Men in Space by Tom McCarthy Page B

burgundy felt coat covering back and shoulders, imitation leather Maj or Kotva handbag lying on her lap. Ivan’s fingers gently stroke the air; three rows in front of him, the woman’s body tenses:
must
be her … She rises from her seat, walks to the door; he slides out from his seat too, follows her …
    The tram stops back at Karlovo Náměstí. They both get out. The tingling’s unbearably intense now: Ivan’s excitement’s straining out towards her, pushing at the fabric of his trousers. They cross the park, past two globed climbing frames, a faded hopscotch court drawn on the ground in chalk, a slide … The path curves round some bushes, then – where’s she gone? She can’t have been more than eight metres in front of him, and now she’s vanished … But the tingling’s still there. The girl in the red coat – the guide, the message-bearer – may have disappeared but
she
’s still here, somewhere very close by … The park’s ended now; the pavement’s dropping sharply, as it carries him down Vyšehradská, from a balustrade on which a worn stone angel stands holding a staff. The angel’s breastsswell in her undulating shirt. From down here, Ivan can see up between her skirt’s folds, up her legs. If he climbs these steps towards her, ducks behind this wall – away from the trams hurtling down the hill, the medical students going to work on Betonska and Apolinářská – he’ll be able to …
    And yes, he feels her presence as he unzips, knows she’s covering the worn and spongy stone like moss or dew, running in a sub-electric current round the angel’s waist, her neck, her head. He points up at her, way up, pointing through her to heaven, to whatever’s highest … Segments of leaf and woods and stars flash through his mind, a half-bare thigh, bandannas … An ambulance shoots down the hill, its siren blaring, growing louder as it heads towards him, maybe it’s the police but it’s too late now, can’t stop: here it is, the love shooting out of him and hanging in the cold air, gravity-defying, for half a second … But it hasn’t even made it one tenth of the distance up towards the statue let alone to
her
before, as the siren eases off, slows down and flattens out, its arc falls back towards the ground – and there’s a shuffling behind him, someone coming up the steps, better get zipped up quickly …
    Walking on down Vyšehradská, past the medical faculty, Ivan Maňásek feels exhausted, empty. More ambulances trundle by. Men and women walk past him in white coats, chatting together. They ignore him: he’s out of their loop – out of his own loop too, her loop. It didn’t work, didn’t make it up to her; the jet he shot out will be lying on concrete, grey and dead. On Na Slupi, he enters a phone box, roots around his pocket, finds some loose change at the bottom of it, feeds a one-crown piece into the slot: six-oh-four-three, no, six-four-oh-three …
    The first time round he gets put through to Klárá’s neighbour. Fucking party lines. The next try gets him through to her. She has a croaky, tired voice: Ivan can almost smell the sleep on her, the moistness of her skin, her crumpled off-blond hair …
    “Klárá?”
    “Who’s that? Ivan?”
    “Klárá. Yes, it’s me.”
    “What are you calling for this early? What time is it?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    There’s a soft sound as the phone’s laid down, must be her duvet; then a rustling and her voice is there again: “Six-forty. Why are you …”
    “Klárá, I just …” What’s he meant to say? “What’s new? I was just thinking about you.”
    “I was asleep. Nothing’s new. Where are you?”
    “In Nové Město. In a phone box.”
    “Has something happened? Are you OK?”
    “I suppose so. How are you?”
    “I’m fine. I’ve got to go to work.”
    “What are you doing?”
    “Renovating altars. St Cajetan, in Hradčany.”
    “I saw Sláva Kinček tonight.”
    “And you called to tell