City of Lost Dreams: A Novel

by Magnus Flyte

  “When you dream,” Jose had asked Pollina once, “how does it . . . what do you . . .”

  “Are you asking if I see in my dreams?” she had snapped. “I don’t see when I’m awake. How could I see in my dreams?”

  “So what you dream?” Jose had asked. “Answer with not so much of the bitchiness, please.”

  “Sound,” Pollina had explained. “It’s sound and sensation, but mostly sound.”

  But this dream had been totally silent. And Sarah was in it.

  Yes, she would get up and practice a little. She had not been able to practice very much earlier, because she had been so tired, and her chest hurt so much, and also she had had to go with Oksana to the hospital for more tests.

  There was something wrong with chromosome 20 in her DNA. It should have been coding for a certain kind of protein that would cause bacteria to adhere to it and therefore be flushed out of her bloodstream. It was not doing this. And so the bacteria were proliferating, and that was why she kept getting infections, like pneumonia. They were going to start her on a new drug the next day. Oksana seemed hopeful about it.

  But what if the defect in chromosome 20 had something to do with her blindness? There was a certain rare form of blindness that was being cured through gene therapy. Pols did not have this form, but more than 160 genes were linked to blindness. So really anything could happen with these drugs. And if the two symptoms were linked, then along with taking away the infections and the pain, they would take away the blindness.

  And she knew she would lose the music if that happened. It was a greater fear than death.

  If she was dying, she would accept it.

  “If she doesn’t improve, then we could be heading toward organ failure,” she had heard. “We will have to watch how she reacts to this new treatment very closely. It is a risk, but we’re really running out of options. If we don’t try, then realistically she has maybe two months. Maybe.”

  They had not told her. But she had heard.

  Different types of listening employed different parts of your brain. Sarah had explained this. The most complicated process was one neuroscientists called a “top-down” response. This was when you were actively listening to something. When you really concentrated on sound, signals were sent a special way in the brain. They moved through the dorsal pathway in the cortex, and the brain suppressed other sounds, like a set of headphones, so that you could concentrate.

  She had heard Oksana. She had heard her doctors.

  She was going to die very soon.

  The treatment was not going to work.

  She hoped that she didn’t die before Boris did. She wouldn’t want him to think it was his fault.

  She should work. She was composing an aria for Philippine, in which she warns Ferdinand about the power of the Fleece. It would be horrible, though, to try to play and not be able to, because she could not lift her arms and because her chest hurt too much. She should not be afraid. If God wanted her to play, He would give her the strength. She would ask for His help.

  Slippers. Robe. Cane.

  Boris got stiffly to his feet. He did not really want to walk anywhere, but he would walk with her wherever she went. He would drag himself, if he had to.

  When she turned right, outside her door, she could feel Boris understanding where they were going. His pace picked up a little, in the hallway leading to the music room. Pols could hear Moritz, Max’s dog. Max must be near, then. She heard a series of notes on the piano. C2. E3. D4. The lid was down. Max was playing her piano.

  Pollina entered the room and greeted Moritz. She had been told that Moritz “looked” like a wolf. It was funny how some people forgot and told her how things looked. Moritz had triangle ears that stood up, and forefeet that turned out slightly. He had a flat chest, and his back was a little sloped, so his hind legs were very slightly crouching. He had a long tail, and his coat was thick.

  He felt very different from Boris. He was much less beautiful. Pollina was sure that Boris was very beautiful because he had a smooth coat, and in her world beautiful things were smooth things.

  “I’m thinking about why Ferdinand wants the Fleece,” said Pols.

  “What are you up to?” Max asked. “Are you hungry? I can heat something up.” She heard him set down a glass upon her piano.

  “That is not a table,” said Pollina, moving toward the instrument.

  “Hold up,” Max said. “There is a bottle on the floor, right in front of your left foot. Okay, got it.” He slid over and made room for her on the bench.

  “What is in the bottle?” Pols asked. “I would like a small glass, please.”

  “You won’t like the taste,” Max laughed. “It’s brandy.”

  Max was worried. He was worried about her.

  “When someone is ill in old books,” Pols said, “they give them brandy. They say, ‘Get a little of this brandy down,’ or ‘Someone get him a brandy.’”

  “I’m not sure you’re sick enough for me to justify giving you brandy,” Max said.

  Pollina let that sit in the air for several seconds. Long enough for Max to replay it in his head two or three times. Max knew how sick she was.

  “I think Ferdinand wants to protect the Fleece from falling into the hands of people who will misuse it,” said Max. “But I also think he’s curious about its power.”

  “But will he use it for good?”

  It would not be right to pray to God to spare her life. She could ask for strength, for forgiveness, for courage. She could not ask for His will to be altered. It did seem that He intended her to die very soon. She wondered if in Heaven, she would be blind. But God would not take her music away—surely? No. She would be able to play. And finally see the stars.

  She held up her hand and Max put a glass in it, moving her fingers and palm so that she cupped the bowl of the glass.

  “Some people say it’s better at room temperature, and some say you should warm the glass first. Like this.” Max moved her hand in small circles. “This is how they do it in old movies. There’s a scene in Rear Window where everyone stands around just waving their brandy glasses. I don’t think anyone ever takes a sip, but it looks cool. Don’t do it too much, or it’ll slop over the sides. Yes, Ferdinand wants to use the Fleece for good. Very much.”

  Pollina moved her glass in small circles, and then brought it to her nose.

  “It smells nice,” she said. “I like it.” She took a small sip. It burned a little. She tried to imagine the liquid burning through the bacteria that had invaded her lungs. She hoped it was not also burning the tissue around her heart. The bacteria were eating that. They were nibbling at it, like rats.

  “If Ferdinand had to choose between the Fleece and Philippine, which would he choose?”

  “He would choose Philippine, in a heartbeat,” Max said. “Back to bed for you, Luigi. I’ll bring you a snack.”

  She heard Boris and Moritz get to their feet.

  She did not want to die. She did not want to die. Please God, don’t let me die. Almighty Father, grant me mercy. Almighty Father, can I not serve you better on this Earth?

  She must finish the opera.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sarah pulled Nico over to the side of a building, so she could rest, and described to him everything she had seen. By the time she finished, some of her energy had returned. Her mind was moving rapidly. This couldn’t be the end. There had to be something they could do.

  “The cat!” Sarah straightened up.

  Nico, looking a little dazed, raised an eyebrow in query.

  “When I took the galleon from Bettina’s apartment,” Sarah said in a rush, “I opened a window and a cat got in. I wasn’t supposed to do that, Bettina specifically said so. But I forgot and the cat got in and went straight for a closet.” They both began walking fast to Bettina’s building. “The rat might still be there. You’ll have to distract Herr Dorfmeister or something while I look for it.”

  But when Sarah and Nico got to Paniglga
sse 18, instead of Herr Dorfmeister they were greeted by a teary-eyed, freckle-faced, red-haired crowd—men in Tracht, mothers with babies in arms, young children running about, and older people stooped with age, all bearing the same clear genetic imprint. Candy the golden retriever lay on the floor in the middle of the group, despondent. Apparently Herr Dorfmeister had passed away in his bed that afternoon, and his entire clan had gathered to discuss his arrangements.

  “It is quite sad,” said a young woman who introduced herself as Eva, his granddaughter. “But I suppose we should be grateful. He was an old man and he played tennis this very morning, then came home, lay down, and died peacefully in his own bed, with no illness. We should all be so lucky. Come in and have a glass with us. We are toasting Opa’s memory.”

  “He was a lovely man and a very good chess player,” said Nico, looking over the chessboard as Eva handed them both large dripping steins of dark beer. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to finish our game. Dr. Müller”—he indicated Sarah—“and I will miss him very much.” Sarah felt something being slid into her pocket.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” Sarah murmured, and, handing her glass to Nico, she raced toward the elevator, pulling Bettina’s key out of her pocket.

  • • •

  Bettina’s heavy perfume had covered the scent before, but now that Sarah was focusing on it, she knew she could smell a rat. It had taken some doing to get to him, since Bettina had sealed up the wall of the closet very well, but after some vigorous demolition work, Sarah was able to find Hermes, looking a little drawn, inside a small cage with an automated feed and watering system.

  She hauled this out and set the cage in the living room. They were both still sitting there, contemplating each other, when Nico entered. He joined them on the floor. Hermes perked up a little and moved to the edge of his cage, his tail wagging. He squeaked. Nico put a finger through the bars of the cage and Hermes put both his front paws on it.

  “Hello, Hermes,” Nico said gravely. “I am Nicolas Pertusato.” With his other hand he pulled something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sarah. It was a chess piece.

  “I am not so sure,” said the little man, “that the old man went so peacefully as his Sippe think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The game we started yesterday. It should have been my move. But someone made it for me. We should let him out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He wants to stretch his legs. He won’t run away.”

  “No, about the chess game.”

  “Herr Dorfmeister made a move. We agreed to pause the game there.”

  “So he made a move for you.”

  “The man was nothing if not correct. Someone moved my queen. A very particular type of move, actually, most boldly done in Levitsky versus Marshall, 1912. It’s called the ‘shower of gold,’ in which you appear to sacrifice your queen but instead trap your opponent.”

  Nico lifted up the door of the cage and they watched Hermes run joyfully around the apartment, up and down all the furniture, up the curtains, and over the clocks before he returned to drink some water, after which he took up a position on Nico’s shoulder.

  “He’s not afraid of me.” Nico smiled. “I haven’t met an animal in over four hundred years that wasn’t. But it makes sense. We are two of a kind.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight. You think someone murdered Bettina’s concierge.”

  Nico shrugged.

  “Bettina may be brilliant,” said Sarah after a pause, “but I don’t want her coming anywhere near Pols.”

  “Agreed,” said Nico. “But I’m not leaving Hermes here.” The rat sniffed around the edges of Nico’s ears.

  “When she realizes he’s gone, she’ll come looking for him,” said Sarah, standing up.

  “And I’ll be waiting.” Nico stood up also. “We leave for Prague immediately, I think.”

  “You’re leaving for Prague immediately,” said Sarah. “I’ve got one last piece of business.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gottfried von Hohenlohe leveled a disdainful glance at his brother, Heinrich, as he strode into Zum Schwarzen Kameel. Heinrich was wearing a boxy American suit with broad lapels and what looked to be Italian shoes. Disgraceful. Gottfried, who favored traditional Austrian Tracht, as their father had, wore a loden cape over a jacket with standing collar and staghorn buttons. He placed his Tyrolean hat neatly on the shelf, where members of his family had been placing their variously shaped hats since 1618 while they patronized what was first an exotic spice shop, then a wine tavern, and now a tony-yet-traditional coffeehouse. Gottfried stroked his red beard.

  “Servus,” said Heinrich, to which Gottfried gave a curt “Grüss Gott.” The two men exchanged a quick and formal kiss. Though Gottfried usually preferred to stand, he settled into Heinrich’s corner booth away from the prying eyes and ears of their fellow Viennese.

  Gottfried wiped an imaginary crumb off his loden as Heinrich ordered, to Gottfried’s horror, a Diet Coke.

  “I’m watching my weight,” said Heinrich defensively. He shifted uncomfortably inside his brown tweed suit. “That was a most unfortunate event,” he said quietly. “We were lucky not to be seen.”

  Gottfried leaned forward and stared hard at Heinrich. “The important thing is that we were not seen. You must not lose your nerve. You must remain in control of yourself at all times.”

  “I could say the same of you, brother. Remember Thumbkin.”

  Gottfried refused to dignify this with a response. They both knew what had happened. When they were children, Gottfried had shot their mother’s cat Thumbkin with a crossbow from the family armory, which was part of a historic collection, and which they had been forbidden to touch. Their mother had asked their father to punish Gottfried appropriately and Gottfried’s father had taken him to the stables, produced a flask from a secret compartment, and given Gottfried his first taste of schnapps.

  “You have killed today,” his father had said. “And sometimes a man must take the blood of another creature. But make sure you have a worthy adversary. Always adhere to this rule and you won’t go wrong: never shoot an animal whose head you wouldn’t be proud to display in your trophy room.”

  “People are animals,” young Gottfried had said, after a long silence and a few passes of the flask.

  “We take no pleasure in killing people. We do it to defend our family, and to defend Austria. For this, honor is the only trophy.”

  Gottfried had never told Heinrich what had happened in the stables. His younger brother was not capable of understanding such nuance.

  And now he, Gottfried, had done what was necessary to save their inheritance.

  Heinrich lit a cigarette. “There is still the matter of the missing research.”

  “I tell you I could find nothing in the apartment.”

  “It must be somewhere.”

  “Very well,” said Gottfried at last. “I will look into the matter further, and you will inform them of my new price.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. Heinrich unfolded it and considered the number.

  It would be enough to save their family lands and home for the next generation, his sons. He would do it for no less.

  “I am sorry about the old man,” said Gottfried, a shadow crossing his brow. “He was a good Austrian.”

  Heinrich nodded. “I know you are sorry. But how many good Austrians does my company employ? Forty-five thousand. Do these people not matter? And the fifteen billion euros that it earns for Austria each year?” Gottfried could always be won over with this line of attack.

  “You are right. Many wars have been fought over less. We do this for Austria, as well as for the family.”

  “I have to get back to the office,” said Heinrich. He passed his brother a bottle of antipsychotics. One of the company’s most important developments, it had made normal life possible for hundreds of thousands if not millions around the globe. “One a day, remember? Please!
It’s better for everyone.”

  Gottfried nodded with great dignity and put the bottle in his pocket, knowing he would pass it off to a homeless man who sat outside the Café Hawelka with his dog. Yes, he might have some psychological qualities that people found unacceptable in this ridiculously sedentary era, but those same qualities had been highly valued in other times and would be again. People called the Hapsburgs insane, and look at the glorious Austrian empire they built, which once covered all or part of what was now Italy, Spain, France, Germany, Poland, Slovenia, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, the Ukraine, Bosnia, Croatia, and Romania. An empire that would still be intact if it weren’t for the democratic movements of the twentieth century, which had reduced their homeland to a second-tier stop on the European tour, a tiny country known for sickly sweet pastries, singing families, and dancing horses.

  You couldn’t honorably assume only part of your birthright. You had to assume it all.

  “And the American girl?” Heinrich stubbed out his cigarette.

  “She knows very little.” Gottfried kept his features impassive. “She is not important.”

  “My superiors do not think so. They think she knows quite a bit.”

  “You and I also know a thing or two,” Gottfried pointed out. “But surely they will not ask that I eradicate my own brother?”

  Heinrich smiled.

  “They trust you,” he said. “They trust us.”

  Gottfried burst into laughter. The sound startled Heinrich. He seldom heard his brother laugh.

  “For myself, I have no fear.” Gottfried narrowed his eyes. “And I would never let any harm come to you, my own flesh and blood. I would cut off the hand that touched you.”

  “I am not a scientist, I do not understand what it is they think she has found. But I have never seen them so eager,” Heinrich said. “But this amount . . . it is a great deal of money.”