As I rode the escalator toward the surface, a face as assured in beauty as a Botticelli angel appeared above. At first, I thought her an apparition and stared in a pose suitable for adoration, but as our escalators converged her features sharpened to a familiar and cruel sensuality. My goddess from Lávka! I all but waved my arms in panic as I watched the swift and stepped steel river opposite mine rush her away. At the top I leapt the barricade and plunged back into the metro. An arriving train whipped the air. I ran to one platform and then its opposite. Crowds gushed toward the escalators. The raven back of her head surfaced briefly as she ducked into a metro car. The warning chime sounded. I pounced at the nearest door and wedged into the mass of passengers. She stood at the opposite aisle, hand gripping the rail and head resting gently in the crook of her arm. I did not directly watch her; instead I sought her reflection in the window encased by the sliding doors and even then dared no more than furtive glances, fearful of catching eyes in the glass.
Two stops later, a swarm of tourists looking for the guidebook graves of dead Jews swept her from the train. I followed a few yards behind, plotting methods of casual introduction there in the metro and again on the street, as I followed her wanderings through the medieval labyrinth of Staré Město. By no great coincidence she stopped at Obecní Dům, which contained a café and Art Nouveau interior incompletely obscured by a peeling veneer of Stalinist bric-a-brac. The café filled rapidly with tourists most afternoons, though the occasional Czech could still be seen nursing a cup of coffee, and, as I mentioned to Inspector Zima, the Gypsies routinely commandeered a corner. She settled into a table near the fountain at the back of the café, marble nymphs frolicking over her shoulder like members of a divine retinue.
I slipped into the bathroom for a quick inspection. No gnashed particles wedged between teeth, hair stylishly awry, back of the sport-coat collar turned down, polo shirt casually unbuttoned, and blue jeans cinched around an admirably slim waist: an informally elegant look calculated to appeal to the widest possible range of women, from the slumming countess to the backpacking sorority princess. I sneaked another glance inside the café. Luck joined seamlessly to plan. The last available table had just been taken. I approached with seeming annoyance at the crowded ambiance and asked, in Czech, if the chair at her table was free. In the bathroom mirror, I’d practiced a look of shocked recognition dissolving to embarrassment and boyish apology. I almost launched into the routine unprompted, but when she stared as though never having seen my face before, the apology stuck to the back of my throat. I must have looked idiotic, gaping down at her like an actor dying under the weight of a missing cue.
“I asked if this chair was free. The restaurant is quite crowded, and I’d like to sit down,” I blurted and tapped my fingers on the chair to further communicate my intent. Her eyes traveled the cut of my jacket and the well-kept, rugged planes of my face. I began to tremble, waiting for recognition to barb her lips. “It’s a custom in this country. If a chair is free and there are no tables.” A sudden horror struck me, that I had confused my goddess at Lávka with this a stranger, that this was not Her. “You do speak English, don’t you?”
“I’m expecting someone, but please sit down,” she said.
Expecting who? A boyfriend? I hadn’t considered the possibility of her having a boyfriend. A woman of her beauty and poise does not remain long without consort, unless some intolerable obstacle daunts her suitors. I could wheedle the information from her without revealing my intentions, but what if she said yes? Disaster. I planned on winning this woman. We were to have a whirlwind courtship and exchange vows in the heart of Old Town, on Staroměstské náměstí. Love would change me. I’d become not just likable but lovable. New friends would flock to us. I’d enter a café and a half-dozen people would drop by my table to chat, seek advice, or warm themselves in the glow of charisma. The thin soap-shell of this fantasy shimmered as it neared the bursting pinprick of a boyfriend.
So I asked nothing and played the idiot, gawking at her, with a half-dozen possible remarks, rejoinders, replies, questions, observations, and apologies vying to be the first propelled past my lips and jamming instead against my teeth. I sat down. It seemed impossibly lucky that she did not remember me from that night at Lávka. Judging by a barely half-amused smile, she was wary of my trying to pick her up yet found the prospect somehow ironic. Was she merely demonstrating good manners in not recognizing me? I couldn’t decide which was more objectionable: She knew perfectly well and withheld formal recognition to torment me with the uncertainty, or my face was so unremarkable she promptly had forgotten it. Another explanation suited me better: The discrepancy between the monster sick at her feet and the dashing figure I cut at the café table was so great it never occurred to her the two were the negative original and positive print of the same image.
She resumed studying the menu. I was about to offer my inept assistance in translating food items when I remembered the menu had a perfectly capable English section. An irrational fear seized me; I was to be eternally trapped in an adolescent nightmare of sweaty palms and conversational fumblings. The best strategy was to retreat into indifference. I pulled a notebook from my coat pocket and flipped it open. This technique has worked for me several times in the past. The woman watches as I scribble intensely across the page, lit by the pale fire of genius. I don’t pay her the least bit of attention. Her curiosity mounts as I fill the pages.
“What are you writing about?” the woman asks, finally overcome.
“You,” I reply.
I wouldn’t resort to such a cheap trick with a goddess. I had better ruses. But first she’d have to ask. I scribbled on page after page a list of movie stars I’d seen in L.A. restaurants and, based on observed detail, could claim I’d met. She read the menu, ordered coffee, admired the ornate carved interior, and paid no attention to the frenetic chase of pen across page. The natural melancholy of her face was guarded by a sharp glance and cutting smile, which I encountered when I connived an accidental meeting of our eyes. My fear stilled to irritation that I could be so easily disregarded. I decided to employ a gambit reserved for the hardest cases. I threw my notebook down on the table. The resounding thump jumped her eyes to mine.
“I’m stuck,” I said, clearly frustrated, yet appropriately deferential to her privacy. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
Her smile was oddly predatory, as though she was accustomed to advances from bold young men and awaited the moment she might cut me down.
I said, “Imagine you’re a young businesswoman recruited by a Czech armaments company.”
“Why?” she snapped.
“It’s a dramatic problem I’m trying to solve.”
“You’re a writer,” she said, her accent mysterious to my ear but the tone of contempt clear.
“A writer-producer,” I corrected.
“And what does a writer-producer do?”
“He makes more money than a writer.”
The corner of her lip turned gently toward her eyes. I’d pleased her. She said, “I’m not a typical person. I can’t give a typical answer.”
“The woman in my story isn’t typical.”
“I’m a businesswoman then.”
“You’re dating two men in Prague: one an American, and the other Ukrainian. You discover the American is an active CIA operative. The Ukrainian is an ex-KGB agent. What do you do?”
“I confide in the better lover and betray the other.”
The swift decisiveness of her reply startled a laugh out of me.
“I warned you I was not typical.”
“You didn’t warn me you were murderous.”
“I like strong men.”
Did she intend an invitation in that remark? I whispered, “The studio is talking about Tom Cruise as the CIA agent.”
“They must pay you very much, if you write for Tom Cruise.”
I shrugged modestly.
Without warning, she stood, set her purse on the table, and
said, “Watch this for me while I make a call.”
Had I a camera, I would have framed the shot like Hitchcock. The brass clasp of the purse looms huge and sharply focused in the foreground, while the much smaller figure of its owner recedes into a blurred background. When the owner exits the frame, only the purse remains, immensely irresistible. The shot would symbolize the terrible temptation to the protagonist. Was this a test? She was supposed to be different. She was not one of my harmless erotic pursuits. I imagined there was a God in heaven testing my resolve. Or perhaps she knew my weakness, just as she recognized the beast in me that night at Lávka. I would not yield to the temptation. Still, there was the irrefutable fact of her purse on the table and my history of unreliable honesty. I glanced casually about. No one watched.
The purse accidentally fell to the floor, jarring free the snap. I bent below the table. No one could begrudge me a peek, to make sure nothing had broken. Her book was regrettably the only visible content. The choice of reading material disappointed me. The Firm. Even I read Grisham. I couldn’t shut the purse again with just that to judge her. I nudged the paperback aside. A train ticket and passport, clipped together for safekeeping. I fished them out for a quick look. She was Danish. Monika Andersen. Born in 1968. A good-luck omen, the year of Nixon. Not a bad likeness on the inside cover. The train ticket was Prague to Budapest, open departure date, first class. A receipt slipped from the back passport page and fluttered to the carpet. I became sharply conscious of the passage of time. I dropped the passport back into the purse, snapped the lip shut, and returned the purse safely to the tabletop. The receipt lay blank side up on the carpet. I flipped it over. It was from Gerbeaud. I knew Gerbeaud. A café in Budapest with delightful pastries. I stuffed the receipt into my pocket, loath to leave it as evidence.
I jotted a few words into my notebook, pretending disinterest when Monika returned to the table with a tall brute at her side. She introduced him as Sven. Her paramour? Sven scowled down at me. Was it possible he had witnessed the business with the purse? He did not seem pleased to meet me—the natural reaction of any man introduced to a potential rival. I studied him as he lit a cigarette. Thick lips, broad nose, wide cheekbones, an arch of blond hair slicked back. And big. A couple of inches taller than my near six feet, and built like a prizefighter. The sensitive type of brute women adore.
“You in the movies?” he asked, studying me as I studied him.
“In the business,” I corrected.
“Done anything I’ve seen?”
“I don’t know what you’ve seen.”
He kept his eyes fixed on mine when he turned to Monika and asked, “What was it you said he was? A writer?”
“Writer-producer,” she corrected, quick to my defense.
“If you’re such a successful writer-producer, what are you doing in Prague?”
He came straight at me, jabbing away. To be considered a threat pleased me, but the best I could do in the situation was adroitly parry everything he threw and walk away unscathed. Later, I could engineer another meeting with Monika and ask what she saw in such a lout.
“I have a development deal with Paramount Pictures. The studio likes the story and the story takes place in Prague, so they pay me to come here and write it.” By a miracle of timing, a waiter strolled by, pretending to work. I asked for the bill and said, “I’d tell you more, but I’m late for an appointment.”
Monika’s hand dropped casually onto my wrist. “I’m sorry, but my brother sometimes is a little protective.”
Brother! Only a sudden contraction of will kept me from laughing in loud joy. A protective brother! How charming! Will he walk a dozen paces behind us as we court, like the relatives of old Europe? I wanted to stay and impress them both with my conviviality as well as my accomplishments, but the waiter, in a rare display of efficiency, insisted on presenting me the bill promptly after I’d requested it. I had little choice but to leave or prove my fictitious appointment a lie. But first, I needed a theatrical set piece to demonstrate the power of fate.
“I don’t blame your brother for being suspicious. Prague is overpopulated with scribblers, unpublished and unproduced, all pretending to be the next Hemingway. It’s worse than Hollywood, where every other wait-person is trying to peck out the great American screenplay. To tell the truth, Monika, I’m ashamed to admit I write anything at all.”
“How did you know my name?” Monika asked, sharp-eyed.
I looked confused. It’s one of my better looks. One eyebrow drops low while my eyes pace their sockets, searching an escape from befuddlement.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” I confessed.
“But you just said it!”
I appealed to Sven, palms floating in bewilderment.
“You called her Monika,” he confirmed.
“But that’s the name of the character in my story!” I cried, triumphant.
“I don’t believe you,” she protested, but a smile broke through the disbelieving smirk on her lips, like that of a child presented with a magic trick.
I flipped open my notebook and presented the most recent entry, documenting Monika’s remark about the CIA and KGB agents, the character name clearly identified. And the crowning proof, a character note for the female lead, named Monika, written on a page dated the month previous and left blank for just such an occasion. She took the notebook and thumbed through it, arriving at the cover page, which listed my name, number, and local address.
“What kind of name is Nix?” she asked.
“Just a nickname,” I answered.
“Are you a thief?”
Her question startled me. Again, she knew. But how?
“English slang,” she explained. “If someone nicks something, they steal it.”
I responded with a watery laugh and the idiotic remark, “But you aren’t English?”
“No.” She handed back my notebook. “Monika isn’t an English or American name. You should change the name of your character to something more American, like Debbie or Sue.”
I considered telling her my character was half Danish but, like an actor aware of the fine line between brilliance and hamhandedness, decided not to push too strongly the limits of disbelief. “She’s half Czech,” I replied.
“I’m also half Czech,” she answered somberly.
For several seconds, we were suitably speechless with amazement. Was is it coincidence or fate? As a native Californian, I have a cultural weakness for the most tenuous evidence of the supernatural and almost completely forgot I’d invented my half of the sudden mystic congruence of our lives. I backed away from the table, eager now to leave, as the old adage goes, with the audience wanting more.
“Perhaps I’ll see you again—at Lávka,” I offered and immediately regretted the choice of venues.
“Perhaps.” She smiled.
I left the café cursing my idiocy. Luck rules most games of chance, and romance is no different. I’d pulled off a few brilliant strokes and made a few blunders. Mostly, I’d been lucky she hadn’t seemed to recognize me. To suggest Lávka was egregious stupidity. One good look at me, in situ, might stir that earlier memory I was anxious to suppress. If her interest survived the shock, an appearance by that cuckold Bortnyk would chase me from the scene.
CUT TO:
EXTERIOR—LÁVKA BACK PATIO—NIGHT
ON CASTLE—lit up like a jewel box this beautiful summer night.
PULL BACK—to Monika staring at the castle, waiting for Nix to return.
A MENACING FIGURE parts the crowd and taps her shoulder.
She turns—
DETECTIVE BORTNYK
(flashing badge)
Budapest Police Department.
MONIKA
Yes?
DETECTIVE BORTNYK
I’m sorry to disturb you, miss, but we have reason to believe the man you were just speaking to is a petty thief and seducer. Could you please check the valuables in your purse?
THE END
No
matter how charming I’d been, a well-informed accusation from Bortnyk would poison her embryonic tenderness and abort the relationship. I crossed the square outside the café and waited near the stall of a street-side bookseller. I wasn’t foolish enough to trust to luck. I waited no more than fifteen minutes. Sven and Monika walked out of the café arm in arm. Such touching sibling affection! I followed them past the old railway station into a neighborhood of crumbling plaster and coal dust. Tucked in a corner was Sven and Monika’s hotel, the Merkur, a stripped-down, no-star accommodation, it’s original turn-of-the-century coat of plaster and paint peeled indecently to its ankles.
A cab lounged at the curb. I instructed the driver to take me to police headquarters and tapped insistently at the meter until he sullenly turned it on. That Monika was poor pleased me. Not that I’d fallen for the cliché of the princess in rags made virtuous by her poverty. Rich young women, though encouragingly hedonistic, are less impressed by wealth and achievement in others. It’s expected and gives no real advantage. A poor woman is more likely to have unfulfilled ambitions. The fantasy of escape long inhabits her dreams. A suitor with elegant habits and real-world accomplishments is part of the fantasy. Not the wisest basis on which to start a permanent relationship, but effective enough in the short term.
The addled old man at the front desk claimed Inspector Zima was out of the building, then in the building but at a meeting, then out of the building again: all in the most incomprehensible cacophony of German, English, and Czech. After fifteen minutes of wringing misinformation from him, I still had no idea where Zima was or how to find him. Losing patience, I whipped out my passport and lectured about the rights of an American citizen.
“Mr. Miller!” Inspector Zima called from behind my back.
He stood at the end of the adjacent hallway, file folder in hand and smoke-yellow teeth flashing behind a grin of deceptive goodwill. I rushed up, ready to let roar with the indignities of the previous evening’s encounter with Bortnyk.
“But why did nobody tell me you were here?” he protested before I could begin.
Gypsy Hearts Page 5