“No, you aren’t! What’s brought this on? Is it Milan?”
“No. Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m supposed to be happy and I feel like a serial killer instead.”
“Oh, come on, Lyd. Is it something to do with Evgeny? Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Yes, there is. You can stop spouting all this crap and get your concert dress on. It’s only half an hour before we go onstage and you haven’t touched the buffet table yet. You’ll faint halfway through Má Vlast at this rate.”
Vanessa was right. Brooding wasn’t going to solve anything. Lydia shimmied into her black dress then went to pick at a few salads, looking over her shoulder for Milan or Evgeny or Mary-Ann as her fellow musicians milled around the Green Room.
Milan was first on the scene, looking suave and sharp in his concert suit, violin in hand.
“Milan.” She turned to speak to him, tentative and anxious.
“It’s okay.” He waved her away. “It’ll be good. The concert will be brilliant, my mother will see it, then this part of our lives will be over. Don’t look so scared.”
“Will it really all work out?”
She wanted reassurance so badly, and surely it didn’t matter now if they showed affection in front of the other players. It was an open secret anyway—only Mary-Ann had been truly oblivious to their liaison. She reached out for his arm.
He put the hand that held the violin behind his back and drew her briefly into his free arm, hugging her tight for a moment that meant the world to her. The players continued their milling as if nothing were untoward, but Lydia felt that her life was about to splinter into a million fragments—whether for good or ill, she couldn’t say.
Milan kissed her forehead, then let her go.
“Be brave,” he whispered, then the call to go on stage came and they began to line up in their sections, instruments at the ready.
Mary-Ann seemed to have rallied a little, colour back in her cheeks, her face composed and calm. The atmosphere in the hall was of intense and keen anticipation, Milan’s appearance having caused a mini media storm in his native land. Every music lover in Prague wanted to see him in action—some of them even remembered the talented child of twenty years before.
Lydia scanned the audience for Milan’s mother, knowing that he was doing the same, but it was impossible to pick out individuals in the sea of eager faces. She quickly gave up and turned her attention to Mary-Ann, after noting the ominous space in the ranks of cellos. Still no sign of Evgeny.
They embarked on a sequence of Slavonic Dances before moving on to the Smetana. As she played the stirring lyrical bars of the Vltava movement, Lydia felt a surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. This land would be her land, and this music that meant so much to Milan could have the same resonance for her one day. Already she associated its passion with him; it seemed far more about Milan Kaspar than the river that ran through the centre of the Czech Republic.
The audience rose to its feet once the last note died, an uproar of applause greeting the performance. Lydia, flushed and exhilarated, watched Milan hold his violin aloft. He seemed to be ignoring Mary-Ann’s contribution to the whole affair. He was home, she thought with a stab of strange misgiving. He was with his people. The rest of us might as well not exist.
They took bow after bow, then played an encore of another Dvorák piece before finally leaving the stage, Mary-Ann loaded down with flowers.
Milan ripped off his bow tie the minute he exited the wings, and stood there, laughing like a madman for a moment before grabbing Lydia’s hand, kissing it and pulling her along to the stage door.
He said something in Czech to the security guard then helped himself to a glass of backstage champagne, handing another to Lydia.
“She will be here soon,” he said. He deflected all claims for attention from other orchestral members wanting to have a drink with him. Instead he stood by the door, holding on to Lydia, checking his watch every half a minute.
“Where shall we live?” Lydia asked, hoping to distract him from his tightly strung tension.
“Wherever we like,” he said, turning to her, eyes bright. “Where do you like?”
“Oh, I like everywhere. Prague is so beautiful.”
“Maybe not Žižkov, hey?” He laughed and slugged down some more champagne. He seemed almost feverish. Lydia squeezed his arm, trying to calm him. He patted her hand absently. “When she is here, I will go out to the front and see who I can find. I think the directors of the Czech orchestras will all be here. I’ll try and set up a few meetings. We’ll have work, orchestral work, then perhaps I can go solo, or get a conducting gig. I’ll teach you Czech, though the orchestras are international and English will be spoken, but you’ll need to know at least a little…” He paused to draw breath.
“Do you think she knows where to come?”
“She’s played here, Lydia. She knows this place inside out.”
Mary-Ann appeared at their side and plonked her flowers down on the table beside them.
“Just a bit of good news for you, Milan,” she said, her voice hard-edged. “I’m quitting when we get back to London.”