by Rose Edmunds
But it was too little, too late, and too insincere to stem the tidal wave of emotion now engulfing me.
‘What hurts you most?’
‘I wasn’t drunk—I’m not an alcoholic.’
Yet my denials sounded hollow, even to my own ears. What difference did it make whether I’d been drunk or sober? My drinking had killed Zowie and hell, I was even drinking now, incapable of processing my emotions without my trusty friend.
‘I can’t talk about it,’ I said, sobbing.
For how would I begin to express the toxic cocktail of grief, guilt and shame that had hit me like a sledgehammer, hot on the heels of my indignation, protests and denial?
‘I’m sorry you’re upset,’ he repeated, and only then did I notice George’s eyes watering up too.
I was so besieged by my own misery I’d forgotten his predicament. He’d lost his son and was haunted by the past, and his unwillingness to reveal his emotions didn’t invalidate them.
‘I’m OK, now,’ I said. ‘But how are you doing?’
He remained silent for a full minute, as he took in our surroundings.
‘I recognise this place. I remember, not from a picture I saw later, but from how it was then. My mother brought here me for tea the day I caught the train—I sense it. I had my submarine and was so excited to be eating cake and going on my travels. Only now can I understand my mother’s suffering that day. She must have known we might never meet again. And…’
Whether or not this place, the Slavia, was the actual café they visited, or even whether it existed in 1939 (I later ascertained it did), seemed irrelevant. George’s journey in his head was independent of his physical surroundings.
‘…I’m remembering my daughter—we’re estranged, which is so silly isn’t it?’
‘Was it her doing or yours?’ I asked, trying to concentrate on George’s plight rather than wallow in my own sorry predicament.
‘Oh, she would say mine, and I would say hers—same old story.’
Indeed. I’d cut off contact with my mother more than a decade before, in an act of self-preservation to protect my mental health. But that hadn’t stopped her from slagging me off to her buddies, and telling them I was “too grand” for her now. I saw, for the first time, that although my mother’s side of the story had no merit, her version of events seemed as real to her as mine did to me.
‘Did anything specific precipitate the split?’
‘Oh yes—she married a crook and I couldn’t resist telling her so.’
As it happened, I sided with George. I’d come across his son-in-law, who was peripherally involved in the “big fraud” I’d uncovered. He lacked the smarts to be a prime mover, but he’d scurried around hiding the evidence to protect his backside. In my estimation, he’d been lucky to avoid jail. And worst of all, Ed had helped him.
Obviously, I decided against telling George any of this.
‘What makes you say he was a crook?’
‘Saw him in action, trying to extract a fraudulent property valuation out of one of my colleagues. I tried to warn her, but she was having none of it.’
‘And what would your daughter say?’
‘That I was an old fool, too stupid to understand modern business practice, and believing the worst of her husband rather than admitting my ignorance. It was a knotty transaction for sure, but cons don’t change much over the years, and trust me, I’ve seen most of them in my time.’
George eyed my ice cream with interest when it arrived.
‘Can we have another spoon please?’ I asked the waiter.
‘Oh no—that’s not necessary.’
‘Go on. I know you want to and besides, it’s enormous—I shouldn’t be eating it at all.’
‘It was ironic,’ George went on, ‘that we should fall out over something I said. Because mostly my problems with the children came from what was unsaid. Esther and I never spoke of the past—we thought we were protecting them, but somehow our history made its mark on them despite our silence. The past hung like a shroud over the family, and left both children gripped by an opportunistic urgency to fill a void they didn’t fully comprehend. And for that I blame myself.’
His analysis was heart-breaking in its honesty, yet made total sense.
‘I love that phrase “opportunistic urgency”. It captures the essence of Ed so precisely.’
‘Doesn’t it just?’ he said. ‘I never liked him much, but now I’ve lost him, I’m warming to him.’
You and me both, I thought.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘This Stanislav—is he like Ed in personality?’
‘There are certain similarities,’ I replied, choosing my words carefully.
‘My lawyer has proved that Stanislav’s father was in business with Josef Dušek. Jan Novak was a witness at Josef’s wedding and had to give his details, which tie up with his UK citizenship application, and his own marriage certificate from 1955. So it does look like Stanislav may be my half-brother.’
‘But how did Jan survive the war?’ I said, thinking out loud. ‘And why was your mother, Eva, so sure he was dead? I’m sure Stanislav knows more than he’s telling.’
‘I guess you’ll work your charm on him and prise it out of him.’
‘I can try, although I can’t imagine I’ll be in his good books given our lack of progress.’
George had taken two small spoonfuls from my sundae. I encouraged him to help himself to more.
He dug out a piece of fruit with his spoon.
‘See,’ he said. ‘It’s got Vitamin C in it, it must be healthy.’
‘How do you feel about Jan being your birth father?’ I asked, still trying to keep the focus on George.
‘Confused. From 1948, he lived in England, and presumably knew I was there too, but never tried to contact me…’
‘You can’t be sure of that. He might not have even been aware you were his son.’
‘I suspect he was aware,’ said George. ‘And that hurts.’
My phone rang, preventing us from exploring the subject in more detail—Rudi. It was noisy in the café so I took the call outside.
‘Hi—what’s new?’
I sounded much brighter than I felt.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
‘Oh the good, please.’ I’d had enough bad news for one day.
‘Viktor Živsa is the son of the party official. I spoke to his wife—Hana.’
‘Fab—let’s hope he can tell us about the pictures.’
‘The bad news is he’s not in a position to tell us anything. Hana came back from work today and found him dead—a single shot to the head—most likely the work of a professional.’
16
Good God.
‘The police were there when I telephoned,’ said Rudi. ‘I reckon whoever killed Živsa got the information they needed, then shot him to stop him talking.’
I hadn’t planned on confessing to Rudi about my “accident”. It was so humiliating to be caught out after dismissing his warning. But now there was no escaping the truth, and my story came tumbling out, as in a confessional.
‘Amy—you should have told me earlier.’
‘Well, I’ve told you now. And I guess I was lucky to escape with a black eye and a bunch of bruises.’
‘If they’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead,’ said Rudi, in an incisively brutal assessment of the position. ‘I reckon they assumed you were on your way to see Živsa and planned to delay you so they could get to him first.’
And they’d obviously succeeded.
‘I guess in the circumstances it was too difficult to ask the wife about the art.’
Even I, capable of being as callous as Ed Smithies when pursuing a goal, would have shrunk from the task.
‘You bet—she was in a terrible state. But I did ask her if she had any idea why her husband had been killed.’
Excellent—Rudi was such an operator.
‘And?’
‘She was in sh
ock, but either she’s a brilliant actress, or she knows nothing. And if she’s a brilliant actress, she must have figured out that talking will be like signing her own death warrant.’
‘So either way, that’s it,’ I said.
‘It does rather look like it,’ Rudi agreed. ‘Although, I expect the painting to surface in due course, just as the Chagall did.’
None of this was helpful, except that George was now more willing to accept my story. Even so, he doubtless still suspected alcohol had played a role.
‘So what now?’ George asked.
I took a huge glug of wine and gave him Rudi’s bleak summary of the situation.
‘Sounds as if we’ve had it,’ he said.
‘Yes, but there’s still Plan B. If it turns out you’re related to Stanislav, you might have a claim on Jan Novak’s estate.’
‘I’m not keen on litigation though. I’m an old man.’
‘Let me sound him out before you give up hope altogether.’
‘I suppose we ought to tell Beresford.’
‘Can’t you talk to him? I don’t feel strong enough.’
‘It would be better coming from you if you can bear it.’
I had no enthusiasm for the conversation. Whichever way I spun it, the odious man was bound to be critical of my efforts. Yet on balance, I supposed he’d be less critical to my face than behind my back.
***
I wriggled out of eating with them, and we met in the bar instead.
In the few days they’d been acquainted, Mel had moved with commendable speed in demolishing Beresford’s inhibitions about alcohol, even persuading him to drink the same vile cocktails as her. Funny how she’d made herself over so she could almost pass as a classy chick, but still knocked back the same naff concoctions she’d enjoyed before. And those sickly sweet drinks were chock full of calories, even though alcohol calories don’t count. Which might explain her minimal eating.
Beresford sat on a bar stool quaffing a Pina Colada with great enthusiasm. For heaven’s sake, Mel, I thought, get a grip—what kind of a man drinks a cocktail with an umbrella in it?
‘Goodness,’ Beresford said, peering at the black eye my makeup had utterly failed to disguise. ‘You’ve been in the wars. What on earth happened?’
‘If you get me a drink,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you.’
Beresford’s excitement at tracking the artworks to the vineyard promptly dissipated on the news of later events. Moreover, his disappointment rendered him unmoved by my terrifying car crash and Živsa’s death. Mel kept saying ‘Oh that’s terrible, isn’t it, Mo,’ and nudging him in the hope of eliciting a fitting response, but he steadfastly ignored all her hints. Instead, he droned on about how the kudos of a sensational discovery had been snatched from him. This predictably morphed into a critique of the way Rudi and I had handled matters.
‘If only this Strnad chap had called the man earlier, we might have been celebrating tonight,’ he said. To which I politely replied that he’d tried.
Anyone sensible would have picked up on the negative vibes and shut up, but not Beresford. With a gauche if not malevolent deftness, he moved onto even more sensitive ground, and berated me for not escaping my pursuer on the road.
‘I’d like to see you do better,’ I replied sourly, before remembering he didn’t even drive.
‘All the same, leaving aside the inadequacies of your efforts, various questions spring to mind. It’s clear that those responsible for your accident knew about Živsa and where to find him.’
It might have been clear to Beresford, but in my woolly frame of mind this point had eluded me.
‘So,’ he said, moving in for the kill, ‘who else was aware of Živsa’s identity?’
Although it galled me to admit it, this was a reasonable enquiry. But the immediate answer was neither plausible nor palatable. Only Rudi…
‘What do we know about this Strnad chap?’ he asked, as if reading my mind. ‘Is he sound?’
‘What—you mean is he after the pictures himself?’
‘Something like that.’
I didn’t even hesitate.
‘No—Rudi’s fine, and he’s been tremendously helpful.’
‘Rudi—eh?’ said Beresford. ‘Goodness me, you’re on close terms after such a short association.’
The words pot, kettle and black sprang to mind, and I seethed inwardly at the hypocrisy.
‘So who else if not him?’
‘I’m not sure—I can’t think straight.’
‘I can see that. I wonder if you bumped your head or something. Concussion can severely impair cognitive ability.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘Now the next step in the logical process is as follows…’ he continued, oblivious both to my growing annoyance and Mel’s increasingly frantic efforts to alert him.
‘Maurice,’ I cut in. ‘It’s over—we’ve lost the painting.’
‘Au contraire, my dear. The next step would be obvious to you if you weren’t so muddleheaded.’
I’d had it—I was like a pressure cooker about to blow, and politeness no longer constrained me. He’d been asking for it ever since I walked into the bar, if not the first evening in Prague.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake will you shut up! I can’t stand the sound of your voice a minute longer, you snobby know-it-all. I tried to help you purely as a favour and you repay me by belittling my actions and opinions. I was nearly killed today and you’ve shown zero empathy for me or that poor bugger who got shot. If the next step is so goddamn obvious, take it yourself, but don’t expect any help from me. Because I’ve had it up to here with you.’
And with that, I picked up Beresford’s poncy cocktail, and chucked the remains at his ridiculous comb-over. His astonishment was priceless, but I had no desire to hang around.
‘She’s a little overwrought,’ I heard George say as I stormed out of the bar, which prompted me to turn back.
‘And you can shut it too. If I want excuses made, I’ll make them myself.’
***
‘Epic rant,’ said Little Amy in awed tones. ‘Even though you made a complete tit of yourself.’
It wasn’t often Little Amy’s observations were justified, but on this occasion, once the initial frisson of pleasure at my outburst had abated, I was forced to agree. Sure, I had good reason to be on edge, but by not handling myself better, I’d put myself in a one down position and given Beresford a valid reason to despise me.
‘I was SO embarrassed, even though he’s an utter dick.’
‘Well—it serves you right. If you buggered off and left me alone, you wouldn’t be embarrassed.’
‘Oh—I’d never do that. You need me.’
I emphatically did not need her, particularly when she told home truths I didn’t want to hear, a skill she’d now perfected. I rummaged around in the minibar and pulled out two miniature brandies.
‘Here we go again,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Wash the emotion down with a drink— that’s always your answer.’
No way would I admit she was right, but before I could give a pithy response, she’d already faded away.
I drank the two little brandies, but without enthusiasm. My body ached all over and my head pounded. Perhaps I was, as Beresford had suggested, concussed, and would die during the night from a brain haemorrhage. What a relief that would be—no more pain, no more shame, no more Little Amy.
I tuned into the BBC News. The date of the EU referendum had been announced earlier, although there seemed little point in holding a referendum when the result was virtually certain. Sure the EU was massively flawed, but wasn’t it safer to be part of a united Europe in such an uncertain world? Thinking of the havoc wreaked in Europe by World War II and its aftermath, I found it hard to argue why Britain should leave.
As I hovered in that twilight zone between consciousness and sleep, I heard a tap on the door. I froze—one attempt on my life per day was more than sufficient. I rose and peered nervously through the p
eephole, even though I’d read horror stories about folks getting shot through them.
Phew—only Mel. I opened the door, though I had little energy or desire to interact with her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gushed, hugging me. ‘I was kicking Mo under the table to make him shut up, but he’s so clueless he wouldn’t take the hint.’
What the heck was with all this “Mo” business, I wondered. I couldn’t imagine Beresford cared for the abbreviation either. Mo sounded vaguely hip and groovy, so grossly unfitting for a pompous windbag with a superiority complex.
‘Please forgive him,’ Mel said. ‘Honest to God, he didn’t mean to upset you. He’s obsessed with that painting and everything else plays second fiddle.’
‘Including my welfare,’ I said in acid tones. I wasn’t inclined to let Beresford off the hook so easily, because to excuse his behaviour meant less justification for mine.
‘I know—I’m furious with him. How are you doing?’
‘Crap,’ I said. ‘Someone tried to kill me today.’
‘Dumb question, I guess—sorry.’
‘Don’t worry—been so horrendous you nothing you can say will make it worse.’
‘I don’t suppose you could spare me a drink?’ said Mel, indicating the empty brandy miniatures on the counter. ‘Mo is such a tightwad with the minibar— he says it’s a complete rip off.’
Beresford’s type invariably congratulate themselves on how clever they are to spot and avoid outrageous minibar prices. But hey—everyone gets that minibars are ludicrously overpriced—it’s the whole point. Sure, I could pop to the non-stop Spar round the corner and buy my Pringles and wine at a fraction of the cost. But I want them now and my time has a value too. Besides, if I can afford to stay in a hotel, the minibar won’t bankrupt me.
‘And you haven’t persuaded him to see the error of his ways?’
‘Not yet, no. He’s so stubborn.’
Presumably because his objection was ideological, rather than financial.
‘We could go downstairs, if you prefer.’
‘I don’t.’
Not only was I in my pyjamas, but I couldn’t face the bartender after my gala performance with Beresford’s drink.
