Aria in Ice (6 page)

Suddenly my mind was also at
Kouzlo
Noc
. An ‘Abby-vision’ was flashing before me. I could see the
north turret of the castle—and I could see someone falling from it.
It was a short vision but vivid. I shivered.

I needed to vanquish that image. Mentioning
Mozart again was bound stir things up a bit and center my focus
outside of bodies tumbling from tall windows.

“So, Franz? What’s your favorite part of
The Magic Flute
? Were you aware it was first performed in
Vienna.” I turned to Johnny. “But of course, you, being the
consummate musician, probably can sing the durn thing in German,
too. And while I’m being nosy, Mr. Gerard; you said you were doing
research on the opera’s first Prague performance. Why not the
original from Vienna? For that matter, why the research?”

Johnny’s response was a crock as far as his
real reasons for studying the Prague version. He avoided any
mention of why he was researching the bloody thing to begin with.
“Because the Prague production contained a few elements in the
orchestra that were not heard in Vienna. Especially for the
flautist. Don’t you just love the flute?”

I was now sorry I’d mentioned the stinkin’
thing and worried that Johnny would bring up my far-out theory
about the ghost at
Kouzlo Noc
who could well be a flautist.
I began to blather. “I love
The Magic Flute
. Of course,
anyone who loves opera loves that one. I don’t get all the
symbolism, and I wish Wolfgang Amadeus had thrown in a few more
arias and less recitative, but the Papageno/Papagena duet is way
too much fun, and you can’t do better than that aria by the Queen
of the Night. So, aside from me, who’s planning to see this current
production by the Czech Company? I’ve heard that this version will
have modern costuming and more of a present-day approach, whatever
the heck that means.”

Johnny folded the napkin he hadn’t used, left
it on the plate he hadn’t used, then stood. “I have tickets for the
gala opening Friday night. Care to join me, Ms. Fouchet?”

Franz also stood. “I plan to attend that
myself. Perhaps I can escort Ms. Fouchet since we are staying at
the hotel together.”

He made it sound as though we were sharing a
room and I had no desire to be labeled his sleep partner/lover when
that label was absolutely false. Johnny wasn’t normally the jealous
type (unlike me) but he did have a fine Irish temper and I could
easily visualize him picking up Franz and toss him into the dessert
tray. Of course, if Johnny would just own up to the
girlfriend/boyfriend truth of our relationship then Franz wouldn’t
be so quick to make insinuating comments about his and my current
residences.

I shoved my chair back and jumped to my feet.
“Well, isn’t that a kick, Franz. I had no idea we were both at that
hotel. Guess Shay arranged it?” I smiled so my comment didn’t sound
harsh. “Tell you what, guys. Why don’t we all meet at the theatre
Friday? I’m sure a few other cast members from the movie would like
to join us. Shay said at least three of the leads, plus our
composer for the movie, should be here by then. Are tickets hard to
get?”

Johnny replied, “I bought two tickets for you
and me less than an hour ago. Sorry, Mr. Hart, but you’re on your
own for yours. They should still have seats available for your
other cast and staff.” He glared at Franz, who appeared clueless as
to how he’d wronged Johnny Gerard.

I quickly said, “Cool. Hey, look at the time!
I’ve got stuff I need to do. Johnny, I guess I’ll see you Friday?
And Franz, we can meet tomorrow if you’re coming out to get a look
at the castle? I need to take some notes for Shay on what scenes
should be shot where.”

Franz brightened. “I very much will want to
see the castle. So tomorrow perhaps you can guide me?”

“Sure. It would be my distinct pleasure.”

Johnny bowed, then growled. “Ms. Fouchet?
Friday—or sooner.”

He turned and stalked off.

I reached under the table for my bag. Franz
politely extended his hand. “May I carry that for you?

I smiled at him, but shook my head. “No
thanks. I’m wandering off to check out this old bookstore I saw in
a guidebook. I love hunting through old stuff like maps and
histories. And I’m hoping they’ll have some other Gothic tales that
were written in countries other than just America in the Sixties
and Seventies. I’d love to be able to bug Shay with strange ideas.”
I paused. “Uh, I’m sorry that Johnny was a bit abrupt about tickets
and stuff.”

He eyed me with curiosity and some other
emotion I couldn’t define. “Just how long did you say you and Mr.
Gerard have been friends?”

I did more spinning than an Olympic skater
finishing a routine. “I ran into him a few hours ago at the Kastle.
He was, uh, looking into some rare tree.”

He was looking at that tree up close and
personal with his backside and that tree was about as rare as a
pine in East Texas, but it was almost the truth. I added, “I gather
he is doing some restorative artwork for the owners there.”

Franz quietly stated, “He’s quite the
Renaissance man isn’t he? I should study him for future use as a
character.”

I held off from stating,
‘Honey, been
done. Tune in tomorrow—or whenever Johnny Gerard is back in
Manhattan filming—and watch the quintessential Mister Do-It-All,
Gregory Noble, outwit villians while surving jumping out of planes
with slashed parachutes then sk
iing
down Alps promptly upon
landing.’

“Well, Ms. Fouchet. Oops, sorry. Abby. I’m
going to attempt to purchase tickets for the opera. I shall see you
tomorrow?”

I nodded. “Sure. I’ll give the Duskovas a
call and give them a heads up that our leading man would like a
preview of the set—or at least what will be the set.”

“Thank you. And thanks for mentioning the
opera will be performing here. It will be fun to see.”

He turned and left the café. I wasn’t sure
“fun” was a word I’d’ve chosen for this upcoming night at the
opera. If the tension became any more palpable between Franz and
Johnny, Friday evening promised to be as much fun as climbing into
the bloodied, tapestried, coffin optimistically called a window
seat at the Duskova sisters’ castle.

I’d lied to Franz about my reasons for
digging through old books. I could care less about Gothic novels
from any other period or country. Shay would do what she wanted to
do with the movie without extra research on my part.
Kouzlo
Noc
and Mozart were the topics inflaming my curiosity. Madam
Duskova and Franz had acted wacky whenever the composer was
mentioned and while I hadn’t had the chance to toss in Amadeus’
name to the cryptic crypt explorer, Corbin Lerner; doubtless
he’d’ve done the turn-pale-and-blanch bit just like Veronika and
Franz. On the other hand, Mr. Gerard’s freckled complexion hadn’t
changed a whit during Mozart discussions. He was too busy tossing
grenades into the air and watching how and where everyone—everyone
being Franz—ducked. I was determined to do a bit of semi-academic
exploration about
Kouzlo Noc
and its possible connection to
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s last opera. Something was way weird.

Especially when it came to music. There’s
nothing wrong with my ears. I have a tendency to lose earrings on a
regular basis, but the audio portion of my eardrum works just fine.
I knew damn well I’d heard someone playing a tune from
The Magic
Flute
. Madam D had nearly jumped out the turret when I brought
up Mozart. An historian was exploring a graveyard that
coincidentally happened to contain markers from the same era as the
composer’s life. My conclusion—unless there was a musical ghost
living at the castle (okay, technically, not “living” there)
someone was trying to create that illusion. I wanted the skinny on
who, when, why and how.

A tiny store declaring itself to be
Jozef’s Knihu
(Joe’s Books) had been listed in my guidebook
as a great place to find out-of-print novels, antique maps, and,
most important to my quest, biographies of old Czech aristocrats.
Good possibility for tomes concerning cultural activities in Prague
through the last four centuries. An added bonus was Jozef’s
location; three blocks away from the café where I’d been scarfing
down a load of pastries while exchanging barbs with two testy males
for the last hour.

For no good reason I took a few furtive
glances around me before stepping foot inside
Jozef’s Knihu.
No wannabe burglars. No beautiful gods from Austria. No humorless
historicans. No landladies in black. I ducked inside before any of
the aforementioned folks popped up from behind statues in the
street. A grandfather clock nestled between two enormous shelves of
books chimed the hour . Four p.m. I had no plans for the evening.
Johnny hadn’t bothered to even ask if I was free to meet him. I
shoved that thought away. I would wade in and prowl until I was
tossed out whenever closing time hit—which, in the Czech Republic,
would doubtless be after midnight.

It became quickly apparent that my biggest
problem in locating the books I needed was that all the shelves had
Czech titles announcing subject matter. I plopped onto a footstool
in front of shelf one, pulled out my handy
Louie’s Lingo
and
prepared to fight through names and nouns until I found the words
for biography and culture. I got stalled on the “Eating Out”
section for a moment, entranced with some of the exotic-sounding
dishes that could be found at funky little restaurants all over
Prague. Barely half and hour from Abby’s last snackfest and food
was overtaking my thought processes. I needed to start dancing
again soon or I’d outweigh the armored knights guarding the
ballroom of
Kouzlo Noc
.

“Excuse me? Miss? Do you need help?”

I looked up. A gentleman who appeared to be
in his seventies loomed over me, smiling, leaning on a cane that
reminded me of the one my grandfather had stored in the closet back
home. Major crows feet crinkled his eyes. He had white hair and a
luxurious white beard. His expression was kind and the English
impeccable. He looked like what God would look like if the Deity
owned a bookstore.

I nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I do need help.
Can you read Czech? Oh heck. Dumb question. Sorry.”

His smile grew broader. “I am Czech. I read
and speak and write Czech. I can also read and speak English,
French, German and Italian. What are you searching for, young
lady?”

I squirmed just a bit. “Um. Well, I’m looking
for oh, uh, old Gothic romances from the Nineteen Sixties or
Seventies?” I explained about
Headlights Productions
doing a
film.

The man stayed silent. I knew guilt was
stamped all over my face. “And, also… this is a bit strange, but
I’m trying to find any books about
Kastle Kouzlo Noc
and the
Duskova family.
Headlights
just rented the castle.”

He shot me an odd glance, pointed to one of
the stacks in the back of the shop, then lightly took my hand in
his. I was afraid without his grip on the cane he’d topple over,
taking the clock and a few shelves with him, but his stance stayed
firm.

“There is one volume on
Kastle Kouzlo
Noc
. But, tell me—why are you this interested? Are you an
historian or genealogist as well as a movie person?”

What hesitation I had lasted only a second.
One trusts God when God asks a question. One does not lie to
God.

“Honestly? There’s something odd at
Kouzlo
Noc
. For one thing, people get loony when I mention Mozart.
They hush up or they sidestep the issue or they just out-and-out
lie. And I discovered an Eighteenth Century graveyard near the
castle that’s been ripped to shreds which was disgusting, sad—and
odd. Talk of genealogy just doesn’t sound right to me.
Consequently, I have this feeling that all is not kosher at the
castle. So to speak.”

His smile now lit up the dim bookstore. “In
that case, I shall save you some time and effort and tell you the
legend of Mozart and
Kouzlo Noc
.”

“Really? That would be marvelous,” I told
him. “Especially since I’m not sure what I’m hunting for.”

He motioned for me to sit back down on my
footstool then pulled a high-backed chair away from the wall. He
settled himself there, gently laid the cane next to the chair and
took a breath. Obviously this man was a storyteller. I only hoped
he would tell a tale that could explain why everyone got snarky
when flute-players, Mozart, and
Kouzlo Noc
were mentioned in
the same sentence.

“First, young lady, are you aware that
Mozart’s
Die Zauberflote
, was given its Prague premiere in
1792? Almost a year to the day that the original opera was
performed in Vienna.”

“I wasn’t sure of the dates, sir, but I did
know the first performances were in Vienna, not Prague, even though
Mozart was in Prague only months before. Is that right?”

He nodded as vigorously as he could, his
white hair bobbing enthusiastically after my response. “Very good.
Yes, Mozart was in Prague composing an opera in honor of the
coronation of King Leopold II. He did not want to do this, you
understand, but he was in need of money and he was already in ill
health. Perhaps he knew his death was not far off. He was very
depressed at this time. His soul was so low, in such a despair that
he’d even written a family member telling them that
‘everything
is cold—cold as ice. Everything seems empty.’
It breaks my
heart to this day. Such a fine young man. Perhaps that is why
The Magic Flute
became, in truth, such a hopeful opera—to
overcome his own misery.”

He nearly had me in tears myself over this
poignant quote from the young, brilliant composer but he continued,
“It hurts me deep in my heart that Mozart was never able to see
Die Zauberflote
performed in Prague at the beautiful Estates
Theatre.”