Your Still Beating Heart

by Tyler Keevil

  Something goes out of the room, then. A crystalline tension cracks, breaks apart, and melts away. Mario nods over and over, as if in meditation. The harpsichordist resumes his tune (you hadn’t noticed him stopping) and Valerie pours herself another water. Then, as if to confirm you’ve passed her test, she pours you one. She holds hers up, and you touch glasses.

  When you drink, the water burns and stings. The water is not water. The water is pure vodka. She watches you keenly, waiting for a reaction. You do not balk, do not make a face or choke. You swallow that sip nonchalantly, take another, comment on its smoothness.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, seemingly pleased, ‘it is very good. The best.’

  Before you go, she pours you both another and offers you the snacks – to soak up the vodka, she says – and fills you in on a few other practicalities: that after you have picked up the rental car, Mario will provide you with some cash for the journey, along with the suitcase. That you are to check in with him, and them, once you have made the exchange and are back at the inn. They will provide further information on crossing the border then.

  And, of course, she says, you must go through with it. You are committed now. No backing out. If you do not hold up your side, there will be consequences.

  ‘I could let Pavel tell you about those,’ she says.

  Pavel finishes his song, as if on cue. Then murmurs something demurely to her. Barely audible, even if you could understand their language.

  ‘Da,’ she says, agreeing. Then, to you, ‘He’s modest, but I can show you. Come.’

  She stands, and motions for you to do the same. Vodka in hand, she leads you casually over to Pavel and his harpsichord. ‘Show us your hands, Pavel,’ she says. He removes them from the keys, holds them up, as if accustomed to humouring her. The first thing you notice is that his fingers are slim and long – almost unnaturally so. The skin milky, smooth, free of calluses. Delicate. You remember, absurdly, your mother’s maternal advice: never trust a man with delicate hands. Like all maxims, it is quite useless, redundant; you don’t need such wisdom to know Pavel is not to be trusted.

  ‘Pavel has many talents,’ Valerie says. ‘Not just music. He was a surgeon, too. So he knows everything about the body. Now he is not a surgeon any more. Now he works for me. You might say that he is the opposite of a surgeon, even though he still uses his skills. And you do not want him using them on you. You understand.’ It is a statement, not a question.

  You look into Pavel’s eyes, partially veiled behind those yellow lenses, hold his gaze until you see him blink, as if startled. Then you stare at Valerie, right at her. You can feel the kick of the vodka, the way it makes you burn, emboldens you. You tell her that there’s no use trying to threaten or intimidate you. It won’t work. It sounds simple and true, the way you say it.

  The room is incredibly quiet. The sun has passed behind a pane of red glass in the window, tainting the light burgundy. You can hear the fire crackling, and your own pulse resonating in your skull. You know you have shocked them – all of them – and it’s a good feeling.

  Mario laughs, suddenly and uproariously. A desperate bid to break the tension. ‘I told you. Didn’t I tell you?’ he says, coming over, patting you on the back. ‘She is one cool customer. A snow queen. She knocked out Denis. Did I mention that? He tried to mug her, and ended up flat on his back.’

  Valerie’s smile is thin and brittle. She looks you up and down, as if reassessing you. As if wondering if you might present an entirely different kind of problem from which she is accustomed. She says that, so long as you do what they’ve discussed, you won’t have to worry at all about Pavel. You raise your glass, as if mock-toasting Pavel and his hands, and knock back the last of your vodka, relishing the sheer searing thrill of it.

  octavia

  Committed. This the word they used, the word Mario used. You are committed now. As in a relationship, as in a marriage. Even if you don’t know quite what you have committed to, a bond has been formed. A pact has been made. The gravity of this pact is apparent in the way everything proceeds – swift, focused, efficient. Two days after your meeting with Valerie and Pavel, Mario phones with details of the rental car they want you to reserve: the make and model (Vauxhall Corsa) and location (an agency at the airport). It has to go on your credit card, in your name, and subsequently you must forward the confirmation email to them. Mario will compensate you in cash when you pick up the suitcase and travel money.

  It makes sense, of course. This way the booking cannot be traced to them.

  But this also occurs to you once you’ve made the reservation: they were specific about the details, the make and model (not just anything from the ‘small car’ category), so they know what car you’ll be driving.

  It’s a precaution, you assume. A way for them to track their homing pigeon.

  In case you fly off course.

  . . .

  On the given day, at six in the morning, you catch a bus out to the airport, retracing the route you took when you arrived in Prague, several weeks ago. Except it is near dawn now, not late at night. From the window of the bus you see a series of brick warehouses with corrugated tin roofs. A cluster of concrete tower blocks, abandoned, the windows boarded up or broken or gaping, vacant. A decrepit truck stop. Nothing looks familiar. The city isn’t the same city you arrived in. You don’t feel the same either.

  It’s only when you get to the airport that you feel a twinge of déjà vu. A stirring of recognition as you wind your way among bus shelters. The car rental agencies are grouped in a building opposite Arrivals. Most of the companies are the same here as anywhere – Hertz, Avis, Europcar – but Valerie has specified one you don’t recognise: Czecho-go. You wonder if this is the company they always use, if they have some kind of understanding with the manager, or owners. Maybe they are the owners. Many irons in the fire, was what Valerie said.

  The Czecho-go service desk is near the end of the row. A red counter and glowing lightbox sign, displaying their black and white logo. Behind it, two employees in matching uniforms. There’s a queue of three people, so you wait. Not patiently but resignedly. Watching the clock on the wall – a round analogue clock. The face pale yellow and numberless, the gleaming circle eerily reminiscent of Pavel’s tinted glasses. The hour hand seemingly still, the minute hand quivering, moving slowly forward. Barely perceptible. But moving nonetheless. Time is real again for you. You have a deadline, a destination. First to meet Mario, then to the border, and then to a town in Ukraine, by a certain time on a certain day.

  You have stepped out of stasis, got back on a track. Not a track you would have expected, not even necessarily a track of your own choosing. But on a track, all the same, with a job to do, and a role to play. The pretence, the need for performance, brings back recollections of your theatre days. It even feels as if there is a script of sorts, which you’re required to stick to. Valerie is directing; you merely need to follow her vision, her designs. Easy enough.

  And yet. In considering that, while awaiting your turn, already you feel the desire to improvise, to do something unexpected, go off-script. Something you were prone to doing, on stage – to the exasperation of directors, and fellow actors. A natural contrariness, maybe. An inclination towards deviance (the same that led you back to Mario in the first place?). Feelings best kept in check. Lest they get you in trouble. Or rather, get you in more trouble.

  The queue is moving. First one customer, then another, pays their fee, signs the requisite forms, and is handed a set of keys. A strange exchange, when viewed from a distance. These odd rituals we adhere to. Afterwards, each customer wanders out towards the parking lot, looking anxious and confused, one towing a suitcase, another pushing a luggage trolley.

  Your turn. The clerk is a young Czech woman, who of course speaks fluent English. For you she adopts it smoothly, seamlessly, not even needing to ask. Instead, she asks if you have a reservation, and you tell her you do. You slide the print-out across the counter to her. She looks at
it critically, professionally, like an art dealer assessing a painting, and then types the reservation number into her keyboard, calling up your file.

  ‘A Vauxhall Corsa, three-door?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Only, as she is about to confirm the booking, you spontaneously ask if they have any upgrades available. You wouldn’t mind a larger car. A five-door saloon, if possible. Or an estate. If it’s not too much more. It shouldn’t be a problem, she tells you, and types in a quick search. You imagine this isn’t uncommon: customers changing their minds, or reassessing their needs. For you, it isn’t just a whim, or your innate waywardness – though that maybe factors into it – but a matter of instinct, of self-preservation. Be smart.

  Valerie and Pavel won’t know about the switch. And, if they find out, you’ll simply say the car originally reserved turned out not to be available, so the agency offered a free upgrade. That kind of thing happens; it has happened to you before.

  A small deception. Possibly a dangerous one. But it also seems prudent. You don’t like being watched, monitored, assessed. Not in school and not at work and not in public. You’ve always been wary of CCTV cameras, hated the compulsive snapping of camera phones, even before the night of Tod’s death, the bystanders. This was something that he found exasperating: the way you could grow tense, uncomfortable, when aware of being observed, being recorded. You found it hard to explain, and after a while didn’t bother.

  Smile – You’re on Camera!

  Those light-hearted posters that you always find so menacing, ominous – as perhaps you’re meant to, the happy-face logo heightening rather than diminishing the implicit threat.

  The woman taps the return key triumphantly, tells you they do have an upgrade, and a discount on the upgrade, trying her best up-sell on you, not understanding that you’re already sold, decided. The new vehicle is a Škoda Octavia. A good Czech car, the clerk jokes. And you smile. You tell her, idly, that Octavia is also a character from Shakespeare.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, sliding the form across the counter. ‘How nice.’

  You don’t bother to mention that you played Octavia once. You just sign where you’re supposed to sign, tick where you’re supposed to tick. While you finish, she takes your credit card and swipes it, holds out the keypad for you to punch in your pin. All of this is done in near-silence – no need to talk or coach you through it. The routine so second nature it occurs subliminally, almost unconsciously.

  A receipt is torn, the form is folded, filed. She holds the keys out to you, tells you the Octavia is at the back of the lot. If you have any problems on the trip, she says, you can call the number on the back of the receipt. She smiles, letting you know this is just a formality – of course you won’t have any problems.

  On the clock behind her, the minute hand quivers, like the needle on a lie detector.

  the suitcase

  On the way to meet Mario you drive by the language school. You catch a glimpse, in passing, of the room, your old classmates. Through the windows, each of them in profile, just their shoulders and heads. Like Roman busts, all directed towards the front of the room, the teacher. It’s like driving by a train carriage, or overtaking a bus. Seeing all these people who don’t see you, and who don’t have any real connection to you. A glimpse and they’re gone, the language school falling away behind you, passing into your past.

  You cross over some tram tracks – the shuddering bump as your wheels hit it – and turn left. The satnav on the dash dictates directions, and shows your driving as it occurs – a video version of your movements, your motion. When you come to a roundabout, the blue arrow traces a circle, except instead of clockwise it’s anti-clockwise. The direction feels unfamiliar, distinctly odd. They drive on the right here, and roundabouts go backwards.

  Time is moving, yes. But in which direction?

  It would be useful, for your sake, if it was moving backwards: the wait at the rental agency, and the morning traffic on the drive from Praha Six to Praha One, has put you behind, according to the schedule you were given. The schedule you were assigned, and expected to stick to. Just by a quarter of an hour, but you get the sense your new employers value punctuality, precision. Everything working like clockwork. Nothing askew, nothing amiss. Valerie said something to this effect: no detours, no surprises. That’s how they ensure these jobs, these transactions, are always a success. Still. There are some things that can’t be helped. Even they must accept that, and be understanding of such slight delays.

  Whether they’d be understanding of the change in vehicles is another matter.

  You’ve been given an address, where you’re to meet Mario, but it isn’t a house. You wonder if that’s for his own safety – to hide his address, where he lives. For a moment, you try to imagine Mario’s house, and can’t. It seems to you he must exist on the street, not truly homeless but simply without need of a home. Maybe never sleeping, or sleeping on his feet, in his beige suit, always so miraculously clean. You know this isn’t so, but it seems like it should be.

  In any event, you won’t be meeting him at his house. You’re meeting him in the outdoor car park of a large supermarket. Possibly that’s a convention: public spaces are safe spaces. That’s where the satnav is leading you, one street, one turn, at a time. Like playing a video game. Just follow the digital arrows, avoid obstacles, don’t crash. And, like in those video games, the end point is marked by a chequered flag. Though in this case, in reality, it will also be marked by a man holding a suitcase and some cash.

  When the store comes into view, you switch off the satnav, strangling the chirrupy, encouraging voice in mid-flow. The car park is sprawling – spaces for hundreds of vehicles, with half of them full. People trudging, dragging children, laboriously pushing trolleys filled with bags of groceries. All that motion. A good place to hide a handoff, and better than a multistorey or a ticketed car park – many of which have surveillance cameras, these days.

  Amid all that movement, that chaos, it should be impossible to spot Mario, but it isn’t. As you slow at a crossing he walks right in front of your vehicle, without noticing that it’s you. In one hand, the suitcase. Modest-sized, grey and rectangular, slightly shabby. It goes well with his suit, his look. He glances at his watch, continues towards the supermarket’s petrol station and snack bar. Near it are two picnic benches. A rubbish bin. Gulls circling, scrounging for scraps. That’s where you’re supposed to meet him. You don’t know if he is late as well, or if he has been doing a circuit of the car park, trying to find you.

  You raise a hand to honk, signal to him, but then think better of it. No need to draw attention to yourself. Or let him know about your new car.

  You drive to the far side and park, get out. Calmly walk back across. Mario has settled on one of the concrete benches, and is sucking hard at a cigarette. The magician looks anxious. Not nearly so cool as when you met him. Still worried, perhaps, that he has made a mistake, that things are already going awry.

  When he looks up and sees you, his smile is genuine, as wide as his face. ‘Ah,’ he says, rising to his feet, brushing off his knees. ‘You are here. Good.’ You explain about the traffic, the queue. He waves it away with a swirl of smoke. Tells you not to worry, that he hasn’t phoned them, that they don’t have to know. A response that is revealing in itself.

  ‘Where are you parked?’ he asks.

  ‘Over there.’

  You gesture vaguely, but he doesn’t seem too interested. You are here, that’s what matters. He lifts up the suitcase and holds it out, abruptly, as if eager to be rid of it. As if it might contain uranium, bio-weapons, chemical waste, a bomb. Something hazardous. You accept it, of course. You have already accepted it. It is as if the suitcase is already yours for safekeeping, not his. That is what you have agreed to, even if you don’t know what, exactly, it will entail.

  The outside of the case is a hard shell covered in fake leather. In your hand it feels heavy, loaded. But with drugs, or money, or something e
lse?

  ‘It is locked,’ Mario says, as if he, too, has speculated. ‘And you are not to open it.’

  You wonder how the person you’re giving the case to will open it, but know better than to ask. The key must be going separately. By post, maybe. Or by another person.

  Wind blows between you, pushing Mario’s smoke sideways. A hatchback circles the island, swings in to fill up. Mario idly looks around, dips into his jacket pocket, and passes you something else: an envelope. Doing this very casually. He murmurs that it contains the directions for the next stage of your journey, your destination in Ukraine, and the travel money Valerie mentioned. For petrol, food, whatever. Some koruny, and also some Ukrainian hryvnia. The real money – your payment – will be waiting for you on your return.

  That done, to seal the deal, he offers you a cigarette, but you refuse – polite but firm. You’re behind their schedule already. You should get going.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘of course.’

  Only he seems reluctant to let you go, to say goodbye outright. He explains that, after this is all done, and you are paid, you are not to come looking for him again. That is how it works. You can stay in Prague, or go. Use the money any way you like. But they never ask the same people again. It is best that way. If one person crossed the border again and again, they would be noticed, eventually. ‘After this,’ he says, ‘I do not know you, and you do not know me.’ You nod, thank him awkwardly for this opportunity – you even use that word, which sounds laughable. You shake his hand. He holds on a moment longer than is necessary, gripping it firmly while studying you.

  He says he is counting on you. That this is a risk for him, too. Every time, it’s a risk. He makes a recommendation, sets up the meeting, and it must go well. If he vouches for you, and it doesn’t, it comes back to him. ‘The stakes,’ he says, ‘are very high.’

  He doesn’t use the term ‘life and death’ but you assume that’s what he means. You tell him not to worry, and he says he isn’t, laughs heartily, calls you his snow queen. Trying to convince himself, it sounds like. Of this role he has cast you in. A role you are ready to play.