“It is on fire,” I say under my breath as I take a sip.
“You know, the other night I was thinking about you and couldn’t sleep. So I got up and read your tarot.”
“Tarot cards?”
“Yes. Do you believe, Sofia?”
I haven’t believed in God since I was a kid, and so consequently I don’t believe in tarot cards or Ouija boards or tooth fairies, either. “That’s not really my thing,” I say.
“You don’t need to believe in gravity to fall on your face.” She smiles. “Would you like to know what they said?”
“Sure,” I say to indulge her. “Go ahead.”
She leans forward on the couch, pressing the tips of her tiny fingers together. “The first card I drew, which speaks of your past, was six of cups. It means childhood, innocence. But these things are gone, in the past. The second card, which speaks of your present, is the fool.”
I manage a small laugh and take another sip of the awful tea.
“Do not mistake—the fool is not stupid,” Rozsa says. “The fool is clever, wise.”
“And the third card?” I ask.
Rozsa retreats a little in her seat. “The death card,” she says. “But when I pulled it, it was upside down.”
Of course it would be that. “Which means?”
Rozsa shrugs. “About that, I am not certain. I’m new to this. But the old women from my village say an upside-down death card does not always mean death.”
“What then?”
“It is unclear.” She reaches forward, presses a hand on each of my knees. “The death of someone else, perhaps. But maybe, also, a change. The end of something.”
I pinch my eyes shut and press my palm to my forehead. I’m getting sleepy, and that warm-blanket sensation I got from my sedatives is spreading from my stomach to the rest of me. The tea—anise and edes gomba—whatever the hell that is.
“Like I said, I’m not a believer,” I say.
“I know,” Rozsa says. “But I am.”
I lean over onto the couch, into the nest of pillows and blankets. The room spins a bit, then stops, then spins the other way. Rozsa slips beside me, pressing her body to mine, circling an arm around me to keep me from being thrown off the earth as it whirls and whirls.
Suddenly, I’m at a ball in an elegant home, wearing a green gown and white mask. It’s a dream, obviously, but clear as a film. There’s a fire burning in a fireplace, reflecting orange on the faces of the men—they are all men—gathered in the room. I’m carrying a tray loaded with six gold cups that look like old-fashioned church chalices. One by one I hand them out, to Kladivo, to Emil, to Beran, and three other faces I can’t see. When they’re all gone, I set the tray on a table, over which is a mirror framed in gold. I take off the mask and see not my face but a skull.
*
I allow a week to pass before making the call so as not to appear too quick and eager. Bohdan proposes dinner: himself, his son, Roman, and Sofia.
We meet at a restaurant by Hradcany Castle, the seat of the Czech government. The tablecloths are white, and the walls are purple velvet and the candlelight burns gold. Rozsa loans me a sleeveless black dress for the night. It’s short on her and even shorter on me, which makes it so much the better for my purposes. Bohdan smiles and looks me over when he and Roman see me in the restaurant’s lobby.
It’s clear the son has inherited his father’s fussy aesthetic but not his looks. Roman is tall, and even beneath the excellent suit, I can tell he’s muscular. His dark-blond hair is parted just so, and he has the confident air of the well-off Wall Streeter. But as I rise from the velvet couch and greet them—a kiss on the cheek for each—the son gives the father a look, and I can tell my presence was a blind date ambush.
This is, Bohdan Kladivo tells me when we’re seated, the finest restaurant in all of Prague, perhaps in the whole of the Republic. Whether this is true or not I can’t say, since I taste exactly none of the flavors in the foie gras or roast quail or asparagus with delicate cream sauce the waiter says has a hint of juniper in it. The men drink wine—the ’82 Chateau de Something—and offer me a glass. No thank you, Sofia says, preferring the mineral water.
It’s clear from the first that these are gangsters of a different sort than Emil and even Miroslav Beran. These are gangsters who understand the wine list, who know which fork is meant for salad and which for meat. Still, I can’t help but study their hands as they work through the business of dinner, stabbing with their forks, squeezing the necks of their wine glasses. Bohdan Kladivo’s are fine and delicate with long fingers. A pianist’s hands. His son’s are large and paw-like, with strong fingers built for strangling.
“And are your parents still in Russia, Sofia?” Bohdan asks.
I smile sadly. “Mother died when I was seven. Father when I was fourteen.”
“A tragedy,” he pronounces. “Family is important. It is, one may say, indispensable. Perhaps someday God will grant you a family of your own.”
“Perhaps,” I reply with a smile.
I push the limits of the Sofia identity, flirting lightly with both men, but especially Roman. Bohdan seems pleased with me, but as for his son, he’ll require work. I make up stories about Sofia’s small city of Armavir. I tell of her love for books and learning. I tell about overcoming hardship and seeking fortune in Europe, which culminates here, tonight. Such an honor to dine with you both. Then I shyly propose another toast, this one to their health.
“Did you attend university, Sofia?” Bohdan asks.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Bohdan waves a dismissive hand. “Like me, then. You and I, our university was the real world.” He gestures to Roman. “Roman, however—Yale. ‘Ivy League,’ they call it in the United States. He was even on the rowing team.”
“You are very lucky to have gone there,” I say to Roman.
“He is lucky to have a father who paid for it.” Bohdan grins. “Isn’t that so, Roman?”
Roman refills his wine glass. “Very lucky.”
“Now the king pays for the prince’s foreign automobiles and all his parties with his, one may say, close friends.”
A harsh look passes between the two men, lighting a fuse that it’s up to me to pinch out.
“And do you enjoy music, Roman?” I offer.
A relieved little smile. The first of any kind I’ve gotten from him. “I do,” he says.
“Jazz,” Bohdan says. “The one music the king and prince agree on. What is your opinion of jazz music, Sofia?”
“Oh, I like it very much.” I inhale, hold the breath for a moment. “My father—my father did as well.”
Bohdan’s eyes brighten. “Did you know Praha was the capital of jazz in Eastern Europe? It’s true. All of it was underground, of course. The communists didn’t like it. It was considered dangerous, one may even say, decadent music.”