even Markéta put her phone down and watched the piano for a moment.

I don't talk dirty, I speak fluently, in a whisper and in the dark…

Radúz smiled.

For the first time all evening.

Not at Petr.

At everyone.

And that was what surprised Petr.

When the song ended, the lounge erupted into applause much louder than usual. Several people whistled. Someone even shouted bravo.

Žaneta applauded with sincere enthusiasm.

"This one was excellent."

"Yeah," Petr said.

Radúz bowed, acknowledged with a brief gesture, and without much fanfare moved on to the next track.

The lounge gradually calmed down.

It just took Petr a while to calm down too.

He still had that smile before his eyes.

Not the one he knew.

A completely different one.

 

* * *

 

The hotel room was small enough for every movement to be heard.

Žaneta came in shortly after ten. She set her bags on the floor by the door instead of the armchair by the window where she usually left them. Petr noticed without lifting his eyes from it.

"Where have you been so long?"

"At the store." She unbuckled her sandal and kicked it aside. "And then I argued about the card payment surcharge at the front desk. Thirty cents."

Petr nodded.

"Did you sort it out?"

"They gave them back." She walked into the bathroom. "But that guy? Completely useless."

The water began to rush.

Petr remained sitting on the bed with his phone in his hand. The boss still hadn't replied. He had texted her a short message before dinner, just confirming that he was asking about the deadline. No answer.

From the bathroom came the click of a glass hitting a shelf.

Žaneta didn't like arguing over thirty cents. He knew that. On the other hand, it had happened several times already that she got stuck on some similar minor detail more than made sense. He never could predict in advance which things she would find important.

She came out with a damp face and began putting things from the bags into the closet.

„Isn't Markéta asleep yet?“

„She came here around nine. Then she left again.“

„Where to?“

„I don't know. To the hallway, I think.“

Žaneta paused for a moment.

„To the hallway.“

„Or downstairs. She didn't say.“

She nodded and continued packing.

Petr watched her for a moment.

She looked tired.

Or perhaps no more so than on any other evening on holiday.

He couldn't tell.

„Are you going to sleep?“ he asked.

„In a bit. I want to read for a while.“

She sat down on the bed, opened the book, and Petr knew the conversation was over.

He went to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and stared into the mirror for a moment.

Žaneta was irritated.

He was irritable.

Perhaps from the heat. Perhaps from traveling. Perhaps from things that had no connection at all.

He went back into the room, Žaneta with her eyes glued to her book.

He turned off the lamp on his side of the bed and lay down.

Distant laughter and the occasional click of the elevator drifted in from the hallway.

The sea murmured beyond the window.

And the phone remained silent.

 

* * *

 

Žaneta fell asleep with a book on her chest.

Petr gently took it and placed it on the bedside table. Such a thin book and it wears her out so much, he thought.

He stood by the bed for a moment and listened to her breathing. Regular, calm. Then he took the phone and quietly went out onto the balcony.

The air was heavy, still full of the day's heat. Down on the promenade, groups of people were still moving about, but most of the restaurants were already turning off their terrace lights. The harbor lights reflected in the sea like spilled paint.

He opened his messages.

Nothing from the boss.

He scrolled up with his thumb. Her last message was four days old. Short, technical, with no deadline. I'll get in touch as soon as things are clear. Petr hadn't read it as a warning back then. Now he didn't even know how to read it.

He hung up the phone and leaned against the railing.

Radúz sang Polygota in the evening.

Petr recalled once again how the lounge had transformed within a few minutes. Voices had only half-subsided, people were turning toward the piano, someone at the bar was clapping to the rhythm, and Markéta had put her phone down for a moment. It wasn't a song that confessed to anything. It wasn't about him. It wasn't about them. And perhaps that was precisely why it unsettled him more than he had expected.

Radúz was different when he sang like that.

Public. Lighter. Almost sassy.

Petr knew a man who could stay silent for a long time, sit on a terrace, and look at the water before answering a simple question. This man at the piano smiled at the whole room, switched between languages, seduced the audience, and yet promised nothing to anyone.

The lounge belonged to him.

Petr didn't want to admit it, but he was even jealous of the room.

Last year, everything was different. He arrived alone. Without family, without an appointment, without the need to explain why he was late getting to his room. Radúz used to play until midnight, and Petr often stayed as one of the last guests in the lounge. At first, they spoke during the breaks. Later, even after closing time.

He remembered that feeling precisely.

Not the words. Not the specific evenings.

The feeling that he didn't have to control anything.

Now, he controlled everything.

Behind the glass door, his life was sleeping. Žaneta on the left side of the bed, Markéta in the adjoining room. Phone in hand, his boss was silent, Radúz had vanished into the crowd after the performance, and Markéta had talked about new acquaintances that afternoon with such ease as if she didn't need his permission at all.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe things around him were changing precisely because he had stopped watching over them.

Or perhaps he watched over them all the time, just differently than before.

The sea emitted a constant muffled murmur, and Peter stood still until his forearms began to grow cold. Then he went inside, lay down beside Žaneta, and stared at the ceiling until his wife's breathing became the only sound in the room.