Busboys appear and gather the dinner plates while a waiter brings dessert menus. But Bohdan waves him away and lights a cigar. Smoke billows around him like a blue cloud.
He looks at me through the smoke, as if wondering whether certain questions should now be asked, and deciding they can wait. Then he looks at his watch and arches an eyebrow. “Roman, there is a set starting soon at the Stará Paní. You should take Sofia.”
I see the muscles in Roman’s neck tense up. “Perhaps Sofia has someplace to be. Perhaps she must work tomorrow.”
“Nonsense. She’s with the boss’s son,” Bohdan says. “Besides, a date with a Russian woman is never to be missed. Is this not correct, Sofia Timurovna?”
“It is correct, Pan Kladivo.”
*
We leave soon afterward, Bohdan disappearing into the backseat of a Mercedes, the door held open for him by a bodyguard. Then the valet brings around Roman’s car, a sleek Audi, jet black and elegant. I climb into the passenger seat, and Roman slips behind the wheel.
“Look, if you don’t want to go out, I understand,” I say.
“It’s fine,” he says, putting the car in gear. “I just wasn’t expecting this tonight. My father—he wants to reform me, he says.”
“Reform what?”
“Who knows.”
We cross the river and crawl through the ancient streets of Prague 1, barely fitting through the narrow lanes, and park near the Old Town Square, where just weeks ago I was hustling tourists. Stará Paní is audible from the street, a racing saxophone and drum riff.
The club sits at the bottom of a steel staircase. It’s an elegant place, like an old-fashioned speakeasy, with a stage at one end and little lamps on every table that reflect up on the faces of the smartly dressed patrons. The band is strong, too, a sax, piano, bass, and drum quartet.
We settle into a couch in a small VIP area off to the side. A waitress appears, says hello to Roman by name, and looks me over. Roman orders a beer for himself and a mineral water for me.
The set continues, but Roman isn’t listening. He’s focused on his phone, thumbing text messages and looking around impatiently. It’s clear we’re here for no other reason than to satisfy his father. I move closer to him on the couch, let my hand brush against his leg. But Roman only adjusts himself so we’re no longer touching.
Another text, another thumbed response. He leans in close to me. “I’m sorry, Sofia. I have to go.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s—look, I have to meet someone. For business,” he says.
“I see.”
“I’m just, you know … not looking for anything right now.” He removes a thick roll of cash from his pocket, peels off a few bills, and hands them to me. “Cab fare home,” he says.
He throws down another few bills for the drinks and disappears up the staircase. Who’s he meeting? I wonder. About what? I wait a moment, then follow him out.
The street outside is mobbed with T-shirt–wearing tourists, but in his excellent suit, Roman is easy to spot. I follow at a distance, always at least a dozen people between us. It’s hard going on the cobblestone streets in my heels, so I take them off and carry them. Someone whistles, someone else propositions me, but I ignore them and stay in pursuit.
Roman turns down a narrow lane, then onto another wide street, then into the doorway of a bar. I take up a position across the street in a dark space against the wall where the streetlight doesn’t reach. There’s nothing really special about the bar. It’s in a narrow white building about a hundred years old—practically new for Prague—and a bouncer in a denim vest sits on a stool just outside the entrance.
As I wait, I wonder what’s happening inside. Meeting his real girlfriend, or is it a business colleague, as he said? An hour passes, or maybe just less than that. Then the door to the bar opens, and Roman stumbles out, followed by another man. They’re both drunk, weaving a little as they walk. They’re laughing, touching each other on the shoulders, sharing a joke.
The crowds on the street are thinner now, and so I have to hang back even farther as I follow them. They walk for ten minutes or so, then stop in front of a modern, very stylish apartment building. I can’t hear their conversation, but it’s easy to understand even without words. Roman looks at his watch, the other guy motions to the building, Roman shakes his head. There’s an awkward pause, the other guy looking at his shoes. Then Roman reaches out, lifts the man’s chin, and kisses him. It’s a deep kiss that looks like it means something to them both.
*
In another context, in another life, I would think it was sweet and touching. But where does this leave my plan?
The kiss continues and catches the attention of three passersby. They’re fiercely drunk and start whistling and calling out, “Faggot! Faggot!” in English. Roman and his boyfriend break the kiss off and try to ignore them. The boyfriend squeezes Roman’s hand and disappears into the building while Roman starts down the street, his steps weaving and uncertain.
The drunks stumble after him, and I can hear them speaking to one another. Midtwenties or so, dressed in Burberry knockoff polo shirts. From their loud conversation, I gather they’re British men here for a stag party, and disappointed the “Prague birds” weren’t as easy as they’d been told.
Every once in a while, one of the men continues his taunt, coming up with something obscene to shout Roman’s way. But if Roman hears them, he’s either too smart to show it or too drunk to reply. He stops briefly along the side of a building and rests his head against it.
The men sense some weakness in him now and use the opportunity to close a little distance. Roman turns down a narrow, vacant street that empties out into the Old Town Square.
One of the Brits heaves a beer bottle that strikes Roman sharply in the back of the head. Roman turns, and even in the dim light, I see fearsome anger on his face. Still, the men aren’t intimidated. One of them grabs Roman by the shoulders and head-butts him in the nose, snapping Roman’s head back. Then all three start in with round after round of sloppy punches that last until Roman crumples against the wall and slides to the ground.
His body is limp, and the three men stand there for a moment, deciding whether the fun ended too soon. Leave him alone, I think to myself. You’ve done enough. Then one of them starts kicking him, driving his sneaker into Roman’s stomach and side and head. The rest join in.