Aria in Ice

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Graveyards aren’t normally party sites, but this untended, ignored plot of land was—to put it mildly—sad. Johnny pushed aside a particularly annoying vine and we both nearly fell over partially-intact headstones. Since the epitaphs were in Czech the words were somewhat unintelligible to me, but the carved numerals were easily deciphered. 1721-1764. 1725-1780. Odd. The graveyard was such a mess I would have expected to find that the dates were more in line with much earlier centuries, perhaps even from the medieval period. Johnny knelt down to inspect a marker, while I sidestepped the two headstones and walked a few steps further. More Eighteenth Century dates. I wandered through this forgotten piece of history, pushing away the dead greenery and the piles of dirt that clung to the stones. Everything was Seventeen-such-and-such to Seventeen-so-and-so.

  I slowly surveyed this small cemetery. And it hit me with such force I sank onto the nearest block of stone that seemed intact enough to hold my weight.

  “Johnny.”

  “What?”

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  He nodded. “These headstones don’t look like they’ve been destroyed through the forces of time, nature and neglect.”

  “I agree. It’s like they’d been deliberately smashed.”

  I walked on, surmising that this destruction didn’t appear to have been caused by kids out for a sick vandal romp through a burial ground, but by a person or persons who had been hunting for something. The cracks and the crumbles had been forced in such a way as to allow the perpetrators to literally search inside the stones. That wasn’t the worst of this scene. It was obvious, once I took the time to really look, that each plot had been dug up; that some of the wreckage now lying in a sorrowful and frozen chaotic tableau on the ground were the remains of coffins—with parts of the original inhabitants now outside those original resting places.

  I felt chilled. There is something so unholy, so sick, so uselessly mean about a grave robber. If one has to steal from the dead, then plan a heist on a museum where the personalities have been long forgotten.

  Prague in the spring, yet suddenly cold as ice. I wanted out of this place. Time to let Johnny Gerard go paint the mural or whatever he wanted to do with the rest of this day while I headed up to Kastle Kouzlo Noc, talk to the owners about renting this castle for Shay’s movie—and get warm. I shivered, looked around for Johnny, who’d wandered off to investigate broken angels, then carefully shielded my face from an open grave about eight feet away from me. No one had bothered to toss the dirt back inside. I closed my eyes, took as much of a breath as I could stand in this desolate and decayed area, sat up straight, opened my eyes again, and prepared to leave.

  I screamed. There was a wool-trousered butt sticking up from the grave.

  A torso followed the distinctly male derriére, then a neck appeared, and finally, I was reassured to notice, a real human head. Alive. Jet-black hair, amazingly well-coiffed for someone hip deep in dirt, hit just above neck-line.

  I yelled with as much fury as my fright would allow, “Dammit! You just scared the holy livin’ heart out of me! Doesn’t anyone around here ever make a normal entrance?”

  The man straightened and whirled around with such force I expected him to fall back inside. Golden brown eyes, like a superior feline, stared at me. I stared back, prepared to play “blink first” for as long as it took. Enough time passed for me to see the straight nose, the Cupid-shaped lips and the lashes that were triple mine (even with Volumized Billion Dramatic Double Layered mascara). The lashes pissed me off so much I was able to stay silent until the grave-popper spoke first.

  “I’m very sorry if I startled you, young lady. I was engrossed in what I was doing and didn’t realize anyone was above the crypt.” The man paused. “What do you mean—normal entrance?”

  I started to explain, then gave up. “Never mind. It was supposed to be funny theatrical reference but if you’re not an actor, it’s probably not even remotely amusing. Forget I said anything.”

  Johnny suddenly appeared next to me. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Just startled by Mister Whomever here literally popping up out of the ground.” I glared at the man. “So. That’s a crypt, right, not an undone grave?”

  “Of course. What a strange question. Why do you ask that?”

  “Well, sure. Silly me. The fact that there isn’t a solid grave anywhere to be found was a just a tad suspicious. What had you so captivated you didn’t hear either of us above ground? What were you doing?”

  “Working.”

  Johnny looked at me. I looked back at him., then at the gorgeous man in the dirt.

  I smiled. “That sounds—excuse the term—cryptic. What exactly were you working on? If you don’t mind telling us.”

  He smiled. Instantly he looked ten years younger and far less threatening. Neither thought reassured me. “I’m a historian. And I am currently engaged in a research project for the residents of Kouzlo Noc.”

  This sounded nice except that I’d just noticed the man was holding a dagger. Looked antique. I could feel my teeth grinding out of sheer nervousness.

  Johnny obviously felt the same. “Um. Do you mind placing that knife on the ground or someplace where it’s not in your hand? No offense.”

  He looked at the weapon as if he’d just noticed it was there. “Sorry. I use this to chip away at some of the century old encrusted dirt obscuring names and dates.”

  He laid it on top of a headstone above ground.

  I began to breathe again. “Thank you. So. I’m intrigued. What are we talking about here? Are you writing a book? Dissertation? Or perhaps taking a leisurely stroll down genealogy lane?”

  Again, the quick smile flashed. “That’s a very good summary.”

  “In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I groaned. “Enough. I’m about to meet the owners of this castle and try to present a dignified—uh—presence but I’m standing in the middle of a major horror show, so I’m not up to games involving wresting info from an avowed academic.”

  Those cat’s eyes stared at me again from the grave. Again, I broke first. “ Do you have a name?”

  He relaxed. “I do. Corbin Lerner. I teach at a small eastern University.”

  He didn’t say east of what. Could be Prague, could be Eden, could be Des Moines.

  “I do some sideline work for the Duskova sisters. Those castle owners you’re about to meet.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks. That rather sums it up. Neatly and with total ambiguity.”

  He wasn’t going to tell me why he was sneaking around the graveyard. That much was certain. I tried a different tack. “I’m Abby Fouchet. Currently acting as location scout for a movie company planning to rent the castle from the Duskovas. This is Johnny Gerard, who is also doing work for the Duskovas.”

  Johnny tensed. The Dumas second sight didn’t kick in, but it didn’t need to. I got it. He wanted our romantic relationship kept secret. I didn’t skip a beat. “Restoring a mural, isn’t that right, Mr. Gerard?”

  Johnny nodded. “Precisely.” He immediately added, “So, Mr. Lerner, as an historian, do you have any theories as to why this graveyard only contains the dearly departed from the Seventeen-Hundreds?”

  Lerner’s shoulders lifted until his neck nearly disappeared into his collar. “That is interesting, isn’t it? Veronika Duskova told me that years ago the family decided that the original gravesite was too crowded. So starting in Seventeen Hundred, all the deceased were interned here.”

  Something didn’t quite ring true here—like where’s the rest of the dearly—and much more recently—departed and is their site a bit nicer and more refined?

  Johnny didn’t buy it either, but only asked, “Did you find what you were looking for in the crypt?”

  “Sadly, no. There are some interesting artifacts there, but the information I sought was not available.”

  “Can you tell us what you were looking for? Or is that
a deep, dark secret?” I asked.

  He gazed a bit too intently up at a tree branch that had nothing whatsoever of interest to distract him. He didn’t answer.

  I was about to take another stab at sticking my nose in where he obviously didn’t feel it belonged (I have no shame when it comes to being curious) when I felt a light touch on my right shoulder. Normally I wouldn’t flinch. But I was in a cemetery with a man who was bent on being stubbornly and ridiculously quiet about an old crypt and my boyfriend who was mysteriously bent on keeping quiet about his girlfriend—me. I jumped, whirled and prepared to beat the living fool out of who or what was behind me.

  A woman glared at me from across a headstone that must have been hideous long before it was smashed. Skeletal images, flames and lost faces peeked through what was left of marble and granite.

  She was dressed in a solid black Victorian-style gown and sporting what my favorite contemporary dance teacher at University of Texas had called the ”Early-Modern-Dancer-I-Have-No-Humor-and-I’m-Constipated-to-Boot” look. A look that comes with a hard knot at the back of the neck hair and honest-to-God knitting needles sticking out from that bun.

  I smiled at the newcomer. She wasn’t having any.

  “Yoong ladee! No! No! Vy iss you in graveyard? You must leaf now! Go! Go!”

  Chapter 3

  I wrenched my gaze away from the pititful headstones and the two men then meekly followed the Woman in Black out of the graveyard. Neither Johnny nor Mr. Lerner followed. The woman did not talk. I kept my own silence until we arrived at the giant doorway about half a mile from the cemetery gates.

  “Please. Uh, could you wait just a second?”

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “I’m truly sorry I was wandering in the graveyard. I love history and I didn’t realize at first this must have been a family cemetery or I never would have intruded. I was just so devastated to see the destruction there and -sad. Since Mr. Gerard was with me, and he said he knew you, I kind of assumed that would be okay. Please forgive me?”

  A glimmer of softness passed over the grim face.

  “Ach, I deed not realize Meester Gerard had accompanied you. I wass rude. But eet iss sad, no? Hass been in family for centuries but last two hundred years people come and they ruin. Pleeze, do not tell my sisters I haf been here today—yes? They get most upset when I visit this place. We pretend no meet?”

  I nodded. “That’s fine. And by the way, I truly I believe descrating graves is one of the sickest things imaginable. I hope this never happens again near this beautiful castle.”

  She nodded as well, then gestured to a doorway we’d reached by a route I’d never be able to remember. I refrained from stating, “Cool. I’m entering Kastle Kouzlo Noc—a Gothic novel come to life in 21st Century Prague. Possibly—make that probably—is home to a flute-playing ghost. Shay Martin is gonna love it.” If I was dumb enough to voice that inner monologue, what little rapport we two had established would be as wrecked as the grave Corbin Lerner had been using for historical pursuits.

  ‘Gothic novel come to life’ truly was the best description for what I was about to enter. The first thing I saw were the three scowling, dragon-headed doorknockers The creatures were positioned underneath a plaque clearly stating to visitors that this was an entrance to Kastle Kouzlo Noc. Why three of these guys were needed when one dragon would have been sufficient to scare the stuffings out of invited guests or trespassing interlopers was a mystery that could be scary to solve.

  “What does it mean? In English?”

  “Kouzlo Noc iss Magic Night.” She actually smiled, before gracefully crossing in front of me to stand directly under the dragons .

  I was right. Even in English,”Magic Night” sounded like the perfect castle in which to film Shay’s Gothic musical movie. With any luck, the inside of the castle would have the same quality of menace indicated by the doorknockers. It had to. Shay had sounded more than a tad desperate when I’d spoken to her two hours earlier. “Abby? Please, please perform miracles for me, okay? It’s vital I get a castle that’s huge, spooky, and preferably situated close to a mountain. Got that? Vital. With a capital Vee. But it better have ultra modern heating, beyond modern bathrooms, and really damn cheap rent. Call as soon as you find one, so I can take a breath again. I’ll be doing this maid-of-honor thing for at least another week unless the sweet intended calls it off again—which, incidentally, she did yesterday—but that’s for another day’s gossip. Anyway, I’ve got my cell with me, although roaming charges are killing me, and let’s face it, you’re definitely roaming. Oh, hell. Hang on a sec.” A pause, then, “Sorry, Fouchet. Gotta go. Kathy’s mother is yelling something about togas fitting the groomsmen. I’m hoping I heard that wrong and she really said ‘yoga’ and keeping the groom ‘fit.’” Another pause. “Damn. I wish these people would speak English.”

  “You’re in Paris, Shay. Remember? French is the native tongue? The ‘R’ in croissants is a ‘W’? Be careful to whom you say ‘tu’ or you’ll end up engaged—or in jail- and your own sweet intented Fuji will not be happy.”

  I could hear the grin on her face. “Got that right. I do kind of speak the language, but I swear everyone in this wedding so-called party rattles off their French faster than Kathy snagged this idiot Jean-Claude. They do it to annoy me. Along with sending me to fittings to encase my way too voluptuousness in orange. Orange! Who the hell wears orange in a wedding? I look like a fat demented neon pumpkin. Anyway, talk to you later.”

  “Shay! Wait. Don’t you want a progress report on these castles? I’ll talk fast and keep it short. Really. I’ve seen three that are possibles. The first one is on a hill that overlooks St. Vitus Cathedral. Gorgeous. Although keeping the tourists away while we film could get to be a problem. Then there’s Castle Sykoretvka, which has twelve turrets but apparently only outdoor plumbing which I guess messes up your beyond modern bathroom thingee but it’s also got this really neat …”

  “Forget it. If you haven’t immediately fallen in love with one and declared it perfect for our set, then I don’t give a flying—uh, croissant. I trust you. Really, I do. And Bambi trusts me. But, keep me posted. It’ll help stabilize what’s left of my sanity for the next week or so. Oh, Abby? Go for eerie. Super shadowy. Tons of scary ambience. Lots of towers. And cheap. Very cheap.”

  I heard a final “Kathy, your mother’s making me crazy! If this wedding doesn’t happen tomorrow, I’m outta here and taking the Italian crème cake and the Belgian best man with me,” then a click as the phone went dead.

  The woman was seriously deranged. She was also my best friend, my sort of boss for this location gig, and a gifted, if occasionally manic, director/choreographer. She knew that Bambi Bohacek wanted a Gothic Castle. Therefore, Bambi—and Shay—would get a Gothic Castle. Although, with the specifics they’d given me, there was a good chance I’d have to spend the next week peering at and poking through every domicile built during 13th century Prague or Moravia. I was a bit clueless as to exactly what Shay wanted in terms of “beyond modern heating and bathrooms,” but I’d jump that hurdle when I found a castle that met all her other requirements. I was damn certain however, that “port-a-potty” would not be a good choice for Ms. Martin.

  I’d already spent four days traipsing through the homes of former Czechoslovakian aristocrats deposed by former Soviet officials. They were now all eager for income. Income that could easily be forthcoming thanks to an independent film company looking to rent a nice abode. Headlights Productions was willing to pay a fair price for a castle in Prague where they could shoot this rock musical version of an old Gothic romance novel, complete with dancing girls, dancing boys, wild dogs, tame horses, and a boat chase ending under the Charles Bridge.

  As I’d tried to tell Shay, three castles had been placed on what I was calling my “Possible maybe list.” Obviously, Ms. Martin didn’t want “maybe”, “possible” or even “Purty durn close.” She wanted perfect. Fine. I would damn well find perfect.
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  With some effort, I pulled my focus back to the woman standing beside me,whom I assumed was a Duskova sister—and the scary dragon doorknockers. Before I could lay a hand on one of the beasts, Ms. Duskova yanked on a cluster of wooden wind chimes that must serve as the anchor of a long tapestry bell pull. Saying a silent “thank you” to loom-weavers everywhere, I was rewarded by hearing the sounds of two measures from Mozart’s Requiem. The huge iron doors opened as the last chord died away.

  Two women stood in the foyer just inside. They were identically dressed in that same ‘Early Modern Dancer’ humorless black with the knitting needles ‘do’ just like my companion, but unlike her, they were smiling. They also possessed the most gorgeous complexions I’d seen outside of BoTox commercials. They beckoned for me to enter. The first Woman in Black glided serenely past me, then disappeared down a long hall while I was making a mental note to tell Shay the entire trio would be terrific as extras for the scene where the Count parades around in his mask at the gala ball.

  The sister pointed in unison at my head and began to giggle. The taller of the two nudged her shorter companion. I heard the word nezraly. They had to be discussing why my hair was mixed with green streaks. It wasn’t something I cared to discuss in any language. I was embarrassed enough without trying to provide an explanation in Czech.

  I forgot about my hair the instant I was ushered into a room that was one part museum, one part dungeon, and one part medieval ballroom. Huge round columns served as the primary support for the arched ceiling. Each monstrous pillar was decorated with the image of a dragon cozily attempting to chow down on a knight or two. There was no artwork on the walls. Not even a single mirror broke the stark, ink-black wallpaper.

  My focus was drawn to the corner closest to the entranceway where a harpsichord, decorated with 15th Century style Flemish panels, proudly stood. Paperweight busts of Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn and someone who looked suspiciously like a young Eric Clapton, held down loose sheets of music.