Mystery Tour

by Martin Edwards

  Tourists meandered across Charles Bridge, flowing as relentlessly as the river Vltava beneath. A jazz band played in the centre of the bridge; carefree melodies for sunshine; the music of smiles. But I felt far from carefree. It was hot and I hadn’t eaten since first thing that morning. I didn’t know where I was going to sleep that night and I had the beginnings of a headache. I needed a coffee.

  I walked through the streets, map in hand, tourist style. But I wasn’t the average tourist. I was a lover on a quest to find the object of my desire. A prematurely balding, slightly chubby Romeo seeking out his beautiful young Juliet.

  When I reached the Old Town Square it was crammed with tourists, who’d gathered beneath the tower of the astronomical clock and now stared upwards, awaiting the hourly parade of mechanical figures and the trumpeter who heralded the arrival of each new hour from the top of the tower. I gave the masterpiece of the clockmaker’s art a casual glance. My guidebook told me that one of the figures was a skeleton representing death and that the clock’s maker had been blinded on its completion so that he couldn’t create another for a rival city. I’ve often wondered why beauty and cruelty so often go together.

  I searched the milling crowd for Magda and eventually I spotted a purple-and-white umbrella bobbing above the sea of heads on the other side of the street. My heart pounded as I pushed my way through with mumbled excuse-mes, but when I was a few yards away, I saw that the holder of the umbrella was a stranger. Her long hair was a similar shade of honey blonde to Magda’s, but she was taller, with sharper features. I hesitated, but I knew that if I didn’t speak to her I wouldn’t learn where Magda was. And I was desperate to find her.

  When I asked the girl with the umbrella if she knew Magda, she looked at me warily as though she suspected I was some pervert. I explained that Magda and I had met in London and that I’d come to Prague to see her. When I’d finished speaking I smiled hopefully. The girl didn’t smile back.

  ‘Magda isn’t at work today,’ she said after a few moments, in perfect, unaccented English.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  A group of Americans who’d drifted up in the hope of a guided tour were listening in to our conversation with expectant looks on their faces. The girl turned away from me, switched on a smile and took the tickets they handed to her, telling them that the tour would start in ten minutes, directly after the spectacle of the clock.

  I persisted. ‘Do you know Magda’s address?’

  ‘No.’

  I knew the sharp-faced girl was trying to get rid of me and I couldn’t think of a way to convince her of my benign intentions. So I slunk away in the direction of the huge square.

  Once I’d had something to eat and drink I’d continue my search.

  Magda was starting to regret that she’d ever agreed to it. But she felt she had no choice.

  Bedrich had been adamant that it was art, but this didn’t make the prospect any more appealing. She was to meet him at his apartment in the Old Town. The lovely apartment that had once belonged to his late grandfather; all faded grandeur, shabby silk drapes and old paintings in elaborate gilded frames covering every wall. She told herself it would soon be over. And that it would be worth every humiliating moment.

  ‘Would you like me to walk there with you?’

  She looked round and saw Vaclav standing in the doorway, his large frame filling the space and blocking out the light from the window on the landing.

  She shook her head. This was something she’d rather do alone.

  She walked over to Vaclav and he took her hand, holding it against his stubbly cheek before kissing it. He’d looked out for her ever since she’d moved into the apartment below his. And now she was about to repay him.

  It was time to leave. Magda picked up her small pink vanity case and Vaclav stood to one side to let her out.

  As she left the apartment by the tall front door a group of men entering the bar on the other side of the road turned to look at her. She ignored them and marched past a gaggle of tourists who were making for the hotel next door, trailing wheeled suitcases behind them like obedient dogs. Soon she’d have to get used to the avaricious stares of men. She suddenly felt sick at the thought.

  She was used to walking; when she was working as a guide she covered miles every day, answering the most irritating of questions with a smile fixed to her face. Now she made for the Old Town, where grand art nouveau façades gave way to tightly packed buildings and squares filled with café tables. There were more tourists here, along with the odd stag party – young men laughing and enjoying the local beer. One or two of them looked at her appreciatively, but she was careful not to make eye contact. She had an appointment to keep.

  Now the initial excitement of arriving in Prague had worn off, I was starting to feel a little foolish. I’d come all this way on a whim and now I knew I probably had no way of finding her before nightfall. But there’d been nothing to keep me in London. Few friends and no family. Well, there was a family, but they were hardly the loving kind and I hadn’t seen them in months. My studio flat was one damp room the size of a cupboard, and my job in a chain coffee shop was hardly challenging – not for someone with my qualifications. I’d felt I needed a change, an adventure. And what better adventure, I’d thought, than a quest to seek out the girl of my dreams?

  Magda had come into the coffee shop a month before and we’d started talking. Or rather, I went up to her and started a conversation on the pretext of clearing her table. She told me she’d come to London to bring something over for a friend and that she was at a loose end. Then I plucked up courage and offered to show her the sights; I was amazed when she’d agreed. She told me she worked as a tourist guide in her native Prague to help fund her studies, and as we toured the city she joked that I should have her job, which was nice of her. She hadn’t organised anywhere to stay so I took her back to my flat. I knew the place was in a state so I asked her to wait outside for a few moments while I rushed in to have a quick tidy round, but she said it didn’t matter. Most of the girls I’d known over my thirty-six years had made me feel like an inadequate idiot. But Magda wasn’t like that.

  It wasn’t until my third night of sleeping on the floor that she invited me back into my bed. I was terrified my inexperience would show, that I would seem gauche and clumsy to the beautiful creature with the glowing flesh and the golden hair. But she said nothing and I was grateful for her kindness. I’d never met a girl like Magda before, and when she left for home she said I should come to Prague one day and look her up. But she forgot to give me her address, so here I was, hungry and thirsty, and with nowhere to stay.

  It was seven o’clock now and my stomach felt empty. I crossed the Old Town Square in search of an eating place that wasn’t too expensive. I’d changed my money at the airport, undoubtedly getting the worst exchange rate possible, and now I stood in the shelter of a doorway counting it. It would last me a couple of days, provided I found Magda and didn’t have the added expense of a hotel.

  I wandered down a side street and reached another, smaller square lined with old cream stucco buildings with fancy façades. It was a pretty place, filled with restaurant tables shaded by awnings and giant umbrellas. I ambled round, reading menus, noting prices, and finally decided that a pasta dish was within my means. I sat down at a table for two and ordered cannelloni and a glass of beer, inwardly cringing when a group of burly, laughing young men poured into the square and sat down at a long table nearby. From their matching sports shirts I could tell they were from a rugby club. And from their accents as they called and joked with each other, I knew they were Welsh. As far from home as I was, only with plenty of company.

  The newcomers’ banter was amiable, if a little loud. As I tucked into my cannelloni I couldn’t avoid listening in to their private jokes … and the information that someone called Sian was up for anything, as was a well-endowed female called Rhiannon. I tried to ignore them, as did the German couple
on the table next to mine, who were ploughing stoically through a pair of large pizzas. I tried to contemplate my next move, knowing that it would probably involve finding a cheap hotel.

  As I raised my glass of beer to my lips I sensed something was amiss but wasn’t sure what. The rugby club had fallen strangely quiet, as though they had just been told of the death of a friend, and I noticed that the German couple had put down their cutlery and were staring straight ahead, open-mouthed. Suddenly the German man delved into his bag and took out a camera. Something was happening. I craned my neck to see what it was.

  The scene had a surreal quality: the city of Kafka come to life. In my experience, naked women didn’t usually walk confidently through a public square, stopping every now and then to pose and pout for a camera. Perhaps this was a dream. A pleasant one. The rugby club watched wide-eyed, silenced by their own astonishment.

  The photographer – a tall, dark young man, the untrustworthy side of handsome – walked ahead of the apparition like a herald, turning every now and then to point his camera at her. It was a large camera, the type used by professionals, and I guessed that this was some kind of photo shoot. But the girl’s nakedness, her vulnerability in that public place, shocked me, even though I’d never before thought of myself as a prude.

  I’m ashamed to confess that I was watching the girl’s body, like a farmer evaluating livestock. For a few long moments her face held no interest for me. It was the perfect breasts and the neat triangle of hair between her thighs that claimed my attention. Besides, her face was turned away from me, so she was just a lovely body without a soul.

  Until she turned her head and my world fell apart.

  Bedrich had gone to great pains to persuade her that it would be fine; that it was wrong to be ashamed of your body. Besides, he’d be there to make sure she came to no harm. And how hard could it be? she asked herself. It was only another performance. An act.

  She’d left her clothes at his apartment in the Old Town. He’d given her a pink feather boa to drape around her neck, as if he imagined it would provide some protection. Instead it had felt ridiculous, so, after stepping out into the street to the stares of passers-by, she’d discarded it.

  As she walked she could hear Bedrich cooing encouragement: ‘Come on, baby.’ ‘Show me you want me.’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘Beautiful.’ The words made her feel dirty but she did what was expected of her and thought of the reward. More money than she could dream of earning in a year of herding tourists around the historic sights of Prague.

  She tried hard not to make eye contact with her audience; the men who watched her, first with amazement and then with barely disguised lust. As she pranced and pouted at the lens she did her best to concentrate only on Bedrich and his camera.

  After half an hour it was all over and she returned to his apartment to get dressed. Interested only in his camera and the results of his work, he hardly spoke to her on the journey back, which made it easier somehow.

  Once she’d done what she had to do, she rushed back to her own apartment, tore off her clothes and made straight for the shower, standing beneath the cleansing flow of water with her eyes closed, trying not to remember how she’d felt out there. She knew Vaclav would be waiting in his flat above and was relieved when he didn’t come down; she needed to be alone for a while.

  The next morning, when she switched on the radio and heard that Bedrich Novak had been found dead, she felt numb.

  Although it hurt to see her flaunt herself like that, I followed her. I wasn’t so naïve that I imagined she was as sexually inexperienced as I was when we’d met – in fact I could tell she wasn’t; but I hadn’t expected anything like this. My mother, who I hadn’t spoken to for a year, would have called her a depraved whore and said that I should have nothing to do with her. But I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t liked the look of the man with the camera. He was a Svengali if ever I saw one – a manipulative controller of innocent women. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that this hadn’t been Magda’s choice. And if that was the case, it was up to me to rescue her from a dreadful and demeaning situation. I would be her knight in shining armour. And she would be grateful.

  I trailed her as she walked back with the man to the grand building in the Old Town; it looked like a small palace, with exclusive shops tucked away behind its ground-floor arcade. She walked slightly behind him, attracting stares as she went. I was angry that he didn’t even have the decency to provide her with some kind of robe to cover her nakedness. I hated him for the way he ignored her as she walked behind him, her eyes lowered modestly. I was tempted to call out to her, but I sensed she wouldn’t want me to witness her shame.

  She disappeared inside the building through an old, studded double door at the side of a shop that sold expensive jewellery. This place didn’t match the description she’d given of her flat so I guessed it must be his. I waited five minutes before strolling up to the door and giving it a push, trying to look casual, as if I had every right to be there. The door opened and I stepped inside a huge hallway with chequerboard tiles on the floor and an elegant wrought-iron staircase sweeping up to the levels above. I saw a row of neat oak mailboxes on the far wall and walked over to examine the names. There was just one that looked like a single male name – Bedrich Novak – but of course I couldn’t be sure this was him and I didn’t want to risk a misunderstanding in a foreign land, so I stood and waited, unsure what I was going to say if I saw her.

  I didn’t have long to wait. I heard a door open and then shut with a bang, and when I looked up I saw a movement on the first-floor landing. Somebody was hurrying down the grand staircase so I dodged out of the front door and concealed myself behind one of the arches outside. Then I saw her, fully dressed this time in jeans and a simple black t-shirt. She looked so lovely. But, as she barged through the tourists strolling in the evening warmth, I noted that her face was an impassive mask.

  I walked a few yards behind her, careful to keep out of sight. From the corner of my eye I thought I sensed someone else was following too. But I could have been mistaken.

  Trying to keep her in view was difficult as she dodged through the crowds, and when the Old Town gave way to the new, I had traffic and passing trams to contend with. At one point I lost her for five minutes or so, but then I spotted her again down a side street. She turned down another street and then disappeared into a building, once grand but now faded, with flaking stucco walls and graffiti beside the front door. The place fitted the description she’d given me of her apartment and I was satisfied that I’d found her address at last. I didn’t feel inclined to burst in on her, though. After what I’d just seen I needed time to think.

  The building opposite caught my attention: a beer hall with an elaborate clock protruding from its façade. It looked like a good place to grab a drink while I decided what to do next.

  As I walked into the great arched entrance, I was aware of somebody behind me. But when I turned my head there was no one there.

  The victim, Bedrich Novak, had been stabbed with a decorative dagger that had been hanging on the apartment wall: a single wound to the heart. The police were looking for a young woman who was seen emerging from the building with the victim the previous evening. She had been naked, and a witness had said that she was beautiful. But he obviously hadn’t taken much notice of her face and the vague description he gave to the police would have fitted half the girls in the city. Novak’s expensive camera was missing, and with it any potential pictures of the girl in question. The police were keeping an open mind, but as several valuable paintings had disappeared from the apartment, robbery seemed the likely motive.

  Magda held her breath as she listened to the news on the radio, clinging to every word. Nobody knew her identity and she wanted to keep it that way. She had to carry on as normal.

  The arrival of Timothy at her apartment at ten o’clock the previous night had come as a shock. Her spirits had plunged when she saw him standing there, grinning ne
rvously and smelling of beer. But she knew she had to make the best of the situation as she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. After the events of yesterday, more attention was exactly what she didn’t need.

  Besides, she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Timothy. When she was in London he’d provided her with free accommodation, and she’d paid for it with the only thing she had to offer. However, it had soon become clear that he’d mistaken her willingness in bed for reciprocated feelings, and she’d been glad to get away. He’d outlived his usefulness the moment she’d boarded the plane home. Now he’d turned up again she wasn’t quite sure what to do.

  Even though she wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible, some reserve of kindness she’d forgotten she possessed meant that she didn’t want to hurt him if she could avoid it. He had been talking about accompanying her on her guided tours, and she didn’t see any harm in it. Let him have his short break in Prague. His presence might even be useful if she needed somebody to vouch for her if the police came calling. A man in love is easily persuaded into a white lie.

  Magda heard the door open and looked up to see Vaclav hovering in the doorway. He looked unkempt, wearing a sleeveless vest that revealed tattooed snakes chasing unseen prey up his muscular arms. At six feet three he towered over her, making her feel like a delicate doll.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked.

  ‘His name’s Timothy. I met him last time I was in London. He’s in town for a couple of days, that’s all.’

  Vaclav was frowning as though he didn’t believe her.

  She gave him a smile and tilted her head to one side. ‘Be an angel and buy me some cigarettes.’ She reached for the purse that was lying on the table and took out a note.

  He hesitated before taking it. ‘Where did he sleep last night?’

  ‘The sofa,’ she lied. Sometimes lies were easier.