Aria in Ice (15 page)

“Well, I can’t speak for all of them, but the
accordion player, Jacob, can be found teaching at the temple school
most days. And Joshua, the clarinet player, is a cantor. Come to
the Synagogue next Saturday and you can hear some fine
singing.”

I knew a crafty look had just surfaced across
my face. Shay glared at me.

“No.”

“What? No?”

“No.”

“Shoot, Shay, don’t tell me no. You don’t
mean it.”

“I do. No.”

Johnny put his hand between our faces. “Would
you like to let me in on this little tiff since I have no idea what
Shay is saying ‘no’ to since as far as I can tell, no topic has
been introduced that would cause that word?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Shay is being
stubborn.”

She stuck her tongue out at me.

“Am not. You’re being nutty.”

“Children. Children. Stop. Give me a break
here. What are you going on about?” Johnny nearly shouted.

Shay shifted her glare to him. “Abigail wants
to add the singing Rabbis to the film.”

Johnny’s expression became one of
fascination. “Where did that come from? I didn’t hear her say
anything even close?” He stared at Shay. “Do you suddenly have the
Fouchet gift for extra sensory perception? Can you now read
minds?”

I snorted. “Try rooming with someone you’re
also in class with twenty-four-seven. Identical twins don’t have
the communication Shay and I have.” I added with a sneer, “Not that
it helps when one of the duo is digging her heels in and not
agreeing to what could be a defining moment in the movie.”

“Defining moment?” she yelled. “You want a
bunch of bearded guys with beanies to parachute in ala Gregory
Noble or have ‘em pop out from behind that marble coffin and start
jamming to the tune of
Sunrise, Sunset
while all around them
counts and countesses and maids and butlers dance a
hora
?”
She brightened. “Wait. When the whole vision comes clear, it’s not
that bad an idea. In fact, I’m getting to like it. It’s inspired!
I’m so glad I thought of it. Let’s ask these guys if they could use
a few extra bucks and get their names splashed onscreen.”

I shot Johnny an “I told you so” look, then
contently settled back in my chair to sip coffee and enjoy the
music, which was quite a bit livelier and had more jazz influence
than
Sunrise, Sunset
.

I didn’t stay content for long. The Rabbis
were taking a break and the violin player was approaching our
table. Johnny motioned for him to sit. The musician, who didn’t
seem to be a day over sixteen, introduced himself as Benjamin, the
“real” rabbi’s younger brother, and gratefully accepted the coffee
Johnny had just ordered.

“You play beautifully,” I told him. “I can
see this is going to become a fixed hangout for us while we’re in
Prague.”

“You are here to visit for how long?”

Shay jumped in and explained about the movie,
finishing by asking him to ask his fellow klezmerites—which
probably isn’t a word Shay’s dad would buy either, but I liked
it—if they’d be interested in performing a number for the film.

Benjamin’s eyes shone. “I would love to do
that. I would bet the rest of the band would be interested as well.
We are all great film enthusiasts and the chance to actually be in
one is not something to pass up.”

That was settled. So we discussed various
films that had been shot in and around Prague, mostly the American
action films that made such great use of the Charles Bridge in
between blowing up historic-looking buildings.

“No CIA explosive devices or spies in this
one,” Shay told him. “No wait, that’s not quite true. In the novel
we’re adapting, Count Zilania has actually worked as a spy for the
British government. I don’t recall the author ever really
explaining why though, so this could be nothing more than glossing
over that particular piece of back story.”

Benjamin smiled. “I do not care whether a
troupe of secret agents appear, I am just thrilled to be asked to
play.” He tapped Johnny’s shoulder. “Which brings me to why I came
to sit with you—other than simply to say hello and meet these
beautiful ladies.”

Shay and I preened. He was a kid, but one
preens when one is called beautiful by a male of any age.

Benjamin continued, “I need to get home and
finish work for a test in my Biology class tomorrow. Would you mind
sitting in for the rest of the evening?”

Johnny enthusiastically agreed, asked us if
we could handle being on our own and getting back to the hotel
without incident, then, after we assured him that we were not that
helpless, he followed Benjamin back to the small platform that
served as a stage. He rosined up a bow and began to play the next
set.

I groaned.

“What? You’re looking morose. Problems?”

“There are times when I see my wedding to
Johnny Gerard getting as lost in time as Ignatz’ flute.”

“Why?”

“Because he gets everything right. I mean,
he’s done everthing and is way too well-rounded to be human. Look
at today.”

“What? He guides Japanese tourist and still
leads us to a Klezmer band who will playing their wonderful tunes
soon in our movie to the delight of millions the world over. Not
too mention he’s cute as a bug, talented, has steady income, is
smart and makes you laugh. Y’all are getting married as soon as
he’s not flying around filming
Endless Time
for two seconds.
What’s the problem?”

“I feel like a dweeb next to him.”

“Ah, come on. Yes, the man has more than his
share of talents, but you’re not exactly a one-gifted woman
yourself.”

“Oh? Really? Aside from breaking feet while
roller-skating in bad productions of
Starlight Express
, what
the hell else can I do?”

She shoved a bourbon and coke at me. (We’d
switched from coffee after the food had arrived.) “You want the
breakdown? The sizeable schemer? The entire enchilada?”

“If it will prevent you from using
alliterative metaphors, yes, fine. How in hell can I keep up with
The Gerard and his coat of many colorful careers—most of which are
related to his beyond-normal soap character?”

Shay took a sip of her own drink, then
toasted me. “I like that. Nice. Coat of colorful careers. Well, let
me get to your jacket, buddy mine.”

“Before you and I both end up in the
Retirement Home for old dancers?” I countered.

“You’re the one stalling. I’m ready to list
your accomplishment any time you can keep your mouth quiet for
longer than twenty seconds. I shouldn’t do this. This is what your
damn idiot agent Angela, who is also my idiot agent, should be
doing. But be quiet and I’ll buck up your ego.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“I said ‘okay.’ Now who’s stalling?” I downed
my drink. “I don’t have other accomplishments, right? That’s why
you don’t want to list them. It won’t even take a twentieth of a
second, much less twenty.”

“Stop!”

“Okay.” I closed my mouth, then immediately
opened it again. “I’m morose.”

“You’re whacked. Be quiet or I’ll disown you.
Shoot, Abby, you’re smart. You memorize songs and lines faster than
composers and playwrites get them on paper. You can dance, you can
sing, you can act. You
can
choreograph although I’m much
better. Uh. You find locations. Well, you found one and you will
doubtless find more in future times since you are somewhat accident
prone and you do break your feet at least once a year, usually
because some idiot director makes you do something idiotic. Where
was I? Oh. You can walk into a bare house and decorate it in your
mind within minutes of entering. You make the meanest batch of
brownies on the planet as well as chili that can peel paint. You
love animals and thanks to those episodes on
Endless Time
playing Vanessa Manilow, Olympic equestrian coming out of a coma,
you can even ride a horse without getting thrown, bitten, falling
off or making a total fool of yourself. Of course you turn into a
blathering, blithering idiot around roaches and you have a tendency
to be a wimp most of the time, then lose your temper and spout dumb
eptihets at people, but other than that—how’m I doing?”

I shrugged. “Johnny Gerard can paint murals.
He sings, he plays violin and guitar and doubtless every instrument
in a marching band. He can swing on a trapeze with ease. He’s
taught English. He can speak languages and is energetic and
personable enough to help guide tours in a country not even his.
Every damn female in every damn country in the world is hot for
him. What am I missing so far?”

“Nobel-prize winner?”

I groaned. “Wouldn’t doubt it. Hell, Shay, I
quit. What’s going to happen when we do get married? How soon will
he get bored with me, the bone-breaking underachiever of the
millennium?”

“Shit, Abby, you’re such a dweeb. You’re a
nice person. And you’re funny. And you listen and you don’t judge
people unless they happen to be leading ladies who resemble bitchy
dancers you’ve known. You make all kinds of people adore you. . And
you’re loyal. And in today’s world, I wouldn’t trade you as my
friend for all the gold in Arabia. Or wherever gold comes from. And
if Johnny is half as smart as we both agree he is, then he won’t
trade you either.”

She added, “Not even for a dozen Hannah
Hammersteins.”

We listened to Johnny jam with the rabbis for
the next forty-five minutes or so, then decided to head back to the
hotel and rest. We’d eaten too much, possibly drunk too much and we
intended to get some work done tomorrow out at
Kouzlo Noc
.
The idea was to wander, notebook in hand, from room to room,
deciding what furniture needed to be brought in, what room worked
for what scene—all real work needed for making the movie look as
authentic as a Gothic novel turned musical flick with Klezmer
musicians and rock singers could be.

It took us an hour to get back to the hotel.
Of course, the café where we’d been bobbing heads to Klezmer music
was actually less than a fifteen minute walk from our hotel, but we
hadn’t grasped that fact that when we left the place (after trying
to pay the check and being waved off by a smiling Martin, owner of
the joint, who explained in halting English that the bill was
already paid. By Mr. Gerard. Naturally.) We’d lied to Johnny when
he’d asked us if we knew where the hotel was and if we’d have any
problems finding our way there. We hadn’t a clue. And we even knew
it was a lie when we boldly assured him that we were independent,
tough, navigators who had the location of every café and hotel in
Prague memorized down to the last square foot. Which sounded much
better than admitting we were both so directionally-challenged we
could get lost in an elevator in the Empire State Building. Johnny,
of course, knew that but was tactful enough not to point out our
deficiencies in front of the Klezmer band.

Once Shay and I reached the right hotel (with
the aid of two guide books and four very kind Prague natives who
spoke excellent English) we’d parted at the door of my room,
agreeing to meet the next morning around eight to rent a car and
head back up to
Kouzlo Noc
. I’d slipped the card key into
the lock, taken two steps into the room and promptly collapsed on
the bed for a well-deserved sleep.

That lasted about thirty minutes. I woke up
and felt recharged. I checked the clock by the bed—and my new
souvenir Astronomical clock as well—both proclaimed the time to be
ten-thirty. A great hour for the nightlife in Prague to start
revving into high gear.

I got up, took a shower, washed my face and
reapplied make-up, then found a nice little basic black dress with
a swirly hem and threw it on. Only then did I head to the phone and
call Shay’s room. I knew one of two things would happen. Either she
would be in a deep sleep and I’d hear obscenities she’d learned
from choreographing a Way-the-Hell Off Broadway semi- pornographic
musical five years ago and be told to go away until tomorrow.
Or—and this quickly became the case—she’d say, “Meet you in the
lobby in five. Whacha wearin’ ?”

We were out the door in six minutes. We had
no idea where we were headed but the guidebook we’d been treated to
courtesy of our hotel’s “social director” listed at least four
great night clubs within close walking distance. We picked a name
at random,
Club Krev
, and took off.

Club Krev
was big and noisy and the
décor just a bit bizarre. Apparently the owner had decided to cash
in on the wave of vampire movies and books and cults that have been
springing up in the last few years all over the world.
Club
Krev
sported fake mirrors on the walls that did not reflect.
Cloves of (thankfully) fake garlic hung down en masse from the high
ceilings.

Coffins had been set up in front of the
bandstand where a band was belting out tunes at high volume. The
female singer was decked out in a black leather and lace corset and
black lace thigh-high boots. The male members of the group were in
Lord Byron-style white poet shirts tucked into tight black leather
breeches tucked into tight black leather riding boots. Little
replicas of bats swung from side to side over each table. And
silver bow and arrow sets were tacked onto every inch of the wall
that didn’t have a mirror.

It appeared that every table was already
taken, so we prepared to just stand by the bar and inhale the
atmosphere. But when we heard a shout, “Shay! Abby!” we figured
someone we actually knew was nearby and wanted to see us.

We were right. Lily Lowe and Franz Hart
shoved their way through the mob of the dancing undead.

“Come join us. We have a table in the back.
It’s not as noisy there and we can hear one another if we want to
talk.”

Getting back was harder than it looked.
Dancers were swirling not only on the floor reserved for the
activity but in and out of spaces between tables. How the waiters
were able to juggle drinks without incurring major injury to
themselves or the glasses on their trays was a mystery. They were
amazing. I hope they got great tips.