by Rose Edmunds
‘A girl never travels without a toothbrush or clean underwear,’ I told him. ‘But…’
The sentence trailed off. I was simultaneously so needy and so fearful of intimacy, and the fear predominated, making it difficult to envisage ever having sex again. There was the five pounds, those mysterious stomach cramps and the more nebulous sensation that I no longer controlled my own body. Yet Rudi was attractive, not only physically but also emotionally—a man at peace despite the brickbats life had thrown his way. He was like a beacon, leading me to a safe place.
‘But what…?’
The moment had passed.
‘Oh nothing,’ I said. ‘I’d love to stay over and go with you tomorrow.’
‘Excellent. The only question now is whether you’d prefer to spend the night in the comfortable spare bedroom in this wing with en-suite bathroom and cable TV, or the four-poster bed once slept in by your King Edward VII. There is a chamber pot under it, so I’m told.’
I relaxed once I understood there was no pressure. But equally, he’d given no hint of any expectations, so perhaps I’d read the situation incorrectly.
‘At the risk of insulting the British monarchy,’ I said, ‘I’ll plump for the spare bedroom.’
‘A wise choice—I’d be surprised if that other bed’s been slept in since. Let me show you where you’ll be and you can make yourself at home while I catch up with my emails. Seven is cocktail time, and then I’ll make us dinner. How does that sound?’
‘Perfect.’ Although seven was perhaps a little too long to wait for cocktails…
‘And to save time, I’ll ask the men to start exploring those cellars now.’
The spare room was furnished like a mid-range hotel, with none of the dramatic pieces that dominated the living rooms. Rudi evidently viewed bedrooms as purely functional spaces not for public consumption.
As soon as we were alone, Little Amy appeared, impatient to make her views known. Now she wore a flowing, floral, ethereal dress I didn’t recall from the past. Amazing how the girl popped up in a different outfit every time I saw her. Had I really owned such an extensive wardrobe at her age?
‘So you’re not going to let him seduce you then?’
‘No—I’m not.’
‘Good call—I thought you’d be so grateful anyone was interested, you’d throw yourself at him.’
‘Well I didn’t.’
‘And don’t drink too much tonight—you’re always such a slag when you’re drunk.’
True, alcohol often weakened my resolve, but I had no intention of giving her the satisfaction of being right.
‘You’ll be a slag soon enough.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’ll find out.’
I couldn’t warn her, because Little Amy had no past or future independent of mine—as much as she wanted to be, she wasn’t a separate entity able to determine her own destiny.
‘I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you. And if you want to have sex with Prince Charming, go right ahead.’
The time until cocktail hour hung heavy. I showered and watched a documentary about Nazi Germany on the Discovery Channel. Incredible how eighty years later, the mess they’d created still hadn’t been fully sorted, and yet a resurgence of the far right in Europe seemed unstoppable. Why did history keep repeating—was it because once an event had receded from living memory, it ceased to impact people’s actions?
Mel texted a selfie of herself and Beresford in front of Prague Castle. She looked contented, but I guessed she had no reason to be miserable now she’d lined up her next mark. He seemed pretty chipper too, so either he hadn’t twigged that he was her next mark, or didn’t care.
I called George to tell him I’d be gone at least overnight. ‘It’s a long shot,’ I told him, ‘but it’s the only lead I have.’
He described how that morning he’d searched for his parents’ address, but found the apartments had been demolished. A brutalist Communist structure that was, unbelievably, a listed building, had replaced them. He had also visited the railway station, which now resembled the modern Euston Station in London. Eventually though, he’d found the historic buildings, where he had last seen his mother, but he remembered none of it.
‘I’m coming to the view that all my memories were created by photographs I’ve seen years later.’
‘But they’re still your memories,’ I said, ‘however they were created.’
‘Yes, but it bugs me that they’re not memories of the relevant time.'
‘But who’s to say which memories are real? And if we reinforce our false memories by reliving them over and over, aren’t they still our memories, even if distinct from reality?’
‘These are deep philosophical questions, not easily answered,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Oh I’m sure Beresford will have a view. You can ask him over dinner.’
‘I think not,’ said George. ‘Playing gooseberry with those two lovebirds would be unbearable. It’s room service for me and an early night.’
And I didn’t blame him one bit.
13
I stepped out of my room at five to seven to find Rudi already laying out a tray of olives and nuts.
‘You’re surprisingly domesticated,’ I said.
‘I’ve been trained up by two wives.’
‘Do you entertain often?’
‘No, and it’s particularly rare that I enjoy female company, although my daughter visits when she can.’
‘Is she local?’
‘Hardly—she’s studying for a PhD in laser physics at UCLA. Shame, because with her brains I always expected her to take over the family business.’
‘She still might, when she’s done studying—I’m sure she’s multi-talented. My degree is in maths but I became an accountant, so who knows what she’ll do later. Is she your only child?’
‘Well, there’s my son, Martin.’
Something in his tone made me sorry I’d asked.
‘God only knows where that lazy, coke-sniffing bum got his genes from.’
‘From that distinguished parade of ancestors lining the stairway,’ I said. ‘They’re good genes and I’m sure he’ll settle down later.’
Out of nowhere, I was stung by a sudden and almost overwhelming pang of sorrow. At least you got to see him grow, even if he disappointed you—more than I’d have with Zowie.
‘What’s wrong, Amy?’ Rudi asked, sensing but unable to interpret the emotion.
‘Nothing—I’m OK. Just thinking about stuff, that’s all.’
‘This should buck you up.’
He poured me a large measure of a pale yellow liquid.
‘It’s a traditional Czech drink,’ he said before I could ask.
I sniffed it tentatively—it had a strange medicinal herbal smell. Then, imagining it should be drunk like a shot, I tipped it straight down the hatch and tried to avoid screwing up my face in disgust. It was like drinking mouthwash.
‘You’re supposed to sip it,’ said Rudi, with a smile.
‘Whoops—sorry. Do you always drink this before dinner?’
‘No—I prefer a bourbon and soda, but I like to provide it to visitors. Called Becherovka. Did you enjoy it?’
‘Not much, to be honest.’
In fact, I was glad I’d glugged it down in one—sipping it would only have prolonged the agony.
‘Never mind, we’ll drink wine with dinner—a nice bottle of Riesling from the vineyard. And trout, fresh from the river. Does that sound OK?’
‘Perfect.’
While I’ve never been a great fan of Riesling, the first mouthful converted me. The trout tasted wonderful too, and had the additional virtue of being low in calories. I needed food like this if I was to shed the five pounds.
Rudi spent most of dinner describing how he’d recovered the family’s estate. I hadn’t focused until now on how much the Czechs had been oppressed—first the Nazis, then the Communists, followed by a painful a
djustment to capitalism. According to Rudi, there were those who’d colluded with the Nazis, then became leading lights in the Communist regime. Similarly, stalwarts of the Party rapidly repositioned themselves to profit from the country’s privatisations.
‘It’s sad how the scum rises to the top,’ said Rudi. ‘Some people are opportunists with no moral compass—they do what’s best for them, and to hell with everyone else.’
Ed sprung instantly to mind, and then Stanislav. But had I been any better—saving tax for people who could easily afford to pay it, and lining my pockets in the process? Happily, Rudi’s invective did not appear to be directed at me; in fact he seemed more concerned about his own conduct.
‘I shouldn’t have allowed Novak to remove those pictures—I was young, stupid and trying to avoid trouble for myself. Now it’s preying on my conscience.’
‘As you said yourself, it was pragmatic.’
‘Pragmatic, but morally wrong because there’s no way Jan Novak had a legitimate entitlement to those artworks. Most likely he stole them from Jewish families, or bought them at an artificially low price.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me—Novak’s cagey as anything about his father.’ I dug into the plateful of pickled cheese Rudi had produced, not as healthy as the trout but irresistible. ‘We’re fairly sure that Jan Novak was Josef Dušek’s business partner, but Novak was supposedly killed by the Nazis in 1939, so there’s something odd going on.’
‘It bothers me that because of my actions, descendants of the true owners of those paintings have been unable to recover them, such as your client.’
‘Regrets are pointless, because you can’t change the past. Anyway, who am I to criticise? I’ve made enough mistakes in my life.’
And unlike in the song, there were too many, not too few, to mention. I had a sneaking suspicion that Rudi might already be aware of a few of them from his online research, though he made no comment.
As we sat drinking coffee and brandy after dinner, Rudi announced a new idea. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘the vineyard wasn’t the only thing we didn’t have access to in 1992.’
‘What—you mean we must look somewhere else?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
He took three battered leather books out of a cupboard.
‘These are my grandfather’s journals. They were found in the library when we restored it in 1996. All those years in plain sight, yet nobody thought to check them out.’
‘Have you read them?’
‘Not in detail. To be honest, they’re mind-numbingly boring. My grandfather was a cultured, intelligent man, with a passion for art. But if you read these, you’d take him for a pampered aristocratic oaf obsessed with hunting, eating and drinking. It’s depressing how little insight they give into the man’s mind or emotions. See this final entry—it’s typical.’
It detailed an elaborate banquet, with special emphasis on the wines and brandies consumed.
‘He dropped down dead two days later, before he even left the country. Although there’s no more final departure then death is there?’
Rudi flicked back the pages to about three months earlier, when the Communist coup was gathering momentum. As he picked over the Gothic scrawl, translating on the hoof, I shared his disappointment at the triteness of the entries. You would have expected a man of Maxmilián’s nobility and learning to reflect upon the political upheaval thrust upon him. But instead, he seemed more concerned about the day-to-day effect of the changes on his charmed existence. At last, several weeks before the end, we came across something potentially relevant.
Today J came to visit. I hadn’t seen him since before the war. He says he went through hell, but didn’t care to discuss it. Anyway, he seems to have triumphed, as ever. His wife is gone though and I dare not ask.
There followed a lengthy description of a shooting expedition, and that evening’s dinner menu. You got the sense of two men determined to enjoy one last bender together, before the shit hit the fan. The entry for the next day contained this little gem.
We struggled to unload the stuff with our hangovers. Amazing pieces and certainly worth saving, though he told a cock and bull story about where he got them—he always was such a liar. God willing they will be safe and he will some day set eyes on them again.
‘I wonder—is he referring to the art?’
Sadly, there was no more discussion of “the stuff”, but I could easily visualise Jan confiding in Maxmilián about the two paintings dearest to his heart.
On that positive note, we retired to our separate rooms. As I settled down under the duvet, I was acutely aware of the wall separating me and Rudi, a wall so thin I could hear his breathing. Comforted by his presence in the next room, I nodded off quickly and slept more soundly than I had in weeks—no night sweats, no stomach cramps—nothing to remind me of Zowie. Which in itself was sad.
***
We breakfasted on black coffee, bread, salami and cheese.
‘I need to stay at the vineyard at least another two days,’ Rudolf said, ‘so it may be better if we travel there separately. Unless of course—you’d be most welcome…’
I was so tempted to spend another few days with Rudi, whose company was much more comfortable than most guys I’d dated. But the bar was not set high and, in fairness, the others had all taken time to show their true colours. Logic told me I barely knew Rudi, and that I wasn’t ready for a new relationship, however transient.
‘Thanks, but I ought to get back—not tonight because it’ll be too late, but definitely tomorrow. I think George may need me. He’s terribly British and stiff upper lip about everything, but I’m sensing a lot of emotional undercurrents and I should be there to support him.’
Rudi accepted his disappointment, if he was disappointed, stoically.
‘Shame,’ he said. ‘I could get used to having you around.’
But we still had time together and another night, if I changed my mind…
Ecstatic as Mel had appeared in the selfie, I felt certain Beresford’s money was a big factor in her fascination with him. It would be easy to get on my high horse and condemn her, but then I’d never needed a man’s money, having more than enough of my own. Now I questioned how much Rudi the man appealed to me, versus the castle and the trappings of an aristocratic life. As a modern, professional woman, it was embarrassing to admit you’d been seduced by the idea of becoming a princess—even Little Amy no longer believed in fairy tales. But early indoctrination leaves its mark.
Unromantic bean-counter Amy saved me from these whimsical fantasies. Rudi’s wealth was tied up in low-yielding, high-maintenance assets that burned through his income, and he almost certainly had less than me in liquid investments. His lifestyle was illusory, and my illusions had been shattered too many times already to risk it happening again.
***
Rudi encouraged me to take a tour of the castle before we departed.
‘The place is steeped in history,’ he said. ‘My family goes back to the fifteenth century.’
‘Everyone’s family goes back to the fifteenth century, Rudi—the only difference is you know who your ancestors are. Still, I might as well educate myself while I’m here.’
And so I stood in the draughty Great Hall, with a small group of American tourists, admiring the portraits of his illustrious forebears. As I focused on the strong physical resemblance passing down the generations, an overwhelming sadness punched me in the solar plexus once more.
I’d never even set eyes on Zowie—didn’t want to. If I didn’t see, it couldn’t hurt—or so I thought. They took a picture of him and later I peeked at it. He was a perfect tiny little boy, with ten fingers and ten toes—his head the size of a tennis ball.
Enough said.
14
By the time my tour wrapped up, Rudi had already heard from the team at the winery. They had found a false wall.
‘And what’s behind it?’
‘I told them to wait till we arrived.’
The suspense was agonising. I followed Rudi’s SUV in my hired Mercedes and listened to peculiar “Europop” music interspersed with unintelligible Czech commands from a satnav I couldn’t silence.
The Strnad vineyard had just celebrated its 300th anniversary. This was at odds with the statement on its website about wine having been made there since time immemorial, but I guessed an element of hyperbole was permissible given the extensive history.
‘Normally, I take visitors round the winery first,’ said Rudi. ‘But I’m guessing you’d rather bash through that wall.’
He introduced me to Petr, the sturdy foreman leading the search. We followed him down twisty stone steps to the upper cellars and then another flight to the lower level. Even at five foot four I had to stoop to avoid the low stone ceilings. He then adroitly navigated us through a maze of passages until finally we arrived at the false wall. Had so short and simple a search led us to the answer? It was difficult to curb that spark of hope, no matter how hard I tried to prepare for disappointment.
‘Will it take long to knock through it?’ I asked.
Rudi translated for Petr’s benefit and Petr tapped on the wall, which sounded hollow. A few well-aimed blows from his sledgehammer soon yielded a hole large enough to climb through.
As Petr shone a flashlight into the chamber, I caught sight of a gilt picture frame. I tried, without success, to hold my surging spirits in check. Everything I touched turned to dust—why should this be any different?
Petr passed me the torch and I scrambled through the jagged gap, eager to be the first to lay eyes on the missing art in almost seventy years. Rudi followed me in quick succession.
There were two frames, both empty. A newspaper from 1974 spread out on the floor suggested a timeline for the paintings’ removal.
The disappointment was crushing—my fault, I’d been idiotic to let myself hope, even for those few seconds. Hope was always followed by despair, and triumph by disaster.
‘Never mind,’ said Rudi, trying to put an optimistic spin on events. ‘We’re one step nearer than we were before.’