Katja bowed her pretty head. “Sorry Mr Voryzek, sir."
"Don't let it happen again. You may go home now."
Like many of the part-time staff, Katja was an aspiring actress, a student at the Academy. Over the years he had met hundreds like her. Faces changed as each class graduated, fresh eyes sparkling with youthful ambition, not yet dulled by rejection. Voryzek would sometimes follow their early careers in the local newspapers, until they were mentioned no more. Such a tiny percentage made the grade. Katja would probably end up a secretary, he thought, or trapped in a loveless marriage, the light of her dreams extinguished like with so many others.
During their relationship, Milena had been selfless in her encouragement of his acting, never asking for the same in return, and never receiving it either. She nurtured his vanity with her praise, and impressed upon him what everyone in their fashionable inner-circle had believed: that Grigori Voryzek—that insouciant, sometimes arrogant young man—was the most promising student in the Academy, the more likely to achieve wealth, fame and professional status. Furthermore, her support achieved the desired results: hadn't his performances been breathtaking, his exam results outstanding? Admittedly, that was in the amateur arena, under the appreciative eyes of his tutors, and the transition to the professional circuit had not fared so well—not with those hard-shelled directors sniping at his every move. What he feared now, what disturbed his sleep at night, was seeing the disappointment in Milena's eyes as they met for the first time after so many years; the pity even, at his lack of success in their chosen field. And after such promise! That pitying look, which he was certain would be instinctive rather than deliberate (Milena had never been cruel), would cause him to wither in the presence of important people. Better they never meet again, he decided. Milena Palovsky would remain a memory, and his life once more would plod towards its predictably mundane destination.
He carried the takings into his office and locked them in the safe. Staring in the mirror, he adjusted his bow tie and collar. Satisfied, he left to continue his final check, fidgeting with his personal set of keys.
A smell of vanilla and almonds lingered by the merchandise cabinet, where trays of loose confectionary, programmes, and books about Alena Zeminova were displayed. On impulse, he flicked through a book, stopping at a page of gruesome charcoal sketches. Zeminova had drawn them from her prison cell. They depicted one of her husbands, Pavel Kovac, in his final moments: three sketches showing the galloping effects of the poison over a fifteen-minute period. Below these, Zeminova had written a commentary.
My preference for strychnine over arsenic concerned immediacy. Arsenic, slow and decaying, is more suited to those practitioners who wish to conceal the true source of their victim's malady and pass it off as something else. Whereas I wanted Kovac to know precisely what was happening before I bundled his corpse into the Vlatava. As the Tincture Nux Vomica played the music of discord on his central nervous system [Fig. 1], he was both silent and alert, his senses heightened, receptive to what I had to say. Here was the one occasion in our marriage where I was able to venture an opinion without fear of him bludgeoning me with those stone-like fists. A most enlightening, one-sided conversation, I might add! Soon his spasms could not have been more dramatic had I wired him to one of those electrical armchairs the Americans use to dispatch their criminals [Fig. 2]. His grin was fixed and hideous, his spine contorting in a most unnatural U-shape, so that only the heels of his shoes and the back of his head made contact with the floor. Yet the true terror and realisation of his predicament were revealed most strikingly in those bulging eyes. For those who follow the logic of science, who shun the idea that such a thing as a soul exists independently from the body, I would suggest you witness what I have witnessed. For never has there been a clearer demonstration of a soul trapped in a fiery Hell of its own making. Like a good wife should, I applied a cold flannel, wiping hot sweat and drool from that tortured countenance [Fig. 3]. Then said in a calm and matter-of-fact voice, ‘There, Kovac. Not so cocksure now, eh!'
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, Voryzek returned the book and locked the cabinet. He approached the auditorium, where he stuck his head inside the doors for a quick scan. The safety curtain was lowered, partitioning the stage, as it should be. Deserted and silent, the gloomy arena was lit only by the pale glow of the exit signs, the orchestra pit a deep rectangular shadow. He shivered. That book had given him the jitters.
He walked past the box office cubicle then turned into the foyer and began his ascent of the grand circular staircase with its curving white balustrade and gigantic crystal chandelier hanging above. The carpet felt soft and springy underfoot as he checked the upper levels. All the staff had gone. He locked several doors then made his way down again using the fire exit staircase and by this back-route arrived at the stage door.
No one was about. Surprising how quickly the building emptied, he thought, feeling mildly resentful. There was no sign of the stage door keeper Pytlik either. Voryzek imagined the old man doing his rounds, dragging his lame foot behind as he locked and checked the backstage area. He was so slow it was miracle he ever finished.
He entered Pytlik's glass-fronted booth, frowning at the odour of stale cigar smoke. The cramped space was as cluttered as a tobacconist's stall, decorated with old show fliers and signed photographs of little-known artistes. He leaned towards the public address system that was attached to the wall and spoke into the microphone. His voice echoed as it projected around the otherwise silent building.
"Pytlik, it's me Grigori Voryzek. I've been waiting here fifteen minutes,” he lied. “Where are you? Anyway, everything's in order front-of-house. I'll see you tomorrow."
From along the corridor leading to the stage area came a rattle of keys, then a dressing-room door closed with a clatter. Someone was whistling tunelessly, dragging a foot along the floor. Voryzek stepped into the corridor.
"Pytlik, did you hear my message?"
"Ah, Voryzek, there you are,” croaked Pytlik. “I've been looking for you everywhere."
"Don't lie. I've waited here fifteen minutes. You shouldn't leave your post unattended."
The old man chuckled. “Fifteen minutes? And you call me a liar. Listen, I got my job to do same as anyone else. How am I supposed to do it if I can't leave my post?"
"You should wait till I vacate the building, lock the stage door entrance and then commence your rounds, as agreed at the last management meeting. It prevents undesirables from wandering in off the street."
"It'd take me all night! You're not the only one who wants to go home. Anyway, I don't answer to you. The stage manager's my boss."
"Yes and he's gone home. So I'm senior here."
The old man shook his keys at him. “I know what you are, alright."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Like that German chancellor fellow, Hitler. Power mad! You're just a failed actor, a washed-up thespian who takes his frustrations out on everyone else."
Voryzek swallowed, feeling the shift of his Adam's apple. “Nonsense. I'm professional management. True, I did a bit of acting once, a long time ago, but decided it wasn't for me."
"You had no choice in the matter. Remember, I've been working here a long time. You were the worst bloody actor I ever saw."
"I'm very happy in my chosen career, thank you, not that it's any business of yours."
Pytlik sneered. “Pull the other one. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something important before you had a go at me. Something strange is going on."
"I did not have a go at you. And frankly, your attitude is beginning to try my patience."
"Want to hear it or not?"
Voryzek controlled his anger. “Very well, continue."
"One of the actresses is still here."
"Which actress?"
"Milena Palovsky."
The name cut deep into his composure. “Wha ... what's so strange about that?"
"She hasn't left the building."
&nb
sp; "Can't you just ask her politely to go?"
"I would but I don't know where she is."
"Then how do you know she's still here?"
"Because she hasn't gone past my window."
Voryzek sighed. The old fool was going senile. “How do you know that when you left your post prematurely to do your rounds, like always?"
"I've been down the dressing room corridors. I would've seen or heard something."
"And you haven't seen or heard a thing?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"Then she must've left by another entrance. A fire exit, or across the auditorium and out through the foyer perhaps. It happens sometimes."
Old Pytlik shook his head. “I know who's left my building alright. Milena Palovsky is still here."
Voryzek returned inside the booth and spoke into the microphone again. “Ladies and gentlemen of the visiting company, I would like to remind you that the theatre is now closed. Please vacate the building so the stage door keeper can finish locking up. Thank you."
"Spoken like a true thespian,” said Pytlik chuckling.
They waited several minutes. “You're imagining things,” said Voryzek.
Pytlik shook his head stubbornly. “She's still here."
"And the rest of the company?"
"Gone."
"Did she go to her dressing room after the show?"
"I saw her. Standing there in her brassiere and those silk French knickers they wear.” Pytlik grinned wickedly. “She just smiled at me. Fine looking woman."
Voryzek felt a rush of anger. “You were peeping?"
"Course not! But I couldn't help noticing. She leaves the door wide open."
"And you've checked her dressing room since?"
"Empty."
"On stage?"
"I stuck my head round, but it's all switched off back there."
"Aha, so there's your answer. She must've gone on stage for some reason. A quick rehearsal perhaps, going through company notes. Go and ask her to leave while I man your post."
"But it's pitch dark back there. The electrician's turned the power off."
"Take your flashlight."
Pytlik shuffled off. It suddenly struck Voryzek that Milena would never rehearse in the dark. He could not think of a single reason why she should remain in the building after hours. He was annoyed because he wanted to go home. Also he disliked being reminded of her and that play. But he shouldn't leave Pytlik alone to sort it out. There were rules to adhere to. Behind was a row of pigeonholes, one of which was reserved for the visiting company manager. He hung his keys on a hook and sifted through the contents. There were several letters, some newspaper cuttings and a ledger containing lists of cheap Prague hotels and bed and breakfasts. A quick examination revealed the entire company, including Milena, was staying at a boarding house in the Mala Strana region, a fifteen-minute walk away, not far from Voryzek's own apartment in fact. He was surprised that Milena was staying in such a place, and not the luxury hotel he had imagined. Perhaps the life of a stage actress was not so glamorous after all. He tried ringing the number but the operator said the line was unobtainable.
Pytlik returned. “No sign of her. Anyway she wouldn't be back there in the dark. You sent me on a wild goose chase."
"I just tried telephoning the boarding house but I can't get through."
"Wasting your time. She won't be there."
"Well I think you're mistaken. You obviously missed her. There's no other explanation.” He checked his watch. “There's nothing we can do now. I'm going home."
Pytlik shrugged. “You're in charge. Leave an actress in the building for all I care. Break the rules."
* * * *
Voryzek walked across the bridge towards the Mala Strana. He took long strides, rain pattering his coat and hat. Across the river was Hradchany Castle, its spires lit with blue and amber spotlights. On either side of him the statues of the saints were motionless silhouettes. The wide black River Vlatava was streaked with streetlamp reflections and pinpricked with rain. In another life he had strolled across this bridge holding Milena's hand.
As he reached the Mala Strana side he spotted the riverbank bench where they used to sit, kissing on warm summer evenings to the sound of moored barges knocking against one and other, the water lapping their hulls. She used to fall asleep on his shoulder. He would hold her in his arms like that till she woke dreamy eyed, thinking that beautiful women would always fall asleep on his shoulder.
Their romance began while he was in his last year at the Academy, during rehearsals for Lady of the Crows. People told them what a wonderful, talented couple they made. Sitting on the riverbank after the shows, they had discussed how they were going to be famous classical actors. Voryzek was not entirely convinced by Milena's ability, though he didn't mention these misgivings. There was a certain laxity about her behaviour that irritated him, a slovenly disregard for the basic work ethic. She would often sleep in till midday, and was frequently late for class. He had not believed she possessed the dedication required to succeed.
After finishing his exams, Voryzek began his acting career positively enough as understudy for a small yet respectable touring company. The money was far from exceptional, but it was a solid environment to learn his trade. He was so busy that he grew careless with Milena. There was a thriving after-show social life, and several older, more experienced women to distract him, sophisticated and well versed in the art of lovemaking. At first the tone of Milena's calls and letters was pleading, then she grew resentful, and finally, silent. He blamed the relationship failure on the distancing nature of touring. And anyway, his work was the most important thing.
He was delighted when the director offered him speaking parts. Yet as he took on these more important roles he began receiving poor press reviews. Some of the critics were inhuman in their cruelty! And after six months the producer declined to renew his contract. From that point on, life became increasingly difficult. He applied, he auditioned, yet failed to secure a single part. His rent went unpaid and he was threatened with eviction. And while his misery increased, the dream was becoming real for Milena. She was in demand. Not exactly famous, but a professional actress nonetheless, never wanting for paid work.
The most humiliating moment came just after he started work as an usher in the same theatre he was employed at now. The job was intended to be temporary, to help pay the bills before his big break came along. Milena returned to Prague in a production of Uncle Vanya. The press said she was involved romantically with the leading man, who had appeared in several French motion pictures. After the show one evening, in his usher's uniform, Voryzek begged Milena to put a word in for him with the show's director. Watching the audition from the stalls, Milena bowed her head with embarrassment. Nerves had got the better of Voryzek. It was the worst experience of his life, and he never set foot on stage again in an acting capacity. Yet he understood, in that one shameful moment, how much Milena had loved him.
Voryzek realised he had taken a detour whilst daydreaming. Across the road was the boarding house: a narrow four-storey townhouse with cracked, mustard-yellow walls and dull-red peeling shutters. The shabby exterior boosted his morale. Her expenses allowance must be somewhat lacking. Also, the walk across the bridge, running events through his mind as the rain cooled his face, had been therapeutic. He should be proud of himself. He was front-of-house manager at a fifteen hundred-seat venue, a good position. And didn't holding that position require he perform his duty? Which surely meant investigating any irregularities. He realised now that letting the matter go unresolved had been unprofessional. His desire to avoid Milena and everything to do with that play had affected his judgement. Pytlik was a cantankerous old lech, but Voryzek trusted his intuition. Pytlik knew everything that went on in that building. If Milena Palovsky was locked in then that was a serious breach of the rules. What if there was an accident, or a fire? He would be blamed for his casual disregard. He crossed the road, determined now to settle t
he matter.
The sign in the grimy window said vacancies. Underneath, an old menu stained with coffee rings had at some point fallen onto the sill. Voryzek rapped the doorknocker. A middle-aged woman ducked her head round. “Want a room? Bit late, aren't we?"
"Sorry to bother you at this hour, madam. I was wondering if you could tell me if a Milena Palovsky is staying here."
"Who's asking?"
"Grigori Voryzek, front-of-house manager at the theatre."
"Just a minute."
A moment later a handsome gentleman appeared in a green silk robe holding a glass of cognac. He leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow quizzically. Although Voryzek had not paid much attention to performances, he had seen this man at the stage door on several occasions, and assumed he was an actor. Voryzek introduced himself then explained Pytlik's theory.
"Ah yes, no mystery there,” said the actor. “After the show she said she was going to have a quick look through the script. To be honest I forgot all about it. She's asleep somewhere in the theatre by the sound of it."
"Asleep?"
"She suffers from narcolepsy.” He smiled at Voryzek's puzzled expression. “Means she falls asleep a lot. In rehearsals, on the tram, in a department store, even standing up. She takes rather potent pharmaceuticals to keep her awake, but sometimes they affect her acting so she doesn't bother. That's when she falls asleep."
"But what if it happened during a performance?"
The actor swirled the cognac in his glass, took a sip. “Milena Palovsky is a dedicated professional. She would never fall asleep during a live performance."
"How can you be sure?"
His smile was mocking. “I'll try and explain. You see, once she's made a connection with an audience, on a psychological and spiritual level, they give her all the energy she needs. It's like an electrical current. You'd have to be an actor to fully grasp what I'm saying."
Black Static Horror Magazine #1 Page 15