Aria in Ice

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I nodded to one of the ladies and gestured toward the instrument. Both women began chattering in Czech. I couldn’t understand a word, but the gesture made by the shorter speaker obviously was an indication that I was welcome to provide some music for us all if I so desired. I didn’t attempt to sit on the fragile stool. I wasn’t sure it could hold the weight of a cat and though Johnny teases me for being ‘teensy’ (five-two, a hundred and two pounds of solid muscle even after a gargantuan Tex-Mex dinner) that’s still bigger than the majority of felines.

  I pressed the keys for a C major chord then winced in pain. The harpsichord hadn’t been tuned in at least a century. I do have near-perfect pitch, but even someone with a poor musical ear would shudder at the discordant sound. I stepped away, hiding my glee. Shay would declare it ”truly awesome.” Garishly pitched notes from this sad, neglected piece of musical history would add the right touch for the scene where the sexy, but scarred Count Zilania falls in love with his beautiful ward, Honoria.

  The ladies led me further into the ballroom. I stopped when I saw what lay half-hidden behind a beaded screen at the far end of the room. It appeared to be a black marble coffin. I turned to ask where this piece of furniture came from (if one could call a coffin furniture) but was interrupted by the entrance of my original companion.

  She slowly made her way down the gigantic staircase, lifting her ankle-length gown just high enough so she wouldn’t trip, then glided across the ballroom to greet me with a beatific smile and I quickly realized she was serious—our brief encounter in the graveyard had never happened. Quick improv into “never seen you before we were at the front door together” land.

  Her eyes bored into mine. “You are girl promised from real estate agent?”

  “Yes. I believe Mr. Zelenka called this morning? I’m Abby Fouchet. Currently acting as location scout for Headlights Productions. Um. Did Mr. Zelenka tell you we’re looking to rent for about four months?”

  She nodded. “He deed. We are most heppy to meet you. Oh, I am zo sorry. I haf not the introduction myself. I am Madam Veronika Duskova, owner of Kouzlo Noc. These are my sisters, who lif with me. Marta and Trina.”

  The ladies bowed. I bowed. I felt certain that the siblings, aside from Madam Veronika, only spoke Czech. Marta, Trina and Veronika. M. T. V. The final lyrics of the old Dire Straits tune, Money for Nothing, came rushing through my brain.

  I pulled my focus back to Madam Duskova. “Very nice to meet you. All of you. You have a gorgeous home. I assume the castle has been in your family for years?”

  Veronika nodded. “For plenty centuries. We haf live here through King Karel IV in 14th Century, und ze Hussites und Hapsburgs und Emperor Jozef through communists.” She spat. “Pigs. Und now, wid new Czech Republic. Iss better. Zey do not understand yet aristocracy, but iss better than Soviet rule, no?”

  The woman couldn’t have been over seventy-five years old, but from the way she stated “we” I had the impression she and her two nodding sisters had resided in Kouzlo Noc during every one of those centuries. I shivered, hoping I wasn’t about to have an out-of body experience into the Seventeen-Hundreds. The last time that happened I experienced a little exchange of dialogue with Johnny’s father, Kieran, thirty years into the future. I preferred to stay in my own time. Veronika saw that little body shake.

  “Ah, I haf no manners. You come in and haf tea now. Iss chilly out, no? You Americans. Never do you dress warm enough here. I put fire on as well.”

  She gestured toward a walk-in fireplace big enough to roast a large-sized boar. Doubtless more than one pig had met his doom there courtesy of hungry Duskovas. Tongs with gargoyle heads rested alongside a poker that had to be at least six feet tall. The top of the poker featured the unfriendly visage of a dragon—must be first cousin to the doorknockers. I couldn’t help wonder how many murders had been committed using that dragon as weapon of choice. The shorter sister (Marta?) picked up the poker, presumably to sift through ashes before starting a nice fire. Veronika and Trina ushered me across the hall into a salon.

  I released the breath I’d been holding since first seeing the dragon-headed poker in the hands of someone a foot shorter than the deadly instrument. The ladies led me to a sitting area complete with café table, dainty chairs, reading lamps, and a window seat offering comfort and doubtless a spectacular view of the countryside and river below.

  I turned to Veronika. “Do you mind if I sit on the window seat? This view is truly breathtaking.”

  Marta appeared, without the poker, just in time to join her sisters in nodding. Veronika spoke for all. “Iss fine. Iss nice to see view. Hass been in family many year. Tapestry made by ancestor from Emperor Jozef. No one buried under seat for two centuries now. I get tea for you now.”

  Chapter 4

  Veronika and her sisters exited the small space, leaving me gaping at the embroidered fabric that topped the window seat. The scene depicted was that of a sienna-colored horse bearing the image of a knight prepping to throw a silver lance at a group of beige and brown-clad peasants. The lance appeared bloodstained and the peasants were obviously scared witless.

  I swallowed hard. I had no desire for the murdered spirit of some hapless enemy of the Duskova family to rise up from the window seat and plead for my intercession in his quest for justice and vengeance.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  I turned to watch the taller sister (Trina?) who was inching her way into the salon. The slow pace was doubtless due to the fact that she was struggling to carry a huge platter of pastries, cream and sugar pitchers, and dainty napkins stamped with the visage of dragons. Sis Numero Dos, Marta, was close behind her, bearing a tray with what had to be a teapot. Hard to tell. It was hidden by a ‘cozy’ displaying an agitated black rooster crowing at his harem of six depressed chickens decked out in canary yellow bibs. Veronika allowed her sisters to play servant while she smiled and gestured toward a dainty chair on the far side of the café table. I smiled back.

  “Thank you, ladies. Yes, cream and sugar would be lovely. And, oh my! Kolaches. I love them. Especially the ricotta cheese and poppy seed.”

  Veronika’s eyebrows shot into the top of her tightly bound hair. “You haf had kolace? You haf been in Prague how long?”

  “Oh, it’s not from being in Prague. I grew up in El Paso, Texas but had buddies from Austin to Dallas which meant stopovers in West—this little town that’s primarily Czech. West is really name of the town, not the geographic location. The owner of the film company, Bambi Bohacek, comes from West and she’s always getting her mom to send kolaches as care packages to New York. There’s a marvelous bakery not too far off the interstate that make fresh kolaches daily and Mrs. Bohacek just goes in and buys them out. Yummy. I’m beyond addicted to these guys.”

  Veronika’s eyes glazed a bit. “Ah.”

  Any conversation we’d’ve attempted came to a halt while we drank very strong tea from very delicate cups. Then the sisters watched, squealing with delight, as their crazy American guest devoured five of the kolaches. They did not partake. For those uninitiated as to the delights of Czech baked goods, kolaches are a sweet breakfast pastry. They can be filled with fruit, cheese, poppy seed, almond paste, or for a heartier meal, with sausage. I’ll eat any of them with whatever stuffings are inside.

  I finished with a particularly fat little treat made with apple filling, sat back, thanked God for great cooks, then politely dabbed at my mouth with the linen napkin. Madam Veronika Duskova knew a satisfied customer when she saw one.

  It was time for negotiations to begin.

  “So, Mees Fouchet…”

  “Abby. Please call me Abby, Madam Duskova.”

  She nodded but did not return the favor of casual address. Madam D she was and Madam D she would remain—at least to her face.

  “Ab-bee. How much iss film company weeling to pay for use of Kouzlo Noc?”

  I named a price. It was a nice price. I’m a good performer, trying also to be a good location manage
r, but I’m a lousy bargainer. I knew Shay would adore this castle. The distance from Prague was right. The turrets and stairs and moat had a great fantasy look that was needed for outside shots. The ballroom was tailor-made for the inside musical numbers. The harpsichord alone would be worth renting the whole castle, even if a single note never sounded. The marble coffin was a bonus. In a word—perfect. I wasn’t going to quibble over price. For all her “go with cheap, Abby, Bambi is so poor,” grumblings, Shay was well aware that Ms. Bohacek had some very wealthy backers lined up for this project. Headlights Productions could afford to pay the Duskova family a tidy sum for the privilege of invading their castle for a few months.

  But before I signed over any of the company’s funds, part of my job was detailing precisely what we were buying.

  “Ladies. Kouzlo Noc seems to be just what we’re looking for, but I need to ask whether we’d be allowed access to any of the rooms upstairs. We don’t want to toss anyone from a bedroom, but we very much could use several turrets, uh, towers. We also could use a small room for some of the more intimate moments in the movie. Not every scene will be a big song and dance number in the ballroom. And we’ll also want some shots of the door areas with the dragons and everything. And probably the cemetery as well. I mean the newer one.”

  Veronika bit her lip, then turned and began a rapid-fire discussion in Czech with her sisters. I say ‘discussion’ but it was really a monologue. Marta and Trina stayed silent. After much head shaking and nods and waving about of teacups (fortunately empty) all three ladies turned and stared at me. Trina and Marta picked up some embroidery work from bags nestled close to the window seat, then calmly began to sew. Veronika stood.

  “Ve haf decided that you may use the south wing. There iss much rooms there along with stairs to turret. Good scene of outside too. Come. I show you.”

  I plopped my napkin and cup on the tray next to the rooster, then sped after her. I was nearly out the door when I stopped and turned. Trina was crooning into her embroidery. It sounded like Eric Clapton’s Layla. She looked up at me and the sound stopped. She smiled. I blinked. And could have sworn she was singing this to me—and me only—as she was being carried out, God help me and her—in a black body bag.

  Crap. A Dumas vision zinging into to my brain from wherever those damn premonition visions come from. I quickly thrust that image from my mind. Veronika motioned for me to follow her up the huge staircase at the back of the ballroom. We took a left at the top of the stairs under a chandelier worthy of a set for any version of Phantom of the Opera. I got lost soon after we took a right, then another left before heading up the dizzying, narrow, staircase that would have sent anyone with claustorphobic leaning to imagine the walls were closing in at a rapid pace.

  We finally made it up the last flight and entered a landing, bookmarked at either end by solid doors standing at least eight feet tall. Veronika opened the door to our left with an oversized key from a metal key ring.

  It was a simple guest room. A wedding-ringed patterned quilt, colored in soft shades of ivory and sage, lay on a bed that must be several centuries old. Head and footboards, stained in a light walnut, framed the box springs and mattress. A vanity, wardrobe, and small washboard, all in the same walnut color, were the only other furnishings in the room. It was immaculately kept, with a saccharine sweetness to it. It should work well for our heroine Honoria’s bedroom when she arrives from London. Some place more exciting and ominous would be needed for her seduction at the hands of Count Zilania.

  I nodded at Veronika. “It’s very pretty. So. What else is up here?”

  Veronika marched across the landing to another room, without bothering to notice if I followed. There were no furnishings in the tiny space, not even a table or a chair. But this was a room with a view. I’d been enchanted with the scenery from the window seat downstairs, but it paled by comparison. An entire forest lay before me. Spires from the cathedrals in Prague off in the distance, jutting into the bluest sky I’d seen since last time I was in Texas.

  I didn’t care if Shay used this room for Honoria, for Zilania, for one or more villains or the whole camera crew. I’d’ve paid any amount of money simply for the privilege to worship the countryside through this glass once a day for the next month. I leaned out the open window and breathed in the pure, crisp air. A chilly wind blew my hair back from my face so I retreated. Veronika started to shut the window but I stopped her. “Wait. Please. About an hour ago, I heard the most marvelous musician playing the flute. Sounded like it came from what I guess y’all refer to as the north wing? Who lives there?”

  My question was greeted with silence and looks that chilled me more than the gust of wind had. “Dere iss no one. We are only people at Kouzlo Noc.”

  “But I’m sure I heard music.”

  “I do not hear anyting. Perhaps our gardener is playing a, how you say, ‘see dees.’ He likes music from America. Must be that you hear, no? He iss here today.”

  I knew what I’d heard and it wasn’t the family gardener strutting around listening to some rapper from the States with a CD player held on his shoulder while he planted and pruned in the lilacs (or whatever blooms bloomed at the castle.) The music hadn’t come from below. It had come from this wing. It was very classical. It was also very Mozart. Wolfgang Amadeus. The one, the only. The tune had been an aria from The Magic Flute.

  Johnny had denied being the musician. Veronika had denied any music being played except on a boombox. I knew better. A ghostly flautist was playing for my benefit.

  Perfect. I’d stumbled into a Gothic tale while trying to rent a Gothic castle for a Gothic film based on a Gothic novel. The intrusion of Goth was making me dizzy. Doubtless, a headless flute player was being held in chains in one wing (and no, that’s not logical because how the hell can one play a flute without lips which would normally be attached to a head?) A beautiful damsel in distress would be found in the tower of another wing, cranking out arias from Mozart’s last comic opera while hoping a gallant prince would hear her songs and arrive with sword in hand to rescue her from her sad fate. During some dark and stormy night, the murdered peasants depicted on the bloodstained tapestry on the downstairs window seat would pop out and hunt down their oppressors. The dragon-headed doorknockers would take human form in the guise of a black-clad demon-possessed tortured hero. Finally, the Victorian governess trio of the sisters would burn the place down a la Jane Eyre’s Mrs. Rochester.

  Veronika stared at me as though I’d brought the madwoman’s matches. I hoped I hadn’t just opened my mouth and aired my fantasies to Headlights Productions’ new landlady.

  I smiled. “Well, at least your gardener shows good taste. Can’t do much better than Mozart.”

  Not an ounce of color could be seen on the woman’s face. She struggled to catch her breath. She gulped at the air around her. She arranged one of her hairpins trying to subdue a non-existent errant lock. Her hand went to her chest and for a moment I thought CPR was next on the day’s agenda.

  “Veronika? Beg pardon. Madam Duskova. Are you all right? Did I say something to upset you?”

  “No. No. You say not’ing bad. I—I—perhaps am winded climbing so many stairs.”

  “I’m so sorry. Do you want to rest for a bit? I have no problem staying up here looking at this view for awhile.”

  “Iss okay.” Her spine stiffened. “We set price, yes? With south wing, and west and east wing. No north wing. Iss no available. Cemetery include, but no north wing. Add thousand koruna to rent and we haf deal.”

  I tried frantically to remember the exchange rate for the Czech Republic with American dollars and decide this would not be the time to make a joke about koruna and Corona beer.

  “We have a deal. Our director, Shay Martin, will be in next week, but I have her power of attorney to sign whatever contracts are needed.”

  “Good. We go downstairs, now, yes?”

  It was a dismissal. I didn’t care. I followed her in silence to the landing, the
n down the stairway from hell, musing the whole time about why Veronika had gotten into such a tizzy over a harmless comment about Mozart. Unless she knew the flute-player was indeed not part of life’s present tense.

  Veronika literally marched me to the back door. We murmured a few pleasantries and determined how and when the contracts for renting the castle would be signed. Then I was outside staring at the dragonheads and the tapestry pull. I felt like the relative who’s just been informed the family disowned them for burping during Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Well, fine,” I addressed one of the dragons. “Ms. Veronika Duskova is a strange bird, but I have achieved victory for Headlights and gotten Bambi and Shay their friggin’ spooky castle. I shall see you and your fire-breathing brothers in a day or two with contracts in hand, but meantime I’m heading down to the Vitus Bar for a stiff drink—and I don’t mean tea.”

  The closest dragon assumed an expression amazingly similar to the one I’d last seen on Veronika’s face. I turned my back and gazed up at the north turret where I’d heard the haunting music. The north turret that Madam D had clearly stated was off limits to everyone. This time no denim-clad burglar could be seen. Johnny had just vanished without bothering to say good-bye.

  Which was damn tacky of him. What was up? Did he plan to contact Yolanda, head writer for Endless Time and rent the castle for the daytime drama? Start a ghost story which would would knock ratings off the charts? Kouzlo Noc was already about to be besieged by actors and a slightly obsessive compulsive director. Add a spookly legend and sell it to a crowd of theatrical types and you’d have a mad dash for sleepovers in the north wing.

  I needed nicer jammies.

  Chapter 5

  “Smart-ass, second-storied wannabe, semantic-twisting, art-restoring, soap-starring sometime swain!”