A Sojourn in Bohemia

by G. D. Falksen

  “That’s the truth,” Friedrich agreed. “An odd observation, but a true one.”

  “You’ve never taken fault with my odd observations,” Zoya said.

  “No, nor will I.” There was a pause as Friedrich wondered just how much time he had to make himself presentable. “When is Auntie arriving?”

  * * * *

  Ekaterine arrived promptly at the stroke of ten. She made a point of being punctual. There was no point in making appearances among the people of the outer world if one did not meet a proper schedule. She had the Shashavani reputation to uphold, even if no one else understood the significance.

  She knocked on the door of Friedrich’s dilapidated town house and waited politely to be seen in. It took two sets of knocks before the door was answered, but Ekaterine was in no hurry. The Doctor and Lord Iosef might have business in Prague, but she had none. It was no trouble to wait a few extra minutes for the amusement of having her portrait painted. Indeed, the entire trip was little more than a holiday!

  Eventually the door was answered by a bleary-eyed man with dark hair and a beard. He rubbed his face a few times before he managed to ask:

  “Hello? Who are you?”

  “I am Ekaterine Shashavani,” Ekaterine replied, smiling warmly and offering her hand.

  “Oh,” the man said, sounding a little confused. “I am…drunk.”

  “Splendid!” Ekaterine shook the man’s hand and, as she did, pushed her way inside the house. “I’m here to have my portrait painted. Isn’t that fun?”

  “Da?” the man replied. It was more of a question than an answer.

  “Goodness, Auntie!” came a cry from the top of the stairs.

  Ekaterine turned and saw Friedrich standing on the upstairs landing, looking rather unkempt but still a little handsome. A little. He did need to shave again, poor boy. The artist, Zoya, was at his side, and Ekaterine raised a hand to greet her.

  “Hello Miss Chromoluminarist,” Ekaterine said.

  “Muse!” Zoya exclaimed, and she rushed down the decaying stairs to greet Ekaterine. She stopped a few steps away and examined Ekaterine closely. “Yes…yes, this will do. You are bright with the sun, Muse. It pleases me.”

  Surprised at the comment, Ekaterine glanced behind herself, looking for the source of the comment. “The door is still open.”

  “All the same,” Zoya said.

  Taking Ekaterine’s hand, Zoya pulled her toward the parlor. Ekaterine looked toward Friedrich, who was now hurrying down the stairs toward them.

  “Hello Alis…er…Friedrich!” she called. “Wonderful to see you! Your mother sends her greetings…oh!”

  Ekaterine found herself pulled into the parlor with such force that she nearly lost her footing. She followed Zoya to a chair by the fireplace, near the easel and the table of painting supplies. The fire was burning low, barely as bright as the morning sun that trickled in from behind the shuttered windows. There were people lying half asleep on the sofa, the chairs, and the mattresses spread across the room. Ekaterine recognized some of them from her prior visit with Varanus; but there were a few assorted others whom she had not met before. It seemed that Friedrich’s home was a sort of flophouse for those of the artistic and revolutionary persuasions.

  She waited as Zoya opened a few windows to let in the sunlight and stoked the fire with an iron poker. The sudden influx of light brought about cries and oaths from the local sleepers who were caught in the brightness. In particular, Ekaterine recognized the Hungarian girl, Erzsebet, lying in the arms of the violinist, Stanislav. As the morning light washed across them, Erzsebet blinked a few times. Presently, she pushed away Stanislav’s arms and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  “By the fire, Muse!” Zoya exclaimed, leading Ekaterine to the chair by the fireplace. “Yes, yes, the light will be perfect for you!”

  Ekaterine sat and carefully arranged her skirts. She enjoyed the extravagance of these European dresses, though she had to confess a certain sadness at how they had changed in the ten years since she had last worn them regularly. They lacked the complexity that had previously entertained her. And the sleeves were dreadful.

  But no matter. She was someone’s muse. That was entertainment enough for her short sojourn in Prague.

  “Like this?” she asked, sitting by the fire and striking a pose with her chin on her palm.

  Zoya looked at her and sighed. “So very bourgeois. Still, it cannot be helped.”

  “Better bourgeois than aristocratic?” Ekaterine ventured. Truly, she had little interest in the mores of the modern world and equally little knowledge of prevailing political views.

  One of the half-slumbering revolutionaries scoffed. “Better an aristocrat than a bourgeoisie!” he grumbled. “Aristocracy will collapse on its own! The bourgeoisie must be torn down!”

  “Go back to sleep, Wilhelm!” Zoya snapped, as she continued posing Ekaterine.

  Ekaterine glanced toward the doorway and saw Friedrich enter, looking a little sheepish at the state of the place.

  “Do forgive the mess, Auntie,” he said, joining her. “I fear things can become rather chaotic when the wine is flowing.”

  “It sounds like I have been missing all the best parties,” Ekaterine replied, smiling at him. Friedrich was quite handsome and it was nice to smile in his company, but he was still Varanus’s son and that made it unthinkable to do anything else.

  “You could always join us some evening,” Friedrich told her.

  “And miss a delightful evening with Mister Stoker?” Ekaterine asked. She gasped at the thought. “Unthinkable. He has become my favorite comedian. Even Miss Radcliffe is jealous.”

  “Well, anyone who could supplant Ann Radcliffe…” Friedrich ventured with a little uncertainty.

  Ekaterine did not blame him for his half-heartedness. During their mutual stay in London ten years ago, Friedrich had ventured into the realm of the Gothic novel in an attempt to impress her. But since the whole ordeal had been overshadowed by murder and bloodshed, Ekaterine did not think it fair to consider the attempt any real success.

  Suddenly, the sound of loud meowing interrupted them both. Ekaterine looked down and saw a sizable cat with puffy white fur at her feet. It was probably an Angora from Turkey, if Ekaterine judged it right. It looked at her with big blue eyes and made noises like it expected her to pet it, or feed it, or conquer the world in its name; in all likelihood, any of the three would have sufficed in a pinch.

  “Why hello there,” Ekaterine said softly. She carefully reached out and stroked the cat’s fur. When it responded with pleased sounds, Ekaterine gently pulled the mass of fur into her lap. “And what is your name? I am going to call you Tinatin.”

  “That’s Jadwiga,” Zoya said, in the midst of mixing her paints.

  “Jadwiga?” Ekaterine asked. She didn’t necessarily dislike the name, but it was hardly a fitting name for a cat!

  “Stanislav named her,” Friedrich explained. “She’s named for the Queen of Poland in the fourteenth century. A magnificent monarch.”

  “That sounds like a marvelous pedigree,” Ekaterine agreed. She stroked the cat, who replied with an approving purr. “But her name is Tinatin, and I shall be adamant about that.”

  By now, Erzsebet had joined them. She yawned softly and asked, “Who is renaming the cat?”

  “Jadwiga,” Friedrich said.

  “Tinatin,” Ekaterine corrected.

  Friedrich sighed. “Jadwiga.”

  “Tinatin.”

  “Zoya,” Friedrich said, “please tell Aunt Ekaterine—”

  “I take the side of my muse,” Zoya answered. “Tinatin it is.”

  “But—” Friedrich protested.

  Zoya glanced at Ekaterine and nodded. “I like the cat. It adds a…je ne sais quoi. Very feline.”

  “Literally speaking, yes,” Ekaterine agreed, u
nable to hide a giggle.

  Zoya paused and then directed with her paintbrush.

  “Erzsebet, why don’t you sit by the muse while you both enjoy the fire. That’s right.… Her, the cat, you, the wall. There’s a theme here. I don’t know for certain what it is, but I’ll have it sorted out eventually.”

  “Oh!” Erzsebet exclaimed, sounding surprised and a little frightened at being addressed directly. She slowly knelt next to Ekaterine. “Like this?”

  Ekaterine took the girl’s hand and smiled at her. “Marvelous. Just like that.”

  This seemed to reassure Erzsebet, and she gave Ekaterine a quick smile in return.

  Zoya paused a moment and looked at them in the midst of her painting. “Perhaps a little to the right…” she ventured.

  “It’s perfect,” Ekaterine answered. Having successfully settled both Erzsebet and the cat into a comfortable pose, she was in no mood to displace either of them.

  Zoya looked at her and sighed, though the frustration was accompanied by the hint of a grin.

  “Oh, Muse, you’ll be the death of me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Early Spring, 1899

  Varanus had retired to the parlor to read, as she often did in the evening. Tonight she had a series of papers she had collected over the preceding years regarding the properties of Röntgen rays, advancements in the study of radiant matter, and in particular, new elements discovered through a careful examination of uraninite ore. Varanus made a note to secure a quantity of uraninite before returning home—after all, there was plenty of it mined there in Bohemia from the mountains along the German border. She was curious to see the reality of this “polonium” and “radium” and to study their properties firsthand. And with her examination of the Shashavani condition slowly stumbling into forced inactivity, perhaps the science of radioactivity would offer her a sufficient diversion.

  She looked up from her reading and rubbed her eyes. The room was very dark, even for her sight. It must be quite late, for the fire had burned down until it was now little more than coals. Varanus had turned the gaslights down for privacy when she first arrived in the parlor, and in the absence of the firelight, their illumination was feeble and flickering.

  What hour is it? she wondered. The windows were heavily curtained so they gave no indication. It might be well into the small hours for all she knew.

  Varanus reached for the pocket watch that dangled with her ring of house keys from a chain at her waist. She checked the time and found it to be a quarter to midnight. Not at all late by her standards, but still.… For all she knew, the whole house had already retired for bed. Well, most of the house at any rate. Ekaterine would still be up, giggling by candlelight at some literary absurdity, and Lord Iosef’s hours were as unpredictable as those that Varanus kept. And after all, he did have a guest.

  She did not hear the door as it opened, nor did she hear the steps of the person who entered, muffled as they were by the heavy carpet. But still, Varanus knew that someone was there. She turned in her chair and looked toward the doorway. She saw a figure there, silhouetted in black against the flickering shadows of the hall, looming in the darkness, ominous, sinister, and indistinct.

  “Good evening, Fräulein,” Julius said, as he advanced into the parlor. He kept his aristocratic poise, but still he smiled warmly at the sight of her. “I hope I have not disturbed you.”

  Varanus smiled a little. “Not at all, Fremder. I was reading by firelight.”

  “What precious little there is of it,” Julius noted.

  “All the more reason for a distraction,” Varanus said.

  She reached for a poker by the fireplace and stoked the fire. Though reduced to coals and ashes, the fire blossomed at the poker’s touch, pushing back the darkness with a gentle amber glow.

  “Have you and my husband finished for the evening?” Varanus asked.

  “Only just,” Julius answered. “The art of translation is as arduous as it is rewarding.” He motioned to the vacant armchair next to Varanus. “May I sit?”

  Varanus laughed softly and replied, “Of course, Count. To think that you should need to ask by now. This has rather become our weekly ritual, hasn’t it?”

  “I suppose it has,” Julius agreed as he sat in the adjacent chair. The dim light of the fire warmed his face as he smiled at Varanus and glinted in his clear blue eyes. “During the day I have my conversations with your husband, and at night I have my conversations with you, Fräulein. And truly, I cannot say which I enjoy more.”

  There was something in his tone that hinted he did know, but that he knew better than to confess it. It was hardly appropriate for a man to admit to enjoying the company of his friend’s wife more than that of his friend, but the hint of it made Varanus laugh softly. That was the thing with Julius: she could never quite tell if his decorum was sincere or playful, and she found the uncertainty quite enjoyable.

  “Well, I won’t tell Lord Iosef,” she said. “Your secret is safe.”

  Julius chuckled. “Thank you, Fräulein,” he said, using the name he had called her by when they first met. It had become something of a joke between them over the past few months: the Fräulein and the Fremder, the Maiden and the Stranger, even though neither was true.

  “I would not want His Highness to object to my visiting his wife in private every evening,” Julius continued. He paused and the corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Oh dear, that sounded rather dreadful, didn’t it?”

  “Only slightly,” Varanus said. “And besides, it isn’t every night. Only once or twice a week. I hear even the crowned heads of Europe do that.”

  “How right you are, Fräulein,” Julius said, gently inclining his head toward her. “If an evening rendezvous is proper for the House of Habsburg, twice a week must be acceptable for us.”

  The two of them looked at each other and shared a quiet laugh. Varanus rested her chin on her hand and smiled at Julius.

  “You are a wicked man, Count von Raabe,” she said. “If these past weeks had not taught me otherwise, I might believe that you meant something untoward.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Julius replied softly, though his tone and his smile said quite the opposite. “I am a gentleman, of course. A gentleman does not make insinuations in the house of a friend.”

  “He does other things,” Varanus agreed.

  “Like have conversations,” Julius answered.

  Varanus grinned at him. After a moment’s pause, she asked, “Would you care for a drink, Count?”

  “Julius,” he corrected. “As I am ever reminding both you and His Highness, it is simply Julius. And yes, I would enjoy a drink, as long as you will join me.”

  “Of course, Julius,” Varanus agreed.

  She started to rise from her chair, but Julius quickly stood and stopped her.

  “Allow me, please,” he said, flashing a smile. “I like to be of use.”

  Varanus could not hide a smirk as she replied, “Thank you, Julius. There should be a decanter of brandy on that table there.”

  It was probably Luka’s, but he would survive her using it. As Julius faded into the shadows in search of the drinks, Varanus turned her eyes toward the low-burning fire. She gazed at the embers as they popped and danced upon the hearth, and she felt herself smiling again. She did very much enjoy her conversations with Julius, however they might joke about them.

  “Ah, I have found it!” Julius announced from the darkness. His words were soon accompanied by the soft clink of glass upon glass and the sound of pouring liquid.

  Varanus glanced in Julius’s direction and caught sight of his chair. There was Korbinian, seated just as Julius had been only a minute before. Korbinian’s face was pale, his eyes were sad, and a single droplet of blood trickled down his cheek.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Liebchen?” he asked.

  “I am,
” Varanus answered, her voice barely a whisper. Despite herself she was angry with Korbinian for having interrupted the pleasant stillness of the evening.

  “And what a charming man is the Count von Raabe, yes?”

  “We are only having a conversation.”

  Korbinian smiled sadly. “I am told that is what the Habsburgs do.”

  “Are you jealous, my love?” Varanus asked softly.

  “Liebchen…” Korbinian murmured. “Of course. What man could not be jealous of you?”

  Varanus felt herself shiver as Korbinian continued to look into her eyes with his mournful gaze. He seemed not quite sad and not quite angry, but altogether troubled. Jealousy indeed.

  “Ah, and here we are,” Julius said, almost making Varanus jump with surprise. He stepped around the now-empty chair and offered a glass of brandy to Varanus before sitting and taking a sip of his own.

  “Thank you, Julius,” Varanus said. Her voice was distant, distracted by the vision of Korbinian, so she quickly blinked a few times to right herself. Korbinian was clearly in one of his moods, and that was no concern of hers.

  “Truly,” Julius continued, “though it is pleasant to jest about it, I would never seek to cause disruption between you and the Prince. Such a charming household should never be troubled by romantic intrigues.”

  “It is very gentlemanly of you to make that clear, Julius,” Varanus said. “But in truth, I do not think he would much mind.”

  “For one so young, he has a very broad-minded view of his wife,” Julius mused. He sounded concerned about this. “It is not my place to pry, of course, but.…”

  Varanus laughed. “It is not a loveless marriage. You need not fear that I am a beleaguered woman pining away in silence and propriety.”

  “Good,” Julius said, his smile quickly returning. He reached out and placed one hand atop hers. “For were that the case, I would be obliged to do something about it.”

  “As a gentleman?” Varanus ventured, smirking.

  “As a gentleman,” Julius agreed.