Chapter 6: Blood on the Stones

Morning.

Peter walked along the sea without a destination. Or at least that was what he told himself.

Žaneta stayed at the hotel to read. Markéta left before breakfast and left a note on the table.

I'll be on the rocks. M.

Tři slova.

Žádné vysvětlování.

That was enough.

Petr ate breakfast alone. At a slow pace that never improved his appetite when he had no one to talk to. Then he put down his napkin, picked up his sunglasses, and went outside.

The sun was already high. On the promenade, joggers flitted by, a few locals with dogs, and tourists who did not yet look tired from the heat.

As he walked down the steps to the rocks, he realized he hadn't actually wanted to come here.

He saw them at once.

Markéta was sitting on a flat stone right above the water's surface. Yassin was next to her. They were talking. Between them lay a phone. Yassin was pointing at something in his palm and Markéta leaned in closer. Then they both said something and laughed.

Petr stopped.

He wasn't hidden. Just far enough away.

Yassin leapt onto a higher rock and stood over the water for a moment with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Then he turned to Markéta and said something to her.

Markéta shook her head.

Yassin laughed and jumped to the next rock.

The rocky strip along the water was uneven. The stones fit together like teeth, some dark from seawater, others dazzlingly white. Yassin walked across them lightly, without hesitation, like someone who had long stopped thinking about where he was putting his feet.

Markéta sat for a while.

Then she stood up.

The first leap.

The second.

Third.

She moved more carefully than he did, but not timidly. With concentration.

Petr knew that expression.

From childhood. From his first ice skates. From tree climbing. From mountain biking.

The look of someone who has decided to master something and is now simply mastering it.

Yassin turned to look at her.

He didn't go any further.

Waited.

Only when she had passed the last stone did he turn back and continue.

Petr noticed that detail.

Down below them, the sea crashed against the rocks in a regular rhythm.

After a while, they both stopped on a wide rock by the water. Yassin pulled his T-shirt over his head and sat on the edge. Markéta sat down next to him and took out her phone.

They looked at the screen together.

They laughed occasionally.

Petr realized he had been watching them longer than he intended.

But he didn't leave.

There was nothing unsettling about it.

That was the problem.

Markéta laughed.

Yassin waited when it was necessary to wait.

They sat next to each other in the sun and looked at a single phone.

Nothing was happening.

Nothing that would give Petr the right to leave with the feeling that he had done the right thing.

Nothing that would allow him to tell himself that he had intervened in time.

Just two young people who wanted to spend time together.

That naturalness unsettled him more than anything else.

Petr pulled out his phone.

The boss.

Sixth day.

He wrote a short message. He needed to confirm the date. The stay was growing shorter.

He sent it without rewriting.

Then he looked down once more.

Markéta tucked her hair behind her ear. Yassin was telling a story. The sea was crashing against the rocks below them and neither of them paid attention to it.

Petr put his phone away.

He turned around and headed back toward the stairs.

When he climbed back up to the promenade, he realized he didn't actually know what he went looking for there.

＊ ＊ ＊

Late in the afternoon, Petr returned to the stairs.

He didn't know why. He told himself he was going back to the hotel, and yet his feet brought him back to the staircase above the rocks. As if he had run out of arguments against himself.

Yassin was standing on the highest stone there — flat, leaning toward the sea, wet from the water surrounding it on three sides. Markéta was sitting a meter behind him on a dry spot, watching him.

Yassin started running.

It was a short run, four steps, and then a leap over the dark stone toward the light one jutting out of the water like a wedge. He landed, stood still, and turned to Markéta with his arms spread out from his sides.

Markéta stood up.

Petr stopped on the stairs so they wouldn't see him. He leaned against the rough wall and looked down. Again. Still.

Markéta se rozeběhla.

She jumped over the dark stone.

She landed correctly on her right foot. Her left carried her forward, slipped on the side of a wet stone, and Markéta caught herself with her hands on the surface below. She didn't fall. She just knelt, one hand braced against the edge of the rock.

Yassin was by her side in a second.

„Okay?“

Markéta se zvedla. Prohlédla si ruce. Pak se podívala na nohu.

“Yeah.”

Ale nebyla okay.

Petr saw it from where he stood. A red streak ran up her bare calf from the ankle, the skin scraped against the edge of the stone first white and then bloody red. Two dark spots remained on the rock beneath her.

Blood.

Markéta shook herself and took a step.

„Bolí to?“

„A bit.“

Yassin leaned down and examined the wound closely.

“This part is deeper.”

„It isn't.“

“It is. You have to wash it.”

Markéta leaned on his shoulder and jumped back onto the flat stone. Yassin walked beside her, his hand ready to catch her.

Petr descended the stairs down onto the rocks.

He couldn't stop his own momentum. His feet carried him over the stones and he walked as if someone had called him. As if he had to be there.

„Markéta.“

They both turned around.

Markéta had a look of mild surprise on her face. No fear or pain.

“Dad?” She looked at Yassin and then back at Petr. “What are you doing here?”

“I was taking a walk.” He came closer. “What happened?”

„Nothing.“

“I see.”

He bent down to her calf. The blood was stopping, but the streak was long and the edge of the stone had grazed the skin wide.

“That’s pretty nasty.”

“Dad.” There was a warning in her voice. “It’s a scratch.”

“A scratch doesn’t bleed like that.”

Yassin stood a step to the side and remained silent. Petr was uncomfortably aware of his presence — his height, his calm, the way he waited until something needed to be said or done. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look like anything at all.

That irritated Petr more than he would have liked.

“We’ll wash it,” he said. “You need a plaster.”

“We know.” Markéta straightened up. “Let’s head back.”

„Now.“

„Yeah, now.“

She raised her head. In her eyes was something Petr had known for the past two years. Not defiance. Rather patience. As if she were answering him in the tone one uses with someone who is needlessly startled.

„It really is just a scratch,“ she said more calmly.

„I know it's a scratch.“ Petr straightened up. „And yet it's bleeding.“

Yassin picked the t-shirt up from the ground and handed it to Markéta.

„Hold this against it.“

Markéta pressed the fabric to her calf.

“Thanks.”

Yassin nodded.

Petr watched the exchange. Short, precise, without unnecessary words. As if both knew how such things were done.

They set off back toward the stairs. Markéta walked without a limp, but carefully, shortening her stride on the wet patches. Yassin walked beside her. Petr behind them.

He was acutely aware of how he looked. A father who had appeared out of nowhere and was now walking three paces behind his daughter and some strange boy. He couldn't force himself to walk any other way.

They hopped over to the stairs.

Markéta hesitated slightly for the first time at the bottom step and caught hold of the handrail.

"I'll give you a hand," Petr said.

"I've got it."s

She had it.

They climbed up to the promenade. The sun on the pavement was even stronger than down by the water, reflected off the light stone straight into their faces. A few tourists walked past, one looked at Markéta's calf and looked away again.

“I'm coming with you,” Yassin said. “It's close from here.”

“You don't have to,” Markéta said.

„I know.“

They walked.

Petr walked beside Markéta, Yassin half a step behind them. On the promenade they dodged tourists, and Petr realized that for the last two minutes he hadn't said anything meaningful. He was just present. He had run over, stood there, breathed. As if the mere fact of him running over was already a statement of what he was thinking.

„Does it still hurt?“

„A little, yeah.“

„There was a sharp transition at the bottom. You should have been careful.“

Markéta looked at him.

“I was careful.”

“Then you wouldn't have slipped.”

Silence.

Then:

„Dad, everybody slips.“

She said it without reproach. More like a fact. Like a sentence from a textbook. Everyone slips. Chapter seven.

Petr nodded.

He knew he was right. He knew the injury wasn't serious. He knew that such a slip belongs to every summer a person spends by the water.

And yet that blood on the stone looked different.

The hotel was already slowly coming into view.

Markéta took Yassin's T-shirt off her calf and folded it in her hand.

„Hold onto that,“ he said.

„Přestalo to krvácet.“

„Drž si to stejně.“

She put it back on her leg.

In front of the hotel, they stopped by the water fountain.

“Wash this place up,” said Petr.

Markéta squatted down and rinsed her calf with water from the fountain. The blood washed away and a tear revealed itself beneath it. It was longer than Petr had hoped, reaching almost from her ankle to the middle of her calf, the surrounding skin scraped raw.

„Good?“ asked Yassin.

“Yeah.”

She stood up.

Petr looked at the scrape. Then at the hotel's glass doors behind Markéta's shoulder. Then at Yassin, who was standing and waiting.

„Thanks,“ Petr said.

Yassin looked at him.

„For what?“

Petr didn't answer. There was nothing to say. Yassin had gotten to her first, Yassin knew what to do, Yassin had handed her his t-shirt without asking for permission.

„I'm going upstairs,“ Markéta said. „See you this afternoon?“

She was looking at Yassin, not her father.

„Right.“

Markéta vstoupila do hotelu.

Petr remained standing by the fountain. Yassin nodded briefly and turned back toward the promenade.

When he left, Petr looked down.

Water quietly trickled over the edge of the fountain into the drain. A small bloody puddle from Markéta's foot remained on the paving stones below.

Two dark spots on the light stone.

A moment ago, they had startled him.

Now they were almost fading away.

Markéta was upstairs. Walking. Talking. Laughing.

And yet Petr couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened.

He just didn't know what.

＊ ＊ ＊

Markéta came into the room without a limp.

Petr watched her from the doorway. She walked in, draped Yassin's T-shirt over the sink in the bathroom, and then sat right down on the bed. Her phone appeared in her hand almost before she leaned against the pillow. As if nothing had happened. As if the blood on the stone was just a part of the day, as ordinary as the sun, the sea, or the walk back to the hotel.

Žaneta was lying on her side of the bed with a book.

She looked up.

„How does it look?“

„Not great.“ Markéta stretched her leg into the light. The scrape was long, red, and still glossy in places. „But it stopped bleeding.“

„Does it hurt?“

„It stings a little.“

Žaneta nodded and returned to her book.

Petr stepped closer.

He bent down toward Markéta's calf.

„It ought to be properly disinfected.“

„Dad.“

„Do we have any betadine around?“

Žaneta dropped the book into her lap.

“Petr. She survived.”

“I know she survived it.”

“Then why are you still obsessing over betadine?”

He stood there for a moment, bending over her leg, and only then did he realize what he must look like.

He straightened up.

Markéta gave him a brief glance. That strange, calm look she had acquired over the past year, which sometimes irritated him more than defiance. Then she looked back at her phone.

Petr sat down in the armchair by the window.

Behind the blinds it was still a hot afternoon. Down on the promenade, a scooter drove past. Laughter occasionally drifted up from the pool.

"Those rocks down there are slippery," he said after a while.

No one answered.

"Wet from the water. You have to be careful on the cliffs."

"Dad." Markéta didn't even raise her head. "People go there every day."

"Who?"

"Locals. Tourists. Everyone."

"And someone gets hurt there every year, too."

„Yeah. Me too.“ She finally looked at him. „And most of the time, they're just scrapes.“

Petr let his gaze wander down her calf.

„This was more than a scrape.“

Žaneta looked up from her book.

„Peter.“

„I'm just saying—“

„I know what you're saying.“

She set the book down on the nightstand.

Calmly.

Without a single sudden movement.

“Markéta got scraped. Yassin was there. Then you came. You all went back to the hotel. End of story.”

Petr looked at her.

“I just think that—”

“I know what you think.”

There was no reproach in her voice. More like weariness from a conversation that had already taken place many times in various forms.

Markéta glanced discreetly from one to the other.

Then she turned off her phone screen.

„I'm going to take a shower.“

She got up and disappeared into the bathroom.

A moment later, the door clicked shut.

Petr remained sitting by the window.

Žaneta opened her book again, but she wasn't reading. She looked at the page without turning it.

„Am I exaggerating?“

For a moment there was silence.

Then she shrugged.

„A bit.“

She said it quietly.

Not harshly.

Not mockingly.

Just accurately.

Petr turned toward the window and lifted one blind slat with his finger.

Several tourists were standing by the fountain below the hotel. They were taking photos of each other, swapping places, and laughing at something inaudible from up here.

No trace of blood remained.

Only a lighter wet patch on the pavement, slowly drying.

The sound of the shower came from the bathroom.

Petr lowered the blinds and leaned back into the armchair.

He didn't know whether he was more disturbed by Markéta's injury or by the fact that everyone else was acting as if nothing had happened at all.

＊ ＊ ＊

The hotel restaurant was noisier in the evening than during the day.

The tables were almost entirely occupied, from window to window, and the staff moved quickly between them. Petr sat with his back to the wall, Žaneta opposite him. Markéta arrived a little late, her hair still damp from the shower. Where did she leave her phone, Petr wondered.

They ordered without much hesitation. Žaneta chose fish, Markéta pasta, Petr the same as Žaneta. The waiter left.

There was silence for a moment, but then people at the next table were speaking Italian quite loudly and someone from the bar called out to the waiter.

“Is it better already?” Žaneta asked.

Markéta natáhla nohu zpod stolu.

“Good. It stopped burning.”

"Put a plaster on tomorrow if you're going into the water."

“Yeah.”

Petr folded his napkin in his lap.

“Where are you going tomorrow?”

“I don't know yet. Yassin said there are caves somewhere around here.”

Petr looked up.

“What caves?”

“By the sea. You can swim there, apparently.”

„That's not very sensible.“

Markéta looked at him.

„Why?“

„Because there are currents. And underwater rocks.“

„He's been there many times.“

„That still doesn't mean—“

„Yassin grew up here. He knows that part of the island.“

Žaneta slid her glass of water closer to herself, but said nothing.

Petr took a sip of wine.

„I'm just saying that going into unfamiliar caves without a guide—“

„He's a local.“

A waiter came over. He was setting down plates of fish and Petr was silent for a moment, because that was the easiest thing to do. He waited until he left.

„How old is he?“

„Eighteen.“

„That's not very old.“

„For what?“

Petr looked down at his plate.

„Old enough to be responsible for someone.“

Markéta set down her fork.

„He's not responsible for me.“

„When he takes you somewhere—“

„He doesn't take me anywhere. We go out together.“

Silence.

At the next table, the Italians were laughing at something Petr couldn't hear.

„I've known him for five days,“ Markéta said calmly. „I'm not planning to marry him.“

„I didn't say that.“

„But you talk like it.“

Petr wanted to answer, but couldn't find a sentence that wouldn't sound just like all the previous ones.

Markéta took a sip of water.

„You've been watching him the whole time.“

Petr stopped.

"What do you mean?"

„On the cliffs. This morning. You were standing up there and watching us.“

Petr took his wine and drank more slowly than necessary.

„I was just walking.“

„Right.“ It wasn't worth arguing about, but she threw it in his face.

„And you happened to walk right there.“

Žaneta looked up.

Not to Petr. To Markéta.

“Yassin was with me when I slipped,” Markéta said. “He was there first. He helped me. He gave me his t-shirt. I don't know what else you want.”

“I don't want anything.”

„You want someone else to be.“

Petr placed the fork on the edge of the plate.

There was nothing dramatic about the sentence. Markéta didn't say it aloud or emphasize anything. She said it the way people say things that one person has known for some time and the other person keeps refusing to hear.

Žaneta went back to the fish.

Markéta picked up her fork and continued eating as if the topic were closed.

Petr watched her.

She sat opposite him with wet hair, ate pasta and no longer checked whether he understood her.

For the first time that evening, Petr realized that Yassin wasn't just a boy he didn't know.

He was someone Markéta had meanwhile started defending.

＊ ＊ ＊

The balcony was quiet.

He simply got up, closed the glass door behind him and leaned against the railing.

The sea was black in the dark. Only the lights of ships in the distance, three or four, still the same distance away and seemingly in the exact same spot.

The laceration on Markéta's calf wasn't deep.

Petr knew that.

A few centimeters of scraped skin. By morning it will stop hurting. In a couple of days it will close up. In a week maybe almost nothing will be left of it.

The blood on the stones had startled him more than it should have. Not because there was a lot of it. But because for a moment it felt like proof of something he couldn't name. By now he knew no such proof existed. Markéta had just slipped. Yassin had reached her first. He handed her a t-shirt. He walked back to the hotel with them. He did everything right.

And that was precisely what stayed with him.

Markéta said: You were looking at him the whole time.

She was right.

In the morning by the stairs above the cliffs. Later again. Twice in one day. As if he were waiting to see something that would finally allow him to say he had a reason to be afraid.

Yet he saw nothing of the sort.

He saw a boy who waited when Markéta had to cross a stone. He saw a boy who helped her when she slipped. He saw his own daughter not lean against his shoulder because another one stood beside her.

Petr surveyed the sea again.

A light on the horizon moved, or perhaps he only imagined it.

For the first time, he realized that he didn't know everything about Markéta. In fact, he had been realizing that for years, he had just always assumed that if he needed to, he could fill in the missing gaps. That it was enough to ask. That it was enough to be attentive. That a father has access to certain answers simply because he is a father.

The last few days had shown something else.

It was no secret.

It was an ordinary life playing out without him.

Did he know who Markéta spent her afternoons with in the city? No. Did he know what she listened to in her room at night? No. Did he know what she talked about with Karimah, Yassin, or anyone else when he wasn't around? No.

And perhaps he had no right to know.

Markéta didn't take anything away from him. She just stopped needing him where he had long thought he would always be needed.

He took out his phone. The boss. The sixth day of silence.

He looked at the blank screen for a moment, then let it go dark.

Down on the promenade, a pair of cyclists rode past. He couldn't make out their faces, only the lights on their handlebars and the brief hiss of tires on the pavement.

Behind the glass door, Žaneta was sitting on the bed with a closed book in her lap. She wasn't looking at him. She wasn't even looking ahead of her. She just sat, as if she too had been waiting a moment for something to fade away in the room.

Petr stayed outside for a few more seconds.

Then he went back inside.