by Pavel Mandys
He assumed she’d enjoy it. That she would smile. She was his stalker, right? She kept coming to his store; she watched him from the bridge above the rails; she wanted to have coffee with him—surely she wanted him to be single. But instead of satisfaction, a strange emotion scurried behind her eyes. She looked almost disappointed. Bewildered. He didn’t understand.
“So you love her.”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “She’s actually quite horrible, but . . . I would do anything for her.”
She nodded, then changed the topic back to the bird fountain. Distracted, as if she were thinking about something else. She didn’t mention the coffee anymore. Soon thereafter, she started to leave.
When she turned at the door to say goodbye, something in her face told him he was seeing her for the last time.
* * *
Three weeks later he was starting to believe that his premonition had been right. His stalker hadn’t appeared again, and anything that could illuminate her visits hadn’t happened. He was sitting at home watching television, slowly sipping whiskey. Why was he so afraid of her? She was simply crazy. Perhaps she’d really wanted to seduce him, but once she learned he lived with his sister, she lost interest. He remembered his own decision—if he got rid of her without complications, he’d send Marty packing with all the saints. Should he do it? Was that really a good idea?
As he was pondering this, he kept changing channels absentmindedly. The Big Bang Theory. Solid Gold. The news on the trashiest TV station: “A businessman was found brutally murdered in his villa in Prague, Vinohrady.” His picture accompanying the details. “At the time of discovery, the body had been dead for quite a few weeks and was badly decomposed. Since he lived alone and was supposed to be on holiday, his relatives were not worried. It was the smell of the decomposed body that eventually indicated its presence in the first republic–era villa . . .”
“That guy looks like you,” commented Alice, who had just entered the living room holding a cup of buckthorn tea. “Seriously, look—if your hair was shorter . . .”
“Wait!” he yelled, and turned the volume up. “I’m listening!”
“. . . what’s striking is the strong physical resemblance of the victim to the man who was stabbed yesterday in the late-evening hours in a park in Žižkov where he was walking his dog.” On the screen, two passport pictures appeared. Both men had dark, longish hair, narrow lips, and a hollow face. In his mind, Felix nodded to Alice’s comment: they both looked like him. The hairs on his neck stood up. “The likeness of the victims may not be accidental. An unnamed source informed us that the police are working on a theory about a serial killer . . .”
“That’s weird,” said Alice. “You better get a haircut. Or color your hair. So that the freak doesn’t finish you next time.”
“Shut up for a minute!” A chilly realization was taking shape in Felix’s brain. A first republic villa in Vinohrady. Two murdered men who looked just like him. That could not be a coincidence. Or could it?
“. . . the wife of yesterday’s victim stated that a week before his death, a strange woman took pictures of her husband on a mobile phone. He intended to report it to the police, but he never made it. A webcam near the murder site did record a woman who was already identified by a few witnesses as the sister of the first murdered man. Tereza S. from Prague . . .”
“Some kind of freak,” Alice uttered huskily. “I would cut your hair military style, really. Otherwise I’m going to piss on myself worrying about you being her next victim. Can I?”
Instead of answering, he laboriously swallowed.
“. . . the woman had been having arguments with her brother for a long time, and this year she was hospitalized in a psychiatric facility from which she signed out against medical advice. The unnamed source informed us that according to one of the police reports, Tereza first murdered her brother, and then a completely unknown man, because of his physical likeness to her brother. The police are asking witnesses for any information about the movements of this woman. You are now watching the webcam recording . . .”
Felix stood up so violently that he slopped some of the whiskey on his shirt.
He knew that walk. He knew that wavy hem on firm calves.
He looked at his sister and after a long time he felt something like gratitude.
Another Worst Day
by Petra Soukupová
Letná
While she’s making tea for herself, HladÍk looks around the room. A typical nice home. Naturally, a few pictures of cute children, and of her and her husband as well. Attractive people; they both smile and look happy. Toys on the floor. Bookshelves full of books on history. It’s clean here. Maybe it will be different this time.
Finally, the kettle clicks and she makes the tea. She sits down across from him. She really is pretty. Pretty and sad.
“We have about an hour before Gabi wakes up.”
“Did anything unusual happen yesterday?”
She watches him for a while as if she doesn’t understand what he’s talking about.
“No, I mean before. Before your husband disappeared.”
“It was a usual day, usual evening.” There’s frustration in Radka’s voice. She has said this already, hasn’t she? She’s already described the day to them minute by minute. There’s nothing suspicious, nothing even interesting about it. What could there be? Peter didn’t leave her, he disappeared; they didn’t fight; he didn’t behave strangely; he came home from work and went on his run and he didn’t return. Through the night she didn’t sleep for one minute, and then she took the boys to school. Filip was happy, as if nothing had happened; Matěj needed a bit of assurance—Dad will come back, he’ll be back home soon—and Gabi, she doesn’t know or understand anything. She’s asleep in her room, and Radka’s hands are shaking, and this Captain Hladík with the greasy spot on his hoodie—since when do detectives wear hoodies? Since when do they look as if they got their clothes from the trash? How is she supposed to believe this man; believe that he is doing his job well when he looks like this?
“Please start one more time, Mrs. Fišerová.”
“Start where?”
“Where you think you should,” answers Hladík.
Radka tries, she really tries hard; she doesn’t sigh noisily, doesn’t yell even if she wants to, she only carefully exhales.
“So start from yesterday’s breakfast.”
“It was a morning like any other. We woke up; we had breakfast; Peter took the boys to school; they left at seven thirty.”
“Did you set an alarm? What happened during breakfast?”
Radka watches him. Why all these questions? Her husband is lying somewhere, hurt or kidnapped, and she is supposed to discuss their breakfast?
“Yes, we wake up using an alarm. I use it because I wake up easier than Peter. I also go to sleep earlier.”
“So you don’t sleep together?”
Now she’s had it. “Of course, sometimes, yes. Sometimes we spend an evening together and we talk and then we go to bed. But sometimes Peter works at night. He has a lot of work. And I know what he does—he doesn’t do anything I wouldn’t know about; he doesn’t have a lover with whom he communicates at night, and he doesn’t go anywhere at night alone; he doesn’t come back from work late . . . Peter doesn’t have anybody, Peter is not like that. But I’ve been telling you this, Peter is good and we love each other and we have a good relationship, unlike others. So go and ask other people who know him if you don’t believe me! Peter keeps no secrets from me, I don’t keep secrets from him, and we also sleep together!”
Hladík nods. “I understand.”
But he doesn’t, he doesn’t understand anything; Peter is the best thing that ever happened in her life. He’s her ally, her soul mate, the best man in the world. He would never hurt her—and he would never ever cheat on her. He would never endanger the family; he would never hurt the children or her. It is her solace; everything in the world is defined by Peter being
simply a great guy, and their life together being good. If they were not so intent on wasting time by asking her to describe the breakfast, they could have started looking for him and might actually have found him. Even if they don’t sleep together as much as they used to at the beginning (but who does?), so much else in their life is beautiful and fantastic; sometimes they just look at each other and they don’t have to utter a word to know what the other is thinking—that’s really important.
“Do you understand that this is not what you think it is? That it is not what it usually is? I checked on the Internet, I know how it goes when an adult who is psychologically healthy disappears. But that is not the case here, you’re wasting time.”
“Mrs. Fišerová, I really do understand you. I also believe you. Nevertheless, I still have to ask.”
And so Radka describes how they had breakfast; how two days ago she baked an apple pie which everybody had for breakfast yesterday; the boys had fruit tea, Gabi still drinks milk; she and Peter had tea as well, but ginger, also pie—she had only two pieces, Peter three—he ate the pie as if it was the best pie in the world even if it was nothing special.
“Did the children like it?” Hladík asks.
Radka looks at him in disbelief; she can’t remain silent—what kind of question is that? “How will this help you find him?”
Hladík gestures as if in apology. “Fine, continue.”
She is quiet for a while. “They ate it—Filip had seconds but not Matéj. Gabi had one piece. It was no special pie. Wait a second—I still have a piece, would you like some?”
Hladík shakes his head. Then he points to his belly. He’s fat. “I’m trying to lose some weight.”
Radka realizes that she was already up to serve the pie, and so she sits down. For a a few moments, she’s unsure what to say. She described the breakfast—nothing out of the ordinary happened during the breakfast; when the children go to school there’s no particular moment to enjoy—everybody’s in a hurry. I have to remind everybody to eat, to drink at least something . . . Why don’t they enjoy it more—that they’re together? Why is everything only a hurried routine?
“Then the boys went to dress and I prepared snacks. Peter dressed as well. Gabi remained with me—she enjoys helping me—then they left.” Radka remembers: Peter kissed everybody goodbye and it was not just an obligatory kiss, it was a true kiss, even with the boys. Peter had a nice farewell with Gabi too, as always. He hugged her and they kissed each other and then they left. Radka has tears in her eyes because when he came back from work that evening, Gabi was already asleep, he didn’t see her, and now . . . now.
“And then what did you do?”
She swipes at her eyes. “Then I went out with Gabi. We go out almost every day in the morning, sometimes to the playground, but I also go and buy groceries for lunch . . . the children don’t eat at school, they don’t cook well. Or healthy. It doesn’t matter—I’m home anyway.”
“So you haven’t gone back to work yet?”
“No. I knew it back then that I wouldn’t come back. And Gabi is not yet enrolled in kindergarten—she won’t be three until February—and I didn’t want her to go to a private one, I wanted to spend more time with her. And Peter supported me, he makes enough money. But that’s not the point really, I take care of the children, of all of us, and I do take time to make sure we eat well . . . and I would like to have my own business. Something like a coffee shop, a bistro, a small business. So now I’m looking for information, and once kindergarten starts, I want to go for it. I want it to be nice. I bake a lot. In the store, I would like to sell homemade pies and such.”
Hladík nods his head. “So you went grocery shopping and then you cooked lunch. And then?”
“Then nothing. He called me during his lunch break—just a usual phone call—we tell each other what we’re up to and how our day has been so far.”
“Did he say when he’d be home?”
“No, but that means it’d be as always. Somewhere between seven and eight.”
“And that is usual?”
“It’s the end of the quarter right now, it’s always like this. In April, for example, he comes home at six; even picks up the boys from after-school activities.”
“Does he like his job?”
She becomes silent for a while, then shrugs. “Well . . . as much as anybody else. Just normal, I’d say.”
“Perhaps he wanted to quit the job?”
“No, not at all!” Suddenly, Radka bursts into tears. “Why aren’t you looking for him? Please go and look for him, it’s cold and raining and he’s lying there somewhere.”
“We’re already looking for him. My colleagues are looking for him, do not worry.”
The detective puts his hand on hers as a calming gesture. Radka doesn’t flinch, even if she may want to. His hand is sweaty. Then it hits her. The sooner she tells him everything, the sooner she gets rid of him, the sooner she can start doing something herself. Go looking for him again.
Because naturally, last night when Peter hadn’t come home, when she tried to call him and couldn’t reach him, she had put on her running gear, including a jacket and hat because it was raining. It had started raining a short while after he’d run outside and it’s been raining since, sheets of water; the kids in their rain jackets in the morning. She rang her neighbor Hana’s bell—The kids are asleep and I’ll be back within an hour, please check on them a few times—Hana stared at her dumbfounded, it was ten in the evening—I’ll explain it to you later, Hana, don’t worry—and Radka ran out.
Leaving the building, she started to jog, following the path Peter used to run most often; the one they sometimes run together . . . even if—when was the last time—perhaps at the end of the summer, when the kids were at her mom’s, they ran together before breakfast, ten kilometers, a shower together, sex included (since the kids were not there, they had to take advantage of it), and then had breakfast together. It was actually a nice day, she tells herself, while she’s running in the dark and rain. She has to find time to run with him—they both enjoy it after all. She will stop being lazy and will run with him. But what about the kids—well, she’ll figure that out, they can run when the boys are in kindergarten and somebody will simply babysit Gabi. Maybe her brother, he would probably watch the kids for as long as an hour—on the playground, over the weekend, for example, and she and Peter could go run together.
She doesn’t know right now what exactly she thinks has happened to Peter. Perhaps he twisted his ankle on a side road where now, this late, not many people walk by, and now he’s waiting there. His phone is dead. She’s imagining how she’ll see him in a while, she expects him to appear around every turn in the road, but she runs their entire route and it doesn’t happen . . . and she runs a bit longer around Stromovka, but she’s getting hot in the jacket and at the same time, she’s soaked. If she stops, she’ll get cold right away; but she doesn’t stop, a few people walking their dogs are still out even after eleven p.m. and she has no idea anymore where else to run. Her legs are starting to hurt because she can’t even remember when was the last time she ran this much. In addition, at the end of a long day, she is tired—and Peter could have run along the river, but she doesn’t really think so—so she takes out the phone, somewhere in the middle of the empty park under a tree, and wants to call him, but then she tells herself, I better run back home. What if Peter, in the meantime, has returned. What if he decided to go for an especially long run—he’s training for a half-marathon and he likes to run in the evening . . . Yeah, of course, that’s what it is. So with renewed energy she runs home—you’re such a fool, Radka, you should have waited at home and not run outside; you’ll get a cold, then the kids will get it from you. Peter is surely home by now—in the shower. She speeds up so that she gets home as fast as possible. On her way, she knocks at Hana’s door—Sorry, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, this was a bit foolish . . . Hana doesn’t understand anything; Radka invites her for a cup of coffee tomorrow
along with the kids. But now she hurriedly unlocks the door—she is so sure that Peter’s running shoes will be right there. She stops at the threshold—Peter’s slippers, silence, the kitchen clock ticking.
Radka’s heart starts beating fast and she takes out her phone, she should have done that right away, she’s lost an hour acting on her silly idea to run around outside.
They listen politely to her. She must come down to the station. She tells them she has nobody to look after the kids. “You probably can’t take them with you, right?” says that male voice—sounds young. It’s half past eleven at night; Radka says she’ll find a way and come.
She takes off the wet running clothes and leaves them on the bathroom floor. She takes whatever she can grab from the top of the laundry basket, slightly dirty—the jeans she wears only when she takes Gabi outside, the T-shirt she’s worn today—and as she’s putting it all on, she notices Peter’s nightshirt—she picks it up and smells it; it smells like Peter. For the first time, Radka starts crying, loudly, and the traces of her tears are visible on her shirt.
A sweater, jacket, shoes . . . and she knocks on Hana’s door again—she doesn’t want to ring this late. Robert opens the door—“Anything going on?” And she says, “I have to go to the police station, Peter hasn’t come home, please—the kids are asleep, could you or Hana check on them, I have to go talk to the police, they will not come here, I have to go there, but it’s not very far, I’ll be back shortly.” Robert stops her; doesn’t ask anything, takes the keys—he informs Hana, and then goes to Radka’s apartment so that Radka can leave, telling her not to worry, to calm down, it’ll all get straightened out.
And so again she runs outside this late at night, it’s still raining, an empty tram goes by, she runs to the police station, everything takes forever—until somebody comes to sit her down in a badly lit room, it stinks like smoke and old paper; Radka explains what has happened—her husband came home from work, he ate, talked to the kids, changed into his running clothes, went out for his run, and didn’t return. Maybe he fell into the river. Maybe—she doesn’t know—but maybe he got hit by a car; the phone is turned off, probably dead, no he didn’t go anywhere else, they do not have any problems, they didn’t argue . . . “Look,” Radka says as calmly and mildly as she can, “please believe me, my husband hasn’t left me; my husband has disappeared.”
