Ladies and Gentlemen, please! Enjoy the show.
- Palace of Ballet, 14th January, 1925.
Edgar looked at Juraj and winked.
‘You had this all along and you didn’t tell me? You had me believe we were on a dead trail! I’d thought I’d saved the day for a moment there but you had me along, and for what good reason?’ scoffed Juraj with a childlike groan and arms crossed.
Smiling and clearly amused at his own rouse, Edgar placed his hand upon Juraj’s shoulder and simply spoke with the utmost clear tone that commanded he listen. ‘Young lad, do you think I am the best detective in Moscow by travelling to places unknown without any sort of clue or idea of where I am going? Please, I would not disrespect you in such ways for your profession, but as for my performance earlier, it has been a long journey and I did enjoy the amusement and look on your face.’ A kind warmth emitted from Edgar’s eyes, for he did pity the naive young man and, knowing he had just lost his dear beloved brother, it was all he could do to take his mind off the tragedy—if only for a brief moment.
‘Well, you clearly played me for a fool, and what’s more, I wouldn’t like to play you at poker—you surely do hold a good gambit,’ stated Juraj with a slightly improved mood. ‘But what say you? Where did you find this pamphlet?’ he inquired.
A new smile and a twinkle in Edgar’s eye emerged as he revealed his source to the young, wondering pupil. ‘Your own mother, of course—she is quite aware—’ Edgar stopped and, with a cough and look of pity, he screwed up his lips and started again. ‘She was quite aware of your brother’s exploits, and the ballet in Bratislava is well known to all in Czechoslovakia, is it not?’
Conceding to the great master’s wisdom, Juraj nodded and realized he did indeed have much to catch up on if he was to provide any further use to Edgar on this investigation. He truly felt like a burden now.
‘The snow is starting to fall and I have little but a name,’ started Edgar, shuffling his feet and blowing warmth into his hands, the air met with a white cloud that took a moment to dissipate. ‘Of course, the good news is I have you, Juraj.’
Edgar spoke with a warm smile; his eyes twinkled a little and he placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder once more. Juraj could not help but feel comforted by his presence and manner. Yes, he was stern, sharp, and frightfully persistent, but Juraj could sense there was a good heart under that strong Soviet armour.
‘We know that Lady Cortinova will know where to find Lenka, but at this hour her dance hall will be closed,’ stated Juraj. ‘We must find another way to reach her.’
Juraj paced and tapped his hands at his trouser pockets, drumming to a rhythm as he walked in a small circle. He made fresh tracks in the ever-thickening snow that laid with affirmative precedence on the cold ground before them.
‘This particular predicament is easy to solve, dear Juraj,’ said Edgar, smiling with self-assured confidence. ‘A woman who is no doubt as beautiful as Lenka will be known by more than just her employer.’
Juraj could sense Edgar was pleased with himself and, without question, had a ruse to discover her whereabouts. Unable to withstand the tension any longer, Juraj burst with expectation.
‘Do tell then, Edgar! Who will help us find her?’
Smirking with delight, Edgar leaned in close to Juraj’s ear.
‘Are you thirsty, Juraj?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Take me to the best place to drink in all of Bratislava.’
Though Juraj had never been himself, it was clear where he would take Edgar—the Halls of the Hrad was, without question, the place for anyone in Bratislava to go when they required fine ale, beer and, more to the locals’ liking, spirits.
After a short five minute walk, they arrived, bursting through the large wooden oak door that had ale casket carvings and a castle with four pointed towers. They were greeted by a bevvy of humming and clustered voices, as well as the warmth of the deep building, which was buried into a cosy nook within the streets of the main city itself.
Edgar smiled as he looked around, the people enjoying themselves in a collection of laughter and comradery. Smells of ale and red meat cooking provided a comforting welcome and Juraj appeared excited by the commotion. The men wore white shirts with black jackets and shoes and cordial brown trousers. The women were dressed in neat traditional white dresses, with bands of red ribbons draped across their blouse, their hair tied smartly into buns. The buzz of excitement in the air was electric and all of the troubles Juraj faced back home seemed far away.
‘What would you like to drink, vodka I suspect?’ grinned Juraj.
‘Absolutely not,’ retorted Edgar, still grinning from ear to ear. ‘What else might you suggest instead—something local, perhaps?’
‘Then the matter is easy, it is decided—wait here, I’ll get this,’ Juraj offered.
Edgar took a seat on the well-made hand-crafted wooden chairs and tables and peered around the room as if searching for something. As Juraj waited by the bar to order the drinks, he asked himself what the next play would be. He had not known what exactly they were doing here yet, but, quite frankly, he welcomed the respite after a long day of travel and tremendous emotional turmoil. Anything to relieve himself of grief—if only for a moment—would do him well.
The arching of the room made for quite a spectacle, with trophies of animal hunts hung proudly on the walls, complete with pictures of strong men working in the woods, axes and spades in hand alike. A sense of community was apparent to Edgar—the people appeared to be close, well-bonded, and liked one another. He thought of home for a moment, where life could also be trying at times, and the cold harsh winters in Moscow married with a relentless persistent government agenda made him question his own place and morality in the world.
Juraj startled Edgar, who was caught within his own thoughts, when he abruptly sat down opposite him. He had two small glasses in hand containing clear liquid.
‘Slivovica,’ smiled Juraj, his eyes bright with youthful vigour.
‘And what, may I ask, exactly is Slivovica?’ questioned Edgar, a look of slight trepidation sewn across his face.
‘It is like vodka, but made from plums,’ started Juraj, ‘only, this is better.’ Smirking cheerfully, Juraj raised his glass.
‘Is that so?’ replied Edgar, a wide grin spreading across his face, unable to contain his amusement and fondness of the amiable young aristocrat. He too raised his glass to meet Juraj’s in the centre of the table; they looked at one another with mutual respect and civility.
‘Na zdravie!’ exclaimed Juraj.
‘Na zdorov’ya!’ replied Edgar.
Both laughing, they swallowed their drinks and banged their glasses down loudly on the table.
‘Not bad,’ said Edgar. ‘Not bad at all.’
Smiling with nationalistic pride, Juraj nodded his head in appreciation, gleeful happy to have assisted in being a gracious host to the renowned and respected detective from the East.
Juraj shuffled within his seat as his face revealed his thoughts: he looked trouble once more.
‘The last time I saw him, he was in such good spirits. He had plans for us to celebrate my upcoming birthday.’
‘Who, Peter?’ questioned Edgar.
‘Yes, he was always there for me like that, you know. My big brother. I miss him terribly, Edgar. I cannot express the pain that lingers inside my heart. His loss is felt deep within me and the city of Prague is bleeding for it. His death is not only a loss for our family, but it is an attack on the symbolism and hope of a nation of people—good people, Edgar. We Czechoslovaks work hard. We earn our place in this world, and when the world has nothing to give us, we work hard to find our own. My family, my mother, she has done a lot for the City of Prague, but maybe you know this already.’
‘I am aware,’ responded Edgar calmly.
‘I do not know what happens next, Edgar. The repercussions of these actions...the Soviet state is clearly concerned for they have sent you, but th
is is bigger than you or I, or even Peter—it represents something larger.’ Juraj sighed and took another look around the room, the party atmosphere continued to rage on in spite of his troubled thoughts; the room blissfully unaware of the torment that lay within this one man’s soul.
‘We’ve had enemies, Edgar. There is no doubt of that. There are some who would see an end to the Teralov family’s power, but I did not think anyone would be brave enough to dare it, to truly take action. You see, the problem is, if a Teralov is not safe in Prague, no one is. The city faces trying times and with all respect to your good self, sir, the Soviet state seeks to reach its arm further into the West, to tighten its grip and stronghold. I mean you no offence, but surely you can see the dilemma? An uprising, or even a cultural revolution, could be sparked from this—the very ignition of an ember lit into a wildfire of infernos and destruction, sweeping across our proud nation. Oh, Edgar, the very thought of the disturbance and suffering strikes my heart with fear!’
‘I do see the problem Juraj, and that is why I am here. I can assure you I mean well and I fully understand I may not be welcomed by all in this nation, but I am neither here to make friends nor disrupt the order. The politics of Moscow are not for my concern or concentration. My task here is both simple and direct: find the person responsible for killing your brother and bring them to swift justice. If there is one assurance I can give you, Juraj, it is that an example will be made of whoever is accountable. No one will ever dare execute a Soviet, Teralov, or any other persons in this nation again after the fact. The hammer of the Soviet Union falls hard and strikes fast against its enemies, Juraj. You know this.’
The room continued to buzz with excitement and the light-heartedness of their environment made for a peculiar contrast to their topic of conversation. The talk was more fitting for a place of dark and desperate solitude than that of the most lively and upbeat drinking establishment in the whole of southern Czechoslovakia.
‘But enough of this!’ exclaimed Edgar, a bright smile now emerging from his face, his eyes shined fondly upon Juraj; the hum of the atmosphere gave him an almost transcendent persona.
‘I do not say this too often, Juraj—believe me, I do not. But I like you and I find your company to be quite decent, although I will confess I found you to be most intolerable at first.’ Juraj’s face remained blank, staring at Edgar with a questioning nature, but the sly grin creaking from the edges of his mouth made it almost impossible to not release a burst of laughter once again. The pair roared and howled together, a bizarre situation unlike any either had truly encountered before: a mutual understanding of an unlikely and unspoken friendship was clear.
‘For a Soviet,’ started Juraj, the words breaking in between jolts of laughter, ‘you are not so bad.’ Grinning, they enjoyed the moment whilst it lasted, a welcome break from the turmoil and woes that had led one another into each other’s paths in the first place.
‘Edgar?’ queried Juraj, his expression turning more serious now. ‘What exactly are we doing here? I mean, what are we really doing here?’
The detective looked around the room, without facing or responding to Juraj. His eyes rested on an area towards the back, where a few men and a congregation of women were talking and enjoying themselves, laughter and merrymaking booming through the halls of the establishment. Edgar smiled with satisfaction.
‘We are here for him,’ said Edgar, pointing at one man within the group, singling him out.
Clearly puzzled, Juraj could not help but ask questions. The existence of a random stranger within a beer hall and his relation to the case did not seem apparent to the young, inquisitive nobleman.
‘How so, Edgar?’
‘Come with me and I’ll show you an old Soviet trick.’
Hustling and brushing past the crowd, the flocks of people standing as they talked and drank, the inconspicuous pair pushed their way through. Edgar was leading the way, heading towards the corner of the room he had identified. Anxious and nerved now, Juraj was unsure of what to suspect and his senses began to heighten. The mustiness of the room, complete with the bodily odours compiled by the now-intensified heat of the room, made for a cocktail of epic nauseousness.
Finally, after what felt like much longer than it might have, they arrived near the group. The people were clearly in good spirits and enjoying themselves very much. Noticing the pair standing beside their table, the back and forth buzzing between them quickly simmered into silence, and the man Edgar pointed out was the first of them to speak.
‘Can we help you with something, grandfather?’
Speaking with obvious jest, the group burst into a haze of laugher, drunk and giddy with amusement at the proud detective’s expense. Edgar remained steadfast. In fact, Juraj noted he was beaming with delight—a wide-eyed smile, his arms open and clutching his stomach, laughing along too. Unimpressed, the man’s face became straighter, clearly annoyed his insult had not faltered or demoralized Edgar.
‘What do you want?’ the man now spat abruptly, with more anger than humour forming the undertone of his intent. He wore a white shirt with red leather breeches that strapped up and over his broad shoulders.
‘You are a man who knows people, are you not?’ spoke Edgar now for the first time, his eyes cast across the group and settling directly on his target of interest. Looking at one another with confusion, it was not the appearance of Edgar that startled them but his accent and the way in which he spoke. Juraj could sense it too: Edgar was not a man to be unreasoned with.
‘What is it to you, Soviet?’ the man hissed, his discontent for Edgar now clear and dangerously apparent.
‘Well, for one thing, I am here on official business—an envoy from Moscow, as you have correctly asserted,’ began Edgar calmly, not yet reacting with haste or impulse. ‘Another point you may take great credence and council in would be that of the fact I’ve duly noted your balance is lacklustre this evening. So, any physical confrontation we may find ourselves in would more likely be unfavourable for you.’
Bemused and off keel, the man stood to confront Edgar directly, clearly unimpressed and embarrassed in front of the group—he had his bravado to protect. Pushing his way out of the group, he met Edgar’s face, but not before Edgar had already placed his hand above the cuff of his collarbone, pressing deeply into a pressure point. It had the man squealing and crippled down onto his knees swifter than a hare jolting through the forest.
‘Okay, enough!’ he cried, ‘I submit. What is it you want from me?!’
‘Lady Cortinova’s girls,’ started Edgar, ‘do you know of them?’
‘Yes, of course!’
‘Where can I find them?’ ordered Edgar, his hand still gripped tightly over his victim, who lay crouched in submission.
‘Everyone knows Rena lives—’
‘Not that one,’ interrupted Edgar, ‘the other one, the new girl.’
‘Lenka?!’ the man shrieked, unable to endure the pain for much longer.
‘That’s the one. Where can we find her?’ demanded Edgar. Juraj’s face was a mixture of pale white and deep green as he stood helpless and aghast. He was a mirror image of the congregation who did not dare try to interrupt or assist their now fragile leader.
‘I heard she lives on Mudroňova Street, apartment block five—I don’t know her last name. It’s all I know, I swear it!’
Edgar released him from his grasp. The man quickly took his hand and rubbed at his shoulder, pawing and trying to provide some self-comfort, his pride more broken than any bone from the encounter. Looking at up his antagonist with tears in his eyes, the man whispered, ‘Who are you?’ complete fear pronounced within his voice.
Edgar gave a large smile, his teeth glistening as wrinkles under his eyes came alive once more, ‘I am Edgar Rollenvart, the Soviet detective who only requires your respect.’ Edgar’s face precipitated into one of stern disposition as the last words left his mouth and the man’s face mirrored his. Quietly, Edgar turned and motioned for Juraj to
follow; no one from the group dared to speak outright in protest or usher a single foot forward in offence.
6.
Arriving at block five, Edgar cracked at the frozen metal handle of the door and it creaked open. The glass panes were frosty and white from ever-growing snow that fell silently and crisp. It built layers that crunched as their boots traversed, laying imprints of detail that defined their chosen steps.
‘I’ll take the bottom floor, you go to the top. We’ll work our way until we meet in the middle, unless one of us finds her first, in which case, give out a shout!’ proclaimed Juraj, eager to prove to Edgar he was a man of action and came equipped with a plan.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ inquired Edgar, a look of astonishment and bewilderment across his face.
‘Lenka,’ whispered Juraj. ‘We know she is here, but we do not know which apartment she lives in!’ Juraj triumphantly exclaimed with a resounding assurance that he had the matter in hand.
‘My goodness,’ began Edgar, ‘how long have you lived in the Teralov Manor?’ he questioned.
Startled and dumbstruck, Juraj simply replied, ‘All of my life, why?’
Trying his utmost not to burst into a fit of obscure laughter, Edgar responded that it was clear as much. He pointed to the mailboxes that resided on the ground floor, which had every occupants’ name printed beside the opening.
‘You’ve not been in an apartment block recently, have you, dear nobleman?’ Edgar taunted, his mouth creasing at the sides, eyes glowing with amusement from Juraj’s naïve and sheltered ways.
‘Not recently,’ mumbled Juraj, shuffling awkwardly whilst staring at the metal boxes, scanning the names.
‘Here,’ said Edgar, as he stabbed a finger at one of the panels, ‘Lenka Martarova, apartment twenty-seven.’
Chuckling with more glee than he ought to, he beckoned for Juraj to follow, who did so whilst muttering something sheepishly about how not everybody was a detective, much to Edgar’s shrouded pleasure.
The halls echoed with the tapping of their footsteps as they proceeded down the long hallway, walking past wooden doors of the occupants’ apartments; quiet and eery, something felt amiss and awry to Edgar. The chill of the now frozen night had seeped its way inside the building and, with no apparent heating, his own breath could be made visible as he muttered to Juraj something about people not closing doors correctly.
The Affliction of Praha: A gripping murder mystery set in 1920s Czechoslovakia Page 4
