for that. She had seemed compelled, over the months they were together, to tell him about her past lovers. It had amused him, until tonight.
Now he wondered what she would tell the earnest-looking boy about him . Trudy had often said that if you couldnât bare your heart to a lover, you should not bare your body.
One of her lovers had been a French existentialist poet who turned out to be a masochist. Another had been a retired British colonial officer who talked constantly about Clive and Kitchener. He made love as if he were fighting the battle of Omdurman. A third had been a Spanish Republican exile who produced passionate motion pictures in Brussels, and conducted himself in bed as if he were directing one of them.
The fourth had been Milo Hacha.
Actually, Hacha had been the first. Trudy had been a virgin of twenty-one when she met him in the Netherlands while employed by CARE. Heinz Kemka, also a Czech, had heard of Hachaâor rather, of Hachaâs father.
Rudolf Hacha had been a prominent Socialist politician in Czechoslovakia when the Nazis took over. A Democrat, he had been arrested but had managed to survive the concentration camp. Then, after the war, he had been one of the Social Democrats who refused to knuckle under to the Communists. The same morning that Masarykâs body was found in a courtyard Rudolf Hacha had been arrested again, and this time he was held in solitary confinement until the new government was ready to put him on trial for âtreasonâ several months later.
Fearing for his life, Kemka assumed, the younger Hacha had remained in the Netherlands until he became involved in trouble of some sort. Then he had fled with Trudy.
There was a difference in Trudyâs tone whenever she spoke of Milo Hacha. He was the only one she never made fun of. She had even admitted, in a weak moment, that while she had broken off with the other three, Hacha had broken with her.
Hacha, she said, had educated her. Hacha had exposed her to life and love. She even said she would have married himâhad he asked her. He had been a riddle she could not solve.
Looking back, now, on the nights she had spoken of Hacha, Kemka realized that the seeds of his jealousy had already been planted. For Hacha, as Trudy remembered Hacha, made Kemka feel less than a complete man. Still, on those nights her love-making was memorable.
And which part of the Hacha myth am I? Heinz Kemka had asked her more than once. But that is easy, Heinz, she would say, you are a Czech, he was a Czech.⦠It had not endeared Hacha to him.
At the conclusion of the programme at the Kursaal, Heinz Kemka had taken a taxi to Zum Wilden Mann. The maître dâhôtel told him that Fräulein Ohlendorf had been in earlier. Kemka drank three double Scotches (it had been the British colonial officerâs favourite drink, he even remembered that) and walked slowly back to Alpenstrasse.
It was his apartment. He paid the rent and he had furnished it. Was it possible Trudy would dare to entertain a new lover there?
He saw light in the living-room window. He went through the small lobby to the courtyard. There was light also in the bedroom window.
Heinz Kemka went upstairs.
He stood outside the door, breathing hard. There was no sound from the apartment.
He unlocked the door savagely. He slammed it so hard it made a sound like a rifle shot. He felt suddenly foolish.
The unknown young man, his face heavy with love, came out of the bedroom. He was wearing one of Kemkaâs robes. Trudy, also in a robe, one that Kemka had purchased for her birthday, was right behind him.
Heinz Kemka bellowed, lunged across the room and swung wildly at the young man.
9
From Andy Longacreâs diary:
⦠beginning to feel like a character in a Durrell novel.
It hardly seems weâve already been in Lucerne a week. Seven days, and about the only time Iâve seen Steve is at breakfast. If he hadnât been too tired to go out
Now he wondered what she would tell the earnest-looking boy about him . Trudy had often said that if you couldnât bare your heart to a lover, you should not bare your body.
One of her lovers had been a French existentialist poet who turned out to be a masochist. Another had been a retired British colonial officer who talked constantly about Clive and Kitchener. He made love as if he were fighting the battle of Omdurman. A third had been a Spanish Republican exile who produced passionate motion pictures in Brussels, and conducted himself in bed as if he were directing one of them.
The fourth had been Milo Hacha.
Actually, Hacha had been the first. Trudy had been a virgin of twenty-one when she met him in the Netherlands while employed by CARE. Heinz Kemka, also a Czech, had heard of Hachaâor rather, of Hachaâs father.
Rudolf Hacha had been a prominent Socialist politician in Czechoslovakia when the Nazis took over. A Democrat, he had been arrested but had managed to survive the concentration camp. Then, after the war, he had been one of the Social Democrats who refused to knuckle under to the Communists. The same morning that Masarykâs body was found in a courtyard Rudolf Hacha had been arrested again, and this time he was held in solitary confinement until the new government was ready to put him on trial for âtreasonâ several months later.
Fearing for his life, Kemka assumed, the younger Hacha had remained in the Netherlands until he became involved in trouble of some sort. Then he had fled with Trudy.
There was a difference in Trudyâs tone whenever she spoke of Milo Hacha. He was the only one she never made fun of. She had even admitted, in a weak moment, that while she had broken off with the other three, Hacha had broken with her.
Hacha, she said, had educated her. Hacha had exposed her to life and love. She even said she would have married himâhad he asked her. He had been a riddle she could not solve.
Looking back, now, on the nights she had spoken of Hacha, Kemka realized that the seeds of his jealousy had already been planted. For Hacha, as Trudy remembered Hacha, made Kemka feel less than a complete man. Still, on those nights her love-making was memorable.
And which part of the Hacha myth am I? Heinz Kemka had asked her more than once. But that is easy, Heinz, she would say, you are a Czech, he was a Czech.⦠It had not endeared Hacha to him.
At the conclusion of the programme at the Kursaal, Heinz Kemka had taken a taxi to Zum Wilden Mann. The maître dâhôtel told him that Fräulein Ohlendorf had been in earlier. Kemka drank three double Scotches (it had been the British colonial officerâs favourite drink, he even remembered that) and walked slowly back to Alpenstrasse.
It was his apartment. He paid the rent and he had furnished it. Was it possible Trudy would dare to entertain a new lover there?
He saw light in the living-room window. He went through the small lobby to the courtyard. There was light also in the bedroom window.
Heinz Kemka went upstairs.
He stood outside the door, breathing hard. There was no sound from the apartment.
He unlocked the door savagely. He slammed it so hard it made a sound like a rifle shot. He felt suddenly foolish.
The unknown young man, his face heavy with love, came out of the bedroom. He was wearing one of Kemkaâs robes. Trudy, also in a robe, one that Kemka had purchased for her birthday, was right behind him.
Heinz Kemka bellowed, lunged across the room and swung wildly at the young man.
9
From Andy Longacreâs diary:
⦠beginning to feel like a character in a Durrell novel.
It hardly seems weâve already been in Lucerne a week. Seven days, and about the only time Iâve seen Steve is at breakfast. If he hadnât been too tired to go out
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