City of Dark Magic (11 page)

FOURTEEN

T
here was traffic getting out of Prague, and a certain white-knuckled tension in finding the right highway, then Eleanor overshot the exit, so it was almost noon when they finally got to the Nelahozeves turnoff. Eleanor was all apologies, but Sarah enjoyed seeing a bit more of the Czech countryside. You probably couldn’t say that you had really seen a country if all you had seen was a city or two. You had to see where the food was grown, what the riverbanks looked like, and what the highway manners of the inhabitants were.

The Czech countryside between Prague and Nela was lightly rolling, and Highway 8 passed endless fields of yellow mustard flowers and hops, which felt right given the national predilection for mustard and beer. Sarah was a little disappointed not to see a cabbage farm or a sausage fan ntoow mctory, which would pretty much complete the local diet. When they overshot their exit, they had to get off at Roudnice, the location of another Lobkowicz castle that was still under the control of the Czech army. Max was lobbying for its return, though Sarah had to ask what on earth he was going to do with a two-hundred-room white elephant when he was having enough trouble with the properties already restituted to him. Roudnice had been a training center for the SS, which was creepy enough, and then had been bombarded by the Soviets in a show of force. Sarah had heard it was quite the wreck. It sounded like a major headache, but then again it was hard to put yourself in the shoes of someone who had taken it upon himself to reassemble his family’s lost fortune.

Sarah was excited to see Nelahozeves, however. “ ‘One of Bohemia’s finest Renaissance castles,’ ” Sarah read aloud from a guidebook to try to ease the tension as they rerouted themselves. “Polyxena Lobkowicz purchased it in 1623. It says here that during the 1970s and 1980s the castle was used to display socialist modern art.” Eleanor shuddered in horror at the idea.

“There it is,” said Eleanor at last, as they wound their way through a little village spread along the green banks of the Vltava. Eleanor was pointing up at a lovely castle that dominated the tiny village, but Sarah’s eye had caught a historical marker.

“Oh, wait, there’s Dvorák’s birthplace,” said Sarah, craning her head backward. “You know, the composer? Can we stop for just a sec?”

What happened next was not technically Sarah’s fault, although she bore a certain amount of the blame. Instead of either ignoring Sarah’s request or driving on until she found a safe place to turn around, Eleanor rather abruptly threw the little Skoda into reverse, and began to back up the fifty yards or so to the Dvorák birthplace sign.

BAM.
That was how Sarah would later describe the sound of the tractor hitting the back of their small white van. Why a tractor was careening around a blind corner was also a good question, and might have something to do with the traditional Czech farmers’ breakfast beer, but soon Sarah found herself standing in a crowd of people, all of whom were speaking Czech, gesturing and pointing at where the tractor, a fine piece of socialist-era machinery, had rather pornographically embedded itself in the hind end of the Skoda.

•   •   •

A
man in uniform arrived on a motorbike and asked for documents, but Eleanor was acting as if she had never been in an accident before. “I don’t speak Czech, I don’t speak Czech,” Eleanor kept repeating, her voice quavering.

“Es tut uns schrecklich leid. Wir sind Amerikaner, die Dvorák Liebe zu viel,”
said Sarah calmly. There was a dramatic pause where it seemed that no one spoke German even though by Sarah’s calculation they were only about eighty miles from the German border
. “Wir arbeiten hier auf der Burg
.
”
Sarah pointed up at the castle. Still no sign they were understanding any of this. Sarah wondered if she and Eleanor were about to be embroiled in a diplomatic incident.
“Für Prinz Max.”
Suddenly they all smiled and looked up at the castle and said, “
Ano
, Max, Max,” and someone translated into Czech for the others and they all smiled and nodded.

“Whionno

“German,” said Sarah, surprised that Eleanor couldn’t hear the difference between a Slavic language and a Germanic one. “I’m a Beethoven scholar, remember? Kind of goes with the territory. Dvorák wasn’t opening any doors, but Prince Max seems to be popular.” Sarah took a moment to wonder why the villagers would look kindly upon a young American reclaiming what had technically been their property for sixty years and locking himself inside.

A new struggle began as a tow truck appeared, and the policeman made it clear that the damaged van and its contents would be coming with him. He was extremely reluctant to let Sarah and Eleanor remove Max’s drum set from the back.

Finally, the policeman gave them an incomprehensible lecture, frowned over the documents but handed them back, and the tow truck carried off the van. The villagers disappeared, leaving Sarah and Eleanor by the side of the road. Sarah wasn’t perfectly clear on where the van had been taken, or when it would be ready again, or whether it was up to them to call the insurance company or whether the policeman would, though she had nodded sagely when spoken to in Czech.

Giving up on the idea of touring Dvorák’s house, Eleanor and Sarah made their way up a long set of stairs to the castle, lugging Max’s drum kit.

Sarah took in the five stories of windows, the sgraffito
stonework in shades of beige and brown, the small windows at the top, and immediately fell in love with the place. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of light in a high dormer window. Almost as if a mirror had flashed—a signal? Perhaps someone was being held hostage in the place. Mrs. Rochester?

A cobblestoned bridge led over the old moat, which contained just a little stagnant rainwater and probably some healthy frogs.

The thing about Renaissance castles, Sarah decided while standing in the central courtyard, was that they were elegant, while medieval castles were massive. This castle felt like just the right size for a really good party. There was still the sense of being prepared for a siege and all that, but the large arched windows would, she guessed, let lots of light into the second-floor rooms, and even the two little dormers atop each wing didn’t look too stuffy for one’s servants. Or hostages. Eleanor knocked timidly on the fifteen-foot-high wooden door.

Nothing happened.

“What if he refuses to let us in?” said Eleanor. “We could be here all night.”

Sarah decided it was time for bold action. She grabbed cymbals from Max’s drum set and, doing her best impression of a toy monkey, began crashing them together. Eleanor laughed and covered her ears.

There was a distant sound of barking and the massive door swung open. Standing there was . . . a Chihuahua, tan in color, and wearing a way too large leather collar with brass medallions, as if it had once been a much larger dog left too long in the dryer. True to the breed, it was barking madly in a horrible high-pitched shriek.

“Darling,” said Eleanor, leaning down to pet the thing. “You opened the door for us. How clever. Ow!” she said a moment later, standing back up with a bleeding finger. “He bit me.”

They left the drum set th shwhere it was and strolled into the ground floor of the castle, which had a high, barrel-vaulted ceiling. Though the interior had been relatively well-maintained since 1948, having been used as a museum, it still showed inevitable signs of wear, with lots of water stains in the corners, and some plaster falling down.

They turned a corner into a long hallway lined with doors. Sarah reached for a light switch, but nothing happened.

“Power’s out,” she said. “The wiring in this place must be scary.” Her father would be horrified.

“I suspect that’s more about nonpayment of bills,” said Eleanor. “Miles says the electric here runs to the tens of thousands. And the roof leaks.”

“Well, we need to find the library,” said Sarah.

“We need to find the prince,” said Eleanor.

“Max?” Sarah called out. “Are you here?” Nothing. Not a sound. “Okay, you check that wing, I’ll check this one.” Sarah watched as the Chihuahua followed tasty Eleanor, its nails making little clicking noises on the stone floor.

Sarah climbed a long set of stone stairs to the next floor, where she was pleased to see that the arched windows did indeed let in a lot of light. Sarah continued to call out Max’s name, but got no response. At the end of the hallway, she had a choice of two doors. She tried the left one, and it opened into a narrow passageway. She heard a distant voice.

“Max?” she called. “It’s Sarah Weston. The Beethoven girl?”

She walked down the narrow dark passage and turned a corner into a large hall fit for a group of carousing knights. Even in the gloom she could make out peeling frescoes in pastels, a huge arched ceiling, and a massive fireplace.

Max was standing just to the left of the fireplace, staring at something.

“Max?” she said. He ignored her. Irritated, Sarah moved in front of him, nearly stepping into the empty fireplace.

Max looked at her wildly. “My God,” he said. “Are you insane? The fire.” He began beating at her body, as if it were in flames.

For a slender guy, he was very strong. And clearly on something . . . a hallucinogen of some kind. Sarah tried wrestling with him and then remembered her training. A woman’s strength is in her legs. She kicked at Max’s crotch as hard as she could.

Max collapsed to the ground. His eyes were clouded with pain, and then they suddenly cleared and he looked up at Sarah. “Sorry. That was weird,” he croaked. And then he passed out.

“Eleanor!” Sarah called out. “I need a little help here!” Sarah leaned over Max. It was her first chance to study him up close. He looked remarkably like his namesake and grandfather, which was to say he looked like nearly all the Lobkowicz portraits she had seen. He had the long, aquiline nose, deep-set eyes, the fine hair, and high forehead. An aristocrat’s hands: long, white, and slender.

Eleanor arrived with the dog. “My God, what happened?” she gasped, as her eyes fell on Max. “He’s bleeding.”

“Fainted, I think,” said Sarah, not wanting to go into details of to ed over Mhow she had drop-kicked the boss. “Maybe you could find some water or food or something?”

Eleanor nodded and scurried off. Sarah picked up Max’s wrist to check his pulse, and as she did so his startlingly blue eyes popped open.

“What the . . . ,” he said. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” said Sarah. “Right after you tried to beat imaginary flames off me.”

“It’s okay. It’s over. Wait. What are you doing here?” He looked accusingly at Sarah.

“Did you miss the part where I said you attacked me?”

Max sat up. He looked ill but not high, exactly. Was Max some kind of epileptic?

“Did I really attack you?” he said. “God. I’m sorry. God.” He sounded genuinely horrified and anxious.

“Eleanor’s coming with some water if she can find it,” said Sarah. “Are you okay? Should I call a doctor?”

Max shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Did you take something?” Sarah demanded. “Are you tripping or something?”

“What? No, it’s none of your business.” Max frowned, the haughty arrogance returning to his voice even as he struggled to stand up. He refused to say anything more and when Eleanor returned, Max gave them the key to the library and stalked off.

“Oh dear,” Eleanor sighed. “What an embarrassment. Passed out cold on the floor. Not my idea of a prince at all.”

Sarah got another shock when they entered the library. She was expecting walls of shelves, which there were, but she wasn’t expecting rows of cardboard boxes six or more feet high. The boxes, only some of which were labeled, had turned the library into a maze.

“What the hell?” said Sarah, pulling back the dusty curtains to let in some light.

“No sun,” said Eleanor. She handed Sarah a headlamp.

Apparently there were literally thousands of boxes of family papers that no one had gone through in sixty, maybe a hundred years.

“Most of this is junk,” Eleanor said. “Letters, estate papers, bills of sale, dance cards—it’s insane.”

“But . . .” Sarah said. “What if you’re looking for one particular letter?”

Eleanor laughed. “Well, you try to read what’s written on the boxes, and hope for the best,” she said. “And anything you open: number it, label it, and make a record for Miles. There’s a clipboard here, use these forms. Be as specific as possible.”