The Ocean of Time (31 page)

‘Okay.’ And I bow my head and hurry off to do his bidding.

Zarah’s waiting for me in the prep room next to the platform. As ever, she is immaculately groomed, her uniform smartly pressed, her hair freshly brushed and tied back from her face.

‘So?’ I ask. ‘What do I need to know?’

She hands me a thick winter coat and gloves and a large sealed envelope. I look down at the envelope, then back at her. ‘Do I open this now or later?’

‘Later. When you’re back there.’

‘And?’

‘Our agents are staying at an inn to the north of the town. Next door to the stables, close by the river.’

‘Which is
where
precisely, and
when
?’

She answers in a deadpan. ‘Baturin. November 1708.’

‘Baturin! In
November!
But …’

‘That’s where they are. And when.’

I swallow. ‘Shit!’ On the third of November, Baturin will be taken by Menshikov’s troops and the ancient Cossack capital burned to the ground, not a single person spared.

But Zarah only smiles. ‘You’ll be all right. But remember. Open the letter the moment you’ve jumped through.’

‘But
Baturin
…’

‘Things have changed,’ she says.

‘Anything else I need to know?’

‘No. Read the letter. It’s all in there.’

I put on the coat, pull on the gloves and embrace her. ‘
Starke
,’ I say, pressing my lips gently to her forehead – ‘strength’ – then turn and make my way to the platform.

One moment I am standing in the brightness of the circle, the next in darkness, mist swirling around me, snow beneath my booted feet.

I am on a bridge, the water flowing dark and powerful beneath me. To my left an oil lamp burns noisily, its flame gusting in the night wind, melting the snow that falls on the bridge surrounding it, yet as I turn, looking to my right, my mouth opens in surprise.

This isn’t Baturin, this is Prague! For there, not twenty paces distant, is the unmistakable wedge-like shape of the Bridge Tower. I am on the Charles Bridge, above the mighty Voltava, in the ancient capital of Bohemia.

And I realise instantly what has happened. Old Schnorr has had a word, Zarah has arranged it and, even as I tear open the envelope, I half know what to expect.

There’s a thousand Czech krona – in tens and twenties – and a single sheet of paper. Unfolding it I find handwritten on it a name – Jakub Schikaneder – and an address – 11, Rasnovka. And there, at the foot of the page are old Schnorr’s initials and a date – 4 December 1892.

Rasnovka, if I remember correctly, is in the Jewish quarter, to the north of the Old Town. Twenty minutes’ walk at most. And though I don’t have much Czech, they speak enough German here for me to get by. Prague at this time – indeed, at any time – is a very cosmopolitan place.

I set off at once, making my way under the great gatehouse and past a dozing guard. The gas lamps are lit, burning dimly in those tall but narrow thoroughfares, yet the streets are virtually empty. The dark metal of the tramlines shows through the snow that covers the cobbled surface, but of the trams themselves there’s no sign. I’ve no clue what time it is, but it must be late. Very late.

Flurries of snow blow into my face as I make my way through, and as I walk I ask myself where I’ve heard the name Schikaneder before, and whether I’ll recognise him somehow, perhaps by some familiarity in his face.

The Old Town square is empty, the two great gothic towers of the Church of Our Lady before Tyn silhouetted against a bright full moon, which rests like a giant pearl on the cushion of a blue-black cloud. The sight is magnificent and I turn and smile, looking about me, understanding in an instant why he should choose this place for exile.

I hurry on, heading east along Celetna. At the Powder Gate I stop, hearing the bell toll three, then stand aside as a coach and horses flashes past, throwing up slush and snow in its wake, the driver leaning over his horses, cracking a short whip, while his master, a big, heavily bearded man in full opera dress, sprawls out, snoring in the back.

In the silence that follows I walk on, my footsteps muffled by the snow, but I’ve gone
less than a dozen paces when someone calls out.

I stop and turn, then wait as the man comes out from beneath the gate tower. He’s a soldier of some kind, a guard maybe, or a policeman, his gun slung over his shoulder, and he’s clearly not happy to see me there, making him stir from his warm guard box.

This is an age of anarchists and revolutions, and anyone out this late is suspect, especially someone dressed as oddly as I, in the clothes of a different century.

He barks something at me in Czech and I answer back politely in German, giving it a faint Austrian accent.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m a stranger here.’

Thinking that I’m a countryman, he softens his manner, speaking now in German.

‘Hold there, friend. What business have you out at this hour?’

‘My coach lost a wheel,’ I say, ‘coming in on the Pizen road. I had to walk. My friend Karl, he lives in Rasnovka. I’m going there now.’

‘Rasnovka?’ he says, frowning and coming closer, so that I can make out his pale blue eyes, his balding pate and snow-streaked beard. ‘But that’s in the Josefstadt. He lives there?’

‘Karl’s a poor man,’ I say. ‘He can afford no better. But I’ve come to change his luck.’

And, knowing the ways of officials of this age, I slip the man a ten krona note, and he beams and touches his cap and bids me a very good morning.

Rasnovka is a long, broad street, forming a dog-leg from south to east, just one block from the river. The fourteenth-century Church of St Castullus stands at its southern end, candles burning in its vaulted entrance, and in the snowbound dark it seems the warmest spot in that bleak, forbidding place. This is the very edge of the Josefstadt, the Jewish Quarter, and is some way from the seven ancient synagogues that serve this town within a town.

I look about me, taking in the fact that there are no phone lines strung across the street, no aerials or dishes, reminding myself that this is just before the Modern Age begins, before radio and television and mass communications. They have trams and trains, but that’s about all. This world is still, in essence, medieval, and maybe that’s why Schikaneder has camped out here, on the edge between the old world and the new.

At least, that’s my guess.

Number eleven is a tall, grey house of five storeys, its façade stern, almost anonymous in its regularity, heavy shutters pulled across the windows. There’s not a glimmer of light from within and I’m beginning to think I might have to find lodgings for the night – in Wenceslas Square, most likely – when I note that there’s a side gate and what’s clearly an alleyway running between the houses.

I push at the gate, which is taller than me and in need of a fresh coat of paint, and find myself in a dark and narrow space. In the moonlight I can see trees at the back of the house – a garden, possibly – and make my way through. It’s as I emerge, out into the open space at the back of the house, that I hear someone opening the shutters to one of the windows, high up, at the very top of the house. A pale light spills down.

I step back, looking up, careful not to trip over anything in the half dark, and find someone staring down at me, as if I’m expected. And maybe I am. Maybe old Schnorr has been here before me, seeking Schikaneder’s permission. Yet why at this ungodly hour?

‘I’ll come down,’ he says, quietly but clearly, then vanishes back inside. I wait, and in less than a minute, he appears at the back door, a heavy black cloak draped about his shoulders, a candle held out before him in an elaborate silver holder. He’s a tall, dark-complexioned man, with a full dark beard and long hair falling in ringlets in the Jewish manner. But what I’m most aware of is his smile, which is guarded, sardonic.

‘Come, Otto,’ he says. ‘Come in out of the cold.’

I study the back of him as we climb the narrow stairs, surprised to find so young and vigorous a man. His hands are strong and finely made, his hair a deep and lustrous black.

But why surprised? Schikaneder is still a youngish man. He’ll not die for another thirty years.

The stairs seem endless, the candle flickering wildly ahead of us, throwing shadows everywhere. And then, suddenly, we’re at the top, the door to his rooms open before us, a fire burning brightly in the grate that greets us as we step through.

It’s a warm and welcoming room, lit by three pretty glass-cased gas lamps that hang from the ceiling rose. A huge, pillow-strewn settee fills the right-hand wall and a thick, Turkish-looking rug rests underfoot, covering most of the floor. There’s a silken Chinese screen, and two other chairs – one of them a plush-looking armchair – and, on the mantlepiece, a menorah, a nine-armed Jewish candelabra, made of polished silver.

Going across, Schikaneder pulls the window down, then folds the shutters across. That done, he turns to face me.

Jakub Schikaneder is a man of pale and distinguished features. He’s of medium build with a prominent nose and chin, a heavy, almost sensuous mouth, and deep, attentive eyes. Brown eyes. Eyes that seem, at the same time, warm and critical.

Yet the abiding impression I have of him is that he’s ill. Physically ill, that is. Consumptive, maybe. Or is it only the gaslight that makes him seem so; only the
stark contrast between
his
looks and, say, for instance, Seydlitz, or one of the other young Teutonic ‘gods’ we send out among the ages? He seems too refined to be a German, too southern. No wonder he chose to play the Jew back here. He looks the part.

And I mean no slur by that. The Jews of Prague are renowned not merely for their industriousness and intelligence, but also for their creativity. The young Franz Kafka, eight years old in this year, lives but a mile from here. Nor is he the only one. My beloved Rilke was born and lived here – indeed, maybe lives here even now. For this is the time to be, the place to be if you are young, and creative, and Jewish.

And even if you’re not …

But I don’t pursue that yet. Don’t look into what point he might be making by his choice.

‘You have the money?’ he asks.

Taking the packet from my coat, I hand it to him. ‘It’s ten short,’ I say. ‘I had to pay the watchman.’

He nods. ‘Tea?’ he asks, slipping the packet into the deep pocket of his cloak.

‘Tea?’

‘You know, a cup of tea with a drop of brandy, perhaps? To keep the chill away.’

‘I …’ Impatience almost makes me blurt out my question about Kolya, but, seeing how he’s watching me, I smile, realising that he’s waiting for me to relax. ‘Thanks,’ I say, then half turn and gesture to the settee. ‘May I?’

‘Please do. Make yourself at home.’

His German is rusty, like he doesn’t use it much.

Or chooses not to
.

I sit and wait, looking about me, enjoying the small details of the room, my attention captured by one of the paintings on the wall beside the screen. I stand and, walking across, study it close up.

The dominant colour of the canvas is a faded cream that’s almost grey. Sky, sea and sand are each mere variants on that washed-out shade. To the bottom left, a girl lies limply on her back on the sand, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. Beyond her, resting just above the horizon, a pale and hazy sun spreads a faint wash of light across the desolate sea. The only other detail is a large pale brown rock, to the right of her, that rests there impassively, like the skull of a great dinosaur, its reflection in the shallow water casting a dark stain across that corner of the painting.

The girl’s right arm lies stretched out away from her, like she’s sleeping. Like Ophelia she lies there, dressed in a diaphanous gown of white, the only sign of life in that bleak landscape. Only she’s dead.

I turn to find Schikaneder standing there, a blue china cup in each hand, looking across at me.

‘You like it?’ he asks, handing me a cup.

I turn back.
Do I?

‘I guess,’ I say. ‘Its mood …’ Its mood disturbs me. But I don’t say that. ‘It’s very …
melancholic
.’

‘And real. It’s what I saw. That awful, bleak sun. And the rock.’

‘You?’

He smiles. ‘It’s what I do. I’m a painter. Or didn’t Meister Schnorr mention that?’

‘I know only that you were a friend of Hecht’s.’

‘And that I was a rebel, yes?’

His smile coaxes my own. ‘I was told something like that.’

‘Well, it’s true. I never did like the way they did things at Four-Oh. Too damn sanctimonious for my liking. Or am I saying too much. Are you …?’

‘Sanctimonious?’ I hesitate, then. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Then clearly not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you can see it in yourself. The rest of them aren’t even conscious of it. Even when you point it out to them.’

He sighs, then sips from his cup and smiles. Already I like him, even if he paints what I consider melancholic kitsch.

‘You know what the worst thing I did was?’

‘No?’

‘I laughed at him. At Hudner, I mean.’

‘You
laughed
at the Meister?’

‘I couldn’t help it.’ He looks past me at the painting. ‘All of that crap about empires and great men and turning the map black or red or whatever colour … it’s all a nonsense. It’s individuals that count. He could never see that.’

Maybe not, but I can see already why the Elders wanted him out.
Opinionated
, that’s what Hecht would say, if he said anything.
A wild card
. Yet as a man out of the loop, he seems likeable enough.

‘You don’t agree,’ he says, when I fail to answer him.

‘I’m a
Reisende
,’ I say, keeping it simple. ‘I report to Meister Hecht.’

Schikaneder looks down, a sudden, thoughtful cast on his features. ‘Of course … I forgot. Hecht’s Meister now.’ Then, ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Hungry?’ I think about it, then shrug. ‘Yes, but—’

‘Wait there,’ he says, putting his cup down and heading back towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve some leftovers …’