City of Lost Dreams (18 page)

TWENTY

“V
ienna as dull as ever?” asked Nico in the taxi. He had insisted on taking Sarah to his favorite place for dinner. She had agreed, since it had become immediately obvious that she needed to separate Alessandro and Nico, who disliked each other as much as they adored Sarah, and perhaps for that reason.

“Why does the little person think he can break into my apartment and make fun of my sofa?” demanded Alessandro after Nico made a crack about pink being the new black. “Is not pink, is rosé. And why he wipe his hands on my towel? No one touch my towel but me. That is why I put out the guest towellinos.”

Having achieved enough détente to get Nico into a taxi before Alessandro threw him into a boiling pot of gnocchi, Sarah gave the little man the short version of her adventures: Bettina’s disappearance, the theft of the laptop, the stolen galleon, the murder/suicide of Gerhard and Nina, and Adele’s testimonial to the scientist’s skill.

“A moment, please,” Nico said. “That galleon. Did it have a secret compartment?”

“How did you know?”

“You forget, I watched it trundle down Rudolf’s table. Sometimes he challenged people to find the secret hiding place. You found it?”

Sarah told Nico about the drug.

“I don’t think Bettina knew it was there. She’s an avid clock collector, so maybe this was some sort of bribe. She called it an ‘unwelcome gift.’”

“Tell me more about this Bettina person.”

“She’s brilliant; she’s frightened; Adele said she’s paranoid, but Bettina does get hate mail”—Sarah shrugged—“so maybe her paranoia is justified. I don’t know much more than that.”

Nico pondered this, brows furrowed, fingers tapping on the cab’s armrest.

“What happened in London?” Sarah asked. “Did you get what you needed for Pols?”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sarah. The whole trip, it was like someone was one step ahead of me. There’s hardly a decent powder to be found in London. And we have a leaky time problem in Prague. Another dead man.” Nico told her about Jan Kubiš, adding, “Either hell portals are busting out all over or the Fleece has been found. I rather think the latter, because of all the missing alchemical ingredients. I believe someone is using the Fleece’s secrets to bring people back from the dead. My question is: why?”

“Um, my question is:
how?
” Sarah said. “Because that’s impossible. I don’t mean that’s ‘weird,’ I mean that it’s
impossible
. I’m willing to believe that alchemy was an early form of science, and that perhaps the early alchemists unwittingly stumbled upon things of incredible significance, but that’s going too far. Saint John? Jan Kubiš? Those people are dust now. Bones and dust.”

“Yes. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not talking about resurrection. Both of the men appeared in the place they are said to have died. Nepomuk in the river, and Kubiš in the church crypt. As if they were wrenched from the past at the moment of their, well, passing. As if time were being bent. And that is not impossible. Einstein did not think so. String theorists do not think so.”

“But to move an actual person from one time to another . . .”

“For that you need a portal.” Nico nodded. “Or maybe a really, really big magnet.”

“You sound like Mesmer.” Sarah shook her head.

“Franz Mesmer?” Nico smiled. “Knew him in Paris. He cured my mistress’s chronic yeast infections.”

 • • • 

N
ico’s favorite place turned out to be a
Heurigen
, or wine bar, in Heiligenstadt. Sarah had always longed to visit Heiligenstadt. It was the place where Beethoven had spent many summers, escaping the heat of the city and communing with nature. Just as in his day, rows of neat vineyards still looked down on narrow cobblestone alleys of ancient houses surrounded by green fields. Sarah had seen engravings of Heiligenstadt from Beethoven’s era and though of course there were changes, it was still quite recognizable, especially the leafy little square in front of the village church. A couple of wizened old men in fedoras were smoking pipes on a bench under the trees, eyeballing a pair of shapely young ladies passing by with miniature pinschers on brightly colored leashes.

Beethoven’s most seminal visit to Heiligenstadt had been in his darkest moment, in 1802, when his deafness was becoming apparent.

I would have ended my life
—
it was only my art that held me back. Ah, it seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me.

It was here that Beethoven had chosen life over death, Sarah thought.

“I like this one,” said Nico, leading her under an awning into a long, narrow cobbled courtyard of a
Heurigen
. Rough wooden tables and chairs balanced precariously on the stones, and waitresses in dirndls brought pitchers of wine to customers.

Sarah had condemned Gottfried as pretentious for dressing in Austrian
Tracht
. But is it pretentious, or even kitsch, she wondered, if it’s not done for effect, but just because that’s the way it’s always been done? Perhaps she would find out. What with Adele’s perspective on Bettina and Nico’s appearance, she had decided to postpone her departure, and in the taxi had made a date with Gottfried to tour the Spanish Riding School tomorrow. She would try to discern what he thought about his brother’s possible larcenous tendencies.

Sarah and Nico sat at a small table in the corner, under the grape vines trellised over the courtyard. Tables of locals laughed and gossiped over carafes of icy, lemony Grüner Veltliner. Some of the windows of the
Heurigen
were still the old bubbly hand-blown leaded glass. She ran her fingers over one of them, wondering if Beethoven’s fingers had also traced its surface, having a drink with friends. It would be nice to see Beethoven happy. It would be nice to have a drink with him, take a walk in the countryside afterward.
Picnic, Luigi?

“That the galleon was here surprises me,” Nico said. “It suggests a link. Either Bettina Müller
is
Moriarty—”

“She’d have to be pretty busy,” said Sarah. “Nanobiologist by day, thief of all things alchemical by night?”

“Yes, it suggests nimbleness to an unlikely degree. Perhaps Moriarty sent the galleon to her in order to harness her skill. If she could analyze the drug inside she could reproduce it. I’d really like to talk to her.”

“Get in line. The drug seems to stimulate the vagus nerve, which seems to temporarily reset the immune system. The effects fade, or did in my friend Renato’s case. Do you have
any
idea of what might be in it?”

“No, but I know who gave the galleon to Emperor Rudolf,” said Nico. “Philippine Welser. She might very well have had Schlottheim build a little compartment inside it to hold medicine for Rudy’s many ailments. So it wasn’t just a clock or an automaton. It was a giant pillbox.”

“But the effect on me was crazy. I was hearing voices. I mean, my voice projected upon other things.” Sarah decided against describing the multiple orgasms.

“You do not have an autoimmune disease, so it merely stimulated an already healthy vagus nerve, causing hallucinations, a feeling of warmth, and usually a significant arousal of the . . .”

“Yes,” said Sarah. “So maybe Philippine came up with an early form of steroids, which work only if you keep taking them and can have consequences for the rest of your body. Like Renato and his stripes. But it’s still serious medicine. It wasn’t placebo effect stuff, you know. It was a
drug
.”

“I understand, but you should know that this modern idea that one drug should work the same on different people—that’s not medicine, it’s commerce. There’s no knowing how it would affect Pols. Still, I’m glad you finally appreciate Philippine’s genius.”

“I met the family, the von Hohenlohes, who have her book. Heinrich is the one I was telling you about, who works for the drug company. He’s not very friendly, but I’m meeting his brother tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Nico, putting his hand over hers to calm her. “But tonight we relax.”

“I can’t, really,” said Sarah. “The connections . . . things are starting to coalesce, but . . . I just keep thinking that the answers are out there, just out of my reach, and if I just figure out a way to put everything together . . . I keep thinking about Bettina’s research, how progressive it is and yet how simple. Ashes and gold. The galleon. Philippine’s book. Mesmer and his armonica. We’ve got to try everything, no matter how crazy it sounds. I wasn’t there before, but I am now. I’m ready for the fucking witchcraft, you know. Bring on the witchcraft.”

“This is how it goes,” Nico said softly. “This is the worst part. When you love someone.”

“Don’t say it,” said Sarah. “I don’t want you to say it.”

“The price of love is loss.”

Sarah choked back the despair rising in her throat. She would not give in. There was still time to fight, and she would fight.
Until I have brought forth all that I feel is within me.

The waitress came, took their orders, and walked away.

“I have a little surprise for you.” Nico held one palm aloft and passed the other over it. Like magic, a pill appeared in the center of his tiny hand.

Sarah looked at the pill, then glanced at Nico, then stared at the not-perfectly-circular pill again. It couldn’t be. The ingredients were gone. No longer obtainable. Weren’t they?

“It can’t cure Pols, but it’s going to take you where you want to go,” whispered Nico. “All you have to do is open your eyes.”

“Westonia,” said Sarah.

TWENTY-ONE

H
arriet was dying for a hit, but of course she had to wait until Max was asleep. She was surprised at how
relieved
she had been the other day to see Max’s Alfa roll back into its parking space underneath the castle. Not everyone came back from Kutná Hora, and she had become rather fond of Max. It was possible they could have a future together when this was all over. It might be rather fun to be chatelaine of the Lobkowicz households. She would do it so well. And Mother might actually be pleased, for once, even if Max was American. He was so nice, and so dishy, and so svelte and slim hipped. Harriet pulled him up out of his chair and over to the bed. He looked gorgeous in costume, even if he wasn’t very clever with accents or sticking to character in their private moments. She began undressing him.

Of all the assignments Elizabeth had given her, Max was by far the pleasantest. Elizabeth had rather a bee in her bonnet about the Lobkowicz family, ever since Polyxena had let her down, but so far all Harriet had had to do was watch and see if Max turned up anything valuable, and make sure he didn’t get too close to the truth. It was terrible bad luck that he had been present for both John of Nepomuk and Jan Kubiš—she’d had to endure a real tongue-lashing from Elizabeth and a threat that if she wasn’t more careful, there would be no more Westonia. Harriet shuddered to think how Elizabeth had fired shots to try to dissuade do-gooders from saving Saint John before she could retrieve him herself. What if Max had been harmed? And she had a bit of a fright when Max had mentioned Kutná Hora . . . but here he was, safe as houses, sitting on his sofa and accepting the very stiff martini she had just poured for him. She fingered the pill inside the silk pouch in her pocket. Soon Max would be off to Elysian dreamland, and she could get back to where she belonged. . . .

“You haven’t told me much about your childhood,” said Max, as Harriet settled herself astride his hips.

Oh, God no, thought Harriet. He doesn’t want to
talk
. What an eccentric man. She unbuttoned her modest, high-necked nightie and let her breasts spill out. Talking could take hours. And the past was beckoning to her . . . she could feel history’s siren call. Every time some new detail emerged, some conversation, some previously misunderstood corner of the past was illuminated. But it was more than scholarly interest. It was like the most gorgeous dream and the most engrossing book and the most fascinating movie all combined at once. She needed to divert Max, and divert posthaste.

“I’ve brought a special treat for us.” She reached behind her pillow. Zounds, if this didn’t keep him from a chat then nothing would.

Max’s eyes widened briefly. “Is that what I think it is?”

“A fourteenth-century English
phallus
.” Harriet did not care for the unpleasant American word for such devices. “Ivory. A very special auction at Sotheby’s. The inscriptions are particularly amusing.”

She held the elaborately carved ivory tower between her breasts and pointed to the first of the curving lines that circled it. “‘At this mark the virgins tarry, going no farther if they wish to marry.’”

“Aha,” said Max. “Okay.”

“I’m the Wife of Bath, and you—” Harriet leaned over the side of the bed and brought out a rough hemp robe from her bag. “You are the Friar.” Max looked wonderful in a cowl.

“
Canterbury Tales
?” said Max, allowing her to dress him in the robe. “I’m not sure we covered this chapter in high school English class.”

“No, I expect you wouldn’t have.” Harriet settled herself on the bed and pulled the hem of her dress up to her hips. She parted her legs and keeping her eyes locked on Max, slowly slid the ivory tusk inside herself up to the first line.

“Whoa,” said Max. Harriet smiled at the look in his eyes. Heigh-
ho.

“Mhmm. You read the next bit.”

Max rotated the lingam in order to read the line of script. “‘At this line the good wives stay, when their husbands are away.’”

I do adore my work,
thought Harriet. This was much more fun than
Histories & Mysteries
, where they sometimes censored her impulses. She caressed her breasts and spread her legs wider. “Oh, dear Friar,” she said, “‘Tell me also, to what purpose or end the genitals were made, that I defend / And for what benefit was man first wrought?’” Chaucer really was divine. She wriggled her hips.

“Something, something, something, ‘they were not made for naught,’” answered Max, who tended to paraphrase quotations in these moments, poor darling.

“Do read the next line, Friar.”

Max obeyed and slid the merry Maypole up to the next line.

“‘Touch the naughty wench’s spot, where the door to Heaven is sought.’” Max began to kiss the insides of her thighs.

“One more,” Harriet pleaded, writhing. “The last line, Friar. Read it. Oh, I beg you. Read it to me.”

“‘Pass this point and go straight to Hell, after giving a good loud yell.’”

Harriet, always receptive, complied.

 • • • 

I
t was three a.m. when Max awakened from a bad dream he didn’t remember and found that Harriet was no longer sleeping beside him. He wasn’t sure if she had left the palace or not. Her clothes, shoes, and coat were gone, but her purse still lay on the chair where she had flung it before unpacking her . . . things.

He pulled on the friar robe to go searching for her. He hoped she wasn’t sleepwalking. If she wandered into any of the museum rooms, she’d set off the alarms. But she was nowhere to be found. Possibly she had left and simply forgotten her purse. Definitely not the girl next door, Harriet. For all her professional accomplishments and confidence, he sensed there was a vulnerability there she was hiding. It made him feel protective, which was nice.

Well, he was awake now, might as well do some reading. Pols had asked him for books on the Golden Fleece for the libretto of her opera. It was nice to talk to someone about Fleece lore. So far his search through the secret library hadn’t turned up anything useful about Philippine’s cures, but he had found some interesting things about Ferdinand, his collections, his interest in architecture, and his happy marriage. Pols loved hearing about Ferdinand and Philippine, too, and he enjoyed reading to her. Ferdinand and Philippine had really come alive for him—they no longer seemed like distant historical figures but flesh and blood people. Ferdinand’s struggles to please his demanding father, his inconvenient ardor for Philippine, whom he had spotted on a trip to Augsburg and fallen madly in love with—Max felt like he and Ferdy would have a lot to talk about. He was beginning to wonder if the Archduke hadn’t been the original member of the secret Order of the Golden Fleece.

Max made his way down the stairs to the subterranean basement, followed a narrow hallway into a small, windowless room, and rolled up the rug that concealed the trapdoor. He descended into a tunnel, walked in a crouch for thirty meters, pulled open a second trapdoor, and then ascended into the secret library of his palace.

His grandfather Max had sealed this room before fleeing the Nazis in 1939. He had left all his most prized possessions here. Not the priceless art or artifacts or jewels, but letters, books, and the strange alchemical arsenal. Though many of the books mentioned the Fleece, none so far seemed to contain a clue about its whereabouts, but it was going to take a while to get through everything. Max grabbed a couple of things he had set aside earlier about Philippine and Ferdinand to take upstairs. Two books and a folio of heavily annotated architectural drawings. He reversed his path, moving through trapdoor-tunnel-trapdoor. He could renovate this lower part of the palace, and make it all easier, but it was . . . let’s face it . . . totally badass to have trapdoors and secret passages.

He came up in the little windowless room. This had been Sarah’s room, when she had been at the palace two summers ago. Sarah. Talk about inconvenient ardor.

Max sighed and flicked the flashlight app on his phone to make his way up the stairs. He heard a scuttling in the narrow hallway. Damn. The rats were back.

 • • • 

H
arriet tried to stand, but couldn’t quite manage it. The robed figure had walked past her in the darkness, with ancient tomes under his arms. Who was it? Martin Luther? Richard of Wallingford? The Venerable Bede?

No. No, she was in Prague. The drug let you see into time, but it didn’t let you see across space. She could see only things that had happened here. Thank God she had realized at the last second it wasn’t a figure from the past, and stayed where she was, out of sight. It was Max. That was close. Harriet wondered what time it was. Max was probably looking for
her
. She’d need to reappear with a story about needing some air. A tiny little lie. And while she was at it, she would have to dissemble just a wee bit to Elizabeth, too, and tell her she’d seen a monk. With a wand of light! Elizabeth seemed to be doubting Harriet’s skills to see the past. But really all she needed was a little more practice. And a bigger dose of Westonia. One pill was not nearly enough. Elizabeth was so mean with the stuff. Harriet kept begging her for a
big
bag, big enough to see all of the Napoleonic Wars. All in good time, Elizabeth said. Pish! But she needs must do as she was told.

Harriet screwed her eyes shut and breathed deeply. The drug worked so erratically! Sometimes it took hours before anything happened, and sometimes it happened right away. Harriet wanted to do what Elizabeth asked, but Elizabeth didn’t realize how blasted difficult the whole thing was.

Or how much she was demanding.

After they’d met at Trebon, Elizabeth had shown Harriet her lab in the abandoned mines beneath the village of Kutná Hora. Elizabeth had explained to Harriet that she occasionally needed subjects to test her drugs on. Drugs that every once in a while proved fatal, which was why Elizabeth only experimented on very bad people. “Rapists,” she had said. “Child pornographers.” Harriet tried very hard not to think about that part. She was aware that occasionally some new bones were added to the piles at Sedlec Ossuary, after being chemically treated to look like old bones. She was aware because Elizabeth sometimes had her do the treatment. It wasn’t all whortleberries and roses, being handmaiden to a genius. Or being a drug addict. A
history
addict, she told herself. After all, what’s wrong with being addicted to history?

She had to trust Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the only one who could give her what she needed, feed the need she had created that day at Trebon, the need to see the past. And it was insanely impressive what Elizabeth had accomplished! Things that the rest of science was only beginning to admit were possible. Especially considering what she had had to endure and how she had been forced to keep moving, never letting anyone realize how slowly she was aging. It was being a poet, Harriet thought, that had allowed Elizabeth to become such a gifted scientist. That and her initial training in alchemy. She actually
knew
how to decipher those complicated metaphorical manuscripts! No more guessing.

And of course Elizabeth’s cause was full of poetry, too. It was four-handkerchief-weeper stuff, really, about trying to die because of grief and then finding out you had to live with grief. And then all the feminist bits. Her insights about current culture. Harriet was pretty sure the Man Booker Prize would be hers for those. If there wasn’t some immigrant narrative that year. Of course, Elizabeth’s sense of humor needed to be cleaned up here and there. People now didn’t find beheadings all that funny.

It was all going to make an extraordinary novel. The question was, how did the story end?

Harriet stood up. She felt ghastly, and her mouth was dry. There wasn’t much doing down here in the hallway. Maybe nothing interesting had ever happened down here.

 • • • 

O
n his way back upstairs, Max passed the practice room and heard noise. He flipped on the lights to reveal Pollina, who was unaware he was there. The daily walk from her apartment to the palace had been proving to be too much for her, and Max had given her and Jose rooms here to sleep in, so that she could play whenever she felt up to it. She was determined to finish her opera.

He would wait for a pause and then tell her about the books.

Max leaned against the door frame of the practice room, stroking the grizzled head of Boris, and watching the girl play. The dog leaned heavily against his leg. Boris might be mostly blind, and nearly deaf, but he was a hero. Boris, Max thought, was far braver and more loyal than he was.

Pollina was experimenting with equipment Max had just bought for her: an electronic piano (full eighty-eight keys), plugged into a specially designed laptop (Braille keyboard and voice activation), which automatically recorded everything she played. Pollina had asked for this, and Max, desperate for ways to feel useful to her, had immediately complied. He couldn’t hear what she was working on—she had plugged in and was wearing the enormous headphones—but the slight plonk-plonking sound of her fingers hitting the keys was oddly soothing.