by Rose Edmunds
In the most literal sense, this was true. We’d confirmed that the pictures had been removed from the castle, probably in 1948, and they’d been moved again in 1974. But being one step nearer an unknown destination with no clue which direction to take did not seem a major advance.
‘I wonder why they took them out of the frames.’
‘Ease of transport, I expect. Look—they’ve taken the stretcher bars off as well.’
Rudi pointed to a pile of wooden struts, one of which he picked up and examined carefully in the torchlight.
‘At least they didn’t cut the canvases off the stretchers. That can cause a lot of damage.’
‘You sound like an expert.’
‘Well, we do own one or two decent paintings, which weren’t always treated nicely over the years.’
‘What the hell happened in 1974?’ I asked, thinking out loud. It was three years before I’d been born, half a life time ago, in a different, Cold War, Iron Curtain era.
‘As it happens there’s someone who might be able to tell us—an old hand who celebrated his fortieth anniversary a few years ago. He’ll be here in the morning and we can ask him then.’
‘The Communists were still in power in 1974—was the vineyard operating during those times? Did anyone even drink wine then?’
‘Not so much as now. The business continued in the form of a cooperative, though it became bloated and inefficient. Under the restitution agreement, we were obliged to reimburse the State, in essence for their ineffective business strategy. But the stash of fine wine more or less cancelled that out—karma or what?’
I suspected that from Rudi’s viewpoint, another wine haul would have been preferable to more artworks.
‘Would this old guy really remember anything? And if he did, wouldn’t he have said something already?’ I asked.
‘In those days it was often better to remain silent, and old habits die hard. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough, and in the meantime, let’s take the tour.’
‘Sounds good.’ Irrespective of the setback, I was enjoying the prospect of another evening with Rudi.
As we explored the plant, it struck me how technical winemaking had become. I suppose, rationally, I accepted that men no longer physically trod the grapes, yet even so this image came to mind whenever I sank a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
On autopilot from the past, I found myself asking the supervisor about the business side—such as did they export? He told me it was pointless paying for shipping when there was ample domestic demand for the limited output. But they exported some wine to American enthusiasts prepared to pay over the odds. I was surprised to see red wine being produced, as I’d always imagined that more southerly latitudes were needed. But according to Rudi, the reds were unusually fine, if a little lighter than most. In truth, I didn’t drink much red wine— it was a drink for crimson-nosed old men, like Stanislav.
‘You’ve a good head for business,’ Rudi commented, as we made our way towards the main wine tasting room. ‘I could tell from the questions you were asking. Should I hire you as a business manager?’
‘Wouldn’t my lack of Czech be an impediment?’
‘Possibly, although most business people speak fluent English. Anyway, let’s open a bottle of wine.’
We sat down at a long wooden table.
‘One of the thirty-thousand-dollar bottles, I hope.’
‘For you,’ said Rudi, stroking my arm. ‘I almost would.’
‘Almost, but not quite…’
‘Not yet, but patience is a virtue.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘Oh but I do. I’ve done my due diligence.’
Fear punctured the elation of the moment. Due diligence meant awareness of the business on the roof of St. Paul’s Cathedral and my connection with the fraud, not to mention my ex-husband. The only episode not accessible online was the shootout in which Ed Smithies died, because for unfathomable reasons (allegedly connected with national security) my name had been withheld from the press.
‘Then you’ll understand I’m just a Crazy Amy.’
‘Crazy—I don’t think so,’ said Rudi. ‘But you’ve been mightily unlucky.’
Was that at the root of it all—a run of sheer bad luck conspiring against me? I liked this new interpretation of events.
‘No,’ came the familiar little voice. ‘You definitely are crazy, but he’s trying to sweet talk you into bed with him. And we know where that leads.’
Yet surely nobody sane was plagued by a hallucination of her teenage self.
‘I reckon you’re on your way back up,’ he said.
‘I sincerely hope so.’
We sampled more wine—red this time—with cheese, ham, bread and salad. Never had simple food tasted so delicious. And Rudi was right, the wine was magnificent—Dornfelder, the label said. I’d happily pay an inflated price to have a few cases shipped.
I was disinclined to expand further on my train-wreck of a life. For all Little Amy’s negativity, Rudi had filled me with more hope than I’d felt in a long while.
Though the chemistry was obvious and mutual, he made no move to seduce me. My hesitancy had no doubt deterred him, but I feared there was more to his restraint. Crazy or unlucky, I’d be too much trouble.
In the morning, the foreman summoned old-timer Marek Brabec to his office. At seventy odd years old, he’d have been too young to remember the Communist coup and over forty when the so-called Velvet Revolution toppled the regime. And I guessed he’d have struggled with the seismic shift in the landscape and to unlearn behaviour patterns ingrained during four decades of totalitarian rule. Brabec appeared apprehensive at being summoned to his boss’s office at short notice, but Rudi’s conversational manner soon put him at his ease.
Rudi asked the old man something in Czech and Brabec replied at length, as if pleased to get something off his chest.
‘They found the secret room in 1974,’ Rudi translated for my benefit. ‘So I’ll ask him if he knew what was in it.’
Again, another lengthy monologue from Brabec.
‘He did. The manager at the time discovered the pictures, but they were removed on the instructions of a high-ranking Communist Party official in Prague.’
‘And taken where?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
Though it couldn’t much matter after all this time.
‘Does he remember the name of the official?’
Rudi asked him, and from the nodding I inferred that he did.
‘Oh yes,’ said Rudi. ‘He heard the visitors talking about it. And he understood that the official planned to keep the artworks for himself.’
‘Amazing,’ I said, after he’d gone. ‘And he never breathed a word in all this time…’
‘Oh, Amy. Is that so surprising? Put yourself in his position. To start with he’d be worried about reprisals from the official if word got out. And later, when we took over, he assumed the paintings belonged to the family and was ashamed to admit they’d been stolen on his watch. To persuade him to talk, I had to make it clear that they weren’t mine and whatever happened there’d be no repercussions.’
I took the piece of paper on which he’d written the name— Živsa.
‘What next?’ he asked.
‘Back to Prague to hunt for the official—we really are another step forward now.’
‘The guy might well be dead after forty years. Still, it’s a rare name, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to make progress.’
Spurred on by Rudi’s comments, I began googling on my phone.
‘I see what you mean. There are eight people in the Czech Republic with that surname, and only one in Prague. The age guide’s forty-five to fifty, so maybe he’s the son. Shall I call him?’
‘Why don’t you let me call? His English may be poor.’
Frustratingly though, when Rudi tried there was no reply.
‘I guess he’s at work—I’ll try again this evening.’
It was te
mpting to use this as an excuse to stay with Rudi longer, but I stiffened my resolve. The sooner I returned to Prague, the sooner I’d recover from this unwanted infatuation.
‘It may not be a good idea for you to leave right now,’ he said when I began my goodbyes.
‘Why ever not?’
‘The drink drive laws in this country are draconian—effectively a zero limit. With all the wine you drank last night, I’m worried you may still have too much alcohol in your system.’
It appeared as if he too was searching for a reason to prolong my visit, so I blithely dismissed his concerns. I felt fine and anyway didn’t imagine there would be too many traffic cops pursuing drunk drivers in the middle of the morning.
‘It’s your decision,’ said Rudi. ‘But I thought I’d better warn you.’
‘Cheers, but I’ll be fine.’
I thanked him for his hospitality and his help, and he assured me he’d be in touch the moment he got through to Živsa. I left with mixed emotions—if only my position had been different, we might have stood a chance. But I daren’t risk another crack at a perfect life only for it to crumble to dust.
***
The Czech Republic is apparently one of the most dangerous developed countries in which to drive. But from my perspective, the habitual tailgating and ill-advised overtaking were more annoying than hair-raising. In England, you’d assume such manoeuvres were motivated by road rage, but here there was no malice involved, merely fundamentally different driving techniques.
In this context, I wasn’t unduly alarmed when about twenty kilometres from the vineyard, shortly before joining the main highway, a black BMW came up way too close behind me. I expected it would pass when the driver judged, perhaps unwisely, that it was safe to do so. And I braced myself to take evasive action if, as often happened, the car was forced to cut in front of me.
The forceful impact on my rear bumper was a game-changer. This was no random inconsiderate driver, but someone intent on preventing me reaching Prague in one piece.
I hit the accelerator and my pursuer seemed to drop back. I felt a sense of relief—perhaps I’d misjudged the situation. But as I relaxed my guard, the BMW surged forward and nudged me again.
The road was twisty, so flooring it wasn’t an option. My best hope was to keep the car steady until reaching the motorway, which I reckoned was five minutes away.
This was easier said than done. In this cat and mouse chase, I aimed to minimise the impacts by driving as fast as I dared, and there was a limit to how fast my pursuer could take the bends too. But it was a difficult balancing act on an unfamiliar road, and one wrong judgement would scupper me. Either I’d be rammed so hard I’d lose control, or I’d corner too fast and skid off the road anyway. A steep drop on the nearside focused the mind.
Finally, I overestimated the severity of a bend, allowing my pursuer to ram the car with a ferocity that left it snaking. I barely brought it back under control before I was hit again, this time with no hope of salvation.
The airbag exploded. Was this the end?
15
The Mercedes rolled down the escarpment in a ghastly slow-motion horror movie, before coming to rest in a small wooded area.
The last car I’d totalled was my ex-husband’s Ferrari. Then I’d been left dangling upside down until help arrived, but at least now I was upright, despite the car’s spectacular roll down the hill. I tentatively moved my limbs and fingers and ran my hands over my head. Incredibly, it seemed nothing was broken, although I’d been punched in the face by the exploding airbag. Reassured, I pushed the door open and stepped outside.
The car had fared less well than me. The rear end had crumpled, and one side was scarred by a huge gash, no doubt from scraping against a tree. And that was ignoring a disturbing collection of more minor dings and dents. Thank heaven I’d opted for the full insurance package.
Little Amy appeared, as she often did when you least needed her, this time in a green jumpsuit. She appraised the wreckage with a practised eye.
‘Total write off—same as the Ferrari. Should have been more careful.’
‘I was being careful,’ I said. ‘Did you not see that other car run me off the road?’
‘I don’t exist, except in your head, so I only know what you tell me,’ she replied in sarcastic tones.
‘Anyway, this is a hire car with comprehensive insurance and not my problem,’ I told her firmly.
‘That’s what you think. Uh—uh—the cops have arrived. I’m off.’
And with that she retreated into her own astral plane.
The police showed up so speedily that I guessed the BMW guy had tipped them off anonymously. But it was impossible to confirm my theory, as the patrolmen spoke little English. The language barrier also rendered my explanations incomprehensible.
‘Another driver hit me deliberately. He must have known the road, and where the steep embankments were.’
I was doing the usual English trick of shouting loudly, as though this might magically overcome the linguistic difficulties, but to no avail. However, the device they handed me while miming blowing movements needed no translation.
I tried to refuse—wasn’t I entitled to a blood test at the police station? But again they didn’t understand. So I blew, prayed to a God I didn’t believe in, and then cursed him when I saw the officers sadly shaking their heads. My lawyer had got me off the last drunk driving offence on the grounds that I feared my life was in danger when I took the wheel. This charge might be harder to rebut, even if my account of the incident was accepted.
I almost called Rudi to rescue me, but it was too embarrassing to admit he’d been right, even though my sobriety had no bearing on the accident. So instead I called the hire company, who promised to recover the car and bring a replacement. Deftly avoiding disclosing the drunk driving charge, I refused the replacement pleading that I was far too shaken to drive. I hitched a ride on the tow truck to the nearest town and they dropped me off in the main square.
Now what the hell was I to do?
I hoped a coffee might help restore my equilibrium, but before I’d found a suitable place, I spotted a guy sitting in a truck with a Prague telephone number on the side. Of course, he might be a serial killer, but whoever heard of anyone surviving one murder attempt only to fall prey to another? That would be too unlucky, even for me.
‘You going to Prague?’ I asked him.
‘No English.’
I waved a fistful of Czech crowns in front of him, which miraculously seemed to improve his command of the language.
‘Chodov?’
I thought he was telling me to sod off, but painfully halting communication revealed that he planned to drop me at Chodov Metro Station, on the red line. Which was fine with me.
Three hours later I was back in the hotel, bruised and battered, sporting a monstrous black eye, and with a huge fine for drunk driving looming. To add to my misery, a close study of the English version of rental and insurance contracts suggested I’d be liable for the entire replacement cost of the car.
George was sympathetic, if disbelieving.
‘But you were over the alcohol limit,’ he said, as if this negated everything I’d been saying.
‘The alcohol limit is nil. And I was perfectly sober. I’m telling you I was forced off the road.’
‘Maybe that bit of alcohol prevented you from…’
‘No, George—it didn’t.’
‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, Amy, but did anyone ever suggest you have a problem with alcohol?’
‘Yes,’ I snapped. ‘The idiots at the Priory.’
His attitude hurt. I’d made so much effort to gain his respect and suddenly now I’d morphed back into Crazy Amy. My “accident” was no coincidence, and as such, it was unreasonable for me to shoulder the blame. And yes, I drank too much, but I wasn’t an alcoholic and anyway how was this relevant?
‘And please don’t tell that smug git Beresford. Or Mel, because it’ll get str
aight back to him.’
‘OK, I won’t,’ he said. Though I could see him questioning the need for secrecy if this was, as I alleged, attempted murder.
‘Would you care to join me for a walk? We can discuss your progress so far, and where we go from here.’
Although shaken, bruised and verging on weepy, being in the fresh air thinking constructively was far wiser than drowning my sorrows in the hotel bar. But as we walked along Národní towards the river, a huge weariness overtook me and I shepherded George into a café.
George radiated disapproval as I ordered a large glass of Riesling and an ice cream sundae, but I didn’t give a shit. I was the one who’d almost died (again) which gave me licence to do what I damned well wanted. George ordered a double espresso, as ever the model of restraint.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘I haven’t the foggiest where those paintings are, so why try to kill me?’
‘You must at least consider the possibility of a random accident,’ George replied, a little hesitantly. He had enough emotional intelligence to pick up on my sensitivity, but still couldn’t refrain from commenting. ‘You said yesterday that Czech driving leaves a lot to be desired. If the other driver was on his phone, and you didn’t react soon enough…’
No doubt about it, in his mind I’d screwed up—Crazy Amy totals a hire car while driving under the influence. And it was a safe bet that Mel and Beresford would take the same lofty view. Nothing had changed—nobody took me seriously—I was a gigantic joke, the butt of everyone’s derision. No matter how strenuously I tried to pull myself out of the abyss, there was no escape. Each time I saw a glimmer of hope, it flickered and died.
‘And whose fault is that?’ Little Amy demanded. ‘Your drinking has consequences, none of them good—it killed Zowie and now it’s killing you.’
The hopelessness and gloom were overwhelming, and I could barely admit to myself that she was right. Better all round if the crash had been fatal, preventing me from messing up my life anymore. Even as I fought to suppress them, tears coursed uncontrollably down my face and my next breath was a spasmic sob.
‘I’m sorry,’ George said, handing me his handkerchief. ‘I believe you, honestly.’