by Tyler Keevil
No, you tell him. Prague isn’t Disneyland. But you’ll get him to Disneyland, eventually. He presses his face to the glass, peers out, fascinated all the same. You can see the fog made by his breath, creeping up the pane. Shortly after, you cross a bridge with a stretch of river shimmering beneath you, and he stands up on his seat, craning to peer at the water. People are rowing down there. Some kind of longboat race. Half a dozen oarsmen in each, clad in shell jackets and Lycra, pulling in unison. Gogol points, confused, and asks you: Where? Just that word. Picked up in the last few days, or before. His developing English. Where?
You tell him, vacantly, that they’re having a race of some sort. Against each other, or against the clock. You begin to explain that they aren’t actually going anywhere – just rowing up and down the river. Until you remember the river does go somewhere. Very far away in fact. Where? One simple word. A child’s curiosity.
You lean over the table, kiss Gogol gently on the forehead, blessing the epiphany. Consecrating his new plan. You’re three stops away from Praha hlavní nádraží, where you intended to change trains, but you stand to take down your duffel bag from the overhead rack. Tell Gogol you’re getting off at the next stop. He has provided the key, and like the tumblers in the safe, all the other elements begin to fall into place, allowing you to open up this door, this escape route. A Houdini trick. Just what you need, and it’s been right in front of you – or right behind you, in your past – all along.
By the time you reach the next stop, you know exactly what you have to do. You step down on to the platform, lift Gogol after you. Set him down guardedly. Aware that you are here, now, in their territory. On their turf. The air is dingy, cold, heavy – city air still laden with smog. People are waiting to get on – a woman with a striped handbag, a man holding a rolled-up newspaper like a baton – but nobody seems to be waiting for you, or watching. Their eyes drift over you, past you, registering you only as an obstacle to navigate around.
You’ve already spotted a payphone across the street, and after stepping away from the platform you thumb through your wallet, searching for a crumpled napkin, that number, which you never expected to call. Until now. Until you saw a chance, a last gambit. Until it seemed the most logical thing in the world.
And that’s when you called me.
old friends
How strange, that phone call. To have it come out of the blue. After assuming, of course, that you would never contact me, had no real interest in or use for me. And how odd that your call, and what followed, is why this account exists. Why I have a story to tell. Your story. Of all the minute observations I made in that language class, all the pages of character sketches, dialogue snippets, scene breakdowns, in the end I found nothing that truly interested me, nothing that haunted me. That came from the Welsh woman, who dropped out of the class, who seemed shrouded in mystery.
What I knew at the time was minimal: a call from an unknown number, and when I answered, background noise – the murmur of voices, passing traffic, the sense of an outdoor space. And a voice I didn’t recognise, at first, until you reminded me – explaining that you were from my class, did I remember you? Of course I remembered. You said you had a bit of a problem, and needed help – somewhere to stay. You used those words. Not ‘hide out’ or ‘refuge’. I said yes, you could come to my apartment. I was thrilled, flattered, which seems mortifying to me now. I was still intrigued by our short meeting – a few beers, a shared pack of cigarettes, your impervious persona. I gave you my address – the apartment in Praha Three where I was staying.
You must have been nearby, or at least not too far away. You said you would be there soon and hung up. You didn’t say exactly how long, but after about half an hour my doorbell sounded – a short old-fashioned buzzer that grated on the eardrums – and I let you in the building, opened my door.
Initially, I thought I’d been tricked, or somebody had made a mistake. I was expecting you, but then coming up the stairs was this boy, followed by a woman, wearing a cap pulled down low, partially shielding her face.
But when you glanced up, I recognised you. The angular features, the fierce eyes. Looking a little strung out, hyper-alert. At the time, I wouldn’t have used the term hunted, but of course that’s what you were. You and him. The surprise must have shown on my face, since you said, matter-of-factly, ‘This is Gogol.’ And then – as if that was a key, or password – I stepped aside. Not inviting you in, but simply allowing you in. Granting you access.
Nothing noteworthy about my flat – just a one-bedroom apartment, the kind you would find anywhere in Prague. A cheap rental, with a kitchenette, for tourists, travellers, students. Or would-be writers. I had a desk in one corner. A plywood bookshelf, lined with books so portentous and weighty they may as well have been slabs of concrete.
When you removed your cap, the change was disconcerting – the haircut, the dye job. The way it matched the boy’s. Before I could ask about that, you asked me if I had anything to eat. Gogol needed lunch. He was watching me, cagily. I could tell that there was something wrong with his leg – he favoured it, and moved with a slight limp. I thought perhaps he had sprained it, hurt it. I smiled at Gogol and dug through my cupboards and said, flustered, that I didn’t have any macaroni but that I had Pot Noodles. As if, in my head, a little boy would only eat one or the other. Nothing else.
You said Pot Noodle would be fine, that you could explain things after. Food first.
So, I played host, to you both. I made tea for you and me, hot chocolate for him. I put the Pot Noodles on. I chatted frivolously as I went about these tasks, as if you were an aunt or cousin come to visit. Or an old acquaintance. How have things been going? What have you been up to? You never answered these questions directly. Didn’t provide specific information. You weren’t ready. I sensed that, but kept up my frivolous chatter all the same. I didn’t know how else to behave.
When the noodles were done, I dumped in the sachet of salt and flavouring and ladled it into two bowls. Put them down at the table. I remember the boy’s appetite. The way he devoted himself entirely to the act of eating. I noticed his teeth, too. They stood out. You don’t often see children with teeth so stained and crooked, these days.
You ate differently. Mechanical and distracted, your mind elsewhere. Knowing you had to eat something, I imagine, but uninterested. Your body a machine. Just refuelling it.
After you’d both finished, I showed Gogol around. He had brown, wary, watchful eyes. He didn’t trust me – I could see that – but he trusted you enough to listen to me (it took me some time to deduce he couldn’t understand English). I apologised for not having a TV, any games, things for kids to do. I’d cut myself off from all that, to focus on my writing. No distractions. Though, of course, I’d written nothing worthwhile. He didn’t look too bothered about the lack of entertainment, but was clearly fascinated by all my books. He began to take them off the shelves, look at the covers, flip them open. It seemed fine to leave him to it.
You and I went out on the balcony to smoke. You needed to bum one, since you’d run out. I had my own carton of cheap cigarettes, though not the Smart brand you seemed to like. We smoked in the cold. There were patches of ice on the concrete underfoot. My balcony overlooked an inner courtyard. Not much down there – just gravel, a dead tree, some rusted bikes, bits of litter. Nobody to overhear. It was safe to talk, so we talked. You told me, as far as I know, pretty much everything – starting with the job you’d mentioned before, explaining about crossing the border, picking up Gogol, and the slow realisation that they were going to kill him, to sell his organs. Or, at least, his heart. This according to the man you called Mario, who was, from what you said, now dead. I stood and listened to that and sucked rapidly on my cigarette and responded in inane, ridiculous ways, saying the kinds of things you would say when somebody tells such an incredible story. Why you told me everything, I can’t be certain. I suspect you needed to confide. To pass it on. As much as you could. In case you didn�
��t get out.
This way, at least one other person would know the truth.
Regardless, for whatever reason, you had chosen to trust me, perhaps sensing in me my eagerness to please, and my fascination with you. Maybe even sensing some similarities to Tod, or a young version of him. With my books and literary interests. Immature but well-meaning.
I asked you what your next step was. I was taking my cue from you, trying to act as cool as you. For me, of course, it could only be that: an act. Whereas your detachment, your taciturn indifference, was seemingly deep-rooted, authentic.
That was when you told me you needed me – another reason you had to confide at least some of the backstory. And you laid out your new plan, that I was to go see your landlady. Marta. Valerie knew your name, would have tracked down your address in Prague, by that point. They would be watching Marta’s building. But I could go there, without drawing suspicions. I was to tell Marta you were in serious trouble and needed to travel on her boat, down the Vltava. To Dresden, if possible, or if not there then as far as she could take you. I’d arrange the time with her. Then come back, fill you in. That was all.
You said all this with an impersonal urgency. I could be of use to you, and that was why you had come – no other reason. In that way, you displayed the same cool detachment as the woman I’d met before, but your facade showed signs of thawing. Not a superficial softening, more of a subliminal smouldering. A slow-burn within. A kind of kindling. You had begun to care, something you’d lost when your husband died. You reminded me of those religious zealots who hand out pamphlets, go door-to-door. You had found a clear, spiritual, single-minded fixation. A devotion. Everything so simple. Dedicated to one purpose, one end – not God, but one of God’s creatures. A flawed angel. An ugly duckling. Your Gogol. You would do anything to ensure his salvation, to deliver him from evil. And I was to help.
walk-on part
Could I do it, this favour you needed? Of course. But, before going ahead, I asked (and I really wasn’t trying to get out of it) why not simply phone her?
You said that you couldn’t trust the phones. They could be monitoring the phones. I looked at you sideways then. Wondering how far you’d fallen into paranoia. Wondering if that was even possible – surveillance and tracing. Wiretaps and hidden mics.
But you also could have been right, and either way I wanted to help. It wasn’t far to Marta’s building, over in Vinohrady. You gave me the address, and showed me on the map of Prague I’d picked up at the tourist information centre a few months back. To make the ploy convincing, I called ahead, told Marta I was a Canadian living in Prague – wondering as I spoke if they really were listening, and if my acting sounded authentic enough – and that I wasn’t happy at my current let. I was interested in renting a flat from her. She said she’d show me one she had available and could I come later that afternoon, perhaps four o’clock?
When I arrived at the house Marta was waiting. A stocky woman wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and work boots, smoking in the porch alcove. She looked like she’d just got back from fishing, and maybe she had. She shook my hand and turned to unlock the front door for us. Only once we were in her foyer did I explain, in low tones, that I wasn’t really interested in renting a room; this was about something else entirely. This was about you. I didn’t give too much detail – only that you were in trouble, that you had a boy with you, that you needed to get out of the city, and that you needed Marta to help.
She held a finger to her lips, led me up to her apartment, shut the door behind us. She did not ask the obvious question: what kind of trouble? Instead, revealingly, she asked me if you had done anything wrong. It might have been the language barrier, but the word choice struck me – not if you’d done anything illegal, but wrong. The emphasis on morality, rather than lawfulness. I told her no – that you were in this situation because you had done something right, not wrong, that you were taking a great risk to save a boy’s life.
That was enough. Marta didn’t have to think about it. She nodded, approvingly, and said, ‘Ano.’ She would take you in the morning. Her voice heavily accented, gruff, but I detected real emotion. She’d known you were going away for a few days – you’d fed her that phony story – but she had been worried about you, all the same. Travelling alone. Grieving. So my covert appearance with news about you was not solely unsettling, it was also something of a relief.
She did not offer me coffee or tea. There was no pretence of hospitability, now that the charade of my looking to rent from her had been dropped. Still. We stood for a time, as accomplices, in her living room. It had vinyl flooring, functional wooden furniture, a few modest photos of her and a man – her dead husband, presumably – and smelled faintly of homemade bread. I remember thinking she made a great ally – level-headed, resourceful, practical. I didn’t linger, just thanked her and left, returning home via a random, circuitous route – taking in a few sights and stopping off at the market hall in Vinohrady, riding the metro across town, then back. Pretending it was just another afternoon for me, while hoping I might lose anybody following.
Feeling thrilled and foolish to be playing the part you had given me.
When I got back to my place, you and Gogol were sitting on the floor, looking at a strange book I’d found at a second-hand store, on human anatomy. Other books were piled around him, having been checked and discarded. The ones filled with English words probably weren’t of interest to him. The anatomy book had pictures, drawings – garish and gory, archaic diagrams of the lungs, of veins and arteries, of nerve endings and blood cells. I’d bought it on a whim, thinking it might be fodder for a horror story, some day. An ancient text, with an authentic gothic creepiness.
You two were looking at the page on the heart. Whether you had chosen it, or he had, I don’t know. But he was fascinated. The diagram depicted a close-up sketch of the human heart’s four chambers, the valves and ventricles, the direction of blood flow. All the mysteries of life and death and love and time contained in one compact, powerful, invaluable organ.
You looked up from that, bleary-eyed and hopeful for news. I was happy to be able to pass on that my modest quest had been a success. Marta had agreed. You let your eyes close once, as if in prayer. A subtle, telling sign of relief.
Gogol held up the picture, pointed to the heart – showing me, and you. And he said that word, one of the words in his growing English vocabulary: where?
You tapped his chest, explained that it was inside him. He looked down at his own body, marvelling at the secrets it contained, at the hidden strength and magic he had in him.
I was hoping you might put him to sleep and stay up, so we could hang out, smoke and drink like we had last time, in the cellar bar. But the truth of the matter is, you were beyond exhaustion, ready to collapse. You asked me one more favour: to let the two of you lie down, for a time. You needed sleep. It was hindering your capacity to think, to stay alert. You felt stupid from fatigue. I was to act as look out, with the front door locked. Not to answer if I heard a knock.
In this, too, I was eager to help. I said I’d sleep on the sofa, showed you both my room. I did a quick clean, removed a few dirty clothes, changed the sheets. You thanked me, vacantly, perhaps already thinking ahead to morning. Before bed, I remember you brushing his teeth, washing his face, him seemingly so comfortable in your care. Then, saying good night. A few minutes later, when I went to knock to ask if you needed food for the morning’s journey, I got no answer. Worried, I tried opening the door an inch, but it was blocked. You had barricaded yourselves in there, perhaps with a chair wedged beneath the handle. You didn’t feel safe enough with me to overlook that. But you felt safe enough to sleep, apparently. I suppose I should take that as a compliment, along with the idea that you would think to ask me for refuge, when you needed it, when your life depended on it.
According to you.
I had doubts, of course. About your sanity, about the veracity of your incredible account. I wondered if you were
the kidnapper, a great fantasist. A confabulist. That you had found a life’s purpose, after your husband’s death, through your own invention. Or wanted a son so badly you simply bought one, took one. Telling yourself it was an act of generosity, to remove him from that mother, that world. Or whether only some of what you said was true, and other details merely the result of delusion, paranoia. The product of your sleepless nights, and grief, or a potential psychosis. I wondered, for example, about these people who you claimed had hired you – a syndicate or mafia or whatever they might be – and whether they could really be as powerful and influential and malevolent as you believed.
And I might have kept wondering, had I not received a visit, soon after you and Gogol left. Nothing noteworthy about your departure – you simply woke up and had some tea and toast and went. My paltry parting gift a few packs of cigarettes and some snacks – cheese and crackers for Gogol. I stood at my window, watching you walk down the street, until you were gone. I thought that would be it. But the very next day, two men came to my door, and invited themselves in – or, at least, I felt obliged to let them in. To sit with me. One flashed a badge, though it was impossible to tell what kind of badge, and if it was authentic. I wouldn’t know that back home, let alone in Prague.
The one with the badge – big, ruddy-faced, overweight (he at least looked like a cop) – did all the talking. He said that they were looking for a woman and a boy. They asked if she might have come here. They were checking with all the people in her language class. I knew then that you had told me the truth, at least for the most part. That in a way I held your lives in my hands – or my head. Any inkling that I knew something and they would get it out of me.
I also wondered, were they really asking all the people in class, or had they already connected you to me, and me to Marta? Had I blown the whole thing, been followed home, after all?
