Chapter 16: The Truth

Tomorrow they were heading home.

That was the first thing that crossed his mind when he woke up in the morning.

Pack tomorrow morning. Call a taxi. The airport.

His boss, who had finally reached out after ten days with a brief apology and a meeting date for next week. Everything he had come here to put aside.

He got up carefully.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand and stepped out onto the balcony. He pulled the door half-shut behind him.

The air was colder than during the day. Lighter. Free of the scent of restaurants and heated pavement. The sea was gray, and a single light flickered on the horizon.

Petr leaned against the railing.

He thought about Radúz's message.

Mom is better now. Thanks for writing.

He replied with something brief. Radúz didn't write back, and Petr didn't expect him to.

It was all right.

All stay he sat between two lives, pretending it was sustainable. That it was enough to pay attention. That it was enough to know what to say and what not to say. That it was enough to be careful.

Now it struck him as strange.

That it was actually just exhausting.

Like a job that goes on for too long.

He took out his phone.

Radúz's number was there as always.

He didn't call.

He'd hidden his phone again.

A bird flew over the harbor. Petr watched it until it disappeared among the rooftops.

Žaneta knew.

Not everything.

Not the details.

But she knew about the distance. About the moments when he was beside her and yet somewhere else. She had told him so herself.

And for days he had heard it as a reproach.

Perhaps it wasn't a reproach after all.

The door behind him opened quietly.

Žaneta stepped out onto the balcony in her bathrobe and stood beside him.

She looked out at the sea.

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Can't you sleep?"

„No.“

“Neither do I.”

He nodded.

The sea below them was grey and flat. A single light flickered on the horizon.

Petr realized that in less than twenty-four hours they would be sitting on a plane.

Prague.

Apartment.

Work.

Everything that remained blurred in Malta would come back into sharp focus.

Standing beside him was Žaneta.

All he had to do was turn his head.

All he had to do was begin.

He didn't do it.

Not because he didn't want to.

For the first time all year, he wanted to.

He just didn't know how yet.

Žaneta pulled her bathrobe closer to her body.

„Bude horko.“

“Yeah.”

They listened to the sea for a moment.

Then she turned and went back into the room.

Petr stayed on the balcony.

He looked at the gray water below him.

For the first time during his entire stay, he didn't feel like he was missing an answer.

He was missing courage.

＊ ＊ ＊

Promenade was almost empty in the morning.

Petr walked slowly, aimlessly, hands in his pockets. The air was still bearable before the sun climbed higher and the pavement began radiating heat. Tourists hadn't spilled out of the hotels yet. Just locals, a few joggers, a waiter setting up outdoor tables in front of a restaurant.

He stopped by the railing.

Down on the rocks, a cat was sitting and looking at the water. It didn't move. Just watched the waves, as if waiting for something specific.

Petr leaned his elbows on the stone.

Malta hadn't aged over the years. Only he saw it differently every time, depending on what he had arrived with. Last year he arrived light. Without family, without deadlines, without anything he had to watch over. Radúz was sitting at the piano back then and Petr was telling himself that this was freedom.

Now he understood that it wasn't freedom.

It was just a place where he didn't have to explain anything.

The cat on the rock stood up, stretched, and vanished behind a stone.

Petr pulled himself away from the railing and walked on.

He passed closed souvenir shops, postcard displays, a rack of inflatable swim rings leaning against the wall. Outside a bar, a man was pulling down the awning, and the fabric tightened over the empty tables with a dull thud.

Petr thought of Radúz's apartment.

Of the things that could neither be sung nor played in a hotel lounge.

For the whole year, he had kept only what suited his memory of Radúz. The music. The night news. Hands on the keys. The silence between songs.

The rest he left out of the picture. Out of convenience.

He reached the fountain where Markéta had washed the blood from herself a few days ago. The water in it flowed just as it had back then. There was no trace left on the stone. Only a damp spot beneath the rim and a few leaves clinging to the drain.

He stopped.

Markéta wasn't a child by that moment. Maybe she hadn't been a child long before that.

Only he needed blood on the stone to notice she was drifting away from him. And even then, he thought there had to be someone to blame. Yassin. The rocks. A foreign island. Someone else.

Petr looked at the water.

Everyone slips.

She said it calmly back then, almost wearily.

And she was right.

From the fountain he continued further toward the harbor. The sun was already starting to get harsher and spots began to appear on the pavement that people avoided. He stepped into the shade beneath the houses and walked more slowly.

He thought about all the decisions that hadn't felt like decisions.

Not asking Radúz about his mother.

Not telling Žaneta where he goes in the evenings.

Not sending the message to the boss sooner.

All of these were little things.

Things that can be excused by fatigue, caution, consideration, or simply because it wasn't the right moment.

And yet, a life grew out of them.

Petr stopped at the crosswalk. A car stopped for him, but he stood there for a moment before realizing he could cross.

He crossed to the other side.

The wind rose over the sea.

Not strong.

Just enough to stir the edges of the tablecloths at the café tables outside.

Petr turned back toward the hotel.