by Pavel Mandys
“Stop it, you’re not here to—”
“Or somebody pushed her.”
“But then somebody on the bridge would have seen it, right?” Vacek protested.
“People would make a huge fuss and the phone would already be ringing off the hook. Look—everybody on the bridge is completely calm, and down there . . .” He tried to aim the cameras on the surface of the Vltava River, which worked except it was impossible to get a shot of right under the bridge. Therefore, they concentrated on the action on the bridge, their eyes gliding from one sweaty head to another. Everything was calm; slow movement, wandering from one souvenir vendor to another, endless picture-
taking. The saxophone player by the sculpture of St. Ludmila had just wiped his forehead with a checkered handkerchief and exactly eleven people took a picture of him.
“The answer is probably quite simple,” Matlach said. “She simply took off the hood. We do not know her hair color. Too many people, not the best view. So what? She was hot, took off the hood, and left.”
“You got it, boss,” Vacek said, and ignored the gesture made by his colleague who had been silently listening to their conversation from the adjoining table: she put her fingers into her open mouth and pretended to vomit.
“No red T-shirt left from there,” Soukup insisted. “Are you colorblind? We would have seen her—with or without the hood.”
“Perhaps she took off the T-shirt as well.”
“She didn’t wear anything underneath—maybe only a bra. Look, here . . .” The monitor zoomed in on the woman’s torso in such detail, that, indeed, between her shoulder blades, the outlines of a bra became visible. “You have to send somebody there—right now,” Soukup urged.
“There’s no cause to suspect any crime has taken place.” Matlach shook his head. “The cameras are not almighty. That woman left, that much is clear, but we didn’t see it and neither did that miracle of yours, so get used to it. I have people out, but right now they’re on Mostecká Street, near the Malá Strana square where some sort of jerk parked right on the sidewalk and is arguing with them.”
“So you go,” Soukup challenged Vacek. “It’ll do you good to move around a little bit.”
“You do your job,” Vacek replied coldly. “You still haven’t demonstrated the night vision to us.”
“During the day? Yeah, that would be really practical.” Soukup got up without a word and left the room.
“Where are you going?” Vacek called after him. “Stop! We’re not finished yet.”
They heard his steps on the stairs, then voices downstairs. Then—silence.
“I could run after him, a bit of training would really do me good.”
“Oh, let him go.” Matlach waved his hand. “He’s pretty good, isn’t he? If only he weren’t such a little fucker . . . We’ll finish the presentation when he comes back.”
“And will he?” Vacek searched the monitors and in a short while pointed at the Jan Nepomucký sculpture—and at Soukup under it. “Look where he hurried off to.”
“That was expected,” Matlach exhaled.
The young man stopped, looked into the camera, and saluted them officially—with his palm turned toward himself. At the last moment, he pulled his fingers into a fist, the middle finger last. A challenge to follow and a vulgar gesture in one.
“So here we have an insult to the police and a recording as proof,” Vacek interjected and watched Soukup backing into two groups of tourists led by a guide. He disappeared from view, then reappeared; he stopped at a puppet vendor to whom he explained something animatedly. He pointed to the place where the woman with the hood had last been seen.
“A real Sherlock,” Matlach grinned. “He should have joined the Criminal Investigations Department.”
“Him?” Vacek said. “He would make fun of the police force and then they would beat the crap out of him.” One of the tourist groups turned toward the sculpture and created a small gathering around the guide and puppet vendor. Those two could be in cahoots and had the tourists stop exactly there, as if the artistically represented martyr was only a minor attraction of the Prague show; the major attraction being to get the tourists to purchase a few silly overpriced souvenirs.
The guide talked; the tourists listened. Somebody with his back to the camera was looking over a puppet of a devil when Soukup inserted himself into the group, repeating “Sorry” or whatever it was he was saying, trying to force his way into a clear space. Then he disappeared suddenly as if somebody had just tripped him. He was nowhere to be seen.
Matlach and Vacek both laughed; but then nothing special happened. The guide took the group to another sculpture and the vendor turned his attention to other prospective clients. Soukup had disappeared.
“Did you see it too?” Vacek said.
“Well, I’m watching it with you.”
“Exactly like that woman.” High-tech cameras aren’t worth shit, he thought, if they can’t even watch out for one girl and one brat on the Charles Bridge. “How about the patrol on Mostecká Street?”
“I’m sending them now.” Matlach gave a few short orders via a transmitter.
“And can I . . .” Vacek didn’t have to finish.
“Get over there, fast. It smells like some sort of setup. Be careful!”
* * *
Dripping with sweat, Vacek ran through Karlovka, and right in front of the bridge he stopped at the bookshop behind the sculpture depicting the Father of the Land. He had known the bookseller from the times when, as a city police constable, he used to patrol there. Now he left his hat there and ran under the arch of the Mostecká Gate. Ba ton, a can of tear gas, gun, and handcuffs, all hanging on his belt. Tourists yielded to him with respect and attempted, hurriedly, to take a picture of him. Excitement in Prague.
Vacek tried to contact Matlach, but the boss was right then dealing with the URNA rapid-response unit. So the colleague who a while earlier had scoffed at his ingratiating behavior answered his call. She assured him that they had everything under control and she wished him good luck because URNA had declined to intervene on the bridge—they even laughed at Matlach. The poor soul was now negotiating with the regional commander.
Vacek checked out. He passed the Calvary sculpture and came up to Nepomucký. Seven Asian women were all touching his shiny bronze appendages. If Vacek had more time, he would love to watch that for a few more minutes.
He was in a hurry, zigzagging around, dodging tourits; he tripped on a small boy and let the mother admonish him. Soukup was nowhere to be found.
When he was near the end of the bridge—where there was no river underneath, just Malá Strana—he stopped by the stone lions near the St. Vitus sculpture. The dapper youngster watched him with his eyebrows raised in amusement and a smile suggesting playful eternity in the tender, almost feminine face. Vacek was startled by how much this saint resembled Soukup. Even in the hot weather, he got goose bumps realizing the resemblance and his sweaty shirt sucked onto his back like a cuttlefish. A crowd enveloped him, another travel expedition. It occurred to him that he recognized some of the faces—he had seen them on the monitors. He looked for the guide to admonish him—after all, others must be able to get across the bridge.
There was no guide and no children anymore, only adults with peculiar expressions on their faces. People snatchers . . . ?
They jostled him so much that he had to yell at them. As he was pushed to the fence, he realized that he was about to tumble into the Vltava. He reached for his transmitter but couldn’t find it—somehow, they had clipped it from him, along with his cell phone. But he could still feel the tear gas can and gun. He tried to figure out whether the police cameras could see him here, and where exactly he should aim his SOS gesture. And at whom he should aim the gun, because he was not about to shoot into the air. Or—no, not yet. To shoot at people was still premature.
“Stand back. Stand back!”
Nobody listened to him. Was it possible they were all foreigners? He fel
t like an idiot. He realized that in the middle of this crowd the cameras would not see him anymore, he would have to be a head taller; he knew that he had disappeared from the monitors his colleagues were watching. He raised his hand with the can of tear gas and pushed the button. He would be choking with them, but at least he would make them disperse.
But he didn’t choke. He was inhaling a beautiful scent which immediately calmed him down. He breathed through a handkerchief that was thrust over his nose by a strong hand. Surprised, he realized he wasn’t holding the can of tear gas anymore, or the gun. And that was good—he had never developed a proper relationship with guns and he had always dreaded the thought that one day, he would have to shoot. His knees buckled. He was thankful to be surrounded by throngs of friendly bodies. He couldn’t fall down, not even if he wanted to.
He was leaning against so many kind and attentive people.
* * *
Vacek was lying in a large room, with a headache and a dry mouth. It surprised him that he was naked and that they hadn’t tied him up, though he couldn’t quite move any of his limbs. He managed to turn his head onto his left ear.
He wasn’t even surprised to see Soukup, lying just a meter to his left, also naked and not yet awake. He remembered everything up until the crushing crowd under the St. Vitus statue. He started swearing aloud at himself. But his voice was thin with fear which only added to his dread. So he berated himself quietly: Idiotdummiemotherfuckerassholepolicepieceofshitnowyou’rescrewedyoudeserveityoustupidsonofabitchfuckingfuckerthey’lldisolveyouinacidthosecocksuckerswillthrowyouintothevltavayouarenotgoingtogetoutofthisshitthisisamajorfuckup . . .
It was not quite dark yet, but not light either. The source of the tiny bit of light was impossible to identify. He moved. He wanted to sit up but he couldn’t. His skin was pulling. His back, butt, legs, and arms were glued to the faux-leather surface of the mobile hospital bed. A horrible thought occurred to him—that the entire backside of his body was covered in superglue and now, as he was trying to escape, he’d tear off his skin. The glue smelled fruity, like jam or molasses. When he looked at his forearm, slapped on the board, and tried to roll his hand off, he noticed a small, dry smudge. He tightened his muscles and moved his hand slightly, but the substance pulled it back. He tried six more times, and each time he had to give up. His escape plan was scrapped.
In complete silence he could hear only his shaky, panicky, fast breath which he tried to calm down, but his terrified heart sabotaged this endeavor. Then he heard something else—a trickle of water, then dripping. Then again only breathing. He turned his head as much as he could to the side. He could only see the naked, pale young man. He looked at Soukup and pondered whether he felt sorry for him too, or only for himself. He wasn’t able to answer the question, but he was sure about his hatred. After all, the asshole got him into this mess to begin with. Nevertheless . . . the boy had behaved courageously, and if Vacek hadn’t followed him, the embarrassment would probably have been impossible to bear. Suddenly, the boy jerked and moved his leg. He lifted it by the knee and stayed like that. He can and I can’t? Vacek was envious. Then he noticed that the surface underneath Soukup’s knee was wet.
He watched the liquid flow first to the knees and then to the feet. A thin trickle and drops; the knee lifted. Urine was dissolving the glue.
He, likewise, had nothing but his body and its functions. Vacek focused on his bladder—hoping the depressing atmosphere of the room would do its magic. He imagined he was in a boat cabin slowly sinking in seawater. It worked, although not quite as he had imagined. He sucked in his belly and shook his hips so that he could aim the direction. He tried to pee slowly; he needed to get the moisture between his calves, knees, and thighs. The temperature of the liquid cooled off rapidly, and it surprised him how the feel of it soothed him. It occurred to him that he had just acquired a special knack for pissing.
Again—the trickle on the floor; now he had to try to lift his knees . . .
Somebody entered the room and he went motionless again. He heard steps from behind. Even if he managed to turn his head a bit, he wouldn’t be able to see anybody. He did, however, smell cigarette smoke.
“Give me some too,” he said without thinking, and his request was granted. A cigarette was inserted between his lips and he inhaled baked tobacco as deeply as possible. He started coughing, spit out the cigarette, which continued smoking by his hair and ear. Somebody picked it up and held it in the air. A female hand. Again, he got a puff, inhaled and exhaled twice more, and then—nothing. The cigarette disappeared.
“Pig,” a woman’s voice said. “And that boy too. Her—no. A lady from England—that’s so obvious.”
“What lady?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
The woman walked around the bed and he could finally see her.
Perhaps forty, but thanks to her slim figure, she looked younger. A pretty woman; the type who could have been in modeling years ago, and if not, her figure was certainly still great. Dismissive, cold, shrewd. She looked as if she were ready to hit him between his eyes, but there was also a look of resignation. Oh no, this one would not beat him. Unless she planned on bringing in a tough guy to do it for her, that is.
But first, she could talk. Would she? Please, God—let her talk! That’s the first step to some sort of reasonable solution. The atheist Vacek begged a nonexistent deity.
She looked at him and said: “You shouldn’t have gotten involved, pig, especially not the boy. You’re nothing special—but he’s such a waste.” She lit another cigarette.
“So at least save him,” Vacek attempted. “He’s not even twenty-five. You chloroformed him, so take him somewhere, throw him into a ditch, and let him live, okay? You don’t even have to put any clothes on him in this hot weather.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he’s not asleep and he’s only pretending. And it wasn’t chloroform. I blew scopolamine into both of your faces.”
“Scopolamine?”
“Something like that. And you so obediently laid down, though the guys had to deal with you then. How much do you weigh? At least two-fifty, right?”
“Only two-fourteen.”
“You barely fit into the cabinet for the trinkets we sell by the sculpture.”
“I fit in that? Well then, I am not so fat.”
“To transport clients we also use a fake barrel organ and orchestrion, but you couldn’t fit in there. She and the boy could.”
“So she’s a client?”
“And what did you think, you fool?”
“A sicko who lets herself be kidnapped in the center of Prague, stuffed into an instrument box, and brought into this cell?”
“In a way so that your cameras do not see it. But they did see it, didn’t they?”
“Not how you intoxicate and secretly kidnap them. But this young IT superstar realized that the woman pretty much fell inside the bridge. Or . . . we aren’t in it, are we?”
“Who knows?” She scrunched her nose. “Yuck, I’m getting sick.”
“And what am I supposed to say?”
“It’s your urine, so you breathe it as long as you have to.”
“What do you plan to do with us?”
“Am I supposed to talk to a corpse?”
“Try.”
“So listen, narc, Ex-in Tours is a travel agency that you probably haven’t heard of, right? You are not—and never will be—our client because you’re gonna get it for free. But others pay happily. Euthanasia can take different forms and when money is important, then the Czechs can offer the most luxurious product. Our package offers lodgings in the Royal Lime Tree hotel in Malá Strana, a guided tour of Hradčany, a degustation dinner at Plútó—not to be mistaken with that hole in Letenská with the same name. This Plútó is situated in the oldest gothic cellar in Rybová Street. Then, the actual walk on the Charles Bridge, where everything ends. We take care of the check out, since it’s our hotel.”
“And this hotel is also yours, right?” He glanced
at the ceiling. “I will not be served any dinner, however.”
“And you won’t get the guided tour of Hradčany, either. Plus, you walked across the bridge already.”
“Which still does not mean you have to get rid of the boy too. Even if he is a spoiled brat.”
“Unfortunately, it does. He’s woken up already, and is only pretending to be asleep.”
Vacek turned his head toward Soukup, who had yanked free a wad of hair that had been glued to the table. The young man hissed in pain, but at least he could lift his head a little.
Soukup tried to pretend he was in a daze. Vacek now saw another body behind him. It was the woman with the hood. It was under her head and she was still dressed.
“Why are we naked and she is not?”
“Scent trail—should somebody be looking for you. As they already are. And your uniform would also complicate everything further. Don’t worry—everything has been incinerated already. Janet here was supposed to have everything behind her so why glue her to the bed? The dissolving glue is only for fast transport . . . And for cases like the two of you dicks. You interrupted my work so I didn’t manage to give her the golden dose.”
The owner of Ex-in Tours bent down and then straightened up, a garden hose in her hand. He thought she’d beat him with it, but she turned the water on and started to sprinkle him. He swore but that did nothing. Then she showered Soukup as well. He managed to keep his eyes closed but based on how he moved and shook, it was clear that he had woken up.
“Stop it,” Vacek said, teeth chattering. “This isn’t Guantánamo.”
“You guessed right—urine does dissolve this sugary glue, but water doesn’t. It didn’t occur to me that you would piss yourself on purpose. My mistake, nothing to be done about that now. There will be no more washing, not even after you’re dead.”
She started to roll up the hose when, beside Soukup, Janet woke up and shrieked.