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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第27章|Chapter 27

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13484]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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泰思连劝都不用劝，就愿意偷越边境线，而越境这个想法也让我们的蜜月情调倍增。我们离捷克斯洛伐克越近，床第之欢就越加浓烈。拟定好去往另一边的秘密路线那天，她把我弄得直到中午才起床。她的欲望使我对自己的潜在遗传更加好奇。

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我需要知道我从哪里来，我是谁。这条路上的每一步都伴随着回家的澎湃心情。景色依稀相识，如同置身梦中，仿佛这些树木、湖泊、山岭都深深埋藏在我的感官之中，长久以来潜伏不动。岩石的纹理和木材的内质都和我想像的一般无二，我们在酒店和咖啡馆里遇见的人，他们粗壮的身躯上都有熟悉的痕迹，五官轮廓分明，蓝眼睛格外清澈，金黄的头发飘甩起来。他们的脸庞诱惑着我深入波希米亚。我们决定踏入霍亨博格村庄的禁区，那是在德国边境。

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市中心的城堡最早修建于1222年，后来屡毁屡建，最近一次是在二战之后。在阳光明媚的周六，泰思和我一起畅游此地，这里除了我们，只有一对带小孩的年轻德国夫妇，他们跟着我们从一个建筑物走到另一个建筑物。城市的后沿有一溜高低不平的白色围墙，这是个堡垒，用于抵抗来自森林和埃格尔河对岸的袭击，在围墙附近，他们叫住了我们。

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“打扰了，”那位母亲用英语对泰思说，“你是美国人，对吗? 你能帮忙拍张照片吗? 用我的相机，给我全家人拍? ”

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这么轻易就被认出来是美国人，我吓得脸都白了。泰思朝我微微一笑，把背包脱下来放在地上。这一家六口在一座最古老的胸墙墙根下排好队。这些孩子看起来像是可以当我的兄弟姐妹，他们摆姿势的时候，我转念间想到我曾是这样一个家庭的一分子，但这个念头很快抛到九霄云外去了。泰思后退了几步，想把他们全照入镜头。

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这些小孩叫了起来：“Vorsicht，der Igel!Der Igel!”（德文：“当心，刺猬! 刺猬! ”因德文中伊格尔和刺猬是同一个词，故亨利有下文的惊骇。）那个还没有五岁大的男孩，笔直朝泰思冲过去，蓝眼睛里闪烁着激动的目光。他站在她跟前，把手伸向她两脚问的一块小花丛，小心翼翼地用他的小手捧出什么东西来。

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“你在那里找到什么? ”泰思弯下腰看他的脸。

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他伸出手，一只刺猬从他的手中爬出来。大家都哈哈大笑，泰思差点就踩上这只浑身长刺的家伙了，这可真有趣。但我却抖得连支香烟都差点没点着。伊格尔。

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几乎有二十年，我没有听见这个名字了。他们都有名字，我没有忘得一干二净。我伸手碰了碰泰思，好把它们驱出脑海。

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这一家子走后，我们按照地图走城堡后面的步行小径。在一条路上，我们看到了一个小小的洞穴，前面立着一个露营地的标志，我就觉得这像是一块废弃的空地。

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我带着泰思飞快地走开，从东路下山，穿过一片黑森林。我们的小路通往一条没有车辆的双行道。转弯处，一个写着“埃格尔路”的标志牌指向右手边的一条土路，我们渡过一条狭窄的河流，这不过是一条浅而宽的小溪，但水流湍急。对岸是捷克斯洛伐克的森林，再翻过几座山，就是恰布了。视野中一个人也没有，也许是因为有了河流和岩石，边境上也没有安铁丝网。泰思拉着我的手，我们过去了。

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突出在水面上的石头可以安全落脚，但我们得多加小心。到达捷克那头时，一阵战栗犹如剃刀般将我刺透。我们成功了。到家了，或者说，已经尽可能地接近了家门。那一刻，我准备转变身份( 或是恢复身份) ，要回我的身世。那天早晨，泰思和我全力伪装自己，把头发和衣服都弄得和欧洲人一样不会引起注意，但我仍然担心别人会看穿我们的把戏。事后想来，我其实无须担心，因为1968年正是“布拉格之春”，门户开放，杜布切克（捷克斯洛伐克共产党第一书记(1968 —1969) 。）正尝试让捷克人和斯洛伐克人接受“有人情味的社会主义”。而俄国人的坦克八月才开进来。

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泰思喜欢这种偷渡国境的冒险劲头，像个越狱的逃犯似的在落叶满地的路上躲躲藏藏。我努力跟上她的步伐，牵着她的手，在沉默中装出一副狡猾的样子。我们步行约一二公里后，绿叶间淅淅沥沥地洒下雨来，一场急雨接踵而至。雨点打在交接成阴的树冠上，不停地滴落下来，隔着雨声的节拍，一阵时轻时重的脚步声渐渐清晰起来。天色太暗，辨不清人影，但我听到他们在灌木丛中行进，转着圈子跟踪我们。我一把抓住她的胳膊，快步向前走去。

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“亨利，你听到了吗? ”泰思头转来转去地环顾四周。他们还在跟上来，我们跑起来了。她最后回头看了一眼，大叫一声，拽着我的肘子停下脚步，让我转过身去看那些折腾我们的家伙。它们在雨中显得孤苦无依。三头奶牛，两头花斑的，一头全白的。它们看了看我们，漠然地反刍。

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我们浑身湿透，快步走出滴滴答答的森林，找到了路。我们肯定是一副凄惨的模样，因为一辆农民的货车开过时，司机举起肉鼓鼓的大拇指做了个手势，示意我们可以坐到货厢里搭他的车。泰思在雨中大声问他：“去恰布吗? ”他点点头，我们就上了车，爬到成堆的土豆上面坐着，半个小时后就到了古色古香的捷克村庄。

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我望着倒退的树木，呼啸的林风，心中肯定我们一直都被跟踪了。

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这些房屋和仓库用清淡柔和的色料粉刷，仿佛春天花坛中的鲜花，老房子黄白相间，或褐绿相杂。恰布的许多地方似乎与时间共存，但无论建筑还是标志性的景观都没有拨响我记忆的弦。一辆带红玻璃警报器的黑色轿车歪斜地停在镇子的礼堂前。为了避开警察，我们走了另一个方向，希望能找到一个听得懂我们磕磕巴巴的德语的人。走到粉红色的星星旅馆门口，那里站着个神情严肃的警察，他足足盯了我们半分钟，我们吓了一跳。穿过广场，走过“野人”雕像，奥赫热河畔有一家东倒西歪的旅馆。我希望着、也期待着这些标志性景观能唤起古斯塔夫·安格兰德的记忆，但一切都是陌生的。

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我在旅程中编织起来的奢望，看来将化为泡影。我好像从未到过此地，又好像在波希米亚的童年从不存在。

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在一家乌烟瘴气的昏暗酒吧里，我们用美元收买了店主，吃了顿腊肠和煮土豆，喝了半瓶掺水的东德酒。饭后，我们被带上一段弯弯曲曲的楼梯，走进一间小小的屋子，里面只有一张床和一个脸盆。我锁了门，外套和靴子也没脱，就和泰思躺倒在破旧的床单上，紧张、疲累、刺激，让我们动弹不得。黑暗渐渐偷走光明，打破沉寂的只有我们的呼吸声和又重又急的心跳声。

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“我们在这里干什么? ”她终于问道。

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我坐起身，开始脱衣服。要是在我前生，我在黑暗中看她就会像在破晓的光线下看得一样清楚，但如今我只能依靠想像。“这不刺激吗? 这个镇子以前属于德国，再早是波希米亚的，对吗? ”

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她脱下靴子和外套。她脱衣服时，我躺到了羊毛毯和粗糙的被单下。泰思脱得精光，发着抖靠过来，冷冰冰的一只脚在我腿上摩擦。“我害怕。万一秘密警察来敲门怎么办? ”

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“别担心，宝贝，”我对她说，拿出詹姆斯·邦德的样子，“我有杀人执照。”

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我翻身到她身上，我们在险境中过得有滋有味。

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次日上午我们起晚了，匆忙赶往古老的圣尼古拉大教堂，到达的时候，一场用捷克语和拉丁语举行的弥撒已经开始了。靠近圣坛的地方站着几位手握念珠、上了年纪的妇人，小家庭随处而坐，像羊群一样茫然又机警。入口处两个穿黑西装的男人可能在观察我们。我想跟着唱赞美诗，但只能滥竽充数。我并不理解这种仪式，但典礼让我想起了许久之前我和我母亲参加的弥撒——蜡烛上方的圣像，穿着繁复法衣的牧师和衣着简朴的祭坛童子，和着节律的站起、跪倒、坐下，钟声响起后的献祭仪式。我当时就明知这不过是桩浪漫的蠢事，如今我脑海中出现的画面是我穿着礼拜天的礼服，心不甘情不愿地和她坐在靠背长椅上，父亲在长吁短叹，双胞胎穿着裙子扭来扭去。使我最受震动的是那来自楼厢高处的管风琴音乐，仿佛河水从岩石上奔流而下。

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教徒们退席时，不时停下来彼此交流几句，然后向站在门外灿烂阳光下的枯瘦的神甫致意。一个金发女孩转身对跟她长得几乎一模一样的妹妹指了指我们，小声说了些什么，然后两人手牵手跑出教堂。泰思和我欣赏着入口处两旁圣母玛利亚和圣尼古拉精美的雕像，一直流连到最后才走出建筑物。泰思向神甫伸出手去，发现自己的手被握紧了，人也被拉了过去。

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“感谢你们的到来，”他说，然后转向我，目光有些诧异，好像知道我的过去。

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“上帝保佑你，我的孩子。”

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泰思粲然一笑，“您的英语棒极了。您怎么知道我们是美国人? ”

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他始终握着她的手，“我刚做牧师时，在新奥尔良的圣路易斯大教堂待过五年。

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我是加瑞尔·林卡神甫。你们是来这里过节的? ”

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“什么节? ”泰思想到节日，脸色一亮。

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“‘Pra sK Iaro co. 就是布拉格之春国际音乐节。”

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“噢，不是的。我们一点儿也不知道。”她凑过去压低声音，信任地说道，“我们是偷渡边境来的。”

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林卡哈哈一笑，以为她在开玩笑，她很快转过话题，问他在美国的经历和新奥尔良的咖啡馆生活。他们边聊边笑，我走出去，在角落里点了支烟，看着蓝色的烟雾盘旋在空气中。那对金发姐妹又转回来了，这次从街上带了一群孩子过来。他们站在大门外面，一打脑袋从矮墙上朝里窥探，就像一串停在电话线上的鸟儿。我听到他们在啪啦啪啦讲着捷克语，冒出一个发音是podvr en6 dite（捷克语：换生灵。）的词，像是他们叽叽喳喳的主题调子。我瞟了眼妻子，她正和林卡神甫谈得火热。

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我朝孩子们走去，他们一看我走近，就像鸽群一样散开了。我背转身，他们又聚拢过来，我再转身，他们又笑着叫着跑开。我走到大门外，看到一个女孩畏畏缩缩地蹲在墙后。我用德语跟她说不必害怕。

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“为什么大家都笑着跑开? ”

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“她告诉我们教堂里有魔鬼。”

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“我不是魔鬼……只是个美国人。”

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“她说你是从森林里来的。是个仙灵。”

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镇子的街道后面，耸立着生机勃勃的古老森林。“没有仙灵这科东西。”

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女孩站起来看着我，手按在唇上。“我不信你。”她说着，转身跑去追她的同伴了。我站在那里看着她跑远，思绪纷乱，担心自己犯了错。但我们已经走得太远，无论是孩子还是警察都吓不倒我们了。

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在某种意义上，他们和其他人也并无二致。怀疑是我的保护膜，我觉得自己完全有能力不让别人探得真相。

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泰思从大门里跃出来，看到我在人行道上。“你想来一次私人旅游吗，宝贝? ”

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林卡神甫帮她说话，“戴夫人告诉我，你是音乐家，作曲家。你一定要试试这里的管风琴，是恰布地区最好的。”

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在教堂的高处，我坐在琴键旁，成排空荡荡的长椅在我面前展开，还有倾斜的圣坛，巨大的十字架，我着了魔似的弹了起来。我不得不在这台机器上摇晃身子，才能踩动踏板，从硕大的风琴上弹出准确的音调，但我一旦弄清楚它复杂的音栓和音箱，沉浸到音乐当中，这就仿佛是一种舞蹈。我弹了维耶恩《摇篮曲》中的一支曲子，这些年来，我第一次感觉到自我的存在。弹着弹着，我变得遗世独立，再也感觉不到其他人和其他事，只有音乐占据胸怀。音乐像火热的冰将我灌注，又像一场异常奇特的雪将我覆盖。林卡神甫和泰思与我一同坐在最高的楼座上，看着我手挥舞，头点动，听着音乐。

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泰思听厌了激烈的曲调，她吻了吻我脸颊，逛下楼梯去参观教堂的其他地方。

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只有我和神甫了，我立刻说出我来恰布的缘由。我告诉他，我在研究家族史，之前法兰克福的图书管理员建议我来查一下教堂的记录，因为要看到中央政府的档案几乎是没有希望的。

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“是为了给她一个惊喜，”我说，“我想追溯泰思的家谱，缺失的那环是她的祖父，古斯塔夫·安格兰德。只要我能找到他的生日或其他什么信息，就能为她写一部家族史。”

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“听起来真不错。明天再来吧。我来查档案，你弹琴给我听。”

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“但您不能告诉我妻子。”

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他眨了眨眼，我们成了同谋。

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用餐时，我告诉泰思，林卡神甫约请我，但只说了音乐的事，她也很高兴我有机会再去弹楼座的风琴。周一下午，她坐在楼下的中间那排长椅上，听了一个小时左右，又自己走开了。她一走，林卡神甫就小声说：“我有东西给你。”他勾了勾指头，示意我跟他走进楼厢外面的小凹室，我巴望他已经找到了安格兰德家的资料。

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神甫把一个木盒子放在一个摇摇晃晃的桌子上，我的期望值随之增长。他拂去盖子上的灰尘，像一个小精灵似的露齿一笑，打开了盒子。

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里面不是我想的教堂文献，而是音乐。整卷整卷的管风琴乐谱，而且不是普通的赞美诗，而是赋予风琴生命和存在的交响乐杰作——亨德尔的大量作品，马勒的《复活》，李斯特的《匈奴之战》，费蒂斯的《交响幻想曲》，还有两首吉尔芒②的管风琴独奏曲。有基格、朗莱、查内的曲子，还有普朗的《管风琴、弦乐器和定音鼓协奏曲》。柯普兰的《第一交响乐》唱片集，巴伯的《节庆展技曲》。蓝伯格，弗兰克，还有十三首巴赫。我目瞪口呆，逸兴遄飞。仅仅是把所有的都听一遍——别提亲手在硕大的琴键上试弹——就得花费好几个月甚至好几年，但我们只有几个小时。我想把东西都抢到我口袋里去，在脑子里装满音乐。

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“这是我惟一的恶习和嗜好。”林卡对我说，“享受一下吧。我和你并没有太多不同。都是有着稀奇爱好的古怪生物。只有你，我的朋友，你能弹奏，而我只能听。”

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我整天都在为林卡神甫弹琴，他则在查找以前洗礼、婚礼和葬礼留在教堂的底账。我激情洋溢，收放自如，他听得心旌摇动。我又往下加了一个八度，重重击出约瑟夫·琼金《小交响协奏曲》热烈的末章。在那个琴键上，我发生了某种变化，在间奏中开始听到了自己的曲子。音乐让我想起了镇外的回忆，在那个精妙绝伦的下午，我尝试着各种变奏，沉浸在音乐之中，把林卡神甫都给忘了。五点钟他两手空空地回来，没找到安格兰德家族的记录，他有点泄气，打电话给圣温斯特礼拜堂的同仁，让他们联系已经废弃了的圣巴尔多缪和圣克拉拉教堂的卷宗保管人，相帮查找资料。

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我浑然忘却了时间。虽然相对自由，我们还是处在随时都会被索要证件的危险之中，而我们也没有捷克斯洛伐克的护照。早餐时，泰思抱怨说她去参观“黑塔”

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时，有警察注意她，在红粉山艺术中心跟踪她。街上的孩子对她指指点点。我也看见他们在阴影里跑来跑去，躲藏在黑暗的角落里。星期三早晨，她发牢骚说在我们的蜜月里，她独自一个的时间太长了。

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“再过一天吧，”我恳求说，“教堂里的声音别的地方都没有。”

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“好吧，但我今天不出门了。你不想回床上睡觉吗? ”

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那天下午晚些时候我去了楼座，惊讶地发现神甫在管风琴旁等着我。“你得让我告诉你的妻子，”他微笑着说，“我们找到他了。至少我觉得这位一定是她的祖父。年代有点不大对头，但这里能有多少位古斯塔夫·安格兰德呢? ”

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他递给我一张颗粒化的影印乘客表，他们搭乘德国客轮“艾伯特”号在1851年5月20 日从不来梅驶往马里兰州的巴尔的摩。姓名和年龄书写得很工整：212 艾布拉姆·安格兰德42音乐家  埃格尔  波希米亚人213 克拉拉·安格兰德  40    同同214 弗列德雷希·安格兰德  14    同    同215 约瑟夫·安格兰德6     同同216 古斯塔夫·安格兰德1 ／2     同    同217 安娜·安格兰德9     同同“她难道不会高兴吗? 多好的结婚礼物啊。”

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我没法开口回答他的问题。这些姓名勾起了如潮的回忆。约瑟夫，我的兄长——Wo in der Welt bist du? 安娜，这个在横渡大西洋时过世的孩子，伤透了我母亲的心。我的母亲，卡拉拉。我的父亲，艾布拉姆，音乐家。在我的梦境中附影随形的那些名字啊。

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“我知道你说他1859年在这里，但有时候过去只是一个谜。我想安格兰德先生是1851年，不是1859年。”林卡神父说，“时间一久，历史就模糊了。”

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有一阵子，这六个人都活过来了。自然我不记得埃格尔，也不记得恰布。我们去美国时，我还是个不满周岁的婴儿。那里有房屋，客厅和钢琴。我是在那里被带走的，而不是这里。

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“教堂里没有记录，但我觉得应该查查移民档案，不是吗? 戴夫人会不会大吃一惊啊? 我真是等不及想看看她的表情了。”

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我把纸折好放进口袋。“当然了，神父，应该由您去告诉她。我们应该庆祝一下……如果您愿意的话，就今晚吧。”

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他喜悦的笑容让我几乎后悔说了谎，而离开后面这架绝妙的管风琴也让我非常伤心，但我还是迅速离开了圣尼古拉大教堂，口袋里的历史压在我心上。找到泰思时，我编造说警察正在教堂附近打探两个美国人，于是我们循着来时的路溜回了边境。

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我们走到渡口附近的森林时，我吃惊地看到一个小男孩，大概七岁大，独自一人站在一棵大树旁。他没有注意到我们，只是一动不动地像是在躲避什么人。我想像不出有什么在追赶他，但我有点想要去救他。我们快走到他身边时，他闪避了一下，在嘴唇上竖起一根手指，求我们别出声。

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“你会说德语吗? ”泰思用德语小声说道。

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“会的，请别出声。他们在追我。”

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我从一棵树看到另一棵树，以为会有一群换生灵冲出来。

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“谁在追你? ”

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“versteckspiel 。（德文：捉迷藏。）”他用气声说道。一个小女孩听到他的声音，从绿树丛中跳出来，紧追不舍。其他孩子从躲藏处出来了，我明白过来，他们是在玩简单的捉迷藏游戏。我看了男孩又看女孩，从一张脸望向另一张脸，情不自禁地想起他们能够多么轻易地改换自己的容貌。泰思觉得他们怪伶俐的，想多留一会儿，但我催促她快走。渡河时，我在石头上跳跃前进，尽可能快地蹬水过去。

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泰思在后面拖拖拉拉，我没有等她，她又急又气。

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“亨利，亨利，你在跑什么啊? ”

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“快，泰思。他们在追我们。”

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她费力地跳到一块岩石上。“谁? ”

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“他们。”我说着，回去把她从那边拉过来。

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蜜月之旅后，生活迅速复杂起来，我无暇再去研究安格兰德家族，也无空再去找一架管风琴。我们最后一个学期很忙，随着毕业的临近，我们的交谈也转向未来的打算。泰思躺在浴缸里，热水上蒸汽升腾。我靠在衣物篮边上，装出一副阅读新曲草稿的样子，但实际上只是为了欣赏她泡澡。

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“亨利，我有好消息。县里面的工作看起来能通过。”

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“太棒了，”我说，翻了一页，哼了几行。“那你具体要做什么呢? ”

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“先做社会工作。有问题的人过来，我负责记录，然后我们做好转诊介绍。”

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“嗯。那家新办的中学让我去面试。”我放下曲谱，盯着她露出一半的裸体。

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“他们需要一个乐队指挥和教七、八年级的音乐老师。这是相当好的工作，我会有很多时间来作曲。”

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“我们真是一帆风顺啊，宝贝。”

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她说得对，那一刻我下了决心。我期待的生活到来了。尽管困难重重，虽然父亲的过世造成了辍学，我会完成学业，新的事业即将开始。一位美丽的年轻姑娘正倚在我的浴缸里。

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“你在笑什么呐，亨利? ”

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我开始解衬衫扣子，“还有，泰思，我有些话要在你耳边说。”

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Tess didn’t need to be talked into sneaking across the border, and the very idea of transgression sent an erotic jolt into our honeymoon. The closer we got to Czechoslovakia, the livelier the sex became. On the day we mapped our secret passage to the other side, she kept me in bed until mid-morning. Her desires fed my own curiosity about my hidden heritage. I needed to know where I had come from, who I had been. Every step along the way brought the sensation of returning home. The landscape looked familiar and dreamlike, as if the trees, lakes, and hills lay embedded, but long dormant, in my senses. The architecture of stone and exposed timber was exactly as I had pictured, and at inns and cafes, the people we met bore familial traces in their sturdy bodies, fine chiseled features, clear blue eyes, and sweeping blonde hair. Their faces enticed me deeper into Bohemia. We decided to cross into the forbidden land at the village of Hohenberg, which sat on the German line.

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Since it was first dedicated in 1222, the castle at the center of town had been destroyed and rebuilt several times, most recently after World War II. On a sunny Saturday, Tess and I had the place to ourselves except for a young German family with small children who followed us from building to building. They caught up to us outside, near the uneven white walls that ran along the city’s rear border, a fortress against attack from the forest and the Eger River beyond.

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"Pardon me," the mother said to Tess in English, "you are American, right? Would you a photograph take? Of my family, on my camera?"

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I blanched at being so easily recognizable as Americans. Tess smiled at me, took off her backpack, and laid it on the ground. The family of six arranged themselves at the base of one of the original parapets. The children looked as if they could have been my brothers and sisters, and as they posed, the notion that I once was part of such a family lingered and then receded into ether. Tess took a few steps backward to squeeze them all into the frame, and the small children cried out, "Vorsicht, der Igel! Der Igel!" The boy, no more than five, ran straight at Tess with a mad expression in his blue eyes. He stopped at her feet, reached between her ankles to a small flower bed, and carefully scooped up something in his small hands.

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"What do you have there?" Tess bent to meet his face.

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He held out his hands and a hedgehog crawled out from his fingers. Everybody laughed at the minor drama of Tess nearly stepping on the prickly thing, but I could barely light a smoke due to the shakes. Igel. I had not heard that name in almost twenty years. All of them had names, not quite forgotten. I reached out to touch Tess to help put them out of mind.

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After the family left, we followed the map to hiking trails behind the castle. Along one path, we came across a miniature cave, and in front, signs of an encampment, what looked to me like an abandoned ring. I led us away quickly, heading east and downhill through the black woods. Our trail spilled out to a two-lane road devoid of traffic. Around the bend, a sign saying EGER STEG pointed to a dirt road to the right, and we came upon mild rapids across a narrow river, no more than a wide but shallow stream. On the opposite bank lay the Czechoslovakian woods, and in the hills behind, Cheb. Not another soul was in sight, and perhaps because of the river or the rocks, no barbed-wire fence protected the border. Tess held my hand and we crossed.

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The rocks above the waterline provided safe footing, but we had to watch our step. When we reached the Czech side, a thrill, sharp as a razor, went through me. We’d made it. Home, or as close to it as possible. At that instant, I was ready to convert—or revert—and lay claim to my identity. Tess and I had disguised ourselves as best we could that morning, affecting a European indifference to our hair and clothing, but I worried that others might see through the ruse. In hindsight, I should not have worried so, for 1968 was the year of the Prague Spring, that open window when Dubcek tried to bring "socialism with a human face" to the benighted Czechs and Slovaks. The Russian tanks would not roll in until August.

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Tess loved the danger of our trespass and skulked along the leafy floor like an escaped prisoner. I tried to keep up with her, hold her hand, and assume an air of silent cunning. After a mile or so on our hike, an intermittent sprinkle fell through the green leaves, and then a shower began in earnest. The raindrops hit the canopy above and dripped down with a steady beat, but underneath that rhythm, an irregular sound of footsteps became audible. It was too dark to make out any figures, but I heard them marching through the brush, circling around, following us. I grabbed her arm and pushed on faster.

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"Henry, do you hear that?" Tess s eyes darted about, and she turned her head from side to side. They kept on coming, and we began to run. She took one last look over her shoulder and screamed. Catching me by the elbow, Tess stopped our progress and wheeled me around to face our tormentors. They looked forlorn in the falling rain. Three cows, two brindles and one white, stared back at us, indifferently chewing their cuds.

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Soaked, we fled the wet forest and found the road. We must have been a pitiable sight, for a farmer’s truck stopped, and the driver indicated with his meaty thumb that we could hitch a ride in the back. Tess shouted "Cheb?" to him through the rain, and when he nodded, we got in and rode atop a mountain of potatoes for a half-hour all the way to the quaint Czech village. I kept my eyes on the receding woods, the winding road, sure that we were being followed.

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Like flowers in a spring garden, the houses and stores were painted in pale pastels, the old buildings in white and yellow, taupe and verdigris. While many parts of Cheb seemed ageless, the buildings and landmarks struck no chords in my memory. A black sedan with a red glass siren sat parked at a crazy angle before the town hall. To avoid the police, we walked in the opposite direction, hoping to find someone who could understand our fractured German. We shied away from the pink Hotel Hvezda, spooked by a severe policeman outside who stared at us for a full thirty seconds. Across the square, past the sculpture of the Savage Man, sat a ramshackle hotel near the Oh?e e River. I had hoped and expected the landmarks to trigger memories of Gustav Ungerland, but nothing was familiar. My vaulted expectations, conjured along the journey, proved too high a hope. It was as if I had never been there before, or as if childhood in Bohemia had never existed.

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Inside a dark and smoky bar, we bribed the manager with American dollars to let us dine on sausages and boiled potatoes, and a dank half-bottle of East German wine. After our meal, we were led up a crooked staircase to a tiny room with no more than a bed and a basin. I locked the door, and Tess and I lay on our backs in our jackets and boots on the threadbare covers, too tense, tired, and excited to move. Darkness slowly stole the light, and the silence was broken only by the sounds of our breathing and wild, racing hearts.

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"What are we doing here?" she finally asked.

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I sat up and began undressing. In my former life, I could have seen her in the dark as clearly as break of day, but now I relied on imagination. "Isn’t it a kick? This town was once part of Germany, and before that of Bohemia?"

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She took off her boots, slipped out of her jacket. I slid under the woolen blankets and coarse sheets as she undressed. Shivering and naked, Tess moved in close, rubbing a cold foot against my leg. "I’m scared. Suppose the secret police come knocking on the door?"

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"Don’t worry, baby," I told her in my best James Bond. "I’ve got a license to kill." I rolled over on top of her, and we did our best to live for the danger.

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Waking late the next morning, we hurried over to the grand old Church of St. Nicholas, arriving late for a Mass in Czech and Latin. Nearest the altar sat a few elderly women, rosaries draped in their folded hands, and sprinkled here, small families sat in clumps, dazed and wary as sheep. At the entranceway, two men in dark suits may have been watching us. I tried to sing along with the hymns, but I could only fake the words. While I did not understand the service, its rites and rituals mirrored those long-ago Masses with my mother—icons above candles, rich vestments of the priests and pristine altar boys, the rhythm of standing, kneeling, sitting, a consecration heralded by the hells. Although I knew by then it was just a romantic folly, I could picture my former self done up in Sunday clothes beside her on the pew with my reluctant, sighing father and the twins squirming in their skirts. What struck me most of all was the organ music from the loft above, cascading like a river over rocks.

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As the parishioners exited, they stopped to share a few words among themselves and to greet the wizened priest standing in the bright sunshine beyond the door. A blonde girl turned to her nearly identical sister and pointed to us, whispered in his ear, and then they ran hand in hand from the church. Tess and I lingered, taking in the elaborate statues of Mary and St. Nicholas flanking the entrance, and we were the final pair to leave the building. When Tess held out her hand to the priest, she found herself captured in his grasp and drawn closer.

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"Thank you for coming," he said, then turned to me, a strange look in his eyes, as if he knew my history. "And God bless you, my son."

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Tess broke into a beatific grin. "Your English is perfect. How did you know we are Americans?"

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He held her hand the whole time. "I was five years in New Orleans at the St. Louis Cathedral back when I was first ordained. Father Karel Hlinka. You’re here for the festival?"

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"What festival?" Tess brightened at the prospect.

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"Pra?ké Jaro. The Prague Spring International Music Festival."

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"Oh, no. We knew nothing about that." She leaned in and said in a low, confidential voice, "We snuck across the border."

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Hlinka laughed, taking her remark as a joke, and she swiftly changed the subject, asking him about his American experience and the cafe life of New Orleans. As they chatted and laughed, I went outside, stood in a corner to light a cigarette, and considered the blue smoke curling to the sky. The two blonde sisters had circled back, this time leading a group of other children gathered from the streets. Like a string of birds on a telephone wire, they stood just beyond the gates, a dozen heads peeking over the low wall. I could hear them babbling in Czech, a phrase that sounded like podvr?ené dítě popping up like the leitmotif of their chattering song. With a glance at my wife, who was holding Father Hlinka in rapt attention, I started to walk over to the children, who scattered like pigeons when I came too close. They flew in again when I showed them my back, and ran off, laughing and screaming, when I turned around. When I stepped outside the gate, I found one girl cowering behind the wall. We spoke in German, and I told her not to be afraid.

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"Why is everyone running away and laughing?"

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"She told us there was a devil in the church."

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"But I am not a devil .. .just an American."

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"She said you are from the woods. A fairy."

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Beyond the town’s streets, the old forest bristled with life. "There are no such things as fairies."

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The girl stood up and faced me, hands on her hips. "I don’t believe you," she said, and turned to race off to her companions. I stood there watching her go, my mind twisted in knots, worried that I had made a mistake. But we had come too far for me to be frightened by mere children or the threat of the police. In a way, they were no different from other people. Suspicion was a second skin for me, and I felt perfectly capable of hiding the facts from everyone.

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Tess bounded through the gates and found me on the sidewalk. "How would you like a private tour, baby?"

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Father Hlinka was at her side. "Frau Day tells me that you are a musician, a composer. You must try out the pipe organ here. Best in Cheb."

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In the loft high above the church, I sat at the keyboard, the empty pews stretching out before me, the gilt altar, the enormous crucifix, and played like a man possessed. To work the fool pedals and get the right tone from the massive organ, I had to rock and throw my weight against the machine, but once I figured out its complexities of stops and bellows and was in the flow of the music, it became a kind of dance. I performed a simple piece from the Berceuse by Louis Vierne, and for the first time in years felt myself again. While I was playing, I became a thing apart, not aware of anyone or anything else but the music, which infused me like hot ice and fell over me like wondrous strange snow. Father Hlinka and Tess sat in the gallery with me, watching my hands move, my head bob, and listened to the music.

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When she tired of the violent sound, Tess kissed my cheek and wandered down the staircase to look over the rest of the church. Alone with the priest, I quickly broached the reason for my visit to Cheb. I told him of my research into family history and how the librarian back in Frankfurt had advised me to check the church records, for there was little hope of getting access to the central government archives.

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"It’s a surprise for her," I said. "I want to trace Tess’s family tree, and the missing link is her grandfather, Gustav Ungerland. If I could just find his birthday or any information about him, I will make up a family history for her."

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"That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. Come back tomorrow. I’ll dig through the archives, and you can play the music for me."

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"But you can’t tell my wife."

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He winked, and we were co-conspirators.

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I played all day for Father Hlinka, who inspected old parish ledgers of baptisms, weddings, and funerals. I dazzled him with incandescence and extravagance, leaning into the extra octave of bass, and hammered out the mad finale from Joseph Jongen’s Symphonie Concertante. A change came over me at that keyboard, and I began to hear compositions of my own in the interludes. The music stirred memories that existed beyond the town, and on that glorious afternoon I experimented with variations and was so carried away that I forgot about Father Hlinka until he returned empty-handed at five o’clock. Frustrated by his own failure to find any records of the Ungerlands, he called his peers at St. Wenceslas, and they got in touch with the archivists of the abandoned St. Bartholomew and St. Klara churches to help scour through the records.

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I was running out of time. Despite the relative freedom, we were still in danger of being asked for our papers, and we had no visa for Czechoslovakia. Tess had complained over breakfast that the police were spying on her when she visited the Black Tower, following her at the art center on the Ru?ov? kope?ek. Schoolchildren pointed at her on the streets. I saw them, too, running in the shadows, hiding in dark corners. On Wednesday morning, she groused about spending so much of our honeymoon alone.

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