Aria in Ice

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Thank you. And thanks for mentioning the opera will be performing here. It will be fun to see.”

  He turned and left the café. I wasn’t sure “fun” was a word I’d’ve chosen for this upcoming night at the opera. If the tension became any more palpable between Franz and Johnny, Friday evening promised to be as much fun as climbing into the bloodied, tapestried, coffin optimistically called a window seat at the Duskova sisters’ castle.

  Chapter 6

  I’d lied to Franz about my reasons for digging through old books. I could care less about Gothic novels from any other period or country. Shay would do what she wanted to do with the movie without extra research on my part. Kouzlo Noc and Mozart were the topics inflaming my curiosity. Madam Duskova and Franz had acted wacky whenever the composer was mentioned and while I hadn’t had the chance to toss in Amadeus’ name to the cryptic crypt explorer, Corbin Lerner; doubtless he’d’ve done the turn-pale-and-blanch bit just like Veronika and Franz. On the other hand, Mr. Gerard’s freckled complexion hadn’t changed a whit during Mozart discussions. He was too busy tossing grenades into the air and watching how and where everyone—everyone being Franz—ducked. I was determined to do a bit of semi-academic exploration about Kouzlo Noc and its possible connection to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s last opera. Something was way weird.

  Especially when it came to music. There’s nothing wrong with my ears. I have a tendency to lose earrings on a regular basis, but the audio portion of my eardrum works just fine. I knew damn well I’d heard someone playing a tune from The Magic Flute. Madam D had nearly jumped out the turret when I brought up Mozart. An historian was exploring a graveyard that coincidentally happened to contain markers from the same era as the composer’s life. My conclusion—unless there was a musical ghost living at the castle (okay, technically, not “living” there) someone was trying to create that illusion. I wanted the skinny on who, when, why and how.

  A tiny store declaring itself to be Jozef’s Knihu (Joe’s Books) had been listed in my guidebook as a great place to find out-of-print novels, antique maps, and, most important to my quest, biographies of old Czech aristocrats. Good possibility for tomes concerning cultural activities in Prague through the last four centuries. An added bonus was Jozef’s location; three blocks away from the café where I’d been scarfing down a load of pastries while exchanging barbs with two testy males for the last hour.

  For no good reason I took a few furtive glances around me before stepping foot inside Jozef’s Knihu. No wannabe burglars. No beautiful gods from Austria. No humorless historicans. No landladies in black. I ducked inside before any of the aforementioned folks popped up from behind statues in the street. A grandfather clock nestled between two enormous shelves of books chimed the hour . Four p.m. I had no plans for the evening. Johnny hadn’t bothered to even ask if I was free to meet him. I shoved that thought away. I would wade in and prowl until I was tossed out whenever closing time hit—which, in the Czech Republic, would doubtless be after midnight.

  It became quickly apparent that my biggest problem in locating the books I needed was that all the shelves had Czech titles announcing subject matter. I plopped onto a footstool in front of shelf one, pulled out my handy Louie’s Lingo and prepared to fight through names and nouns until I found the words for biography and culture. I got stalled on the “Eating Out” section for a moment, entranced with some of the exotic-sounding dishes that could be found at funky little restaurants all over Prague. Barely half and hour from Abby’s last snackfest and food was overtaking my thought processes. I needed to start dancing again soon or I’d outweigh the armored knights guarding the ballroom of Kouzlo Noc.

  “Excuse me? Miss? Do you need help?”

  I looked up. A gentleman who appeared to be in his seventies loomed over me, smiling, leaning on a cane that reminded me of the one my grandfather had stored in the closet back home. Major crows feet crinkled his eyes. He had white hair and a luxurious white beard. His expression was kind and the English impeccable. He looked like what God would look like if the Deity owned a bookstore.

  I nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I do need help. Can you read Czech? Oh heck. Dumb question. Sorry.”

  His smile grew broader. “I am Czech. I read and speak and write Czech. I can also read and speak English, French, German and Italian. What are you searching for, young lady?”

  I squirmed just a bit. “Um. Well, I’m looking for oh, uh, old Gothic romances from the Nineteen Sixties or Seventies?” I explained about Headlights Productions doing a film.

  The man stayed silent. I knew guilt was stamped all over my face. “And, also… this is a bit strange, but I’m trying to find any books about Kastle Kouzlo Noc and the Duskova family. Headlights just rented the castle.”

  He shot me an odd glance, pointed to one of the stacks in the back of the shop, then lightly took my hand in his. I was afraid without his grip on the cane he’d topple over, taking the clock and a few shelves with him, but his stance stayed firm.

  “There is one volume on Kastle Kouzlo Noc. But, tell me—why are you this interested? Are you an historian or genealogist as well as a movie person?”

  What hesitation I had lasted only a second. One trusts God when God asks a question. One does not lie to God.

  “Honestly? There’s something odd at Kouzlo Noc. For one thing, people get loony when I mention Mozart. They hush up or they sidestep the issue or they just out-and-out lie. And I discovered an Eighteenth Century graveyard near the castle that’s been ripped to shreds which was disgusting, sad—and odd. Talk of genealogy just doesn’t sound right to me. Consequently, I have this feeling that all is not kosher at the castle. So to speak.”

  His smile now lit up the dim bookstore. “In that case, I shall save you some time and effort and tell you the legend of Mozart and Kouzlo Noc.”

  “Really? That would be marvelous,” I told him. “Especially since I’m not sure what I’m hunting for.”

  He motioned for me to sit back down on my footstool then pulled a high-backed chair away from the wall. He settled himself there, gently laid the cane next to the chair and took a breath. Obviously this man was a storyteller. I only hoped he would tell a tale that could explain why everyone got snarky when flute-players, Mozart, and Kouzlo Noc were mentioned in the same sentence.

  “First, young lady, are you aware that Mozart’s Die Zauberflote, was given its Prague premiere in 1792? Almost a year to the day that the original opera was performed in Vienna.”

  “I wasn’t sure of the dates, sir, but I did know the first performances were in Vienna, not Prague, even though Mozart was in Prague only months before. Is that right?”

  He nodded as vigorously as he could, his white hair bobbing enthusiastically after my response. “Very good. Yes, Mozart was in Prague composing an opera in honor of the coronation of King Leopold II. He did not want to do this, you understand, but he was in need of money and he was already in ill health. Perhaps he knew his death was not far off. He was very depressed at this time. His soul was so low, in such a despair that he’d even written a family member telling them that ‘everything is cold—cold as ice. Everything seems empty.’ It breaks my heart to this day. Such a fine young man. Perhaps that is why The Magic Flute became, in truth, such a hopeful opera—to overcome his own misery.”

  He nearly had me in tears myself over this poignant quote from the young, brilliant composer but he continued, “It hurts me deep in my heart that Mozart was never able to see Die Zauberflote performed in Prague at the beautiful Estates Theatre.”

  “Oh my gosh! That’s where I’ll be seeing it.”

  “Yes? Ah, that is good. You will get more of a flavor of what I am to tell you, although most music lovers believe National Theatre is better equipped for large operas nowadays days than is the old Estates.”

  “I’m sorry. I interrupted you.” I said. “Please, go on.”

  “You did not interrupt in a bad way; you shared your happiness and I’m very pleased. It is quite
nice to hear that excitement in your voice when you talk of going to the opera. Sadly, I have heard that most Americans your age are more interested in hippy-hoppy video music than the lovely classics.”

  We were straying from his story, but since God looked disappointed over my generation’s bad taste, I felt compelled to reveal that my Dad and uncle are both very musical and I was raised hearing Haydn and Bach issuing forth from the radio in Dad’s office while Appalachian Mountain tunes were the order of the day when Uncle Don taught them to his Bluegrass band. And lastly, my cousin David (Don’s son) blasting away on his trumpet for his mariachi band.

  “Bluegrass?” God beamed at me. “I am a big fan of Bluegrass myself. Although, I am not familiar with ‘mariachi.’ I will have to purchase a CD or two and listen.”

  “I’ll get David to send you a few. He’s got all the really good ones.”

  We smiled at each other in perfect understanding. Then, without skipping a beat, or a thought, he continued, “When it was announced in Prague that The Magic Flute would be performed here, the city went wild. Citizens of Prague had always adored Mozart and mourned his death with much intensity. The singers for the opera had already been chosen. Many of the musicians had been picked as well. But this is where the story really begins.”

  I held my breath waiting for what had to be a sad, spooky tale.

  His voice was melodic and I was entranced. “During the end of the Eighteenth Century there lived a wonderful flautist, a man named Ignatz Jezek. He grew up in Prague, learning music from the finest teachers. He was a gifted musician on many levels, but with a flute to his lips, he was a genius, someone who could play music that truly lifted the soul of man.

  “Ignatz was more than an exceptional flute player. He was a craftsman. He had been in Vienna when The Magic Flute premiered. He even spent a day visiting with Mozart. The two had become quite good friends when Ignatz met the composer the previous months when Mozart had been in Prague working on the coronation piece for Leopold II. Ignatz wanted to be part of the opera’s history when Die Zauberflote came to Prague and he wanted to give a gift to Mozart that no one else could give. So, he handcrafted a special flute, one he intended to present to his friend when he next came to the city.”

  I bit my lip. “But Mozart never returned.”

  “No, he did not. Mozart passed away only months after Die Zauberflote was performed in Vienna.”

  “So what happened to Ignatz Jezek and his flute?”

  An expression of sheer joy made the man’s face look like that of a teenager. “Ignatz learned that The Magic Flute would be in Prague in May 1792. So he brought with him the flute he had made and offered it to the company to use as they wished. I have heard that the manager was thrilled and touched by this gesture—this gift of love. But he told Mr. Jezek that the flute would be put to better use if the flautist himself played it as part of the orchestra. He hired him at that very moment.”

  This was a very romantic tale but I started wondering where the Duskovas fit in, and why Ignatz Jezek was haunting the place. I said as much to the gentlemen, without mentioning Ignatz’ presence at the castle piping tunes since I didn’t want God labeling me a lunatic.

  He smiled at me and my impatience. “This is where the real story, the legend, if you will, enters the picture. For, you see, even in 1792, the rumors had begun that Ignatz somehow had created a truly enchanted flute. An instrument with mystical powers. A magical flute for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”

  I sat up. “Wow. I had a feeling this was going to lead to mystery and magic. This is marvelous. So, what’s the rumor about the magic? What are the powers?”

  “I myself do not know. I do not believe anyone knows for certain. At the time Ignatz made the flute there was much interest in alchemy in this part of Europe and to many, alchemy meant turning objects into gold. I myself am certain there is more to the magic than monetary treasure, but perhaps that is because a man such as Ignatz would not have been tempted to infuse music, especially a gift to his dear friend and mentor, Mozart, with the evils of greed. But then, Ignatz and Mozart were both freemasons and alchemy was an interest of many of the masons of the time so perhaps this is the correct theory after all. Whatever the power is, magic of some sort resides in the flute. This I do believe.”

  “What happened to Mr. Jezek? And the flute?”

  He looked as stricken as though what he was about to tell me had happened the day before instead of over two centuries ago. “Both Ignatz Jezek and the flute disappeared late in 1793. No trace of either was ever found. His children mourned for him for many, many years.”

  His sadness hit me now as well. “How awful.”

  “Indeed.” He paused. “Ignatz was living with his sister and brother-in-law at the time.”

  “Wait. Let me guess—these in-laws didn’t happen to have the last name of Duskova, did they?”

  “You’re very quick. They did. And since 1793, there has been speculation that Ignatz knew he was going to die and that he hid the flute somewhere in Kouzlo Noc.”

  We both stayed silent for a minute or so. I spoke first. “So, the pursuit of wealth and treasure often being the nature of the human beast, I gather that this magic flute has been the dream of fortune hunters and plunderers throughout the years?”

  “Indeed, yes, young lady. Family members of the Duskovas. Visitors to the castle. Anyone who had even an inkling of the story. Of course, through over two centuries of living, most people forgot. If anyone even remembered Ignatz Jezek, they’d sigh, ‘Ah, a tragedy, this brilliant musician gone missing forever, but it happened years ago. On to the next tale.’ As for the flute? Since it disappeared so completely, there began to be much speculation as to whether it had even existed in the first place. People do not believe in magic that much anymore, so the treasure-seekers gradually did not come to Kouzlo Noc.”

  The words came involuntarily. “Until now.”

  We looked at each other for a very long moment.

  Jozef softly coaxed, “Please. Did something happen to you this morning? You saw—what?”

  I couldn’t deny it. Not to my new friend the kindly Deity. “Not saw. Heard. Someone playing or playing a recording of a flautist trilling the opening of Magic Flute. Somewhere in the north wing of Kastle Kouzlo Noc.” I looked deep into the bookseller’s gentle grey eyes. “No wonder Veronika was so freaked when I mentioned Mozart and music in the same breath with the north wing. Being a Duskova, related to the man even remotely, she must have lived with that legend her whole life and understands that now that flute would be worth quite a bit, whether or not she believes it will do tricks and turn the castle into gold. This explains why that ghastly cemetery looks as though it had been ransacked more than once in the last two centuries. I met an historian searching in a crypt, scraping dirt off of names with a dagger, and I’ll bet you anything he believes that flute is there. Perhaps along with the body of it’s maker.” I shivered.

  “What about you, young miss? What do you believe?”

  I closed my eyes for a second as I remembered that moment when I first heard the music. “I listened to the man. Well, that is, I heard someone play and whoever he was, he’s still the consummate musician. I don’t care about whatever power the flute possesses, intriguing as it is. I’d lay odds though that Ignatz Jezek was murdered and he haunts that castle. Perhaps he wants justice. Or he just wants the chance to play his flute? Whatever his reasons, it appears he never left Kastle Kouzlo Noc. And for centuries he’s been fending off greedy seekers of treasure because I’d wager that even if no magic is inside that flute, it’s worth a potful of money. And a new crop of interested parties appears to now be on the scene.”

  I didn’t add that not only was this century’s treasure hunt already in progress, but that I was about to be thrust into the thick of it. Franz and Johnny had circled each other like dogs near a nest of squirrels. Johnny was buddies with Veronika Duskova. He was also no slouch in the nosy department.. Probably was helping the Duskova
s search for the flute, though why he couldn’t just tell the truth about it pissed me off. Corbin Lerner had been, to use a bad pun, silent as the grave, when questioned about exactly why he wanted to exploring the 18th Century cemetery. The Duskovas definitely knew more than they told casual visitors to Kouzlo Noc. They were just too adamant about not showing me the north wing. I guess they figured if Ignatz did his trilling there, the flute must be hidden somewhere nearby, since so far the graveyard hadn’t yielded any bodies or musical instruments.

  I felt ill. I suddenly knew that Kouzlo Noc hadn’t seen the last violent death.

  I needed air and a walk back to the hotel to let the story seep into my brain.

  The old man stayed seated but held his arms out. I hugged him and thanked him for telling me about Ignatz, then I started to leave. Something stopped me. I turned. “I’m sorry. My mother brought me up better than this. I’m Abby Fouchet. I forgot to ask your name.”

  He pushed himself up with the aid of the cane, then stood—his back straightening with pride.

  “I am Jozef. I am the owner of the bookstore.” He paused, then his flashing white teeth and twinkling eyes turned his old features into those of a man in his twenties.” And my last name is Jezek.”

  Chapter 7

  The dragon-headed doorknocker glared at me with a truly sinister eye this morning. Perhaps my perceptions were colored with the new information I’d received yesterday afternoon about the mysteries within Kouzlo Noc—or perhaps the durn monster knew that my reasons for coming back to the castle so soon weren’t quite as innocent as I’d made them out to be when I called Veronika an hour ago to ask if I could drop in to “make notes” for the film. At the time I’d thought Franz would be with me for his promised tour of the castle, but he’d left a message with the front desk clerk at my hotel telling me he had errands to run and would try and meet up later.