Your Still Beating Heart

by Tyler Keevil

  That’s part of it too. That can’t be denied.

  part two

  looking for trouble

  You find him where he found you: in the square, in the cold, in the night. But earlier, at a respectable hour, when there are far more locals and tourists about, far fewer drunks. A fresh dusting of snow on the ground, the crystals hard and crusted, like sand. Where pedestrians have stepped it’s been crushed into greyish grit that reminds you of Tod’s cremated remains.

  You see Mario before he sees you – from afar. He’s lounging in the doorway of one of the twenty-four-hour electronic casinos, dressed immaculately in his beige linen suit. This time, it’s complemented by a green dress shirt. A leather overcoat. A cigarillo scissored between the fingers of his right hand. The lights of the roulette wheel in the window beside him washing over his face, casting it blue, then red, then yellow. Mario the magician. Already on the hustle, ready to work his magic.

  You have time, as you approach, to wonder how you have arrived at this, or, more specifically, what has drawn you back here. Maybe the fact that you feel, in doing so, you’re taking a step off the clockwork tracks, breaking not just routine but character. You’re doing something nobody would expect of you, or suspect you were capable of: wilfully seeking out trouble. It’s a thrill, sure. But, more than that, it amounts to a kind of freedom. Like you can peel off your skin, step out of it, kick your old self into the gutter, become somebody else.

  Or maybe you’re just bored, dulled. You feel so bloody numb, all the time. And this seems like it could alleviate it. You can’t wander around Prague forever, seeking nothing.

  Or maybe it’s simply that you need money. There’s always that. You wonder if that was partly the purpose of the language classes: to use up the last of your cash, to push yourself to this point. To see what happens next.

  Regardless, Mario doesn’t seem surprised to see you. Pleased, yes. But not surprised. He notices you and straightens and smiles, widely, letting smoke leak from the sides of his mouth.

  ‘The snow queen,’ he says, affectionately. ‘I hoped I’d be seeing you.’

  He transfers his cigarillo, extends his hand, which you take. His palm smooth and cool as porcelain. You ask him firstly how his friend is – Denis. The one who received the knock on the head. At that, Mario laughs, mimes rapping on his own skull, like people do to demonstrate that it’s empty. He says Denis is fine. He was a little concussed for a few days, but recovered quickly. He hardly remembers anything, bears no ill will.

  This strikes you as funny, that your attacker and would-be mugger might be the one who feels mistreated, or hard done by.

  ‘And you?’ Mario says. ‘You are the same?’

  You tell him you’re getting by, but that money is running out. You’re wondering about his proposal, the work he mentioned.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, as if he’s been waiting for you to broach the subject. ‘Yes, we all need money. We should talk. There is work, definitely. A job coming up, in fact. For the right person.’ He looks at you, as if honestly trying to judge, and tells you he thinks you might be the right person.

  You ask him what kind of work it is, but he shakes his head, quick and professional. Here is not the place to talk. He makes a circular motion with his cigarillo, adopting that showman’s air.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he tells you, and stoops to stub out the cigarillo. ‘A procházka, yes?’

  So that’s what you do, the two of you. You wander together down the boulevard, along the eastern side of Wenceslas Square. Like old friends. Or a couple out for a stroll. It’s crowded, but the noise of footsteps, the constant stir of other conversations, creates a kind of privacy – nobody can overhear anybody else because they’re all talking, laughing, walking.

  Mario saunters along with his collar turned up, his hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat, which you see now is not real leather – the plastic material creased, splitting. He looks straight ahead as he talks to you. He asks firstly if you have a passport, which confuses you – it’s the kind of thing you would expect from a formal employer, not a hustler. You tell him you do.

  ‘And you can drive?’ he asks. ‘You have a licence?’

  ‘A British licence, sure.’

  ‘And you have never been in trouble? No criminal record?’

  ‘No.’

  After each of your answers, he nods. Satisfied. You follow him to the northern end of Wenceslas Square, and continue on into the Old Town, among the jazz bars and puppet theatres, all the tourist shops. In front of one theatre a man in dark clothing works a knee-high marionette, making it dance and kick, hoping to attract punters. Mario walks by, nearly stepping on the puppet, which hops back out of reach, waving a fist in mock-irritation.

  Mario tells you the work is simple and straightforward. It’s not dangerous or risky at all, provided you do as you’re told. You will make very good money. But, he adds, it is not legal. He asks if you understand, and you say yes. He asks if you have a problem with that, and you say no. Good, he says. Dobrý. He claps his hands – the sound echoing loudly – and rubs them together, as if warming them. It gives him a gleeful air.

  Again, you ask him what it is he wants you to do, and he waves vaguely. Says that it usually involves crossing the border into Ukraine, out of Europe. Picking something up, and coming back. Just once. Only ever once.

  Under your breath, almost to yourself, you mutter one word, ‘Drugs.’

  ‘Sometimes drugs, yes. Sometimes goods, other things.’ He thinks a minute, and then adds, ‘Products.’ He seems pleased with the all-encompassing nature of the term.

  You point out that he said there was no risk, no danger. Drug smuggling is risky. Mario laughs, a tight, high sound – not his usual laugh. A nervous laugh. Like he’s had a blast of helium. He explains it is only risky if you screw it up. If you do the wrong thing. There are rarely problems. They have people at the border.

  They. It’s the first time he’s used that word. You ask him – to be sure – whether you’re working for him, or somebody else. He admits he is just the middleman. He finds people. People like you. People who look innocent, who are innocent. People who can cross borders. People who, for whatever reason, are willing to do this thing. For money, mainly. Then he sets up a meeting. That’s the next step. After that, you are committed.

  You just have to keep your cool, he says, and glances sidelong at you. He says that’s why he thought you’d be perfect. The way you were with Denis. Your lack of panic, fear.

  ‘You are the snow queen, right?’

  You’ve come out in a small square, still in the Old Town, but away from the areas popular with tourists at night. No one is around; the only sound the echo of your footsteps on frozen cobblestones. Mario stops and turns to you, and you stand facing each other, your breath mingling in the cold. You notice that his nose is slightly crooked, from being broken and healing wrong.

  He says this is as much as he can tell you, at this stage. There is no pressure, but if you agree to it, if you go ahead, then you must fulfil your side of the bargain. He shakes his head, wryly. ‘These people, they do not like – how do you say – to be trifled with? If you want the work, you must be serious. You do it, you get paid, you walk away. That’s it.’

  You ask him how much, and he names a sum, in dollars. Five figures. More than you need, even more than you expected. But hearing it doesn’t give you any thrill, and confirms what you already suspected: you’re not really doing this for the money. Any amount of money.

  You tell him you’re interested. You tell him you’ll do it.

  He touches you, lightly, on the shoulder. He is pleased by your decisiveness, you can tell. It seems to confirm for him his instincts are correct, in using you. He says he will phone you, that the next stage is the meeting. When you admit that you don’t have a mobile that works, he looks at you, puzzled and possibly irritated by this small inconvenience.

  ‘That will have to be sorted out,’ he says, ‘and qu
ickly.’

  He jots down his number, tells you to contact him as soon as you can. Having established that, you’re ready to part ways, for now: Mario pulls up his coat collar and turns to go, raising his hand in a casual wave. You glance around to get your bearings, and head in the opposite direction.

  On the walk back, you skirt the edge of Old Town Square, near the Astronomical Clock, now still and silent, hovering between strikes. But all the characters are up there, in their places, ready for things to begin unwinding, ready to be put in motion. Like chess pieces at the start of a game. Passing beneath them, you wonder if you’ve been wrong all along, if this isn’t about breaking free at all. Maybe it’s simply fated, inevitable, already irrevocable. The stabbing on the bus, Tod’s death, your odd decision to come to Prague, the chance meeting with Mario. It all happened the way it had to, and everything else that occurs from here on in will unfold in the same way. As it must.

  the meeting

  The woman pours water from a decanter into a small glass tumbler, picks up the glass and considers it, holding it at the base, pinched between her thumb and fingers. She drinks it swiftly, all at once, and puts it down on the low table between you. The table is laid with an assortment of snacks: dark bread, sardines in oil, pickles, cucumbers – other foods you don’t recognise. She selects a slice of pickle, and square of bread. Like the water, these snacks are presented but not offered to you, or Mario. Yet.

  At the back of the room, an ornate stained-glass window depicting a biblical scene: the beheading of John the Baptist, orchestrated by Salome. His head on a plate, seemingly still conscious or aware, looking anxious. Beyond, visible through the panes, a kaleidoscope view of Prague, broken into shards of colour.

  To one side, an open fireplace – the logs damp and smoky, hissing faintly. The firelight and windows provide the only illumination – no lamps or overheads – so that the corners and sides of the room dissolve into shadow, making it hard to gauge the size of the space. It feels cavernous. This is where the meeting is to take place, in the heart of an old mansion in Praha Seven, on a hill facing back towards the castle, St. Vitus Cathedral, the Vltava. You have travelled here with Mario, who’s beside you, to meet your new employers. After your conversation, you picked up a cheap mobile from a phone kiosk – it seemed safer and easier than buying a charger for your own phone – and texted him your new number. His call came the next day: they wanted to meet you. He drove you out, coaching you along the way on how to conduct yourself. Mostly, he said, it would be best to keep quiet, to let them do the talking.

  At that point, you didn’t know what to expect. Men in suits, maybe. Muscled and wedge-like. Their eyes hidden by Ray-Bans. Their pockets bulging with weaponry. Gruff mannerisms, and theatrical accents.

  Instead, there is this woman. Middle-aged, lean and elegant, in a black gown, with a patterned shawl wrapped round her upper body. Dark auburn hair, wound into a single braid, thick as a rope, which hangs over one shoulder. As she considers you, her mouth remains pursed, puckered, as if she can taste the lingering tartness of the pickle.

  There is a man, too, sitting at a harpsichord opposite the fire. The instrument is as large as a grand piano, but with two tiers of keys. A haunting string-sound emanating from it. He is entirely focused on his music. He is wearing wire-rimmed glasses with tinted yellow lenses, despite the low lighting. It gives him an owlish appearance, makes him difficult to read. He hasn’t been introduced, and you don’t know if he is hired help – an entertainer of some sort – or an associate. Either way, it’s clear the woman is in charge. It’s clear you will be dealing with her, or she with you.

  The woman says her name is Valerie.

  Valerie settles into her sofa, adjusts her shawl, and says your full name as if announcing you at a ball: ‘Welcome, Eira.’ She says that Mario has told her about you, that you are here for an extended stay, that you have never had trouble with the law, that you are British. From Aberystwyth, in Wales. That startles you. Not just that she knows all this – it’s in your passport – but that she bothers to remind you she knows. Deliberate. They can find you, is what she is saying.

  ‘I was born there,’ you tell her, ‘but live in London now.’

  Then, to show you’re not intimidated, you ask her about herself: where is she from? It’s a smokescreen, but you are curious, too – her English is crisp and clear as ice, but laced with a faint accent. Unplaceable.

  She smiles at your presumptuousness. ‘We are from here and there,’ she tells you. ‘Here and there and everywhere.’ She gestures back and forth, to demonstrate. Her arm movements fluid, like a tentacle. ‘We have business all over. Like our Danish friend says, many irons in the fire.’

  Her smile falls away. She strokes her braid, as if it’s some kind of pet, perched there. She says it is an aspect of their business they wanted to see you about. Mario believes you are the right kind of person for a particular job they have coming up. She asks you, outright, if you think he is correct: are you the right kind of person? You tell her you know hardly anything about it. How can you be sure, until you know more?

  ‘Ah,’ she says, looking significantly at Mario. ‘That is very reasonable. I like that you are prudent. Not reckless. We cannot risk recklessness. Everything must go smoothly – on this job most of all.’

  She clasps her hands, rests them on her knees. She says that the job involves a pick up. You will need a car. You will need to rent it, in your own name. You will drive east through Slovakia, and at Ubl’a you will cross the border out of Europe into Ukraine, telling them that you are doing some sightseeing. When you cross over doesn’t matter – but when you come back is crucial. You must remember that. Before you go, Mario will give you an address, and a suitcase to take with you.

  You ask what will be in the suitcase, cutting Valerie off. She looks at Mario, who pats at his brow with a handkerchief, and then she looks over at the musician, who adjusts his posture and strikes a loud chord, ominously off-key. She laughs at this – as if he has done it on purpose, to provide musical accompaniment. Then she sobers, suddenly, and smooths out her skirt with a palm, causing the fabric to rasp. She says that it is not your concern, the contents of the suitcase. You will know what you need to know. That is for the best.

  You shrug, reach instinctively for your pack of cigarettes, and once they’re in hand you pause. Ask Valerie whether she minds if you smoke. She says that she does mind. She says that smoking will kill you. What she needs you to do is listen. Not smoke.

  You put the cigarettes away, tell her the job sounds straightforward enough.

  ‘It is,’ she says, ‘if everything is done correctly.’

  She explains the return journey is more complicated. You must spend the night at an inn, near the border, on the Ukrainian side. You must cross back at Ubl’a the next morning, at a specified time. You must get in the correct lane; they will tell you which one. You know better than to ask why these details are important.

  She says you will be bringing somebody back with you.

  That startles you, and it must show on your face. Valerie lets it sink in, takes a sip of her water. Sits back and rests one elbow on the armrest of the sofa. She asks if that is a problem, and you shake your head, tell her no. It’s just that Mario said you would most likely be transporting goods or merchandise or a product. Something, not somebody.

  Valerie’s head turns, swivelling from you to Mario. The motion is theatrical, deliberate. She says Mario should not have told you any such thing. She says that Mario does not know enough to speculate, and that just because their business has involved those types of things in the past does not mean it will again – this time or any other time.

  Mario assures her he didn’t mean anything by it, that he was just trying to give you a general idea. Then, withering under her glare, he looks down, his excuses taper off, dwindle to nothing, and he merely mumbles an apology, which seems to satisfy her.

  Besides, she says, this job won’t be any more complica
ted. It is the same as if you were transporting products. You can think of it as a product, if that makes it easier for you.

  She turns to the harpsichordist, asks something in their language. Not Czech. Maybe Russian, or Ukrainian? Or something else? Without interrupting his song, he looks over and replies, his voice high and falsetto soft. Then he smiles, as if at a private joke. His gums are pulled back, receding. The teeth square, yellow, perhaps even dentures. A skeleton’s grin.

  His fingers keep moving, stroking the keys.

  You ask who it is you’ll be picking up, and she says you don’t need to know that, yet. You have to get there first. You have to prove your commitment and capability for success. You could still walk away now. Nothing about the conversation is incriminating, or illegal. It is just a simple favour, really, they are asking. And since they are friends with Mario, and you are his friend also, you seem the right person for the favour. A friend of a friend. And, of course, favours are repaid. She’s smiling as she says all this, happy to have laid it out in such a clean-cut, straightforward way.

  You shift on the sofa. The heat from the fire makes the leather feel as if it’s melting, turning tacky. Under your shirt you can feel a worm of sweat, slow-crawling down your spine. You look sideways at Mario. He is smiling encouragingly at you, but his posture is rigid, his features fixed. You understand that he’s scared, terrified that he has gotten it wrong, that you will back out now. The fire pops like a gunshot.

  You tell them that it all seems clear, that you’ll do it.