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habits easily, therefore, while my decision may have been quick, do not think it was unconsidered. Ranjana is an unusual young woman. She was betrothed at ten years of age to her husband, who was then sixty. Although the marriage was arranged, he was a wealthy businessman who did not want an ignorant wife. Ranjana often accompanied him on his trips to Jaipur, where he traded with the British Raj, and she was educated by governesses in English, French and German. She assures me that her husband would never have agreed to her committing sati and that the whole idea was dreamed up by her in-laws because her husband had made provision for her in his will, a practice unheard of in India. She is quite a linguist and her Czech is coming along nicely—much better than my attempts at Marwari and Hindi, which leave her in fits of laughter. Anyway, with Ranjana a widow and me a Czech, we cannot stay in this region for long and must find a new place soon. We are thinking of going to the fifth continent, Australia…
    ‘Well, I say,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘He is full of surprises!’
    I was startled to hear a sob. Klara, Aunt Josephine and I turned and saw that Mother had risen from her chair and was standing by the fireplace.
    ‘Good gracious, what is it?’ said Aunt Josephine, rushing to Mother’s side.
    Klara and I both stood, not sure of what to do. I thought of calling Marie to bring Mother a glass of water but I stopped myself. This was a sight she should not see.
    ‘I’m fine,’ said Mother, wiping at her wet cheeks. But she was anything but fine. She was trembling and there was a desolate look in her eyes. Aunt Josephine led her back to the sofa and sat down with her. Klara poured Mother another cup of tea. Mother had made a scene and she would have to give us an explanation for it.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief. ‘You see, I knew Ota when he was young and he said that he would never marry. His news came as shock because it took me back to the days when I first met your father. That was twenty years ago. It’s a jolt when things change suddenly and you realise that you are no longer young. That so much has already passed and you can never go back and live those days again.’
    Aunt Josephine patted Mother’s hand sympathetically but her mouth twitched and she did not seem convinced by Mother’s explanation. I thought back to Milosh unashamedly flirting with paní Benova at paní Provazníkova’s party, and the mysterious conversation between Mother and paní Milotova earlier in the day. Could these be the true reasons for Mother’s reaction?
    I was even more puzzled that night when I passed Mother’s room and heard her weeping. Not gentle tears of sentimentality but choking sobs of unbridled grief. I was tempted to knock on her door and try to comfort her, but something told me not to disturb her, to let her anguish run its course.
    When I climbed into bed beside the already sleeping Klara, I found it difficult to drift into dreams. It seemed to me that Mother was grieving as bitterly over Uncle Ota’s marriage as she had over Father’s death.

TWO
    M other accepted the invitation to paní Koutska’s musical evening, and Klara and paní Milotova worked on some pieces by Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin. They chose six sonatas and preludes, so that Klara could adapt what to play based on the mood of the gathering.
    When the evening came around, I was amazed at how at ease Klara was about the prospect of playing for her first audience. She hummed her repertoire while she went about bathing and dressing as if she did not have a care in the world. Paní Milotova had been right in describing Klara as a natural performer. Mother had bestowed upon Klara and me beautiful porcelain dolls when we were growing up, but our favourites were the ones we made ourselves by painting faces on wooden spoons. We gave our divas coiffures made from wool and costumed them in pieces of lace and