Following Hell's example, I spent the day fishing. Like all good Czechs, Divka had a weekend cottage in the countryside. I sat in the backseat of her cramped Skoda, tenderly cradling our precious picnic basket in my arms, as she maneuvered the little wreck down potholed country roads. Immanuel sat beside her, occasionally bouncing through the sunroof. It was a very enjoyable ride, and Divka's driving was positively sedate compared to my other recent chauffeurs.
Divka's weekend retreat was a small shack by a little lake whose viridian surface waveringly mirrored a low range of tree-covered hills. We found some ancient fishing tackle that had belonged to her father and headed for the water. For me, that lazy afternoon in the sun was a blessed respite from the violence and anguish of the previous week. Sitting companionably on rocks at the edge of the lake, we whiled the time away. I munched ham sandwiches washed down with lots of Becherovka and incited the plump and placid ducks with my crumbs.
Warmed by the winter sun and the glow of Dr. Becher's fabulous herb liqueur, I eventually told Immanuel and Divka about Anastasia's abduction. They sat side by side, hand in hand, and listened to my tale of woe, nodding in unison like sympathetic birds. Couples are fortresses, and I felt both excluded and protected in the shadow of their commingled strength.
"Did I tell you, Wenceslas knows your Anastasia? She acted in a production of his play Salome. He thought she was great."
"I don't know how much acting Anastasia will be doing from now on," I replied heavily. "Axel believes in keeping them barefoot and pregnant apparently."
"He should be deported to Afghanistan!" Divka's eyes flashed with indignation. "It is disgusting that the British should help him kidnap her. Wenceslas is the chairman of the European Human Rights Commission. Do you want him to make a big stink?"
"Maybe not just yet, Divka," I replied cautiously, remembering my encounters with the Czech police. "Let me ask Otto first."
"So Otto thinks that your friend Godfrey told Killjoy-Yuck where you were, and Killjoy-Yuck told Axel?" Immanuel asked doubtfully. "It seems too complicated."
"There are so many others who could have also called Axel," Divka added. "What about Gauss's bodyguards? One of them could have been an informer. Or maybe even Prince Ludwig. Didn't he force Anastasia to marry Axel in the first place?"
I shook my head. "You're right, Divka. We can't rule anyone out. But this isn't just your average messy divorce. There's the whole Katholic connection as well with the Cardinal in cahoots with Axel to bring back the Holy Roman Emperor bloodline. And Axel knew who I was. He knew I was going back to Prague. Nobody could have told him that except Godfrey."
"I still don't understand what Terence Killjoy-Yuck gets out of this," Immanuel objected. "You said he was your tutor at Oxford… I don't mean to pry, but what exactly did you have to do for him?"
"I wasn't his bum-boy, if that's what you mean."
"So why did he send you to Prague in the first place?"
"Takes a philosopher to ask the obvious question," I replied irascibly. "I've been chewing over that one since the day I arrived. My friend Lulu thought I was being sent here as a scapegoat."
"For Lucy's murder?"
"This was before Lucy's murder." I hesitated. "I think Terence planted me here for some other reason. I don't think he wanted Lucy murdered. Rasputin confessed that he was just supposed to kidnap her."
"Why would Terence want Lucy kidnapped?"
"He knew Xox and Lucy were lovers. Maybe he wanted to hold her for ransom. Or just get the dirt on Xox."
"What I still don't understand is this connection between Lucy and Rasputin," Divka interrupted. "He didn't have to find her, she took a taxi to go to the train station where she so conveniently runs into her murderer. And then again in Berlin."
"You buy this body-stealing shit?" Immanuel sniffed.
"It takes a philosopher to ignore the facts," Divka retorted. "Can you come up with a better explanation?"
Immanuel and Divka bickered all the way on the long ride back to Prague. By the time they dropped me at the university building, they were no longer on talking terms. It was past midnight, time to go to bed. I let myself into the building with my spare entry card, which I had thoughtfully preserved. I longed for a night of rest, of darkness and quiet, of deep sleep unmarred by unnerving conspiracies or dreams. I wondered idly if Lady Rudolphine was already asleep or if she would insist on administering another dose of her mysterious ointment, Lethe. What was it all about?
Just then a dark form glided over. "I was waiting for you to come to my room all day," a husky voice murmured. "You did not obey my orders. Come with me now and I will punish you." Sharp fingernails lightly grazed my neck and slid down inside the back of my shirt onto my shoulders. I shivered. Marya Madlenova took my hand and led me down the darkened corridor towards the elevator. I sighed deeply. No rest for the wicked.
Expecting some dank dungeon where I would be tormented with molten wax by noseless executioners, I blinked in surprise as Marya Madlenova led me into her lush boudoir, silken cushions and buttery soft spreads scattered everywhere, all silvery pink and lime green, a faint perfume in the air like distant atonal music. Madlenova released my hand and smiled. "Would you like some tea?" she murmured.
"Yes, please," I said, looking around me in wonder. "Are we still in the university building?"
Madlenova laughed, a low voluptuous laugh as she busied herself with the tea. Watching her graceful movements, again I was disconcerted by a sense of something strange, as though she were lacking a limb. She handed me a porcelain cup so sheer that the steaming liquid within glowed through, golden, translucent. "Money makes life very simple," she observed. "Do you like the tea?"
I held the cup to my face and took a sip. "It's exquisite. The incomparable bouquet of first-picked small-leaf Darjeeling but there is something else in here too..."
"Well, well," Madlenova interrupted quickly. "I see you know something about tea."
"A little." I didn't tell her that I had spent my last two winter vacations playing hooky: instead of going skiing in the French Alps with rich friends, as I had promised my mother, who is constantly concerned that I don't make enough useful contacts, I had worked on tea plantations in the foothills of the Himalayas, back-breaking work for laughable wages, but also the priceless pleasure of holding a freshly plucked and gently bruised tea leaf, its perfume wafting into my quivering nostrils like the morning mist on a sunny hillside. This tea had all that but there was another aroma as well, the smell of algae rotting in the sea, the fragrance of over-ripe femininity...
Madlenova curled up against me. We drank our tea in silence. Warm waves of well-being rippled softly through me, but also an odd foreboding. She looked up and smiled again, not the predatory sneer I had seen earlier in the afternoon but a gentle smile, the grave smile of a sensitive and trusting child grown old before its time. Knowing that I would regret it, I stroked her silky hair and flinched at the static charge that jolted my hand. A short eternity later, we were lying together in her bed.
Expecting pain, I received only pleasure, the simple pleasure of holding a soft slim warm body, the pleasure of affectionate murmurs and liquid kisses and gentle caresses which led to a love-making which felt like walking together, hand in hand, in the moonlight. We fell asleep curled up together like two little kittens.
But when I woke up next morning, Marya Madlenova was staring at me sullenly, her eyes like brooding yellow slits in the face of a jungle cat. "Get out of here," she snarled. "I never want to see you again."
"What did I do?" I asked, bewildered.
"I've never been so humiliated in my life. Get out."
I scrambled into my wrinkled clothes. "Won't you tell me what I did..." I began again weakly.
"Out!" she screamed wildly. "Out!"
"Okay, okay," I mumbled and went in search of fresh clothes and an explanation.
Divka's weekend retreat was a small shack by a little lake whose viridian surface waveringly mirrored a low range of tree-covered hills. We found some ancient fishing tackle that had belonged to her father and headed for the water. For me, that lazy afternoon in the sun was a blessed respite from the violence and anguish of the previous week. Sitting companionably on rocks at the edge of the lake, we whiled the time away. I munched ham sandwiches washed down with lots of Becherovka and incited the plump and placid ducks with my crumbs.
Warmed by the winter sun and the glow of Dr. Becher's fabulous herb liqueur, I eventually told Immanuel and Divka about Anastasia's abduction. They sat side by side, hand in hand, and listened to my tale of woe, nodding in unison like sympathetic birds. Couples are fortresses, and I felt both excluded and protected in the shadow of their commingled strength.
"Did I tell you, Wenceslas knows your Anastasia? She acted in a production of his play Salome. He thought she was great."
"I don't know how much acting Anastasia will be doing from now on," I replied heavily. "Axel believes in keeping them barefoot and pregnant apparently."
"He should be deported to Afghanistan!" Divka's eyes flashed with indignation. "It is disgusting that the British should help him kidnap her. Wenceslas is the chairman of the European Human Rights Commission. Do you want him to make a big stink?"
"Maybe not just yet, Divka," I replied cautiously, remembering my encounters with the Czech police. "Let me ask Otto first."
"So Otto thinks that your friend Godfrey told Killjoy-Yuck where you were, and Killjoy-Yuck told Axel?" Immanuel asked doubtfully. "It seems too complicated."
"There are so many others who could have also called Axel," Divka added. "What about Gauss's bodyguards? One of them could have been an informer. Or maybe even Prince Ludwig. Didn't he force Anastasia to marry Axel in the first place?"
I shook my head. "You're right, Divka. We can't rule anyone out. But this isn't just your average messy divorce. There's the whole Katholic connection as well with the Cardinal in cahoots with Axel to bring back the Holy Roman Emperor bloodline. And Axel knew who I was. He knew I was going back to Prague. Nobody could have told him that except Godfrey."
"I still don't understand what Terence Killjoy-Yuck gets out of this," Immanuel objected. "You said he was your tutor at Oxford… I don't mean to pry, but what exactly did you have to do for him?"
"I wasn't his bum-boy, if that's what you mean."
"So why did he send you to Prague in the first place?"
"Takes a philosopher to ask the obvious question," I replied irascibly. "I've been chewing over that one since the day I arrived. My friend Lulu thought I was being sent here as a scapegoat."
"For Lucy's murder?"
"This was before Lucy's murder." I hesitated. "I think Terence planted me here for some other reason. I don't think he wanted Lucy murdered. Rasputin confessed that he was just supposed to kidnap her."
"Why would Terence want Lucy kidnapped?"
"He knew Xox and Lucy were lovers. Maybe he wanted to hold her for ransom. Or just get the dirt on Xox."
"What I still don't understand is this connection between Lucy and Rasputin," Divka interrupted. "He didn't have to find her, she took a taxi to go to the train station where she so conveniently runs into her murderer. And then again in Berlin."
"You buy this body-stealing shit?" Immanuel sniffed.
"It takes a philosopher to ignore the facts," Divka retorted. "Can you come up with a better explanation?"
Immanuel and Divka bickered all the way on the long ride back to Prague. By the time they dropped me at the university building, they were no longer on talking terms. It was past midnight, time to go to bed. I let myself into the building with my spare entry card, which I had thoughtfully preserved. I longed for a night of rest, of darkness and quiet, of deep sleep unmarred by unnerving conspiracies or dreams. I wondered idly if Lady Rudolphine was already asleep or if she would insist on administering another dose of her mysterious ointment, Lethe. What was it all about?
Just then a dark form glided over. "I was waiting for you to come to my room all day," a husky voice murmured. "You did not obey my orders. Come with me now and I will punish you." Sharp fingernails lightly grazed my neck and slid down inside the back of my shirt onto my shoulders. I shivered. Marya Madlenova took my hand and led me down the darkened corridor towards the elevator. I sighed deeply. No rest for the wicked.
Expecting some dank dungeon where I would be tormented with molten wax by noseless executioners, I blinked in surprise as Marya Madlenova led me into her lush boudoir, silken cushions and buttery soft spreads scattered everywhere, all silvery pink and lime green, a faint perfume in the air like distant atonal music. Madlenova released my hand and smiled. "Would you like some tea?" she murmured.
"Yes, please," I said, looking around me in wonder. "Are we still in the university building?"
Madlenova laughed, a low voluptuous laugh as she busied herself with the tea. Watching her graceful movements, again I was disconcerted by a sense of something strange, as though she were lacking a limb. She handed me a porcelain cup so sheer that the steaming liquid within glowed through, golden, translucent. "Money makes life very simple," she observed. "Do you like the tea?"
I held the cup to my face and took a sip. "It's exquisite. The incomparable bouquet of first-picked small-leaf Darjeeling but there is something else in here too..."
"Well, well," Madlenova interrupted quickly. "I see you know something about tea."
"A little." I didn't tell her that I had spent my last two winter vacations playing hooky: instead of going skiing in the French Alps with rich friends, as I had promised my mother, who is constantly concerned that I don't make enough useful contacts, I had worked on tea plantations in the foothills of the Himalayas, back-breaking work for laughable wages, but also the priceless pleasure of holding a freshly plucked and gently bruised tea leaf, its perfume wafting into my quivering nostrils like the morning mist on a sunny hillside. This tea had all that but there was another aroma as well, the smell of algae rotting in the sea, the fragrance of over-ripe femininity...
Madlenova curled up against me. We drank our tea in silence. Warm waves of well-being rippled softly through me, but also an odd foreboding. She looked up and smiled again, not the predatory sneer I had seen earlier in the afternoon but a gentle smile, the grave smile of a sensitive and trusting child grown old before its time. Knowing that I would regret it, I stroked her silky hair and flinched at the static charge that jolted my hand. A short eternity later, we were lying together in her bed.
Expecting pain, I received only pleasure, the simple pleasure of holding a soft slim warm body, the pleasure of affectionate murmurs and liquid kisses and gentle caresses which led to a love-making which felt like walking together, hand in hand, in the moonlight. We fell asleep curled up together like two little kittens.
But when I woke up next morning, Marya Madlenova was staring at me sullenly, her eyes like brooding yellow slits in the face of a jungle cat. "Get out of here," she snarled. "I never want to see you again."
"What did I do?" I asked, bewildered.
"I've never been so humiliated in my life. Get out."
I scrambled into my wrinkled clothes. "Won't you tell me what I did..." I began again weakly.
"Out!" she screamed wildly. "Out!"
"Okay, okay," I mumbled and went in search of fresh clothes and an explanation.
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