Prague Noir

by Pavel Mandys

  Then the mother says to Hladík, “You see, my husband left me.” And no, she does not think that Peter left her daughter and her grandchildren, but she is simply able to entertain the idea that it could have happened. What does Hladík think about that?

  Hladík does not know. The body hasn’t been found. They’re still looking for it, but—and this Hladík does not say—the case doesn’t involve a lost child, so there is no helicopter flying above the park in Stromovka.

  The mother continues behaving quite rationally. Does Hladík know the stats? How fast the probability of finding him is decreasing? Hladík does not know. But he can find out.

  The doorbell sounds, the mother goes to open the door, and the boys come in; handsome blond boys, they look at him with curiosity and greet him politely.

  “You are the one looking for Dad?” asks one.

  Hladík nods.

  “Dad hasn’t died,” says the other one.

  Hladík shakes his head, “Of course not, don’t worry, boys.”

  “I’m not worried,” says the first one.

  “Maybe spies kidnapped him,” says the other one.

  “Boys, go to your room, we’re trying to figure something out here,” says their grandma, and they obediently leave. “You’ll find him or you’ll somehow close the case; it’s impossible to live like this.”

  Hladík says nothing; four days have passed, the real hell hasn’t started yet, but how are these people supposed to know that—how are they supposed to know how hopeless and futile it all becomes after a couple of months, and how they will forget his face after a couple of years?

  Radka, ill, comes out of the bedroom. “I have to tell you something even if it may mean nothing—I couldn’t find the thermos. Our thermos.”

  Hladík looks at her and has no idea what to say.

  The mother sighs; she’s probably worried about her daughter’s mental state.

  “Can you come here for a bit?” She’s inviting him into her bedroom; Hladík feels strange—not that he hasn’t seen plenty of bedrooms. He follows her, she clears a chair for him, and she herself sits down on the edge of the bed.

  “It’s not only the thermos.”

  She then shows him the money. Peter must have been caught up in something, otherwise where would he come up with all this cash? Perhaps he hid the money for somebody, and then those whose money it originally was learned about this somebody (about whom Radka knows nothing) taking their money, and so they kidnapped and killed Peter.

  Hladík watches her while she’s explaining this conspiracy theory; of course he will check it out—he’ll ask at his office, but right now it really doesn’t look like he was involved in anything. It looks much more like he was diligently saving money.

  “And hasn’t it occurred to you that perhaps Peter left the money here for you?” he asks.

  She stares at him. “No, not really.” Simply because that is not what it is. If he chooses to understand it this way, then he’ll never solve the case, doesn’t he get it? Does Hladík understand? Hladík nods, he definitely understands.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll check it out. Really.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  Hladík shakes his head. She blows her nose.

  Then they both fall silent. Hladík worries she’ll start crying again, but her mother peers into the bedroom and asks if he’d like to stay for lunch. Hladík wants to refuse, but the mother says she’s made dill soup. He will not say no to dill soup.

  At lunch, as he sits with all of them at their big table, the mother helps the youngest with the food and Radka discusses plans for the next weekend with the boys; the atmosphere is actually pleasant, perhaps for the children, both women are trying very hard; in fact, Hladík tries too, and for a second it seems to him that he is the father and the husband here. Then he wants to leave as soon as possible.

  * * *

  Hladík is not quite sure why, then, on Sunday, he is taking a train to Křivoklát. Yes, it’s one of the places where the missing person used to go with his family often; plus, this castle is his phone wallpaper—but that’s all.

  He is not sure whether this sixth sense is the reason he became a policeman, or whether it is a consequence of him being a policeman, that the years of experience branded some equation in his brain. He doesn’t know.

  He’s riding a train to Křivoklát and watches the passing country. He doesn’t know where he’s going to get off or why; so first he gets off in Beroun and sits in the station the entire Sunday and watches people—nothing happens and so, once it gets dark, he returns home. In the evening, František e-mails him that he’s sick and so he’s canceling their meeting on Tuesday, and Hladík is relieved, and at the same time he is also ashamed that he is relieved.

  He wants to go again. Although he does not know why he’s doing it: perhaps he feels pity, maybe something in her eyes touched him. It’s raining again on the weekend; it’s terribly windy and leaves are flying on the streets and there are already Christmas ads on TV. Hladík’s throat hurts so he lies down with a book. He has a feeling he’ll probably let it go. She has something special about her, but he is a policeman who’s investigating her husband’s disappearance. He will always be a reminder of the worst thing that happened in her life.

  But in two weeks he’s again on the way there, the same route, though he gets off elsewhere.

  * * *

  And then—nothing. A visit to a psychologist. Antidepressants, sleeping pills. The kids afflicted with a cold, one after another, Mom with them, she’s caring for them wonderfully; her perfume takes a spot in the bathroom and then Peter’s toothbrush disappears. Radka cries over it; she weeps during this fall season a whole lot—over a whole lot of things—but then she has to buy presents and prepare for Christmas. Mom tries unceasingly to keep her busy with work and activities; the boys understand, each in his own way, that Dad is not here and will not be here . . . And Christmas—all that they used to do with Peter is now done with Mom. And after a few days she has no energy left to defy her mother when she says that they should move into her house in Unhošt’. So they move, and the next semester the children start school there and Radka and Gabi go to the playground in the town, nobody knows anything here—and then one of the mothers asks her, and she says my husband died; she does not know why she is saying that. Maybe she doesn’t feel like explaining that he disappeared; she doesn’t want this mom to think he left her; she says it out loud for the first time and she has tears in her eyes; the mom apologizes, Radka apologizes—sorry, but it is hard, simply hard. Zuzana, the first friend in her new life, hugs her. A week later, they get drunk on red wine while their children, Zuzana has two, lie on mattresses they put together. And her husband has a night shift at the hospital where he fucks some nurse, says Zuzana with a crooked smile, and Radka thinks that she and Peter never had it like this, that everything was okay with them, nice, and that’s how it would always remain, and suddenly she feels at peace—so this is how it is to be a widow, it occurs to her. Of course, it does not mean that from that moment she will never want to cry . . . when Filip draws a picture of their family and Dad is there on the side, apart from them, or when Gabi sings children’s songs in their entirety alone or when she starts working in the bakery for the first time and puts on the apron. Peter will never see her like that, but somehow, somehow she moves along, maybe time really will heal all of this . . . the worst proclamation she used to have to listen to in the fall: Radka, you’ll see, time will help and heal; how she wanted to kill everybody who said that, and suddenly she’s actually living it. Time does help; of course, sometimes she still wakes up in the morning and wants to turn to Peter and hug him tight but then she realizes the reality and she is able to inhale calmly, get up, wake the children, and kindly greet Mom who is already preparing breakfast.

  * * *

  Hladík continues to ride the train on the same route—these have become trips for him where he mainly observes people. They checked Peter’s
business—he was not involved in anything; on the contrary, based on his bank accounts it is clear that the money he left her he had saved. He probably saved more so that he’d have some money to live off. But no clear trace. Nothing. He simply disappeared.

  And then, one spring day, Hladík is sitting at the Roztoky station near Křivoklát, watching forest workers, and one of them is cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief, carefully and deliberately.

  Every person keeps acting the same way, always, even if he wants to become somebody else. Places we like we continue to like. When we sever all ties, we want to keep at least a thread. One’s habits are not easy to change. And so on. Hladík even lets him go, without talking to him, the first time he sees him. He approaches him the second time. Peter smiles sadly when Hladík introduces himself. Then he lights a cigarette. My husband doesn’t smoke and never smoked, he finds it disgusting and I stopped smoking the moment we met, Radka had said to Hladík.

  Now the only thing left is to inform her.

  * * *

  She is hanging clothes in the garden, the children are outside, the boys somewhere with their friends . . . this has all happened smoothly, this transition . . . even though they do not have a fencing team, they have a tennis team and also painting classes; Gabi is going to school next year, for now she’s with Mom when Radka works. She may have put on some weight since she started working in the bakery, but the girls have a lot of fun together there . . . Anyway, meeting so many people is not bad at all and Radka still sort of believes that one day she will have her own bakery—maybe right here. She won’t return to Prague, Mom is here, it’s better for the children, it’s better for her even if only for the reason that there are not many reminders of Peter. In fact, there are almost no reminders of him.

  So when Muf starts barking and she turns away from the clothes and sees Hladík standing at the gate and notices his expression, it is not a good feeling. Some news, and it is not pleasant.

  “Come in,” she tells him, “he won’t hurt you, he’s still a puppy. Mom and the kids wanted him; the neighbors ended up with three puppies so Muf lies on the sofa every evening with them.” Radka picks up the little dog and Hladík opens the gate himself.

  While the coffee is being made, she says nothing; she knows she should ask but she is afraid—have they found his dead body? Have they found him alive—has somebody been holding him hostage? Will he return home different? Will he return home at all?

  She gets a cup of coffee for herself too, even if she already had one earlier. “Wait,” she says as she sits down and gets up again.

  From the pantry, she brings two pastries—one with custard and the other with chocolate and liqueur. “Eat it, really. I have plenty, as many as I want, I work in a bakery, it’s a good job, you know. One day I’ll have my own . . . Sorry . . . I am simply scared to ask why you came, what happened. You . . . have you found him?”

  * * *

  Hladík watches her attentively; she’s put on a little weight—but that’s not it, she is somehow different. Before all of this, she was in charge of her home—but there was somebody to be in charge of; now, it’s all on her shoulders, she had to grow up. Mistress from the bakery. A widow with three children. Mother who has to help her. The memory of the best husband. Hladík can see Peter’s sad face—I left them all the money, I thought it was clear. I’m not going back. I thought I would start missing them. But I don’t miss them. Not even the children. So tell me how I could live with them. And Hladík can now see himself—he also left his family, he was in the same situation, he does not miss his son, so what could he ever tell him?

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? And I will have to identify him?” she asks, then suddenly she gets up brusquely and walks to the window, opens it, a gust of cold air blows inside, she reaches into a pot on the windowsill and gets cigarettes; she lights one.

  “Do you want one too? Or do you want to go to the porch? We can smoke there . . .” She taps a cigarette.

  They move to the porch.

  Hladík obediently lights a cigarette, even if he’s had plenty today and doesn’t feel like it at all. She smokes too.

  I was preparing . . . to do something, that’s why I left the money for them, but on that day I simply wanted to go out for a run. But as I was running, suddenly I couldn’t go back. So I threw away the phone. And kept on running.

  Hladík wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but when he looked at him, he knew, he understood why Peter did it, the futility of all that effort, work, children, cycling weekends, getting up in the morning and going to work, kissing your wife, waiting for the elevator, every single day for the rest of your life, changing tires, preventive visits to your dentist, cleaning your shoes, reading political analyses, working long hours, helping the kids with their homework, eating healthy, the long lines at the post office, the looks your wife gave you when you didn’t put up shelves, the dead fish in the tank, not forgetting to vacuum behind the sofa too, waiting in lines and listening to the inane talk of the radio host, scraping car windows, trying for something—to live right . . . it’s pointless—everything.

  I simply want to be alone—like this. I don’t want anything I used to have, Peter had said at the end. Another worker was asking whether Peter was interested in a donut. He called him Petrsi. And Peter hollered back at him, I hate these sweet things, dude! and then he smiled at Hladík the way he used to smile at his clients, politely but impersonally. I have to go now. And Hladík only said, So you don’t like sweets? And Peter became serious again—Precisely, not at all; then he got in a tractor with the other worker . . . and Hladík watched the tractor swaying on the rough forest road and then disappearing into the forest.

  * * *

  When Hladík came the following week, the workers were still there, but not Peter. He said he needed to get out, a gypsy with no front teeth divulged to Hladík. Does he have problems?

  Not really, Hladík shook his head, and decided to go visit Radka right away. In that moment, he pretty much knew what he’d tell her.

  “So what’s going on?” she asks firmly as if the cigarette has helped her recover her strength.

  “Nothing,” Hladík replies. “Only . . . I came to tell you we don’t have anything.”

  “Ah,” she says, though there’s only a small bit of disappointment.

  “It’s been a long time . . . I just wanted to tell you not to expect too much.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  Neither does Hladík.

  Don’t come here anymore, this is a life where you do not belong; this is my new life, my husband is dead, and you just get the hell out of here, her eyes say.

  Hladík knows he won’t come anymore. He finishes his cigarette, his coffee, so hot it burns his tongue, and leaves. On the way, he gets a text from his ex-wife asking him what time he’s coming. Hladík realizes he—again—forgot about František. He answers that he’ll be there in half an hour.

  Olda No. 3

  by Irena Hejdová

  Olšany Cemetery

  A scream wakes me up. Softened by the glass in the windows and the slow daybreak above the streets of Žižkov; subdued by the drops of rain falling on the window, but still distinguishable from a dog barking or the squeaking of the neighbor’s door. I open my eyes. A hangover is splitting my head in half. In the neighboring room, my son will wake up soon. And in my bed, there’s a strange guy lying with me. There are only scraps of memory from last night in my head; my cell shows 6:37 a.m. and a text from my mom: You looked terrible! I remember that upon my return home, I tried in vain to cover my drunkenness and ended up feeling just as bitter as I used to when I would return the same way as a teenager twenty years before. I also remember that I slyly hid the guy who is snoring beside me under the duvet. He was able to come inside after Mom finally left the house. Pitiful.

  It’s drizzling outside, the Žižkov television tower is completely hidden in the mist as if it’s not even there. Only the red light on the top flashe
s through the darkness, like a lighthouse beacon for all those who are drowning and who have drowned. Beside the bed, the dog whines—he wants to go out. All I need in this situation is a dog! I think about how to manage everything logistically—take the dog out, take Peter to kindergarten, get rid of the guy. I shake his shoulder—he doesn’t budge. When he wakes up he will probably have the same terrible headache as me. And perhaps it will be better if I don’t have to witness that. I write a message for him to close the door behind him. No intimacy—I was never big on it—and why, anyway? I don’t even know who he is. I put the pencil quietly down and sneak out of the bedroom.

  Little Pete is asleep—he always looks so sweet and innocent when he’s sleeping. He has on his favorite pajamas with spaceships. For a second, I yearn to be one of them, to be shot up far away into the consoling quiet of the universe, without the snorting dog at my side, without the hangover, without the unwelcoming apartment from which Olda has already taken his half of things, and where everything seems to be falling down on me. Pete squirms a little and opens his eyes, looks at me for a while, and then turns on his side and closes his eyes again.

  “Pete, get up—it’s time.”

  I know very well that he’s pretending to be asleep—but behind his closed eyes he’s pondering whether or not to make his getting up today unpleasant for me. Recently, he has behaved atrociously toward me, but maybe it’s my fault—in his eyes, somebody must be responsible for that terrible divorce, and Peter has chosen me.

  “Pete . . .”

  “You stink, Mom. Haven’t you brushed your teeth?”