embankment. A hundred points of saffron reflect the last light of day from the pinnacled Hradcany on the Heights. As the neon slogans begin to flash in the Vaclavske Namesti, so the turreted grey buildings and the cobbled courtyards of the old town come into their own. One feels the presence of Black Michael and enigmatic young countesses; one is no more than a stone’s throw from Zenda.
All this was very satisfactory and I lingered as I cut through the old town. The clocks began to boom the half past as I came out on the embankment, and I put on a spurt. Even so I was ten minutes late.
The Slavia was a big corner café with huge windows, half open to the river. It was a hive of activity in the warm evening, waiters and waitresses shuttling there and back between the crowded tables. She was sitting with a glass of tea near the window reading a newspaper in a cane rack. She was wearing an embroidered blouse and had done something to her hair. It was now coiled on top, giving her a long and rather luscious neck.
She hadn’t seen me come in and I approached from behind and said, smiling, into her ear, ‘ Dobry vecer .’
She started and looked round. ‘Oh. Dobry vecer .’
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize how long it would take me to walk here.’
‘Oh, don’t think … It isn’t any matter …’ She had flushed rather stunningly, and seemed to have run out of English in her surprise. I took the seat opposite and gazed at her with frank admiration. ‘You’re looking very attractive. I like your hair.’
‘Thank you. You are gallant.’
‘What have you been doing today?’
She told me in a rather solemn and child-like way. I continued to gaze at her with this same frank admiration. She had a thin gold chain and a cameo suspended from her neck. The embroidered blouse did nothing to cramp her wondrous figure.
There was just a touch of wildness about the high Slav cheekbones. I felt myself begin to tingle with pleasant anticipation. Whistler Nicolas, no doubt about it, could have done a great deal worse for himself.
I had taken the only available seat at the table, and the curious attentions of the other patrons seemed to be inhibiting her. When I suggested that we move elsewhere she sprang up immediately. The punched bill was on the table. I paid it and we left.
Out in the street my misgivings returned. She stood almost a head taller, and walked with a powerful loping gait. I found myself beginning to sweat with embarrassment. It didn’t seem to affect the girl. She talked slowly and studiously, grappling her way through the syntax and gazing down at me with long grey candid eyes.
We ate at the Zlaty Kohoutek, the Golden Cockerel, a nightspot across the river. It looked a little gimcrack place from the outside with a flashing sign of a cockerel and musical notes in several garish colours. Inside it was rather romantic, a long room, darkish, with lamps on the tables and much gleaming napery. A five-piece band played softly and cornily during dinner.
The girl ate and drank with healthy enjoyment. I had left the choice to her. She ordered carp, roast goose, sour cream, something called Soufflé Milord, and a water ice. She also ordered powerful cocktails, a half bottle of Hungarian white and a bottle of Hungarian red wine, and Rumanian brandy with the coffee.
All this had a profound effect on me. The band at the end of the long room showed a tendency to float gently up and down. The effect on the girl seemed equally beneficial. A certain primness in her manner departed. She put her elbows on the table and smiled across at me like the Mona Lisa with her chin cupped in her hands.
She told me she was twenty, and lived with her father, a musician and a widower, at Barrondov a few miles down the river. She had been a driver for two years.
I said, ‘What was all this about rock and roll? Are you very keen on dancing?’
‘Not the dancing. I wouldn’t call it dancing. It is the gayness.
All this was very satisfactory and I lingered as I cut through the old town. The clocks began to boom the half past as I came out on the embankment, and I put on a spurt. Even so I was ten minutes late.
The Slavia was a big corner café with huge windows, half open to the river. It was a hive of activity in the warm evening, waiters and waitresses shuttling there and back between the crowded tables. She was sitting with a glass of tea near the window reading a newspaper in a cane rack. She was wearing an embroidered blouse and had done something to her hair. It was now coiled on top, giving her a long and rather luscious neck.
She hadn’t seen me come in and I approached from behind and said, smiling, into her ear, ‘ Dobry vecer .’
She started and looked round. ‘Oh. Dobry vecer .’
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize how long it would take me to walk here.’
‘Oh, don’t think … It isn’t any matter …’ She had flushed rather stunningly, and seemed to have run out of English in her surprise. I took the seat opposite and gazed at her with frank admiration. ‘You’re looking very attractive. I like your hair.’
‘Thank you. You are gallant.’
‘What have you been doing today?’
She told me in a rather solemn and child-like way. I continued to gaze at her with this same frank admiration. She had a thin gold chain and a cameo suspended from her neck. The embroidered blouse did nothing to cramp her wondrous figure.
There was just a touch of wildness about the high Slav cheekbones. I felt myself begin to tingle with pleasant anticipation. Whistler Nicolas, no doubt about it, could have done a great deal worse for himself.
I had taken the only available seat at the table, and the curious attentions of the other patrons seemed to be inhibiting her. When I suggested that we move elsewhere she sprang up immediately. The punched bill was on the table. I paid it and we left.
Out in the street my misgivings returned. She stood almost a head taller, and walked with a powerful loping gait. I found myself beginning to sweat with embarrassment. It didn’t seem to affect the girl. She talked slowly and studiously, grappling her way through the syntax and gazing down at me with long grey candid eyes.
We ate at the Zlaty Kohoutek, the Golden Cockerel, a nightspot across the river. It looked a little gimcrack place from the outside with a flashing sign of a cockerel and musical notes in several garish colours. Inside it was rather romantic, a long room, darkish, with lamps on the tables and much gleaming napery. A five-piece band played softly and cornily during dinner.
The girl ate and drank with healthy enjoyment. I had left the choice to her. She ordered carp, roast goose, sour cream, something called Soufflé Milord, and a water ice. She also ordered powerful cocktails, a half bottle of Hungarian white and a bottle of Hungarian red wine, and Rumanian brandy with the coffee.
All this had a profound effect on me. The band at the end of the long room showed a tendency to float gently up and down. The effect on the girl seemed equally beneficial. A certain primness in her manner departed. She put her elbows on the table and smiled across at me like the Mona Lisa with her chin cupped in her hands.
She told me she was twenty, and lived with her father, a musician and a widower, at Barrondov a few miles down the river. She had been a driver for two years.
I said, ‘What was all this about rock and roll? Are you very keen on dancing?’
‘Not the dancing. I wouldn’t call it dancing. It is the gayness.
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