The rest of the semester passed uneasily. The headless murder lingered in the newspapers and on the TV news, the story catching fire again whenever the police insisted they had a lead or were questioning a new suspect. Every trail, however, led to a dead end. The mystery eventually passed into local legend, the tale becoming strange and exaggerated. For Halloween, the bloody, headless corpse wearing a bomber jacket became a favorite costume of Gothic State students.
In the meantime, Allen passed his exams (with Penny as a dutiful study partner) and readied himself for his journey overseas. The week before their flight, Evergreen peppered him with emails, reminding him of books and materials to pack. Allen was being asked to go ahead of Dr. Evergreen to supervise the arrival of some equipment about which Evergreen was very vague. He grew exceedingly cranky if pressed for an explanation. Allen did not relish the idea of being in a foreign city alone.
Here he comes now. You can see his American Airlines flight descending toward Prague airport after a three-hour layover at Heathrow. Allen is coming to me, to my hometown. I wasn’t born here, no, but after so many centuries one can’t help but think of it as home.
There he is coming through customs. He looks terrible, hasn’t slept a wink. Poor bastard. I’d show him around town if I could, but life’s a bitch when you’re not corporeal.
The surly Czech cab driver dropped him in front of the apartment building in the little neighborhood across from Letna Park. Rain flayed the world, and Allen, struggling with his two enormous suitcases, was soaked in just the quick dash across the sidewalk and into the building. He hauled his luggage up two flights of stairs, then collapsed in front of number three, the apartment Dr. Evergreen had arranged for himself for the summer.
Allen unzipped the front pouch of the first suitcase, fished out the key he’d been given, and entered the apartment. It was spacious, with two bedrooms, a sitting area that bled into the kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked the street in front. From this vantage point he saw warm light in the windows of a neighborhood pub not even half a block away. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to sample the Czech beer he’d heard so much about, but if he missed the delivery, there would be hell to pay with Dr. Evergreen.
And anyway, he was getting wet again standing on the balcony.
Back inside, he changed into dry clothes. He turned on the TV, found he had three channels. One showed something incomprehensible in Czech, and another showed something incomprehensible in German. The third showed soccer.
Allen switched off the television and turned his attention to the present Penny had given him when she’d dropped him off at the airport.
The Rogue’s Guide to Prague was intended to be an irreverent travel guide to the city, pointing out all the usual tourist attractions, offering helpful hints for travelers, but also providing tongue-in-cheek commentary about various parts of the city and its environs. He read the entry for the Letna neighborhood:
More difficult, but not impossible, to locate a hooker in one of the local taverns of this quiet neighborhood. Better chances at the nearby Holešovice train station. The area is bordered by Letna Park on the south and Wenceslas Park to the north, known for its extensive rose gardens. There are numerous quiet grottos and shrubby enclaves where prostitutes can pleasure you if you’re too cheap to spring for a room.
Allen glanced through some of the area’s highlights.
• The Charles Bookstore and Café: Unlike the more touristy places in the city center, you can still get breakfast or lunch here for a song. The strong coffee will crush your balls. Cold beer. Local prices. The girls with tattoos and nose rings who work at the place know enough English to refuse your advances.
• Metronome Sculpture in Letna Park: This useless piece of crap gives the graffiti artists something new to deface instead of the old giant statue of Stalin. But the view here is magnificent. You can look down into the heart of Prague where things are actually happening. The constant racket of skateboarders will make you long for the old days of the iron-fisted Communists who would have sent these punks to the gulag without blinking.
• Kjyeilkle’s Pub: No English. Very few hookers.
Allen closed the book, wondered if Penny had meant it as a gag or if she’d really thought Allen would be able to get useful information out of it. He waited another hour, dozed off to the sound of the rain against the windows and balcony. A harsh knock on the door woke him with a start. He rubbed his eyes, stumbled to answer it.
He opened the door to four grumpy, rain-soaked men, who babbled at him in Czech until he got the message they wanted him to move the hell out of the way. He stepped aside, and the men grunted and heaved a long wooden crate into the middle of the apartment. They shoved a clipboard into Allen’s hands and mimed for him to sign it, which he did right before they left, muttering and frowning.
The wooden crate was nearly seven feet long and came almost up to his belt. He’d been told to wait for some things Dr. Evergreen was having shipped, but Allen had figured it was just miscellaneous luggage and books. An overwhelming curiosity seized him, a strong desire to crowbar the thing open and take a look.
He ran his hands across the rough wood, knocked. Thick planks, something heavy inside. He tried to push the crate off to the side but couldn’t budge it alone. He sat on the crate, let his legs dangle. The rain continued its hypnotic splat against the windows. After signing for Evergreen’s package, Allen was supposed to see to his own accommodations, but he was loath to trek through the downpour.
A whiff of something wet and pungent caught his attention. Allen leaned over, put his nose close to the surface of the crate, and sniffed an earthy smell, like freshly tilled soil, moist and rich.
Allen stretched out on top of the crate, yawned. He was jet-lagged. His eyelids grew heavy, and in seconds he was drawn into deep, dark slumber.
Night had fallen. Allen rose from the crate, the full moon casting a pale blue light through the open balcony door. He shivered, a cold wind flowing around him. He saw his own breath fogging between his lips.
It’s summer. I didn’t pack anything warm. He hugged himself.
A creak of floorboards. Allen jerked his head around, looked at the front door, saw nothing. The room seemed to groan under its own weight, and Allen suddenly felt the immensity of the apartment building, an eerie self-awareness of himself as an insignificant part of a greater whole, sleeping minds in other apartments, people eating, screwing, watching television.
A gust of cold wind on his neck and he turned back to the balcony. Allen gasped at the figure standing there.
Her skin glowed white, the frigid wind lifting the midnight hair off her shoulders, her eyes blazing with cold fire. Cassandra. It was Evergreen’s wife, wearing some shimmering, silky gown, her figure clear beneath the sheer material, soft white breasts threatening to overflow the gown’s plunging V-neck. She stretched her hands out to him, the red of her glossy fingernails like radioactive raspberry fire. The color matched her lips, the contrast of the bright red against her white skin doing strange, animal things to him.
Allen. Her lips didn’t move; the voice echoed in his head.
She drifted closer to him, her feet seeming not to touch the ground, the gown billowing around her. The wind howled now, washing the apartment intensely cold. The drapes flapping violently, bits of paper and debris flying around the room.
Allen was unable to move his body or rip his eyes away from Cassandra’s gaze.
She moved close to him, rested her hands on his thighs. An electric shock went to his groin, his sudden anticipation growing. He trembled as her face inched toward his, felt her breath on his mouth. She sank into him, breasts pushing against his chest.
Allen trembled, his erection straining painfully against his jeans. Her lips pressed frozen against him, a violent mix of cold fire, pain, and ecstasy. He tried to push away, but Cassandra’s tongue pushed its way into his mouth, invading him.
He wrenched himself away and scooted back on the crate. He opened his mouth to scream but couldn’t draw breath. He worked his mouth, tried to get air. Allen. Her voice filled his mind.
Allen’s eyes popped open. He sucked breath and screamed, rolled off the crate, and landed with a thud on the hard wooden floor.
He raised his head slowly, looked around. It was still day. The rain had eased but still fell in a drizzle. He was alone. His fingers went briefly to his lips, the dream images lingering and disturbing. Arousal and dread hung on him in equal portions.
He backed away from the crate, gathering his luggage as he went. He left the apartment, flew down the stairs two at a time, and sprinted from the building, out into the drizzle.
Prague lay before him like a mysterious stranger in an old hat.
An exotic woman waiting for him in poor light.
Like an inviting gypsy with a brand-new iPod.
Anyway, it was Prague.
Allen overpaid a cab driver to take him to Charles University.
The housing administrator spoke good English and sent Allen to a crusty brick building, down a narrow dim hall, to a ten-by-ten-foot room with a barren desk and a set of cold war bunk beds. It resembled a prison cell more than a dorm room, the walls an industrial sort of faded green, the tile floor gray and cold. The view from the window was the brick wall of another building five feet away.
The university had been founded in the 1300s. The dorms didn’t seem much more modern. Naked pipes ran up the walls and across the ceiling. They clanked periodically.
Allen unpacked a length of thin line and stretched it across the room, draped his wet clothes over it. He changed again, this time into khaki shorts, white ankle socks and Sketchers, and a dark green Gothic State T-shirt. He’d been told there were laundry machines in the basement of the dorm. If he kept getting soaked, he would probably have to visit it sooner than planned. He put the rest of his things into the tiny closet.
Jet lag pulled at him, but the haunting nightmare of Evergreen’s wife still fogged his brain. He would not be able to sleep. Not yet. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would help. Allen consulted The Rogue’s Guide for a nearby coffee shop.
• The Globe Café & Bookstore: Convenient to the National Theater and a number of tram and metro stops, the Globe is a favorite of expatriates tired of struggling with their Czech language books. Patrons enjoy a cold pilsner or a strong cup of coffee all while luxuriating in the English language. Tired of chicks rebuffing you in some foreign tongue? Come get shot down in English. It’s all so comfortably familiar. Hey, you might even get lucky with some coed from Long Island, away on her first trip, putting the whole thing on Daddy’s American Express card, and man, there you are buying her all the absinthe she can handle until BAM she wakes up in Wenceslas Park without her panties. What’s really cool is that most of the American chicks won’t know where you’re from, so quick thinking and a passable fake British accent will smooth the way. I mean, what’s with these chicks and British accents? Maybe they like to pretend you’re James Bond. Who knows? What happens in Prague stays in Prague. A selection of English language books and email terminals available.
A chalkboard sign outside the Globe advertised a poetry reading that night, reminding Allen that soon the summer-program fiction and poetry students would descend upon the city. Penny would arrive in a few days, and Allen brightened at the thought. It would be nice to have somebody with whom he could pal around the city. He absentmindedly touched the crucifix under his T-shirt. Somewhere back in America, Penny wore hers. He’d kept his promise; he put the thing on every day when getting dressed. He was even starting to like it.
Inside, Allen purchased a strong cup of black coffee and rented one of the computers for twenty minutes to check email. The first message from Dr. Evergreen reminded Allen (for the fiftieth time) how important it was for him to make sure his crate was delivered safely. Allen replied, assuring the professor all was well.
The next message, from Penny, asked if he’d arrived safely. He wrote back that he had but was exhausted. He sipped the coffee, which burned down his throat like acid. It would either wake him up or kill him.
Another email from Evergreen-a perplexing list of research tasks that seemed to have nothing whatsoever to do with Kafka. Allen put them off for later.
He deleted a dozen spam emails before arriving at the final message:
You don’t know what you’re getting into. Be alert. Be cautious. We shall be in contact soon. Trust no one!
The Three
The email address was [email protected].
Allen raised an eyebrow, hesitated, then replied,
Who are you and what the hell are you talking about?
Allen glanced over his shoulder. Nobody was taking any particular notice of him. Indeed, the idea that there was anyone within a thousand miles who even knew his name was utterly ridiculous.
Allen finished his coffee, walked out the front door, and ran smack into a priest.
“Allen!” Father Paul greeted him enthusiastically. “Imagine running into you here.”
Come back inside,” Father Paul insisted. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
Allen checked his wristwatch. “Already?”
“It’s nearly dinnertime,” Father Paul said.
Allen’s body was all screwed up. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening. While he was contemplating his jet lag, he found that Father Paul had him by the elbow and was gently guiding him back into the café.
Beyond the computer terminals, the café opened up to tables and a long bar. Artwork of various types hung on the stucco-brick walls, little price tags in the corner of each frame. Father Paul selected a table under a large painting of a block-headed three-breasted woman, the artwork a seeming cross between Picasso and Jack Kirby.
“Those pilsners look good. Hang on.” Father Paul went to the bar and came back with two beers. He set one in front of Allen. “These are brewed in the town of Plzen. Czech brewers have been perfecting their art for centuries, and Czech beer is counted as some of the best in the world.”
Allen sipped. “It is good.”
“Damn right. Oh, hey. Smokes. Be right back.”
Father Paul went to the bar again and returned with a pack of Pall Malls. He lit one, puffed. “There we go. That’s the stuff.”
“What are you doing in Prague?” Allen asked.
“I’m surprised Penny didn’t mention it.”
They drank two beers each, and Father Paul smoked five cigarettes while they exchanged stories. Allen explained he was here to do research for Dr. Evergreen, and Father Paul told Allen he was attending a conference on St. Augustine.
“All pretty boring religious stuff,” said the priest. “I’m hoping to sneak away and see the sights.”
Father Paul looked at his empty pint glass, pushed away from the table, and started to rise.
Allen motioned him to sit. “My turn.”
He took the empty glasses to the bar. Somehow the place had become crowded with a mix of bohemian expatriates, locals, older, younger, frat guys in Ping golf caps, art-fags and greasers, tweed academics, hipster throwbacks, a smelly Bulgarian, and an old, old man in a black beret, smoking a dark pipe. An eclectic crowd. Not quite as diverse as the cantina scene in Star Wars, but close. The place smelled of cloves and pipe tobacco and beer and sweat.
“What can I make for you?” asked the twenty-something girl behind the bar. She had a thick French accent. She had streaks of hot pink in her brown hair, numerous earrings, a flimsy black tank top. Too much eye makeup.
“Two more pilsners.” Allen set the glasses on the bar.
She took the glasses, filled them one at a time. “You’re new.”
“Just got in today.”
“You’re not a poet, are you? I do not think I could stand it if you were another poet.”
Allen laughed. “No.”
“I am Katrina.”
“Allen.”
“I’ll be seeing more of you in here, no? All Americans come to the Globe.”
“Sure.”
“Someone has taken an interest in you perhaps.” Katrina motioned with her chin as she topped off the beer.
Allen followed the gesture to the girls in a corner booth: three of them, looking straight at him, no attempt to conceal that they were openly observing his every move. The pale one with black, spiked hair, looked scary. She lounged with one combat boot up on the table, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, dark eye makeup making her look like a raccoon. Brutally pretty, the expression on her face said she resented the world.
The blonde would have looked at home at any sorority fund-raiser, but even among the Globe’s eclectic patrons, she seemed out of place. Pink, close-fitting T-shirt, white jeans, corn-silk hair in long braids. Very Reese Witherspoon-ish.
The third wore only black. She had an olive complexion, hair cut short like a boy’s. Hawkish nose. She smoked a thin cigar like she dared anyone to ask her to put it out.
All six eyes drilled into Allen.
He turned back to Katrina, still feeling the watchers at his back. “Maybe they’ve just never seen such a staggeringly handsome specimen before.”
Katrina snorted.
Allen carried the beer back to the priest.
“You talk to the barmaid?”
Allen nodded. “She’s French.”
“You gonna hit that?”
Allen sputtered beer, coughed. “What?”
“Hey, I may be a priest, but I know how it works, you know? Besides, I can’t indulge myself, so I like to hear about what everyone else is doing. Hearing confession is a big part of my week.”
“I only talked to her for a minute.”
Father Paul sucked hard on his cigarette, blew a big gray cloud over Allen’s head. “We should do some shots.”
Allen grinned. His face felt warm and numb. “No, we shouldn’t.”
Father Paul laughed.
They did shots.
Something amber that burned Allen’s throat and set fire to his belly. Allen grabbed Father Paul’s disposable lighter and lit one of the cigarettes.
The night, very slowly, began to blur.
The Globe became impossibly crowded. Allen was forced to squeeze in between people as he maneuvered to the bar and back or made trips to the restroom. Men and women pressed up against him, greeted him in a variety of languages. The place had become a United Nations of booze and musk and animated chatter.
It was during one of Allen’s claustrophobic treks to the men’s room that he felt the hand on his ass. He turned, saw the impish face of the blonde in the pink T-shirt as she melted in the other direction back into the crowd. Allen thought for a moment he’d been the victim of some petty crime, like maybe he’d been pick-pocketed. He checked. His wallet was still there.
In his other back pocket, he found a folded piece of paper.
In the men’s restroom, he folded himself into a narrow stall, sat, and read the note. It was written on hotel stationery in sloppy red ink.
In the next stall, another of the Globe’s patrons vomited violently, spewing chunks all over the next toilet and the floor of the stall. Allen flinched and lifted his feet. The acrid smell slapped him in the face like a fetid mackerel.
The note read:
Don’t trust the priest. You have to meet me in the alley right now. Your life depends on this.
The Three
Allen tried to read the note again, but the words went blurry. The guy in the next stall spewed more vomit. Allen closed one eye, and in this fashion was able to confirm the note’s message. It seemed like some outrageous prank, but he was feeling drunk and dizzy, and the puke stench in the small restroom was overwhelming. A short trip to the alley out back seemed like an opportunity to suck some clean air into his lungs.
He stepped carefully as he left the stall, slipped in some of the puke anyway.
“Hell.”
The café beyond the men’s room was still crowded and smoky. His face slick with sweat, Allen felt he might be sick now too. He pushed through the crowd and found a narrow hall, which lead to an old wooden door. He opened it, stepped out into the alley. The night air was cool relative to the interior of the Globe. Allen closed his eyes, breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. He felt better. Slightly.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw the blonde with the braids at the end of the alley. There was just enough street light to see it was her. She held her hand up tentatively, a shy wave. Allen waved back.
She lowered her hand slowly, regarded him a moment, then gestured for him to follow as she disappeared around the corner. Allen stood a moment, baffled, then looked over his shoulder. It was still and silent in the cobblestone alley, the dim light casting lumpy shadows. The blonde in braids might almost have been some kind of ghost, except Allen doubted the tourists would tolerate a ghost that looked like a California sorority girl in a centuries-old city like Prague.
He headed toward the mouth of the alley, turned the corner.
She stood there waiting in front of a parked car, some foreign model Allen didn’t recognize. The trunk was open. She gestured toward the trunk.
What the hell is this?
“Tell me your name.”
She shook her head, put her finger to her lips in a shhhh motion. She nodded at the trunk.
Allen inched forward. “You want me to look in there?”
She nodded. Her smile was warm and inviting.
“Sure.” Allen stepped to the edge of the trunk, looked inside. It was empty.
“Okay,” he said. “I guess I’m not getting it. Did you want-”
Something heavy slapped him at the base of the skull. He tumbled forward into the trunk, felt somebody lifting his feet. His eyes went crossways, and he saw the fuzzy image of the blonde leaning into the trunk, touching his forehead, her lips moving with unspoken syllables.
Then the trunk thunked him shut into darkness.
He thought he might pass out. The base of his skull throbbed with a deep, nauseating pain, but he didn’t lose consciousness. He heard a group of muffled voices, some heated conversation, but only one word came through clearly. Zizkov.
Where had Allen heard that word before? He faded a little as the throb in his head worsened. The next thing he knew the car was moving. He shifted and slid in the trunk as the car accelerated and made turns.
Allen had the fleeting thought that he’d left Father Paul stuck with the check back at the Globe.
The car continued to bump along, and Allen remembered where he’d seen the word Zizkov. He pulled The Rogue’s Guide out of his back pocket, along with the disposable lighter. He sparked the lighter, which dimly illuminated the interior of the trunk, and flipped through the guide until he found the page he wanted.
• Zizkov: This working-class neighborhood is rich with authentic pubs, serving a variety of Czech beers at working-class prices. Although they are unlike the more touristy pubs of Stare Mesto, it turns out they are still more than happy to accept tourist money. Smelly backpackers can stretch their drinking budget here. The area is named for one-eyed general Jan Zizka. Stumble around long enough and you can probably find a few statues of him, both on horse and not. One of the area’s primary sights is a giant, blocky Commie monument at the top of Zizkov Hill (known as the National Monument). The monument’s architecture is of the typical “look at us, we’re big” Soviet variety, but the view from the top of the hill is actually pretty decent. The monument’s tomb, formerly occupied by party dignitaries, now lies empty-presumably waiting for somebody important enough to kick off.
There was more, but Allen broke off from his reading when he felt the car stop. He extinguished the disposable lighter, held his breath, and listened.
Footsteps on gravel. More muffled voices. The footsteps retreated, and Allen found himself alone in the silent darkness.
He pushed up against the trunk, tried to give it a kick but couldn’t maneuver for leverage. He was going nowhere. He waited, drifted off.
Allen’s dreams swam with cold blue eyes. He ran through mist, the smell of moist earth all around him. He ran through the deserted streets of Prague, the night pressing in on him, and wherever he went he felt colder and colder. He ran faster, a freezing wind at his neck.
His eyes popped open. Allen shivered. He was stiff and cold and his head ached, probably a combination of getting hit and too much Czech beer. Shots. Good God, he’d done shots of some unknown booze with the priest.
How long had he been out? He couldn’t tell if it had been two minutes or ten hours. Maybe Father Paul would call the police. Maybe after he noticed Allen was missing, he’d tell somebody, get some help. But how would help find him? For all Allen knew, he was five hundred miles from the Globe.
No. Surely he hadn’t been out that long, and they hadn’t driven that far. Someone had mentioned Zizkov, a neighborhood that wasn’t so very far. And anyway, The Three had warned him against trusting the priest.
Who warned you, dumbass? The nice people who smacked you on the head and shoved you in a car trunk? What the hell am I in the middle of?
If only he could get out of the damn trunk.
The trunk opened.
A flashlight seared his eyes, and Allen winced. The outlines of two figures beyond the flashlight.
“He’ll be fine,” said a female voice. “I put a spell of well-being on him when we put him in.”
“Well, he looks like hammered shit,” said a male voice. “Let’s get him out of there.”
Allen felt hands under his arms lifting him out of the trunk. He felt weak, and his legs were wobbly as he felt his feet touch the ground. “Who are you?”
“Friends, Mr. Cabbot,” said the man. “Although that might be hard to believe at the moment.”
Allen felt a cool hand on his forehead. It was the braided blonde. “You’ll be okay,” she assured him.
“So you can talk.”
“I couldn’t speak during the luring spell, or I would have muddled the magic.”
Allen pulled away from her hand. “Luring spell?”
“To lure you to the back of the car. So we could put you in.”
“I’m full of beer, and a pretty girl wants to meet me outside. More like hormones than a spell.” Allen looked down, saw a small automatic pistol in the man’s hand. “You don’t seem like friends to me.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “It’s important that you don’t give us a lot of trouble until we’ve had an opportunity to explain ourselves. Amy, show Mr. Cabbot into the house, and we can all get comfortable. I’ll be right behind you.”
Allen followed the girl, the man with the pistol bringing up the rear. Allen expected to feel the gun stuck into his back like in the movies, but that didn’t happen. He was acutely aware of the pistol anyway.
They were in the cramped, gravel parking area behind a small house. There were tall hedges on one side and a stone wall on the other, so Allen wasn’t able to get a good look at the surrounding neighborhood-not that he’d be able to recognize anything in any case. He’d been in Prague less than a full day, and so far he’d had bizarre nightmares, gotten drunk with a priest, slipped in puke, been hexed by a sorority girl, and stuffed in a trunk.
And there was still the jet lag.
And the man with the gun right behind him.
He followed Amy into the small house. It was unimpressive, utilitarian, and drab, probably built during the iron curtain days. They ushered him into a small sitting room, and the man pointed him toward a threadbare easy chair with the pistol. Allen backed toward the chair and sank into it. The man sat across from him in a stiff-looking wingback.
“Amy, I could really murder a pot of tea right about now,” the man said. “Can you come up with something while I have a word with Mr. Cabbot?”
“I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.” She left the room.
Allen got a better look at his abductor. Middle-aged, wire thin, a gaunt red face, lined along the jaw, closely shaven. He had a head of thick hair that was pure white; his watery eyes were faded and blue. He wore nice clothes but nothing ostentatious-a light blue jacket, gray trousers, pressed white shirt. He could have been one of Allen’s literature professors back at Gothic State.
“My name is Basil Worshamn,” said the man with the pistol. “And I’d like to tell you a story.” His accent was vaguely upper class and British.
“This doesn’t end with you trying to sell me Amway, does it?” Allen said.
A tolerant smile. “I don’t know what that means, but I take it as some kind of quip. I’m no traveling salesman, Mr. Cabbot. I’m in Prague on very important business.”
“I can’t imagine it involves me.”
“Indulge me,” Basil said, “and I’ll stretch the limits of your imagination.”
“As it happens, I’m in the mood for a good story,” Allen said. “And also, you’re the one with the gun.”
“You’re here to assist Professor Evergreen in some sort of research, correct?”
“He’s writing a book chapter on Kafka,” Allen said.
“Have you had the opportunity to meet his wife?” Basil asked.
Allen cleared his throat, swallowed.
“I see by the expression on your face that you have met her.”
“At a party hosted by Dr. Evergreen,” Allen admitted. “Briefly.”
“Yes, well, we’ll return to that in a moment. Are you familiar with the legend of the philosopher’s stone?”
Allen paused. He looked toward the kitchen at the sound of clanking dishes. At that moment, the small house seemed absurdly normal, not the kind of place he would have predicted he’d be when interrogated about the philosopher’s stone at gunpoint.
Basil cleared his throat. “The philosopher’s stone, Mr. Cabbot?”
Allen jerked back from the kitchen noise, met Basil’s gaze. “It’s some kind of magic stone that alchemists thought might turn lead into gold. Isn’t that right?”
“That is the popular understanding,” Basil said. “Scholars more learned in the subject understand that the philosopher’s stone is not actually a particular mystical rock but rather a symbol of enlightenment, standing for knowledge beyond the ordinary. The ancient alchemists were unafraid to seek knowledge in places where others feared to tread. These alchemists were often condemned. Sometimes as charlatans, other times as practitioners of the dark arts.”
At the words “dark arts,” Allen flinched. He wasn’t exactly sure why.
“In 1583, Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II moved the seat of the empire to Prague,” continued Basil. “Rudolph was a bit eccentric, and his interest in astrology and the occult became legendary. His court swarmed with thinkers and men of science.”
While Basil’s story unfolded, Allen’s eyes darted around the room. Perhaps he could make a dash for a door or window.
“In 1599, Rudolph invited alchemist Dr. John Dee to join his court,” Basil said. “Dee led a team of dedicated alchemists to solve the challenge of the philosopher’s stone.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Allen said.
“I’m afraid it very soon might,” Basil said. “For you see, your very own Professor Evergreen has come to Prague, not to write a chapter on Kafka as he’d have you believe, but rather to plunder the secret dungeons of Prague Castle in search of the philosopher’s stone.”
Allen went slightly pale, the surprise plain on his face.
“I can understand that this might be a lot for you to digest,” Basil said.
“It’s not that.” Allen swallowed hard. “It’s just that there’s a priest at the window with a machine gun.”
Before we witness the inevitable gunfire and breaking of things that’s about to happen, let me just return briefly to something Basil told Allen. Basil mentioned Dr. John Dee and a team of alchemists.
Horseshit.
Team, my sweaty ass. There was no team. And John Dee. Let me tell you something about John Dee. Asshole. What an insufferable asshole. If I never lay eyes on that son of a bitch again, it will be too soon.
So yeah, I’m a little bit more interested in this part of the story.
Because this is the part about me.