Aria in Ice (22 page)

Johnny smiled. It was lovely and it was fake.
“Gregory Noble. Supercop. That’s me. Putting bad guys behind prison
walls every damn day of the week.”

Lily inched her way toward him, crooning
about how much she had adored the show and his role on it before
being forced to miss it while on location for
Little
Crystal
. My fists clenched as I muttered, not quite inaudibly,
“Lily-livered, loose-lipped, leeching, low-down trollopey,
lackey…”

Shay winked at me, then told Lily. “He’s also
Mister Animal Activist. Saves lions, tigers and bears. And puppies.
He has a lot in common with Ms. Fouchet who decided to douse a
white fur with red wine once—while the owner was wearing it.”

Not
quite
true, since I hadn’t taken
any out and out active steps to accomplish the dousing. That had
only been a fantasy of mine one evening when I’d seen Johnny in the
company of a fur-clad lady but Lily looked a bit startled anyway.
Then her overly shadowed and mascared eyes opened even wider.
“Wait. You are also on that soap opera! Yes? In a coma too for
awhile? What was that character’s name?”

Nothing to do but admit it. “Yep. I played
Vanessa Manilow. Who arrived on
Endless Time
after her
hot-air balloon crashed and she ended up next to Gregory Noble in
the coma ward of Saint Sympathys Hospital in Sunset Park, Brooklyn,
New York.”

Franz stared at me. “I knew you were
familiar. Didn’t you and Johnny have something to do with
corruption in theatre on Broadway?”

Johnny sighed. “We had something to do with
solving
corruption and murder elsewhere in the city, Franz
so that Broadway would retain its lovely, pure-as-Prague-snow
status.”

Franz looked at Johnny, then at me again.
“Together?”

Shay chimed in, “They were both in
Boundaries
. Johnny won a Tony and Abby was nominated for
best Featured Actress.”

Miss Lowe didn’t grasp yet that Johnny and I
were more than soapy colleagues. From the looks thrown our way,
everyone else got it. So much for keeping the relationship a
secret. Lily purred. “You are a true Renaissance man, Johnny. That
is very attractive.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you. Um, didn’t
Franz say our tuning genius here hadn’t gotten his life story
aired?” He waved at Fritz, who was trying to look invisible by
sitting alone on the dreadful window seat but failing miserably.
“Fritz. You’re on.”

“Oh. What do you want to hear?”

I whispered to Shay so no one else could
hear, “Every damn detail, Fritzi-boy. Especially—are you available?
Can Shay be your sex slave for the next ten years or so?”

Shay poked me so hard in my ribs I considered
asking for workmen’s comp. “Ouch!”

All eyes turned to us. “Problems, children?”
asked Johnny.

Shay batted her lashes. “Nope. Nothing. Abby
got a cramp in her foot. Probably because it’s not accustomed to
being out of her mouth. Please, Fritz, so sorry for the
interruption. I’ll keep Ms. Fouchet quiet here. You were
saying?”

“Oh. Well, I grew up many years in Vienna,
but I was born in East Germany. My family escaped to the West only
months before the wall came down. We were afraid to leave because
we are a big family and we were not certain we could do this
without being caught—and without reprisals visited on the aunt and
uncles and cousins who could not come. I was very, very young you
understand. But when my oldest brother was to be entered, um
conscripted—is that the right word? well, forced is perhaps
better—into the army, my father, also a musician said, ‘No. We go.
Now.’

He made it sound as if they’d just packed a
few bags and driven their car across the barricaded borders from
East to West Germany like they’d been going for a day’s outing at
the circus. We all stayed silent, thinking about the painstaking
planning that had doubtless occurred for many months. The constant
fears to trust someone who might ultimately betray the refugees.
Living with total panic on a daily basis. The sheer terror of the
entire escape was something none of us could begin to imagine.

But Fritz was smiling. “I love Vienna. I love
the music and the museums and most of all I love the pastries and
the sweet desserts that are to be found at every café. But of
course, Prague has great music and museums and wonderful food at
the
karvany
(cafés).”

That did it. Shay was already in attraction
mode. She’d just met a fellow food hound who was sensitive and
smart and cute in an artsy way and who had a great backstory. The
only question to be answered was when these two would be engaging
in some high-impact aerobics themselves. I’m sure Shay would be
betting me as to whether she and Fritz answered the mating call at
the castle before Johnny and I did. And then she’d make sure she
won that bet.

“Why did you move to Prague, Fritz?” asked
Corbin.

“The Rombergs are originally from
Czechoslovkia and my family felt it was right to return.”

“Family?” was Shay’s question. I knew she was
praying that didn’t include a Frau Frederick Romberg.

It didn’t. He explained that five sisters,
three brothers, an aunt and three nephews who’d all headed to
Prague to commune with their ancestral roots. Every one of them was
older than he and every one of them was a musician. Shay relaxed. I
could see wheels turning in her head for the campaign to win the
heart of this quiet man of music.
Watch out, Fuji.

Fritz had finished telling us what he
considered the pertinent parts of his life story. We all knew there
was a lot more but we also knew that much of it doubtless wasn’t
pleasant. Fritz was looking a bit pale by the end of his saga. Time
to move on.

Johnny stood, then crossed over to the
fireplace and began poking logs to encourage the flame to burn
hotter. “Anyone heard any weather reports?”

As if he’d been waiting for this cue, Jozef
Jezek entered the room with a radio already tuned to an all news
station. He raised the volume so we could all hear, although that
was pretty useless for those of us with limited—or
non-existent—skills in understanding Czech. Jozef politely waited
until the newscaster had switched to the latest political scandal
involving a Congressman and an evangelical preacher before giving
the Americans the bad news. We didn’t need for him to translate the
juicy tail of sex the newscaster was delightedly sharing with
listeners -the names had been all over the news for three weeks and
I could just imagine the details had gotten juicier. The weather
was the important topic.

Jozef frowned. “The announcer says we are
snowbound. For this night, at least. It is the wind that is causing
the trouble because it has ruined the visibility. They are warning
people to stay inside.” He added simply, if unnecessarily, “That is
good advice. I have looked outside in the last half hour and there
is nothing but white. We are having a full moon this night, yet it
cannot even be seen because there is snow still falling.”

Veronika had entered behind Jozef, so
silently we barely noticed. Her tear-stained face was painful to
see but her dignity was intact. “We haf plenty room at
Kouzlo
Noc
so no one try to get back to Prague tonight. In those
leettle cars that are like toys! No! Iss not safe. I find blankets
but we must share rooms because not all of castle has good
heat.”

This was why Shay had requested a castle with
“beyond modern heating.” My friend wasn’t dumb. I was sorry now I
hadn’t stressed this requirement.

Veronika whirled around and headed off,
presumably to rummage through old hope chests and new linen closets
and raid them for the best covers for her unexpected guests.

We were silent for a moment or two, then Shay
took charge. “Okay. As
Silhouette Tower’s
big bad director I
feel like I’m entitled to be the one giving out room assignments.
There’s about four bedrooms that have heat so it’s going to be a
night of bundling, gang. Uh, Franz? Why don’t you and Corbin and
Jozef take that room that has the day bed settee thingee in it and
those humongous stuffed chairs.”

All three nodded. No argument.

“Fritz and Johnny and Mitchell. Y’all are a
bit more of a problem. Um, there’s another bedroom down that hall,
but it only has one bed. Who doesn’t mind sharing?”

Mitchell grinned. “Here’s the test of modern
man and his homophobic worries. Gentlemen?”

Fritz stood. “I do not mind being in one bed.
I grew up that way with brothers. And I do not snore so Mitchell
will not have to worry about sleeping.”

Shay shot me a glance that clearly stated,
“
I love this guy already? That’s a damn secure heterosexual. Of
course, that supposes he had a clue what Mitchell was teasing
about. But if I have my say Fritzie will be changing beds round
about midnight anyway!”

Since she hadn’t said this out loud, I
couldn’t respond with a comment although I had several completely
inappropriate remarks I would have loved to spit out into the air.
Johnny nodded. “Fine with me—sharing the room. I’ll take the floor
though, since I’m a toss n’ turner.”

Shay turned to me and to Lily. “Aside from
the Duskovas’ bedrooms, which I don’t feel would be right in asking
to invade after they just lost their sister today, there’s just one
bedroom left—and one bed. So I’m not sure how we want to go
here.”

I raised my hand. “Oh cruise director lady?
Howsabout I just stay in this room on the sofa. It’s hard as a rock
which will probably be a wonderful thing for my back. And as long
as I can keep the fire going I won’t freeze my little footsies
off.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. You and Lily need a night of girl talk
anyway. I’ve had more than my allotment for the week. I need a
rest.”

The sitting room was quiet. All the little
snow hostages were snug in their beds, sofas, and whatever other
large pieces of furniture that could be used for sleeping. I’d fast
decided it was in my best interest to simply pile a load of
blankets on the rug close to the fireplace instead of trying to
wrestle with the too-small sofa that rightfully should be called a
settee.

I was warm. I was dry. I was embarrassingly
comfortable. And I couldn’t sleep. It was way too still and silent
in
Kouzlo Noc
. I’d taken a look outside only moments ago and
seen a white world. Trees were covered, the artistically arranged
leaves in the moat were covered, the ground was covered and cars
were invisible. It was eerily beautiful but it gave me the feeling
of being smothered. I quickly closed that window and returned to my
makeshift bed. My thoughts were going ninety-to-nothing and that
ninety was mainly visions of the cops with Trina. Of Jozef and
Johnny and Corbin carrying Trina. Of me hearing Trina’s spirit
singing
Layla
as she left
Kouzlo Noc
for the last
time.

This wasn’t working. I got up, poked the fire
a bit more, then turned on the brightest lamp the sitting room
owned. I pulled out the book Jozef had given me (was it just
yesterday?) about Mozart and Freemasonry. If I couldn’t sleep at
least I could dive into something that could help provide me a clue
or two as to what powers Ignatz’ magical flute held that had caused
so much distress in the last two hundred years.

The first thing I learned was that
The
Magic Flute
was considered by many to be nothing
but
Masonic symbolism. The use of trios like the three boys who start
out appearing to be working for the bad Queen of the Night only to
be discovered by Kathyina, the prince and hero of the opera, as
“good guys.” (A character switch which has always baffled me.) This
trio become aides for Sarastro, the mysterious, wise mentor who
rules what the author of Jozef’s book believed was most certainly a
Masonic temple representing an entire kingdom. The other trio that
was important was that of the ladies that served the Queen of the
Night, who also switched sides in this opera more often than a
politician in campaign mode.

All this trio stuff was fascinating but I
didn’t feel that the “power of three” had anything to do with
Ignatz and the magic flute he’d crafted for buddy Mozart. I skipped
over to the chapter where the author discussed the trial Tamino
goes through to prove himself worthy, not only of Kathyina, his
beloved, but to Sarastro and the members of the temple Tamino
wishes to join.

I’ve peronally always had a problem with
these trials. Mainly the first one, the Test of Silence. I could
almost imagine Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart yelling at Schikaneder, the
librettist of
The Magic Flute
, perhaps waving a conductor’s
wand at the man in rhythm with his words. “You did
what,
you
twerp? You put a friggin’ test of silence in my opera? This is not
mime,
you moron. We want mime, we go to Central Park and
watch the kids in black and white pretend to get claustrophobic in
a box. It’s an opera. As in Op—Er—A. People sing, remember? Isn’t
the audience going to get a little confused—not to mention
annoyed—when they’re told the hero is about to shut up so he can
ace this test, and then aren’t they going to wonder how he aced it
when he opens his trap and starts crooning to Papageno who hasn’t
shut his trap the whole first act? Give me an’effin’ break!”

Well, perhaps Mozart didn’t use those exact
phrases—but I’d wager his resistance and sheer ticked-off-ness
could have been the same.

The only way I could see Ignatz Jezek making
use of this silent treatment concept would be if he wanted to have
people remember the adage”silence is golden” if his flute was
really an alchemist’s dream that turned metal to gold. Then again,
I had no idea when that particular piece of wisdom hit the streets
so it was pretty iffy as to whether Ignatz had even heard it.