City of Dark Magic (15 page)

NINETEEN

I
t was hard to feel even vaguely menaced when you were eating crostini with mushrooms, liver pâté, and pumpkin and pecorino cheese served by a gallant Czech waiter. From the terrace of the Four Seasons Hotel, even the shadowy spires of St. Vitus Cathedral looked less like Grimm and more like Disney.

And Nicolas was an excellent host, displaying a cosmopolitan masculinity as he ordered Sarah the artichoke and herb soufflé, chatted in faultless Italian with the sommelier, extracted a dark brown clove cigarette from an elegant case and lit it with a small gold lighter. Sarah caught a flash of the symbol on the case. A circle with a dot in the center. Where had she seen that before?

Sarah sipped her cocktail, not a simpering little Bellini, but a giant concoction of vodka, gooseberries, and kirsch. The waiter placed her old backpack on a satin-covered footstool. Sarah briefly wished she was wearing something other than jeans and a T-shirt, but probably nothing in her suitcase was as nice as the fabric on the footstool. Nicolas looked very much at home in the ritzy surroundings. F

“Tell me about where you grew up,” she asked her host, and Nicolas launched into a monologue about a Czech mother and a Spanish father and a German nanny and summers in Forte dei Marmi.

A six-foot blonde in a Pucci sheath strolled up to their table. She leaned over, showing off enormous breasts, and gave Nicolas a kiss on the mouth. A lingering kiss.

“Oksana Dolezalova, allow me to present Sarah Weston,” said Nicolas once his head had emerged from the giantess’s mouth.

“Please to met you,” said Oksana. Oksana’s cheekbones were high, her teeth white, and her boots had six-inch spike heels. Sarah felt even more like a scruffy college girl.

“Nico,” the woman purred. “I wait for you last night and you never show up.”

“Emergency,” said Nico. “I’ll make it up to you.” Oksana kissed him again, smiled at Sarah, and left.

“I have to ask,” said Sarah. “Is she a hooker? Because I’ve heard that they hang out in fancy hotels, and I’ve never seen one in real life, except, you know, on street corners in New York when you’re coming home from bars late, but that doesn’t really count.”

Nicolas frowned. “She’s my wife.”

Sarah laughed. Nicolas’s expression did not change. “Really? Oksana is . . . your wife?”

“We were married last spring at the palace,” said Nicolas coldly. “It was a lovely ceremony.”

Sarah sat there in silence for a moment, then came up with, “She seems really nice.”

“She is. For a hooker.”

This time Sarah did not laugh. But Nicolas did. “I’m kidding,” he said.

“I never thought she was your wife, okay? Nice try.”

“She
is
my wife. She’s just not a hooker. She’s a nurse.”

You could never get to the bottom of anything in Prague, Sarah thought. She now had no idea if the woman was Nicolas’s wife or not. She made herself imagine him married to Oksana. It was not easy, but Sarah decided that if the evening produced nothing more fruitful than the erosion of her own shallow tendency to judge a book by its miniature cover, it was time well spent.

“Max is quite all right,” said Nicolas.

All thoughts of Oksana disappeared. “Where is he?”

“He’s waiting for you back at the palace.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sarah stood up to leave.

“I wanted to clear some things up.”

Sarah sat back down.

“I came to see you in Boston on Max’s orders,” Nicolas said. “Miles hired you because Sherbatsky asked him to, but Max sent me to vet you. It did seem an interesting .&nstie?”

The little man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph, handing it to Sarah. It was a picture of Sarah’s fourth-grade class. Her own face was circled. It gave her chills to see it. Her gap-toothed smile. The strange yellow pantsuit with the Scottie dogs on it that had been her favorite. It was the year her father died.

“Why do you have this photo?” she asked.

“Look at it,” Nicolas said.

He pointed to a boy with ears sticking out, in the third row. He looked small and shy, his face not grown into a too-prominent nose.

Sarah shrugged and shook her head.

“Max,” said the little man, slightly exasperated.

“Max?” She brought the photo closer. Yes, the features were the same.

“Max and I were in fourth grade together?” she said, wonderingly. “He told me he grew up in California.”

“Except for one year when his father was on sabbatical in Boston,” Nicolas explained. “Max’s father wanted to ‘toughen him up,’ so he sent him to public school. Your school, as it happened.”

“He remembers me? Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Max is not sure whom to trust.”

He’s not the only one
, thought Sarah. The sight of the photo and the fact that Max had kept it from her was disturbing.

“Who killed Professor Sherbatsky?” she snapped.

Nicolas frowned. “Sherbatsky jumped.”

“I’ll never believe that.”

“You will, soon. And Max didn’t kill Andy Blackman, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“So Andy is dead?”

“Andy is dead.”

“Who was he? Who took his body?”

Nicolas shrugged. “Sarah, these kinds of games have been played out in this country for a thousand years. Under the reign of the Czech kings, the Holy Roman emperors, the Hapsburgs, the Nazis, the communists—it’s been one long invasion of the body snatchers. Who are the players this time? I honestly don’t know, and to keep my own neck intact I don’t ask. I would venture to guess that Andy was neither a Czech policeman nor an American security systems installer. It might not have to do with either you or Max. So please just stick to compiling the Beethoven collection. Do your job like the other researchers, have a nice summer, and go home safe and sound. That is my advice.”

It was good advice, too. There was plenty of work to be done, work that would launch her career back in the States. She would publish about the relationship between Prince Lobkowicz and Beethoven, about the letters, about his notations on the symphonies. There was a lifetime of scholarship in the Nela archives alone. She could become
the
go-to Beethoven scholar for the U.S. Sarah told herself that Sherbatsky had jumped, that Andy’s death had nothing to do with her, and that even if Max had once been in her class, he was a prince now (sort nce beof) and she was from South Boston.

She sipped her drink and watched the tourists carried aloft in the balloon. Even from this distance, she could hear them scream and then laugh every time the balloon bobbed in the wind. She knew the taste in their mouths. Fear . . . and excitement.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” said Sarah at last.

Nicolas Pertusato held her stare.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.
” He then raised an eyebrow and recited:

This is the wandring wood, this errours den,

A monster vile, whom God and man does hate:

Therefore I read beware.

Fly fly (quoth then The fearefull Dwarfe)

this is no place for living men.

TWENTY

N
icolas ordered another cocktail for Sarah using only a minute hand gesture. The respectfully observant waiter leapt to obey. Sarah took an orgasmic bite of crostini. The restaurant at the Four Seasons had a Michelin star, and food was one area where Sarah didn’t mind a baroque sensibility. The more delicious things you can cram on a piece of toast, she felt, the better.

“A change of subject,” Nicolas said, leaning forward. “Tell me about Herr Beethoven. Pretend I am one of your adoring undergraduates. Blow, as they say, my mind.”

“I’m beginning to think that might be hard to do,” said Sarah, wondering if the restaurant was dark enough to actually bend down and lick her plate without causing a scene.

“Most common misconception,” Nicolas prompted, helpfully.

“That he spent a large part of his life totally deaf,” Sarah answered. “That’s kind of a big one.”

“And untrue.”

“Untrue. The truth is sadder, actually. The hearing loss was gradual, and intermittent. It would have been better for his mental health, probably, if it happened all at once. He kept hoping he would be cured, or that it would improve. And it did, sometimes. Can you imagine? One day you can hear the rattle of carriages beneath your window, your friend’s voice, five seconds of your own playing. And then the next day, nothing.”

“Better to be born into this world with your deficiencies already in place?” the little man asked. “Than lose your powers drop by drop, ever conscious of that which is being taken from you?”

“But the music got better,” Sarah said. “And I think he knew it. He did his share of railing and complaining, but he knew what he was. Even all his women troubles . . . that was mostly self-created. He didn’t want the Immortal Beloved.”

“Ah, yes, the famous letters. Very romantic.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Sarah laughed. “That’s misconception number two. Luigi as heartbroken lover. The Immortal Beloved letters are basically break-up notes.
‘Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be—’ ‘At my age I need a steady, quiet life—can that be so in our connection?’
Antonie Brentano was married with four children. She must have scared the shit out of Ludwig. All his life he had been able to safely worship these unattainable noblewomen and not lose any composing time or have to put up with PMS and diapers. An Immortal Beloved is way better than daily intimacy.
That’s
what the letters are about.”

“You seem very sure of this,” the little man said. “And, forgive me, a little . . . cynical for such a young woman.”

“Well, nobody can be sure of the letters,” Sarah said, choosing to ignore the accusation of cynicism. “I mean, we can’t be one hundred percent certain that Antonie is the babe in question. But it fits. She was the major woman in his life at that time. They were both here in Prague in early July 1812. It’s all been totally hashed out, believe me.”

“What about the 7th?” Nicolas asked. “Where was Prince Lobkowicz when Beethoven came to Prague?”

“I actually don’t know where the prince was in early July,” Sarah admitted. “Probably Vienna.”

“But he could have been here,” Nicolas suggested, tapping his spoon thoughtfully against his cup. “
Why
did Beethoven come to Prague in 1812?”

Sarah thought.

“Well, I don’t actually know. On the second of July he was supposed to meet up with Karl Varnhagen von Ense, but he didn’t show. Varhagen recorded this in his memoirs, along with the apology note he got from Ludwig saying that he was sorry to cancel but a ‘circumstance which I could not foresee prevented me from doing so.’”

“What was the circumstance?” Nicolas asked.

“Well, presumably it was Antonie Brentano.” Sarah shrugged. “Beethoven doesn’t say. And then he goes to Teplitz and writes the letters. But never sends them. My guess is that he read them over and decided that he had kind of overdone it on the whole ‘you’re the one’ stuff.”

“There is always more than one explanation,” Nicolas said softly. “For almost everything, my dear.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Max, dressed impeccably as always in a dark three-piece suit, didn’t wait for a reply. He pulled out the chair next to Sarah and sat down.

“We good?” he asked the little man.

“All clear,” Nicolas responded brightly. “Oksana spotted someone from BIS earlier, but she tipped me off immediately. And I don’t think he noticed us at all, actually. As Sarah correctly pointed out, a five-star hotel attracts a five-star prostitute. He left with a redhead about forty-five minutes ago. The Minister of Culture is at the far left table having dinner with, I’m fairly certain, Neil Diamond. Otherwise it’s just tourists.”

“You,” said Sarah, “have graher with, ot to be kidding me.”

“No, he’s right,” said Max, peering. “That really is Neil Diamond.”

“Okay,” Sarah folded her arms. “Which one of you is Starsky and which is Hutch? And what’s BIS?”

“Czech Security Information Services,” Nicolas answered, ordering an espresso with a flick of his wrist. “Spies, in other words. Forgive the cloak-and-dagger theatrics, which actually I adore, but let me remind you that a man is dead and on the other side of the river is a palace filled with priceless works of art with some very shady histories. Prague is a threshold.” Nicolas stood up and gave Sarah a courtly bow. “And it is steeped in blood.”

“And full of hell portals,” added Sarah sarcastically, then realized they were both staring intently at her.

“You know about the hell portal?” asked Nicolas.

“Yeah, it’s right under the unicorn’s stable,” said Sarah, laughing. “C’mon, guys.”

Nicolas relaxed and smiled. “Sarah, I enjoyed our dinner enormously. Max?”

“Give Oksana my best.” Max nodded. “And give me back my cigarette case, you little thief.”

Nicolas sighed, took the slim gold case out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to Max. Again Sarah saw the flash of a mysterious symbol.

“And my lighter?” Max asked, patiently.

The little man slid it across the table, winked at Sarah, and disappeared into the night.

“Mmm, crostini?” Max said, reaching across the table.

“Where have you been?” Sarah tried to keep her voice neutral. She felt extraordinarily . . . relieved to see him. Yes, that’s what it must be. Relief.

“Sorry. I got caught up and I didn’t want to risk calling you. I’ve been taking care of business,” Max said. He signaled for the waiter to bring him a menu. “And trying to open a museum, too, by the way. We’ve got the Delft china specialist coming and some dude who specializes in dog art.”

“Seriously?”

“The Lobkowiczes have always loved dogs,” Max said, gravely.

Your dogs lived better than my ancestors
, thought Sarah.

The waiter handed Max a menu, which Max placed in his lap. After a moment, he handed it to Sarah.

“Anything else you’d like to order?” he asked, eyeing the menu significantly. Sarah sighed and opened the menu. Inside were a series of 8x10 black-and-white photographs. She pulled the menu closer to her chest to study them.

“This is what was in Andy’s camera? That looks like a safe,” she said.

“Yep.”

Sarah slid the photograph over to look at the next one. A man’s hand, reaching for the safe dial. The following two were close-ups of the dial itself; the first finger and thumb of the hand were out of focus, but the numbers were clear. In the final photograph, both the hand and the numberandre clo were fuzzy.

“Eight, thirteen, something,” said Sarah.

“I couldn’t get it any better than that,” Max apologized. “But it does narrow our focus significantly.”

“That’s the safe in Miles’s office,” Sarah stated, frowning.

“Visible from the scaffolding outside the far window,” Max said. “If you are lying on your stomach and you have a really powerful zoom. I checked.”

Sarah closed the menu and handed it back to Max.

“Andy was a spy, I’m thinking,” Max said quietly. “But was he working alone or
for
someone? That’s what I want to know. And I think we need to find out what Miles has in that safe.”

And speaking of secrets
, Sarah thought, reaching down into her backpack and pulling out the letter Jana had given her.
What’s your secret, Max?

“Sorry,” she said. “What with the dead body and all, I sort of forgot to pass on your personal mail. Jana asked me to give it to you.”

Max opened the letter, read it through quickly, and then stuffed it in his suit pocket.

“Just a receipt for a hotel bill,” he said, dismissively.

Oh really?
Sarah thought. She pulled out the fourth-grade class photograph Nicolas had given her and slapped it on the table in front of him.

“Andy was spying on Miles,” Sarah said. “You were spying on me. Nicolas has been spying on everyone. And by the way, he seems
very
certain that Sherbatsky killed himself.”

“Pertusato said that Sherbatsky killed himself?”

“He insists that he jumped.” Sarah watched Max take the last crostini, the bastard.

“Saying he jumped is not the same as saying he committed suicide.” Max’s voice was hesitant.

“Well, why else would he jump?” Sarah asked sharply. But Max did not answer.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said, after a moment. “Fourth grade was never the same after you left.”

Sarah slung her backpack over her shoulder.

“I’m going to take Nicolas’s advice,” she said. “I’m going to go back to your stupid-ass palace and spend the rest of my summer focusing on my work. I’m going to look at manuscripts, and transcribe, and take notes, and . . . and . . . think about a five-foot-four shlub from the wrong side of the Rhine with bad gas and some serious daddy issues, who was still ten million times the man you or I or anyone else I know will
ever
be. Whatever else is going on, just leave me out of it, okay?”

Sarah stood up and walked majestically away from the table, stopping only to accept a small box of chocolates from the smiling waiter.

“Thank you for visiting the Four Seasons,” he said in English. “Please come again.”

Across the street from the hotel, concertgoers were spilling out of the Rudolf of daddyinum. Charles Bridge was still crowded with tourists, with lovers, with exasperated locals just trying to get home. Up and down the river, nighttime Prague glittered and blinked, beckoned and hid itself. Sarah took the long way up the hill, stumping across cobblestones, willing herself not to be entranced. Showing her security card to a guard at the castle gates, she caught the Sexy Stabber leering overhead.

Oh, fuck off,
she thought.

At the palace she could hear laughter, conversation, the clinking of glasses coming from the kitchen.

That’s where I should be
, she thought.
That’s who I should be with.
Her mother had always told her not to get taken in by rich people. “They use you,” she had said.

Sarah stomped down the stairs to her windowless room, threw her backpack on her bed and herself down next to it. A spring jabbed her painfully in the ribs. She was irritated by how irritated she was. Now, Sarah thought, would be a good time to investigate a proper Christian death. But the
ars morendi
was on the table across the room and Sarah did
n’t feel like moving just yet.

Unzipping her backpack, she rooted around for the photograph, but her fingers closed around something else.

The little copper pillbox. Its lid was, she now noticed, in the shape of a nose.

“What would you expect to find in a pillbox?”
the little man had asked.

Mysteries. Sarah was tired of them. Fuck mysteries.

Sarah picked the piece of . . . something out of the box, held it in her hand for about half a second. Then she put it in her mouth and swallowed.