“I’m not surprised your job makes you sick,” said Marie. “But you can let down your guard with me, right? Now be a nice boy and tell me all about your day. How was it?”
Marie nestled her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
“Oh, you know,” the man said in a sleepy voice. “Place is like a sinkin’ ship. Nobody knows which hole to plug first. Today, for instance, we had a problem, real tough nut. But I cracked that thing wide open! Get this . . .”
Half an hour later he said: “I could use another drink. I’m thirstier than a fish outta water. Then I better skedaddle. Look what time it is.”
Marie hopped out of bed and threw on a robe with a pattern of wildly colored flowers. By the time she came back with a bottle and a glass on a tray, Captain Nedoma was almost dressed.
“Good thing we’re both such night owls and we can sleep in in the morning,” Marie said with a yawn. “What do you tell your wife when you come rollin’ in late like this?”
“Nothing. What would I say? Workin’ on a big case, that’s about it. She knows I can’t tell her the details.”
“That’s good. Whatever works. She never did understand you, anyway. Fella like you needs some sympathy, right? Meet me again tomorrow?”
“If you want.”
“You dog. All right then. Tomorrow after the show, like always.”
4
I had Sundays off once a month, but instead of looking forward to them, they just filled me with dread. In the morning I would sleep in as late as I could, then clean my studio, even if there wasn’t a speck of dust, wash my blouses and underwear, and then—what? If it was raining it was easy. “To hell with this life!” I’d say to myself. “On Sunday of all days it has to pour. Can’t go out in weather like this.” And take a book and snuggle up on the couch. The past few months I’d been reading so much that all those fictional lives on the page had begun to seem more real than my own. Sometimes I felt like there were too many books in the world, and that reading was a dangerous thing for someone like me. It gave you something beyond your own sad, lonely life, and though it acted as a protective shield, it could also be used as a wall or screen, a thing to hide behind. You could sit at home alone by the stove experiencing all these sensational things: loving, fearing, fighting, even dying, all in the space of one afternoon and three cups of coffee. Slowly you forgot that the story came from somebody’s head, and you began to expect the same pattern and rules in real life as in books. You deluded yourself into thinking that after every exposition came a climax and a resolution, every episode fit into the overall arc of the narrative, and nothing happened without a purpose, since of course the story had to unfold smoothly and make some kind of sense. It was a dangerous drug. You began to see nothing but ambiguous symbols wherever you looked, interpreting everything from the perspective of some higher plan, forgetting that if there actually was any order in the world, it was created by an intelligence too sophisticated for human beings to comprehend. If we want to get by in life, we need to just concentrate on keeping our heads above water and stop wondering why things happen all the time. Maybe God really is the Great Surveyor, who drew up the plans and built this maze we scuttle around in clueless as mice, running up against His laws at every turn. Of course none of us stand a chance of figuring out which path leads where. The only way to run in the right direction is by accident.
So on Sundays when it rained cats and dogs, I’d sit happily at home, devouring the books I brought home from the library, snorting them up like cocaine. But the weather this Sunday was gorgeous, and if I didn’t get out at least for a while my head would start to pound, and by nighttime I’d feel wrung out as a dishrag. All right, I’ll go for a walk. You never know, something nice might happen to me. They should ban Sundays for lonely people.
It was crowded down by the river, mostly couples, some with children. If they let Karel out in six years, best-case scenario, I’ll be thirty. Is that too late for a baby? Supposedly you should have your first kid by thirty, tops.
Old ladies, dressed in their Sunday best, white hair tinted blue, pattered into the Mánes café for their weekly coffee and cake.
Everyone’s afraid of old age, I thought, and meanwhile those old grannies are happier than any of us. They’ve done their time. Nobody expects anything of them anymore. At last they can stop spending their lives chasing after happiness. Or at any rate stop looking for it in places that are out of reach and hard to pin down, and instead find it in things they can find and enjoy every day—a good meal, a sit in the sun, an absence of suffering.
Now that half the afternoon was shot, what was I going to do with myself? I could call Růžena, but of course she liked to spend Sundays alone with her husband. Pity my life wasn’t a book. In a classic Russian novel I would reside in a village with my rich relatives, and on a day like today I’d be out on the veranda, shooing away the wasps while I stirred a kettle of preserves. Or maybe I’d have a cozy little room on the waterfront and sit writing notes to deranged yet compassionate gentlemen, who would come rushing straight to see me, but one way or another they’d be foiled every time, so no matter how much haste they made they would never arrive. A French author, on the other hand, would most likely install me in some Left Bank dive, where I would proceed to engage in casual conversation with a fascinatingly neurotic married man, followed by a trip to the south—ravishing yet fraught with intimations of a creeping alienation. And, finally, as a young Manhattanite I would climb into a cab and be off to a cocktail party, drink myself silly and wake up the next day in a strange flat with one man shaving, another man playing guitar, and everyone talking the way nobody ever does in real life, every sentence a laugh riot, or worse. Whatever kind of book it was, something would have happened.
If only at least I would run into someone. One of the girls from school, say. Even if it was the stupidest bimbo in the whole class. Even Magda Krupičková. I bet she’d stop and talk to me. Lord, was I that bad off that I’d even talk to her?
Dammit, my feet hurt. I should’ve stayed at home. What was I looking for out on the street? What did I expect to find? What good could come of it? I just needed to come to terms, once and for all, with the fact that this was my life and it wasn’t going to change. This was what it was going to be like, year in, year out, and if I couldn’t learn to cope on my own, I was going to go out of my mind. Karel would come home to a nutcase.
What was I going to do now, though? Let’s try and be systematic, I thought. Things I could do: 1) Go see a play. Sure, assuming I had the dough and assuming there were any tickets left. 2) Call some friends. Right. They’d say, “Helena, how are you? We have to get together sometime. I’ll give you a ring next week.” 3) Go out for dinner. Sounded all right, except for the fact that eating dinner alone in some dive would be even worse than eating alone at home. 4) See an art show, only now it was too late, and besides, my feet hurt too much. Dammit, I should’ve thought of that sooner. I could’ve gone to see those Navrátil paintings up at the Castle. At least I had my schedule figured out for next week. Or 5) Just go home and read. Kick off my shoes, get undressed, take a bath, and climb into bed with a book.
It wasn’t so bad being alone, actually. How many smart people had fled into the wilderness or locked themselves up in a tower, just to get away from people? So what? Everyone treats each other so badly, and besides, what was there really to say? At least when you were alone you could think. You didn’t have to make small talk or worry about anyone stabbing you in the back. It was great being alone. Nobody bugged me and I could do whatever I wanted. In fact it was so great I had to stop thinking about it or I was going to break down in tears right there on the street.
Next chance I got, I was going to have to ask a psychologist why it felt so important to talk to people. Why was it that sometimes even the best book couldn’t take the place of a human voice? Why did I feel like the day wouldn’t be such a waste if I were
to bump into someone right now and exchange a few pointless words?
Some families with children stood on Jirásek Bridge. The children were tossing crumbs of bread to the gulls, who performed feats of acrobatics to show their gratitude. “Daddy,” one of the little boys asked, “don’t those gulls look like great big butterflies?”
Maybe it didn’t matter so much what people said to each other. The reason we talk isn’t to share nuggets of wisdom, but to pause a moment in our flight through life, to make a connection, reassure ourselves we’ve got something in common—a human word, a human voice. Also, when you talk to another person, you think differently than when you talk to yourself. Maybe words, any at all, directed to someone else, are an act of love in a way. When I talk to you, I enter your life and you enter mine. We share our worlds with each other. It isn’t just that we need a living screen to project ourselves on. The truth is we all have things inside us that aren’t real till we share them with somebody else. It wouldn’t be hard for me to believe that a lonely woman sleeps with a man less for sex than to have him talk to her. And that whatever he tells her means a lot more and sticks in her memory longer than the night the two of them spend in bed.
I couldn’t betray Karel by leaving him. Even if I couldn’t help him, the least I could do was wait. Faithfully and stupidly. I knew how much he needed me to be here when he returned, and to be the same woman I was when he left. But could I? Was that even possible? Can a woman preserve herself like fruit? What if everything he loved most about me withered up and died? Usually when people thought about the future, what they feared was physical aging. That wasn’t what I was afraid of. A woman at thirty is still good-looking. Inside, on the other hand, she can change enormously, to the point of no return. And what about Karel, how would he change? Dear God, I prayed, please bring him back as soon as you can! If only there was something I could do—anything at all.
Well, hurray, home at last. I was whipped.
I entered the building and pressed the button on the wall to call the elevator. As it arrived and the door slid open, somebody else walked in the entrance. I stepped into the car, rested a finger on the button marked 5, and called back over my shoulder:
“Are you coming up?”
“Gladly, with your permission!” a man’s voice replied.
I turned to look.
The man stood in the doorway, illuminated from behind. The only thing I could make out was the smile on his face. “I’ve been following you all afternoon,” he said.
He took a few steps forward and put his hand in the elevator door to keep it from closing.
“And why might that be?”
“That isn’t hard to guess. The bigger mystery is how come a girl like you is walking the streets all alone on a Sunday afternoon. If you don’t mind, I’d like to invite you to dinner. And maybe you could tell me a little about yourself.”
“I’d appreciate it if you went away. And let go of the door. I’m sorry you wasted your afternoon.”
The man turned serious. “Please, hear me out. I realize this isn’t the proper way to introduce myself and I don’t mean to offend you. But this is ridiculous. If you take that elevator right now, I’ll probably never see you again. And that would be a shame. Two lonely people like us, we might get along really well.”
“Actually, you’re mistaken. I’m a married woman.”
“Happily?”
“Very much so.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. A happily married woman doesn’t spend her Sunday afternoon walking the streets till she drops. People who’ve got somebody waiting at home for them don’t do that. Look, I’m no bum. I’m a decent man. My name is Šípek. Jaromír Šípek. I’m a zoologist. I can tell you all kinds of amazing stories about monkeys and elephants. You like animals? Would you like to go to the zoo next Sunday? How about dinner?”
“I adore animals. But I’m busy next Sunday and I’ll be having dinner at home. Now, since you’re a decent man, please let go of the door. I’m tired. Good-bye.”
The door closed. I pressed the button and the elevator started up.
5
“All right, shoot. What’s the story? What’s the news?” The man, sprawled comfortably in an armchair, lifted his glass of beer.
“Nothing. Not a thing. Doesn’t mix with anyone. Nobody calls her. Doesn’t say a word unless she has to. Hard to believe.”
“You can say that again. Piece of skirt like that, she must have guys crawlin’ all over her. We need to know everything. I hope I make myself clear.”
“She doesn’t mix with anyone at the cinema. I haven’t taken my eyes off her.”
“It just doesn’t add up. There’s something missing. We’ve just got to stay on top of it, take the bull by the horns. With the right strategy, we’ll get results. That’s my experience.”
“Well, you can’t blame me. I’m doing my job.”
“I know you’re trying. But you need the right approach. If the work isn’t based on the right approach—look, just the fact that she keeps her distance from everyone is suspicious. Fišer sang like a bird. The messages go through the cinema. He was supposed to pick ’em up there on Monday after we collared him. But he claims not to know who from or how, and I almost believe him. It’s standard practice in this line of work. No one knows more than they have to.”
“Well, one thing for sure is, a cinema’s the ideal spot. With a couple hundred people around, who can keep track of them all at once?”
“True, only this time we got lucky and also bagged Karel Novák. Talk about a hardhead. We can’t get a thing out of him. Not for lack of tryin’, mind you. Couple years ago, we’d have squeezed it out of him easy. We have our ways. Scientifically tested and proven. Not anymore, though. Goddam job. How’re we supposed to get results with our hands tied behind our backs? Fišer had Novák’s map on him and I don’t believe in coincidence. Novák’s wife had to be in on it too, it’s only logical, and sooner or later she’s going to lead us to someone.”
“Well, that was a smooth move getting her in the Horizon. She pounced on it like a wildcat. Sure, it looks suspicious, but it might not mean anything. When a gal’s man is in the clink, she’s happy to take the first job that comes along. But any way you slice it, I’ve got nothing to report.”
“Well, see to it that you do. And pronto. Remember, sweetie, you’ve got a lot to lose. I’ve been satisfied in the past, but things’re dragging a bit this time. And when I say you’ve got a lot to lose, I don’t mean just this flat.”
“This is a special case. I can’t figure that Helena out. But this much I know: Nobody’s contacted her on the job. And the moment she steps out the door, it’s not my business anymore. The cinema’s my turf.”
“That kid’s murder fouled everything up. As soon as the public gets wind of these things, and especially the police, the plants run for cover—it blows the whole thing. But I still think the Horizon was too sweet a setup for them to kiss it good-bye. Maybe we just need to give it some time. Hey, don’t suppose you got another beer in there?”
“You bet. Comin’ right up.”
The man drank thirstily, then pushed his glass aside. Instinctively he lowered his voice.
“I’ve got a plan to make some headway on this thing. Nothing fancy, easy to carry out, but it’ll take some organizing.” As he spoke, he rapped the tabletop with an angular index finger. “We can nail this thing if I get it right, but it’s going to take some work. Give me a week, maybe ten days. If you haven’t dug up anything new by then, we’ll give it a go. I’ll stop by again next week. There’s no such thing as an innocent person. Get that through your head. You can’t see it till you look. But as soon as you do, everything about ’em, everything they do, is suspicious. That’s the way to look at it.”
“You bet. You can count on me. I’ll take care of it. That’s what I’m here for.”
“That’s all I ask.” The man drew a long yellow envelope from his breast pocket and laid it on the table next to the empty half-liter glass. “This isn’t a Christmas present, got it? We expect results. You’ve got a lot to lose,” he repeated.
He stood up, looked around the room, and walked out the door without a good-bye.
The woman, still seated, shut her eyes. After a while, she stood up, took the envelope from the table and tucked it, still unopened, under a pile of paper napkins in the drawer.
6
“. . . Oh sure, I understand, no need to explain, I know how much work you have . . . Don’t worry about it . . . Right, I’ll call again when I get a chance . . .
Bye now.”
I hung up the phone and went back to my table.
That was the third time now Růžena had said she didn’t have time. And she hadn’t called in at least a month. If not longer.
“You all right?” the waitress asked airily.
“Yes, just feeling hot. Could you bring me a glass of seltzer please? And another cup of coffee.”
“You know you really shouldn’t smoke. By the third month it’ll pass. When I was—”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just a little dizzy. Could you bring me that seltzer please?”
“Fine. Young people today. You won’t take a word of advice.”
I should be ashamed of myself. Jesus, what was the matter with me? So Růžena had dumped me. So what? I had to give her credit for not doing it sooner. What would we have done if we’d gotten together, anyway? I wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, not to mention I was broke. I felt like the fifth wheel wherever I went. It couldn’t have been too nice having a walking disaster like me around when your life was going the way you wanted. I also kept forgetting I was dangerous to be seen with. Růžena’s husband couldn’t have been too thrilled about our friendship. He was trying to build a career. What if people found out, which they certainly would, who his wife was palling around with? God knows how long he’d been telling her to ditch me already. That must have been it. He put the knife to her throat and she gave in. What woman is going to break up her marriage over a friend?
Innocence; or, Murder on Steep Street Page 4
