“Discipline,” Bohdan says. “It is the thing Roman lacks. It is why he cannot, we may say, suppress his weaknesses. But I see discipline in you, Sofia Timurovna.”
“Yes, Pan Kladivo. I have discipline.”
Bohdan says something to Beran in Czech, and Beran removes a pistol with a silencer from the waistband of his trousers. He extends it to me, butt first. My eyes move from the gun to Kladivo’s face, but there’s only a faint smile and eyebrows raised in expectation. I take the gun. It’s a well-used, heavy thing. The sharp edges around the sight and hammer and trigger guard are burnished to a shiny brass from being pulled free from waistbands and holsters a million times.
“Show me, Sofia Timurovna. Show me how disciplined you are.”
My mind refuses to acknowledge the meaning of this, refuses to issue the order to my hand. But the thing inside me, growing since New York, stronger since Paris, more violent since Berlin, fills me now. Has replaced me. And it seems to have no problem with what’s being asked of it. The math is already done: Finding my father means getting close to Kladivo means demonstrating loyalty means killing the bigot means:
There is a sound like a hammer hitting metal. I see a fan of red appear on the wall and floor behind the prisoner’s head. This is followed by a sound like a faint chime, and I feel something burning against the side of my bare foot. I look down to see the brass shell casing resting there against my skin, smoke still rolling upward from its mouth. The pistol is still in my hand, smoke coming from its mouth, too.
Twenty-Three
The sun is coming up, purple light turning orange turning yellow. We’re slipping along the highway toward Prague, the ride so smooth and gentle in the back of Bohdan Kladivo’s Mercedes we might as well be flying. The seats of the sedan are the color and texture of butter. I grip them to stop the shaking of my hands, certain my nails are going to leave permanent marks. Bohdan opens a panel between the seats, a small refrigerator, and offers me a bottle of water. But it’s all I can do to stop from throwing up, and I shake my head.
“A man always wishes for a son, and a son is what God gave me,” Bohdan says, his voice soft. “But perhaps I should have wished for a daughter.”
I wonder how he can’t see the hatred in my eyes.
“What you did back there, in the cell,” Bohdan continues. “It showed—in Czech the word is Síla. Strength, it means. Also power. Authority.”
Unable to look at him, I stare out the window.
“I understand how you must feel, Sofia Timurovna. But a woman who seeks to rise in this world must be crueler than even men.”
I have to focus, show him it meant nothing to me, show him my will is capable of matching my actions. “You are right, Pan Kladivo,” I say.
The city appears in the distance, the red-and-beige apartment buildings, the new glass-and-steel towers, the spires of Hradcany Castle. I wonder if Roman’s two other attackers are running through its streets looking for their friend.
Bohdan pats my hand paternally. “Your current employment in the casino is, we may say, suboptimal.”
“What?”
“Your skills. They are wasted there. So from now on you work for me. No more dealing cards. It is preferable for you?”
“Yes, Pan Kladivo. It is preferable for me,” I say.
“You can be an example of discipline to my men. You will also make a good partner for Roman. Who knows, he may yet change his habits because of you.”
“A good partner?”
“Companion, and maybe someday, lover. But matters of the heart are the Lord’s business, not mine. I will pay you well, of course.”
“You’re paying me to be his girlfriend?”
Kladivo shrugs. “To the world’s eye, yes. Myself, I am not so antique that I cannot accept my son is a faggot. From you, I ask only that you be an example to him, a companion at his side who will temper his ways and show him what discipline looks like.”
“May I open the window? For some air?”
Kladivo nods his assent, and I press the button to lower it just a crack. The air is cool and smells of diesel.
“In this modern world, a woman mustn’t be content to sit about if she aspires to do the work of a man,” Kladivo continues. “Are you prepared for that, Sofia? To learn this business of mine?”
I would rather die. But of course I smile, as much as I’m able to, and say, “Yes, Pan Kladivo. I would like nothing more.”
He sighs contentedly. “Then it is as I thought. But remember what I said about women who seek to rise in this world.”
“That they must be crueler than men,” I say, and force myself to turn to him. “Then that’s what I’ll be, Pan Kladivo. And thank you. For the opportunity.”
We leave the highway and are winding through the cobblestone streets in a smart neighborhood just west of the river. Stately old mansions mix with expensive-looking new buildings, everything either pre-or post-communist, as if the second half of the twentieth century hadn’t happened at all. The Mercedes comes to a stop before an apartment building with windows divided by brightly colored mullions into strange geometric shapes. It glistens like a faceted jewel in the morning light.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Roman’s apartment,” Kladivo says. “And now yours also.”
*
Kladivo escorts me to the apartment door, hand on my elbow. Behind us, the doorman stands deferentially, eyes down, the trash bag containing my things in his hands. I fumble with the key in the lock, so Bohdan steps aside and the doorman unlocks it for me.
“Would you—like to come in?” I ask.
Kladivo gives a single shake of the head. “An eventful night, so use the time alone to rest. Roman will be back later.”
The silence inside reminds me of the silence in Terrance’s apartment, a luxurious hush over everything. In the living room of the apartment, there is a pair of low couches in cream-colored leather bracketing a plush Bokhara rug the color of blood. There’s excellent art in the hallway and a well-stocked wine refrigerator in the kitchen.
I find the bathroom and begin filling the tub with steaming water. It takes me a full five minutes just to figure out how to turn it on. Everything is white marble and dark wood and gleaming surfaces. Gorgeous, really. Like from a magazine about bathrooms. Such a magazine exists, I seem to remember, in some faraway life. As for this world, the one I’m living in, there are freckles of dried blood on my feet from the British tourist whose head I blew open.
The tub is large and fills slowly. I think of my dad and the conditions Kladivo must be keeping him in. Surely there’s no hot bath for him, wherever he is. But as I sit on the edge of the tub, it occurs to me I may know exactly where he is.