When my turn came I crossed the old paving stones to the polished wooden confessional booth. I had the extra cushion for my knees that Sabine had procured for me and which was by now well used. At first I hesitated. After all, I wasn’t here to confess anything really, other than the prejudice which the Church itself endorsed. That was my problem.
“What is it, my child?”
I could see part of his face vaguely through the grille.
“I do not understand,” was all I could find to say.
“And what is it you do not understand?” — his calling was certainly one of infinite patience.
“Well —” and here I was going to launch into the whole argument of why Society rejects these people, and am I prejudiced or right? “Well, I don’t understand…” I found myself saying, and then it just popped out: “What is a sodomite?”
That appeared to have shocked the Reverend Father as much as it surprised me. I hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt, but at least it was out now. That’s what I wanted to know — not the description of the act, the encyclopaedia had told me that, but the rest: the spiritual dimension, if you will.
“One who comes from the city of Sodom. Just as Moabites are those from the City of Moab.”
“And nothing more…?”
“The Bible says nothing more. And why is this troubling you, my child?”
“I had a relative. He is now deceased. I didn’t know…I am told now he was being persecuted.”
“Persecuted?”
“Persecuted because he was a sodomite. He was about to be exposed to the world. The hostile world.”
“He alone — or were there others?”
“He mentioned those who are pillars of Society, or those in the spotlight of attention: an eminent scientist, a Grand Duke, a famous ballet dancer.”
“Russian? A Russian dancer?”
“Yes, but…?”
“And bishops — did he mention bishops, or priests of the Church?”
“No, Father. I don’t believe so.”
I thought I detected a sigh of relief. It wasn’t just the very faint sound but I could sense his whole posture seeming to relax somewhat and through the grille I could see a single bead of sweat glistening in the grizzled hairs of his temple. After a moment, as if collecting his thoughts again, he spoke:
“Persecuting groups that don’t conform in some way — Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, even the deformed — this is all just an excuse for the majority to hide their own insecurity. The men of Sodom didn’t conform.”
“And what my conscience tells me is wrong then?”
“Conscience is sometimes just the wish of the majority. Would you have helped your relative if you had known he was being persecuted?”
“Of course.” I had not thought of it before, but indeed I would have.
“And you would help me?”
“You, Father?”
“These are what you must stop, Countess.”
And through a crack below the grille slowly appeared a postcard. He began the Absolution and I mumbled along with him as I pulled it from my side of the division — in sepia a pair of powerful legs in the hose and shoes of the ballet, a jewelled bodice with exaggerated sleeves — a young man with piercing black eyes and a shock of black hair like a horse’s mane.
I pulled the card free. The other side showed that it was addressed to Father Svoboda at St. Jakub’s. It seemed written in an ill-educated woman’s hand. The stamp bore the profile of the Tsar, postmarked from St. Petersburg only a few days before. The space for correspondence contained a single word in capital letters, made by a pen heavily pressed into the card: SODDOMITE!
For a moment I didn’t know what to say or think. Then I realised he had called me Countess. I really didn’t think I was known here — that was why I never made my confessions in St. Jindřich’s. Did he mean me to investigate this? Was this yet another mystery I was being asked to solve? Was it something like this that Uncle Berty had received? If cards like these were being circulated in the open post, then no wonder Uncle Berty had been alarmed.
“Father, if I delve into this then I shall have to uncover some unsavoury truths. You realise that?”
“But then you will be preserving the memory of your great uncle from scandal.”
I knew deep down that this was somehow related to old Alois, to the Tontine, to the Fenix Theatre.
He wondered by my momentary silence if that reasoning had been strong enough so he added: “— and your family from disgrace.”
“I shall be discreet,” I replied. “But I really do not know if I am able to do this.”
“Your great uncle had real faith in your abilities — that I know.”
I curtsied and left the confessional and sat down for a moment in one of the pews at the back of the church. All this added another burden to a head which was already spinning with wild theories. I didn’t know that I could cope. I was only a person of the weaker sex. If there had been some nice man to catch me, I would have swooned into his arms.
Walking back to Jindřišská Street, under the great gate of the Powder Tower that had been part of Prague’s medieval fortifications, I felt my confidence returning. Prague’s ancient solidity, surviving many vicissitudes of fortune, would always have a restorative effect on me, as it did now — helped by stopping at the confectioner’s on the corner of Na Příkopě, where I had a cream Dort (or was it two?) and a cup of strong Viennese coffee.
As I sat at one of the spindly tables which were just big enough to place a cup and saucer and a small tea-plate, I imagined my slips of paper. In my mind’s eye I laid them out before me, like cards in playing Patience. There were the new slips now — Grand Duke, Russian dancer (and this one had a photograph), eminent scientist. And if I dropped “eminent scientist” onto the same slip as “Sir Emile Brodsky” then the whole web was connected. The Tontine, the Union of Servants, the mysterious goings-on in Marienbad, Paris, and London — all were linked. To solve a puzzle, first one must be aware of its existence. Thus was the puzzle, in my head at least, all spread out before me.
Old Alois had doubtless died of natural causes and perhaps Duvalier’s death had been, in the end, an accident — but there was certainly one death in this saga that was as near murder as could be: Uncle Berty’s. I turned the postcard over in my hand. The spidery handwriting of the address, as well as the blunt one word message, had been written by the murderess. I looked again at the ballet dancer’s photograph. Despite the fact that his lips appeared rouged and his eyes rimmed in mascara — which could of course be taken for standard theatrical makeup — he did not appear effete. He was the kind who could perhaps be wildly attractive to women, I felt sure.
Oh, I’ll admit it, I knew so.
***
There were things to attend to at home before the arrival of Mamma in the evening. I did not get on with my mother and had made an excuse about having to redecorate the one bedroom she really liked, for she was extremely critical of my skills in choosing curtains, bed linen, the right colours — in fact, almost everything. As a consequence I had booked her a suite at the brand new Hotel Paris, a few steps from the Powder Tower. This would at least give her a chance to praise to high heaven the qualities of the principal chef de cuisine — knowing that Monsieur Yves had been so recently poached from under my nose.
The silver tray in the hall had several cards on it. I shuffled a too-well-fitting glove from off my right hand and looked at the cards hurriedly — yes, friends who had called with condolences. And there was a telegram. It was from Max:
HOW DO WE KNOW THAT THE BRODSKY WE SAW WAS THE GENUINE ARTICLE QUESTION LOVE MAX
I couldn’t believe that the suave, though slightly guarded, performance of Sir Emile in Albany was that of an impostor. But it was another possibility to be added to the slips. No idea could be ignored.
I was glad Max had made contact. He had apologised the night before I left for not coming with me. He said, by way of explanation, that I would never be aware of just how precarious was his situation. “This Russo-Japanese War could easily wipe me out,” he had said, “me and many others I’ve advised.”
Having been back for almost half a day, it was finally time for me to review the garrison. I had the boys summoned to my office on the ground floor — which, I noticed, had been entirely changed back again into the arrangement of furniture as my husband’s Business Room. This annoyed me, but I kept the emotion to myself.
Müller knocked and entered. We exchanged glances over the resurrected arrangement of things — but he wore the kind of helpless look he adopted when my husband had had strong words to say to him. However, it was time for the young men, as I preferred to think of them, who were already entering the room and standing before me. They seemed in awe of me as someone who had, since our last meeting, travelled across Europe and even gone overseas (a one-hour, forty-five minutes’ passage over the seas).
“So what is there to report?” I began.
They explained that they had kept constant watch at The Invalides. The impostor had only returned once, his visit evidently timed to coincide with an inspection by the Army Department. Having been duly noted down as still residing there, he was soon off. They had successfully followed him this time. The catalogue of his dreary comings and goings was of no interest — to his seedy lodgings and back, sometimes to the office at the Fenix Theatre, to pubs and cheap restaurants — except for one thing: he had made three visits to a tailor’s, Kohn & Kohn, in Josefov. I knew of this establishment. It had supplied my father.
“Müller, would you find out if this Kohn & Kohn has a telephone, and if so, would you call and ask the following — exactly as I say it: ‘Is the Kaiser’s uniform for the Fenix Theatre ready yet?’ You might also commiserate on the fact that, at the price, it will obviously be far too good for the theatre.”
While Müller disappeared on this errand I asked the young men about The Union of Servants. I was told that it had held its next Saturday evening ball and that it was well-attended. Yesterday a notice had been pasted up outside the theatre. It was fully described and remembered verbatim by Jirka Minor:
WANTED
For Employment
Singer with voice and looks of
Ema Destinnová
(The rising star of the Prague Opera)
Short Term Engagement
Good wage for correct artiste
Apply side-door office
Mondays & Wednesdays, 8am - 11am
‘Emmy’ Destinnova was the country’s favourite singer. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that she was also a favourite of King Edward VII — or rather, as the Prince of Wales, when he had visited first in 1899? Another slip of paper.
Müller returned, a surprised look on his face: “Yes, Milady, they said it will be ready next Wednesday. And I mentioned the price, as you said. They promised me that there could be no better quality — for the money — than theirs. Except they said it wasn’t the uniform of the Kaiser they were making, but that of a British Field-Marshal. On this Mr. Kohn was adamant. Were these the answers you were wanting, Milady?”
I nodded, but like everything else in this mystery, every answer contained a dozen more questions. I would simply have to make out a slip of paper and hope that in time it fitted with some other clue. Next I addressed the young men, praising their careful work and asking them to continue looking out. Now that I was back, there would be other tasks for them as well. I noticed how much better they were looking, nourished by regular soup, dumplings, and a half-decent place to lodge. It looked too as if the Na Struze Street Baths were having their effect.
I wondered what might become of them when this affair had drawn to a close. Perhaps I could get them taken in by the Church. I could just see them as altar boys. On second thoughts, perhaps better not.
As they dispersed, I spent a few minutes with Müller. There were engagements for the theatre and opera to cancel, as I was in mourning. There was tonight’s small supper party to oversee. I was shown the menu, which seemed perfectly satisfactory and not worthy of any particular discussion with Cook. I had invited an extremely dull couple, which only made four of us. No doubt my mother would take pains to remind me that six is the absolute minimum for a dinner party, and I will argue “Supper, Mamma, supper party. Four is nicely intimate in which case.” Besides, this was my first day back. The couple: the British military attaché to the Embassy in Vienna with his even duller wife. He had business in Prague and had left his card. With any luck their scintillating conversation should make my mother wish to go back to her hotel by nine, half-past at the very latest.
***
As we were coming out of the church, Mamma drew my attention to it: the particularly smart horseless carriage waiting by the gate to the cemetery, its occupants still within. The rain had been falling steadily all morning. The mourners were shuffling from the church to the gravesite in black, under black umbrellas and under a thunderous black sky. The church of St. Peter and St. Paul in the Vyšehrad fortress, although sitting on the site of one of the most ancient shrines in Prague, was so new that the pews and fittings still smelt of fresh varnish. Outside, the twin towers with hollow spires seemed meagre and had none of the power of the medieval that it doubtless replaced. It was not one of architect Josef Mocker’s best creations — far from it. It seemed an odd choice of burial place. Vyšehrad was for artists and men of letters. The Schönburg-Hartensteins, military people, were from near Linz; perhaps that was too far. At least all this was being done without a whiff of scandal. Even suicide had been hushed-up.
“Look!” Mamma said, almost pointing to the motor, which was one of the new Pragas. I knew she would embarrass me. Nevertheless my eyes were drawn to it. A portly well-dressed man — almost floridly dressed, considering the occasion — descended with a diminutive wife and joined with the rest of the mourners. “They didn’t come into church,” she continued in a very audible whisper. “They’re Jewish.”
“Sush, Mamma — please.” I tried to carry on respectfully, remembering that my dear mother had once suggested to me that we should take our opera glasses to a funeral. I agree they would have come in useful, but how ghastly!
We were catching up with Aunt Ludmila. Mamma should have been right behind her. “Anyway, who are they?” I asked almost casually.
“The Pinkersteins, didn’t you know?”
The Tontine came flooding back into my brain. There, in his coffin, was one of the last two contestants in the game. Following him, at a respectful distance, was the other. How long the charade of old Alois could be kept up, I had no idea. The fact that such a swindle was entirely morally reprehensible also crossed my mind. However, it wouldn’t all go away without some action on my part now. I decided then and there to see if a compromise might be possible — and this was the ideal opportunity to make Mr. Pinkerstein’s acquaintance.
Mamma was digging me in the ribs. “The Pinkersteins — as rich as creases!”
“Croesus, Mamma. As rich as Croesus.”
It had been Mamma, who in a fit of rage and threatening all hell and damnation to me once — over something as overwhelmingly important as the folding of napkins the “correct” way — had made mention of the “Four Horsemen of the Acropolis.” She had also been sent to that same school in Switzerland for “finishing.”
“Croesus—mentioned by Herodotus…” I started to explain.
“Oh, some Greek, you mean—how simply ghastly! I’ll stick to creases.”
After the prayers and the tearful lowering of the coffin I found myself looking at poor Great Aunt Ludmila. She was bearing all this so nobly. Didn’t she have any odd feelings about…about, well…sodomy? Perhaps she still didn’t know.
The mourners were filing past now, each putting a handful of earth down
onto the coffin. Opera glasses would have been quite useless, I was thinking: how well umbrellas cover the face, especially on a dark day. At the rear of the column — partly hidden amongst the clusters of grey marble obelisks and other funerary monuments of the great, the good and the gone of Czech Society — were a few odd types who weren’t family or dignitaries. Their breasts did not glint with medals. Some, to my horror, looked quite young and — shall we say? — theatrical. There was one in particular, and as he turned to throw his moist clay, I saw clearly those dark eyes I had first seen yesterday in a photograph, that shock of black hair. Not effete, but what else? — something else, I could not put my finger on it. It was he. The Russian ballet dancer.
Mamma leant across excitedly. “You know who that is?” she said in her irritatingly loud whisper.
“You mean the dancer?”
“Yes, that’s the famous Vasily Pilipenko.”
“From St. Petersburg?”
“Yes, he’s the star of the Imperial Court Ballet. I read about him in one of the journals. Handsome man, don’t you think?”
For a split second our eyes engaged. Mine and the dancer’s. Apart from the distant rumble of thunder there was birdless, bell-less silence. The new towers of the church were empty, waiting for the foundrymen to deliver. I felt sure he must have known who I was — there was that suppressed flicker of recognition. I could see the wild romanticism that doubtless made him exciting, but those eyes were also mean, heartless orbs of black ice.
On one of his fingers, hardly visible as he shook the sticky clay off his perfectly white hand, was a ring. If the custom in Russia was the same as Bohemia or Britain, then it was a marriage band. I looked at Aunt Ludmila again and it all seemed to become clear. Now, at least for a certain part of this puzzle, there was a motive.
The Countess of Prague Page 15