AN: Thanks for reviews and for your enthusiasm. I've just bought a new laptop so I'll update more frequently. Some notes, first, I think Marek Černý-Vlcek is Marc Black-Wolf in Czech but I used an on-line translator and I won't vouch for it. On the subject of Mr. Black-Wolf, my beta strongly rebuked the idea of having a 19 year old fall for someone who's middle-aged. I'm not willing to change Marek's back-story, so he has to be at least 39. Hence Black has aged, she's now 23. I've put a second draft label in all chapters that made a reference to her age. Second, my lovely beta also thinks that I've abused antonomasia with all the references I make to Freyja (the Vanir counterpart of Venus, she's a love goddess but not sluttish enough to have lent her name to a word like venereal), Croesus (filthy rich king of Lydia who got screwed by the fickle Lady Fortune), Cerberus (three-headed steroid-pumped pooch who warded Hades' gates and got KO'd by a long-haired lyre player) and Sisyphus (poor bloke condemned for all eternity to roll a boulder up Tartarus' hill, only to have it roll back down every single time). But I think it would be hypocritical to shy away from a few legitimate mythological references after all the offhanded quoting that's been going on in my fic. Third, rahat lokum is also known as Turkish delight. I decided to go with the 'exotic' name because, given Marek's nationality, the other one could be interpreted as a very tacky word play. I don't do coarse humor –on purpose. Fourth, just so you can get an idea of the prices mentioned, on November 29th 2007 one euro bought you 1.48 American dollars. Btw, the overpriced knickers are for real. I've seen them and cried. Finally, there are links in my profile to performances of the music mentioned: Ravel's Tzigane played by Maxim Vengerov; Schubert's Der Tod und das Madchen sang by Regine Crespin; Debussy's La Cathédrale Engloutie performed by Pollini and Ravel's Ondine, the first movement of Gaspard de la Nuit, performed by Perlemuter.
Kira's Kingdom
Scroll 10: Facing the Music II
10.1 Tzigane:
"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?..."
From the poem Andrea del Sarto by Robert Browning"The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved - loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves." Victor Hugo
Czech Republic, April 19th 2019; a rogue hangar near Kutná Hora:
Black was taking a shower and, for the first time in her life, she was singing. She could've sworn she heard the birds tweeting. Granted, it was spring, the sun was going down and she was near a forested area, so there might actually have been some birds singing. But she knew she would've heard them even if she'd been in the middle of the Sahara. And she shouldn't have been happy. Not when her life's mission was going to the dogs.
That Ryuk had proven more stubborn than she'd given him credit for. Even Kira was surprised by his resilience. The Shinigami had been twisting like a pretzel and turning upside-down for a couple of weeks but he hadn't given in. And they needed him to surrender utterly or their plan wouldn't work.
The rest was pretty much in a stalemate and they hadn't been able to get much out of the other Shinigami for there was a risk of being discovered by White's husband. To make it all worst now they were about to be cornered into a position where they would either have to dispose of or try to free the operatives they had inside of the safe house. Either option meant that they would have to reveal their identities and that would mean another lost battle. As for the remaining hidden heirs, Bunny and Clyde, as she'd taken to think of Red and Mac, hadn't been able to find them.
It was all so dreadful, and she didn't give a damn. She was all cheery, laughing at her own bad puns. 'Bunny and Clyde', she giggled. As she rinsed she pictured Red turning into a fluffy, bouncing white cotton ball that hopped all over the place, trying to catch Mac's eye. As for Mac, well, she'd always thought that Clyde sounded like the name of some wretched byproduct of consuetudinary inbreeding. The kind of moron who can barely operate a gas pump and ends up marrying his cousin just like mama did. She giggled again and that sounded so weird coming out of her mouth. She'd never giggled before, not even when she was little.
The reason for her giddiness had a name: Marek Černý-Vlcek. She was drying herself and she paused to roll the name in her tongue as if it were candy. Though plain candy wasn't the way she'd describe him. Maybe a dessert like rahat lokum would fit him better, something rich and spicy with saffron, rosewater or cinnamon. And even that didn't fully capture the essence of the guilty pleasure that was Marek.
'And exactly how would you describe him?' asked the harsh voice of reason inside her head.
It wasn't the first time she'd asked herself that question, but as always she failed to come up with an answer that would accommodate both her notions on the subject and reality. The part of her that entertained few illusions and was perhaps a tad too bitter for someone her age wanted to call him sex on legs. The rest of her was just speechless. As usual she ended up acknowledging that lust fell too short to describe what she felt and love was a long stretch. She shrugged inwardly and left it at that. For once, she was willing to experience something without the need for a rational explanation.
And it all had begun as an askew one-night stand. Complete with the infamous walk of shame the next morning, courtesy of sharing living spaces with a meddling ghost. It had started when Black had come home from the library and had run to her brother's bedroom to share with him a joke the librarian had told her. She was halfway through the door when she realized Matthew was dead. Of course rationally she'd been aware of that, but at some level she had refused to acknowledge the fact. That is until the fact turned around and punched her square on the stomach, taking her breath away.
For a while all she could do was look wide-eyed at the stuff in Matthew's room. All was exactly as he'd left it, except for a light cover of dust. She was on the verge of having a panic attack when the ghost had walked on her. He was the last person she wanted to see. He was always so cool; a perfect emotionless bastard who'd left life unsullied by feeling. She'd run out yelling she'd forgotten something.
She flew down the street, focusing on the sound of her clogs on the pebbled pavement. Running to the library gave her a sense of direction. When she reached the Klementinum she hesitated in front of the door. It was nearing closing time but she didn't want to go back home, so she was thinking of going to a coffee shop when she'd noticed a poster announcing a conference about the impact in art of medieval symbols and motifs.
The poster had a print of a skeleton playing the violin, leading a group of fools to their doom. Having just ran away of her own little Danse Macabre, she took it as a good sign. She thought that in the worst case scenario, if the conference turned out to be a bore, at least she would've bought an hour of relative peace and quiet.
The conference hadn't been boring and the lecturer had been a revelation. The man was one of the dying breed of public speakers that manage to make you feel as if they were talking directly to you. She'd never felt such an immediate connection with anyone in her life. She felt curious enough to look for his name in the program. He was obviously using a pseudonym. She raised her eyebrow thinking: 'Who goes around in this day and age calling himself Marc Black-Wolf?'
The fact that he was incredibly attractive didn't hurt either. He had coppery skin and a closely cropped salt and pepper hair that made his olive green eyes shine like emeralds. His profile was the lost twin of the one that had inspired an Arab verse she liked: sharp as a scimitar. The program said he was 39. The guy hadn't been caught up in the nasty game that obsesses people nowadays, making them want to freeze time in their twenties. He looked his age and was a living ad for the catch phrase that says life starts at 40. She decided he merited a second look. He was a bit thickset but wore a handmade suit that brought out his best and that spoke of exquisite taste and a very healthy bank account. Both of them qualities you seldom find in scholars.
She'd been so caught up in her exploration of the very unlikely tall dark stranger life had handed her on a silver tray that she'd answered what had been an open question by quoting Schubert:
"Death said:
Give me your hand, you lovely, tender child
I am your friend and bring no harm.
Have courage. See, I am not wild.
You'll sleep softly upon my arm."
He'd recaptured the attention of the audience by opening the lid of the piano, the auditorium sometimes doubled as music hall, and performing the song from which Black had taken the quote, 'Der Tod und das Mädchen'. He sang in a very nice baritone and he didn't play half bad.
Black clacked her tongue in disbelief: 'This is just too good to be true.'
Her first lover had been a pianist. Basilides had also been a sybarite who was majoring in Math and who wouldn't deny himself anything. The sweet angel went through the check his parents sent him for his monthly expenses in a week or so. The guy had supplemented what he called his "partying funds" by playing in small rickety bars for tips. They had met because back then Black had supplemented what she called her "eating funds" by playing the role of cocktail waitress in one of those rickety bars.
One night, while he counted his profits and she swept the sticky floor, they'd been talking about Debussy. Basilides had been ranting about the composer's fondness for unusual scale patterns when out of the blue he'd stated that "Sunken Cathedral" was the ultimate musical masterpiece. She'd been having exams all week and was under the effects of prolonged sleep deprivation, so all she'd say was that the piece was too modern for her. She thought it had so many dissonances that the drunken cathedral would be a better name for the piece. Black had then said that she liked "Reflections in the water" better and that, when it came to musical Impressionism, Ravel had done a better job depicting water with his "Ondine". Basilides pointed out Debussy didn't like to be called impressionist and had thought she was missing the point. He had sat down and played the piece beautifully while paraphrasing the discussion between Debussy and his professor at the Paris Conservatory. He had acted it out, doing voices as if he were reading a story to a little kid.
"So the professor said: I am not saying that what you do isn't beautiful, but it's theoretically absurd," Basilides said in a pompous arse tone, "do you know what Debussy replied?" Then he'd quoted in a passionate tone, filled with disdain: "There is no theory. You have merely to listen. Pleasure is the law!" Basilides had free access to the bar while performing and had punctuated in a somewhat slurred voice: "And you just have to listen to his 'La Cathédrale Engloutie' to understand what he meant. Pleasure as law is not an oversimplification. It applies to music, to math and to life in general. Pain and fear are the greatest evils, and those come from ignorance and narrow-mindedness. Most people live and suffer inside mental prisons they've built for themselves. To use that shitty self-help cliché, you have to learn to think outside the box. The search for pleasure, understood as anything that opens your mind and liberates you from those greatest of evils, is the search for the ultimate good." He finished as the last notes reverberated in the empty bar.
Maybe it had been the way he had played, maybe it had been the sense of urgency she'd been feeling as her date with destiny as Kira's Herald approached, or maybe it had been the lack of sleep, but that last bit of epicurean crap had rung a bell and she'd decided to get it over with the whole virginity issue, right there and then. Basilides was a good sport, his only comment when he'd found out he had trailed uncharted territory was that he should sue her for taking advantage of his bad head for liquor. They had both laughed. She couldn't remember his last name. But she could still conjure up the image of his gentle, strong fingers flying deftly over the keyboard. Caught up in his personal pursue of happiness Basilides was beautiful beyond words. And, ever since, she had a thing for pianists.
After Mister Black-Wolf had finished playing he'd said: "This small musical interlude helps us wake up those of you whom I've managed to lull to sleep and brings us back to the point I was trying to make in the first place. There are some obvious erotic undertones in the Death and the Maiden motif. I mean erotic as in related to Eros. Not necessarily sexual, but with all the wide spectrum of manifestations that winged Greek daimon has. In any case, the motif was supposed to be the opposite. To further exploit the daimon metaphor, we might say that it was supposed to exalt Thanatos. Insert in the theme of the Danse Macabre or Death as the great equalizer, the Death and the Maiden motif was supposed to be a reminder of how ephemeral earthly gifts are and to point out the folly of vanity. But artists of all times have taken it as an opportunity to exalt their ideals of beauty and seductiveness."
Black let out a sharp dry laugh: "And depict some rather crude seduction scenes worthy of gracing the pages of Playboy. Some of them are borderline rape. Besides, why is it that when we think of beauty we think of busty naked females? There are some males that seem to be the embodiment of Beauty and Seductiveness, with capital letters." She licked her lips.
A small smile played on his mouth: "Are those Platonic uppercases? You have to be careful when handling those wretched universals. As you grow up you'll find out all you are left with after the shipwreck that is life, are some ideas, all of them in lower cases and, if you're lucky, a few of them will be worth fighting for. I'd rather leave Plato out of it altogether. But I guess I had it coming by introducing dualisms into the discussion. To answer your question, artists represented beauty as female, first, because they were somehow constricted by the Maiden part in the name of the motif. And second, because, as the title of the conference implies, this was a medieval motif and medieval times weren't tolerant of alternative lifestyles. That's also the reason why Death ended up taking the role of the male, which seemed to fit the bill of seducer better, though in all fairness in most representations no gender is discernible. But up to a point I agree with Ms…" Black wasn't wearing a nametag or a ring and she'd remained silent. After a small pause he'd continued: "save for Greeks and Romans most western cultures think beauty is a feminine virtue, if it's viewed as a virtue at all. Even before it was put in black and white on the bible, beauty has been viewed as a double-edged sword; something that, when not paired with more spiritual qualities, eventually leads to destruction. And since it doesn't endure, it's what we call a cheap thrill, though some seem to think it's worth it."
His smile had a lupine quality to it. Time stopped when those inviting green eyes looked at her. When the clock started ticking once more she realized everyone was looking at her.
'Am I flirting with a complete stranger who's old enough to be my father in front of half a dozen people I have to see daily?' She went beetroot. Afterwards she'd remained silent and tried to make a clean get away when the conference ended.
He hadn't let her, he'd caught up with her and she'd stood in front of him as a deer caught in the front lights of a truck. She didn't know exactly how it'd happened but she'd agreed to continue their chat over a cup of coffee. Well, she hadn't actually agreed to anything, but she hadn't been able to say no either. She'd tried to refuse but her voice had failed her. Then her legs had started walking besides him as if on their own accord.
He took her to Rossini, her favorite Italian café on Chopinova Street, which was also a favorite of his. By the time they'd reached the restaurant she'd worked up the courage to lie to the man and say she'd just remembered a prior appointment. Then her body had betrayed her once more and her stomach had started growling. Coffee had become dinner. She'd always loved Mario's cooking but that night she'd swallowed down everything the café owner served her without tasting it. She had even let Marek order a cup of Chianti for her. And she never drank wine!
The man made her nervous. That was really odd. From the time she'd turned 16 she'd had all sorts of crappy jobs and had been exposed to about every type of the male species, including some that were far more insistent than Mr. Černý-Vlcek. She'd also had her fair share of handsome and she'd seldom felt impressed by then. She'd been raised by two men who were anything but easy to handle. Her father had been so frail that she was constantly afraid of breathing near him in case she might break him and Matthew had been prone to these terrifying bouts of rage that left everyone around him trembling with fear. Almost before walking she'd learnt to treat men as the little boys they become whenever they fall prey to their inner demons. Plus she had dealt on a daily basis from age 14 with Kira, one of the most manipulative men that had roamed this earth. And she'd held her ground pretty damn fine until then, so she couldn't figure out why she wasn't able of thinking straight in Marek's presence.
She was lost in thought when the waiter came back with the check on a tray and she realized she'd left her wallet back home. She was wishing for earth to open under her feet and swallow her, sparing her the shame of being dragged away to wash dishes, when Mr. Černý-Vlcek picked up the tab. It came to 37.13 euros and all he'd had was a cup of red wine and an espresso. Now she owed the man 29.76.
Having had little of it most of her life she was very sensitive with matters relating to money. She began saying that she intended to pay her share. Marek shrugged it off saying he was old school and that he wasn't used to letting a lady pay when he had invited her.
Black had been looking down at the floor and when she looked back up she'd noticed a man and a woman entering the café. She could bet that the woman's red hair came right out of a bottle. The slag had hungry eyes and clung to the old geezer's arm with predatory skill. She took off her tan sable coat with one slow sinewy motion. Underneath the expensive fur coat, the woman was clad in a tawdry get up that made her look as if the guy had taken her right out of one of the strip joints that crowded the nearby Wenceslas square. The old Croesus was blind drunk and had all the telling signs of a nouveau riche mobster. He brandished a fat roll of bills in his pudgy fingers and insisted in a loud voice that he would take nothing but the best table to dine with his lady friend. Black had felt like gagging. She had looked at Marek's green eyes and had insisted on repaying him as soon as she could get her wallet.
After a few awkward minutes Marek had said that was fine and wrote down his hotel address on the back of one of his business cards. Black had stared at the card for a couple of minutes without speaking. The silence was beginning to get uncomfortable when he'd said that for a while he was afraid he'd have to sleep on the street. But that an old friend had managed to find him a room, a crow fly away from Charles Bridge. He smiled innocently while he delivered his speech. Black looked at the card again and let the fact that the man was staying in one of the most exclusive hotels of the city sunk in.
The Black Wolf had set up his temporal lair at the Alchymist Grand Hotel & Spa. That was a boutique 5 stars which was usually booked months in advance. She knew because she'd been saving the 200 euros needed for a package called Ecsotica Mild Reverie, which included a coconut body scrub, milk and rose petals bath and a Balinese massage. It would be a reward, after she killed Kira's enemies. She wanted to feel something nice on her skin for a change. There were cheaper ways of achieving the same but she just didn't feel like paying the pound of flesh. She'd had enough with people touching her with ulterior motives. She wanted to spend a whole weekend alone to be able to relax, but the effing one and a half hour treatment was all she could afford. She couldn't help wondering exactly with whom was Mr. Black-Wolf friendly with that could get him a room in that hotel in such a short notice.
They took their separate ways and he probably left thinking he was never going to hear from her again. She could have mailed the money. But she went straight home, grabbed her wallet and made her way towards the Alchymist Grand Hotel.
She regretted her decision almost as soon as she set foot in the hotel. The place was decorated in red and gold 16th century splendor, complete with an imposing marble staircase the likes of which she'd only seen in the movies. She was painfully aware of how out of place she was with her worn-out baggy jeans and her high-neck black tank top. She thought bitterly that White would've probably felt right at home in that place. Biting down her spite she tried to convince herself that she found the décor incredibly campy.
The sourpuss Cerberus that warded the gates didn't help her warm up to the place. The concierge had phoned Marek and told him a lady was waiting for him at the lobby. He'd shrugged his nose as if something smelled funny and he'd used a certain inflection when he said the word lady that had made Black want to pummel his face to a pulp.
She had to wait for a while 'til she finally saw Marek coming down the staircase with wet hair and a big smile. He immediately asked for forgiveness for making her wait but said she had caught him in the middle of taking a bath. He said something else but she wasn't able to make out what. Her brain was caught in a loop of images of Mr. Black-Wolf soaking naked in a bathtub. Then Marek had stared pointedly at her. It was obvious that whatever he'd said required her to answer. She blushed intently and managed to bite her tongue just before she could blurt out that she wasn't thinking about him being naked, which was the best way to let him know that was exactly what she'd been doing.
After standing for several minutes in an uncomfortable silence she found out that focusing her life on bringing about a Utopia had left her with very poor social skills. 'Blimey! All those blows to the head must have caused some brain damage.' The only thing she could think of to fill in the void was taking out her wallet and shoving 30 euros in Marek's hand. Then she had stood frozen like a salt statue.
Mr. Black-Wolf looked confused from the bills in his hand to the girl in front of him. And then he'd said: "I'm afraid I don't remember how much your share came to… Do I owe you some change?"
She was so used to counting pennies that her response had been automatic: "It was 29.76, 30 minus 29.76… That's 24 cents."
Then she realized that implied she wanted the change back. She contemplated with horror another five minutes of waiting under the concierge's disdainful gaze. A quick sideways glance towards Cerberus confirmed her worst fears. The concierge was spying on them from the front-desk. Black thought that all the blasted man could've seen was some money changing hands. He'd probably also heard her loud response. It was obvious from Cerberus' face that he was wondering what kind of services had been exchanged for such fair.
Was she willing to put up with all that for 24 cents? Not even she was that cheap. Never since she'd became Kira's Herald had she felt so inadequate and mortified. She didn't care for the feeling. She turned around to tell Marek to forget about it but Mr. Black-Wolf was fast and was already at the top of the staircase.
She took a deep breath and ran after him. She finally caught up with Marek in front of his room. She'd tried hard to catch her breath and said before he could interrupt her: "You got it all wrong. I don't want the change. I just came to repay you. I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage of you. I wasn't raised like that."
That's when the door swung open and she realized that Mr. Black-Wolf wasn't staying in a mere room. It was a suite, a 900 square feet monstrosity with a terrace, a canopied bed, glass chandeliers, two plasma TVs and, peeking out from behind a door, an iron and porcelain tub on top of a marble checkered floor. In the face of that, her little discourse sounded quite stupid. She looked through the door with a sensation very close to vertigo.
"Are you feeling ok? I think that maybe you should come in and sit. You don't look so well."
That was definitely not the way she'd pictured him inviting her to his room. 'Of course I'm not well. I must be insane,' she thought nearing hysteria, 'I've managed to make the most gorgeous man I've met in ages talk to me as an old aunt would, and I'm having an argument with a man who can afford this room about 24 effing cents.'
It was all too much, she couldn't help it. She started shacking with laughter. Marek misinterpreted the gesture and thought she was crying.
"There, there, I didn't think you were trying to take advantage of me. But your honesty is quite refreshing, it credits your parents. I'm sure they are proud of you."
That'd hit another button and then she'd started crying for real. Big drops ran down her cheeks leaving dirty trails of mascara behind them. The man had looked at her as if wondering how far away he could throw her.
She swore: "Cor!"
That startled the poor bloke who was probably wondering if she was mentally deficient.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me. I won't bother you further." Then she turned around and started walking towards the staircase.
He'd grabbed her arm and said: "You can't leave. Not in the state you're in right now. You can stay until you've calmed yourself. Come in; feel free to use the bathroom. Then we can go to the hotel's canteen for some tea, that'll do the trick"
"No!" She didn't let the informal name fool her, given what she'd seen of the hotel the canteen was probably a posh stand-in restaurant, something she couldn't face even if she had been in better shape.
"Alright, so we won't go to the canteen, then you can come in and we'll order room service. Please believe me, you're perfectly safe."
'That sounds about right. The man thinks I'm mental. Is clear he won't touch me. Probably fears I'm contagious.' She sighed: "I don't want to be more of a nuisance than I've already had. And I have to go home, it's getting late."
"As I've already told you, I'm old fashioned. Who am I kidding? For someone your age I'm plain old. Won't you humor me and allow me to pay for a cab when you're actually ready to go home?"
He was smiling and he didn't look old, not at all. With a little pang of regret she had let the man fuss over her like a mother hen would. That night had been a revelation, it redefined the way Black understood the term intimacy.
They had drunk two samovars of a marvelous Turkish apple tea, elma çayı, in delicate tulip glass cups while they'd talked. At first she had been the one doing the talking. The man was as good a listener as he was an orator. When her catharsis was over, she had coerced him to talk about himself.
He'd told Black about his best friend, a chef who was Turk, just like him. He was the one who'd helped him get the room. Mr. Black-Wolf spoke highly of his friend: "Remember what I said in the conference about life's shipwreck leaving you with nothing but a couple of ideas? If on top of that you manage to preserve a couple of loyalties of the sort that stick with you when things take a turn for worst, then you're truly blessed."
Marek called the chef his brother in arms, laughing while he quoted Shakespeare's Henry V:
"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother."
Then his laughter had died out and he'd told her about his days in the army fighting the PKK.
Marek's family came from a town right in the border with Syria. His father had been born a Syriac Orthodox. In a country where most people were Muslims his family was an oddity. They went to live in Southeast Turkey in a time when peasant women still beat up their faces and messed their hairs at burials. Marek's grandpa had known they wouldn't be accepted and had responded making their differences more noticeable by becoming a zealot. Marek's dad had hated that. As soon as he could he moved out to Istanbul, lost his eastern accent and, in a desperate effort to fit in, had embraced the 70's Turkish secularisms and modernization spirit. In the end what this meant was the he'd substituted Marek's grandpa religious sectarianisms by becoming a fanatical patriot.
Marek's dad had joined the military, first, because it was almost his only chance for social betterment, and second, because he saw the PKK's separatism as a personal affront. He had fought in the 80's and the 90's and he expected his sons to do the same. Marek's brother, Mr. Black-Wolf joked, had been smarter and had emigrated to France as soon as he could save up enough for the train ticket. He, on the other hand, after a lifetime of listening to his dad's poisonous discourse, had quitted college and joined the army as a volunteer in the 2000's.
He'd told her all that his dad had forgotten to tell him about the conflict. All he had ended up witnessing first hand ten years later. He told how it all had been the same. Not only the same his father had seen in the 80's and 90's, but it was also the same his grandfather had seen back in the 60's and 70's. And, if the dices rolled once more, it could be the same his son, if he'd had the guts of throwing one to the world, could see. Marek'd had a chance to witness both sides' brutality and came to realize that stupidity and cruelty make all men equal, regardless of time, place or allegiance.
He'd said he'd quitted the army, moved out and busted his ass to get the history degree he'd left unfinished. He had first stayed at Paris, where his brother lived. His excuse for going there was that the University was better there, but in reality he had been trying to put some distance between him and his father's disappointment.
After what felt like a coward's retreat, he had something to prove. He put on the historian mantle and tried hard to understand what makes the clock tick. He kept trying until he got a PhD, but he felt that he wasn't closer to the truth than when he began. That's when he had turned to his other passion, pursued a career in art history and devoted his life to deciphering signs and symbols of beauty which actually made sense to him. Still, and even though he made a nice living out of it, it sometimes felt like a defeat. According to his father he had a penchant for choosing the road most likely to take him to failure.
In Paris he'd met the woman who would become his wife, a Czech girl who was studying medicine. What had drawn them together had been what drove them apart in the end. They both were strangers in a foreign land where they just didn't finish fitting in. They both felt homesick but didn't have a home to go back to. Perhaps she was stronger than he was, because she'd managed to move on with her life and built a home for herself. He had been unable to forgive or forget. When she'd asked him to do that, he had told her he couldn't. She had left him and gone back to Prague saying that he would be welcomed if he wanted to follow her. She had been offered a job. He was caught in the middle of his doctoral dissertation, which had turned into a Sisyphean task. He couldn't see the end of it and felt incredibly bitter. He'd told her that she shouldn't hold her breath.
The last time he'd heard from her was when she'd called asking him to sign the divorce papers. She'd said she was getting married. They'd been separated for over three years and had barely spoken during that time, but it had hurt him. He had fantasized about crashing the wedding and doing a scene from Othello –'Look to her, if thou hast eyes to see: She has deceived her first husband, and may thee.'- He laughed goodheartedly saying that the only thing that had stopped him from going and making an ass out of himself was that he was penniless and that the chef, good friend he was, had refused to lend him the money, even after threatening him with physical violence. It took Marek a while but now he felt happy his ex-wife had found what she was looking for in the arms of a man who hadn't denied her the children she wanted.
If there's a god, he has a dark sense of humor, Marek said. After their marriage was over, he'd been offered a job in the Univerzita Karlova, a few blocks away from where his ex-wife lived. He had turned to the chef for advice. His best friend had told him a shinny bit of sharp truth that had cut right through his resistance: Prague was as good as any other place.
The chef had pleaded his case most convincingly. He said that, as is the case with many of those broken by war, they had lost their past and didn't trust the future. They couldn't go back and were too darn stubborn to bury the hatchet. They didn't fit anywhere and that's why they could go wherever it pleased them. Marek liked the way that sounded. It make him feel lighter, a true free spirit. He said that perhaps his mother's Greek blood was to blame for his libertarian romanticism.
The chef's phrase had been the reason why he'd lived in a rental for the past two years. The building was falling to pieces, literally. A big chunk of the balustrade had fallen over some poor woman's head. The administrators got sued and now all the neighbors had been asked to leave. He was staying at the hotel until he found his own place.
Then Black had asked him about the pseudonym and he'd said that surely he had bored her enough with his life story. She had denied and he'd told her that he suffered from seasonal depression and when he was younger he'd stubbornly refused to take medication for it. During one of the low points of his disease he had penned a paper about modern day symbolical sacred cows and how they reflect the values of a decadent society.
In the midst of a very dark mood he'd acted like a crazed Don Quixote and had gone after the windmills. Preaching like a raving lunatic against consumerism, vital apathy disguised as cheerfulness and, in short, all which privileges form above substance in a society so obsessed with appearance that could readily accept oxymora like the phrase reality TV. He hadn't dared sign the article with his own name and had decide he'd use as first name Mark, for the evangelist that had started his tale with John the Baptist crying out in the desert. For a surname he'd use the insult his dad had thrown at him during one of the rare phone conversation they had. Under the influx of a bad moon the pseudonym had sounded as irony when at best it was nothing more than a wisecrack.
The pamphlet had been a success among certain circles. An entrepreneuring reporter had unearthed his real identity. To his amazement the University he worked for saw the publicity as a blessing in disguise and now, in order to keep his chair, he was condemned to dictating conferences and penning more horrors under the umbrella of an assumed name.
Then he'd offered to tell her his real name but since Black wasn't willing to tell him hers she thought it wouldn't be fair. Instead she had told him things that she hadn't told to another living soul. She told him about her dreams of ending her life in a small cottage right by the cliffs where she'd been born, with nothing to disturb her peace but the seagulls. She told him about her mom, her dad and Matthew. She'd also told him the story of her life, brief as it was. Well, an edited version of it. But the feelings were real, and the burden of her dead family seemed lighter after sharing it with someone who was willing to listen.
It got so late that it wasn't safe for her to go home, not even in a cab. Marek had insisted on her staying. He'd also insisted on sleeping in the couch. For a minute there she'd thought of suggesting they shared the bed, but she felt shy. The way they'd been pouring their guts to each other had been more intimate than sex. She felt naked and needed to put some distance between them before she began having idiotic ideas, like how badly she wanted to see him again.
She'd said she was taking the couch because he was almost a feet taller than her. He tried to protest and she'd ended the argument saying age should go before beauty. He'd grabbed at his chest as if she had plunged a knife in it and with a sad smile had given in.
She woke up the next day at the break of dawn. Marek looked so cute when he was asleep that she couldn't resist the temptation of stealing a kiss. He moved in his sleep but didn't wake up and she left without saying goodbye. She ignored the knowing look on the concierge's face as he saw her pass by.
She walked back home through the deserted streets with the odd feeling she had left something important behind. She ordered herself to stop being stupid. She reached her door and entered trying hard not to make a sound, but the Ghost didn't need to sleep and had been waiting for her.
The Ghost had thrown veiled accusations at her until she'd lost her patience and said she didn't owe him an explanation.
"You're not my father."
"I know. No child of mine would behave like a whore."
"You are a bloody hypocrite. After fucking that Misa girl you've got not right to judge me. I won't take moral lessons from someone who's willing to use sexual favors as coinage. Save your preaching for White, I'm sure she'll listen to you with undivided attention."
"So that's what this is all about. Do you feel neglected?"
"Hell yeah! That's how I lose my sleep, thinking of ways of becoming the teacher's pet. If anyone is jealous here, that's you."
"Of whatever imbecile you've lured to a quick roll in the hay? Don't make me laugh, girl. You're delusional!" He laughed in the cruel derisive way of his that seemed to propel him miles above the rest of the world.
Black snorted ready to burst that conceited air balloon: "I know you don't feel that way about me. But you're jealous. You're jealous because you're dead and I'm not! I think you were half dead even before that Shinigami wrote your name in his Note. I have a life. Deal with it! Part of it is private and I want to keep it that way."
"What do you think this is? This is not a 9 to 5 job. This is not something that can wait until you are done mourning your precious family. Kira demands a total commitment. Your life is inconsequential in face of what could mean the end of all suffering for the whole world. If you can't understand that, then I fear that I've overestimated you."
"How can you question my commitment to Kira's cause, after what I've been willing to do for it? I killed my brother for you, you bastard!"
He'd cornered her against the wall, using his height to intimidate her: "Get this inside that thick skull of yours. You didn't kill your brother. I didn't kill him either, just as I didn't kill my father or sent my sister to the nut house. They were casualties. Smart soldiers don't go around carrying corpses. If they want to win they leave them behind. You still want to win, don't you?"
Not a very subtle way of reminding her he'd had his losses too. So all she could do was answer him by whispering an unconvinced: "Yes."
She was going to add that didn't mean she was willing to lay her life in the altar of his whims, when Mac cleared his throat behind them.
He looked as if he'd come right out of bed. Since becoming a DN owner he'd been staying in what had been the antique shop's office. Black had refused to let him use Matthew's room, she didn't want to make him feel welcomed and the Ghost had agreed. It hadn't worked, Mac had a thick hide. Plus it'd only taken him a couple of days to accept the big boss' true nature after which he felt right at home.
"Man, you're loud. Some of us are trying to sleep here, ya know?"
Before Kira could dismiss him with a sour remark the doorbell rang.
Red came out of her room wearing a blue flannel pajama and white kitten slippers. She walked down the stairs and said: "I don't wanna interrupt, but there's someone at the door. He says he has a package for Miss Stíny. He looks the part of delivery boy, but I dunno…it's six a.m."
Stíny was Black's alias. She and Light looked at each other. Six a.m. was too early for anything to be delivered for the store. Without a word Black took out her knife from the pedestal desk in the hall and placed herself on the right side of the door, leaving some room for it to open. Mac took out his gun from the back of his pants and placed himself on the left side. Red breathed in, opened the door cautiously and prepared herself to duck.
The guy was legit. Inside the box all they'd found was a bouquet of white lilies of the valley, blue forget-me-nots and purple dendrobium orchids, tied up with linden tree branches. There was also an envelope with her driver license and a postcard of Alphonse Mucha's 'Dawn', a golden Art Nouveau lady caught in the rays of the rising sun. Mac took it from Red's hand and read out loud a fragment of a poem by Mihai Eminescu:
"While softly rings
the evening's cool wind,
above me the holy lime
shakes its branch."
Mac continued reading, holding the note out of Black's reach: "Has my mind played a trick on me or did I really felt you leave with a goodbye kiss? I wouldn't want to intrude in a part of your life is obvious you aren't willing to share. But you left your driver license. First your wallet and now this has given me prove that you are forgetful. After a memorable night I wanted to give you something to help you remember me by. The forget-me-nots need no explanation. I've added orchids whose name means tree of life in Greek for you've made an old oak rebirth. Some branches from a Norse love goddess, Freyja's holy lime. And for a final touch lilies of the valley, for their scent on you was the first thing I noticed when I met you. Did you know those mean the return to happiness in the Victorian language of flowers? They're also known as Eve's tears. Some legends tell they sprung from the ones she shed when she was expelled from Paradise. That should have given me fair warning, happiness is usually followed by tears. I woke up to find all you've left behind were traces of your perfume. There are no strings attached but I would like to see you again. You know where to find me and it's the lady's privilege to refuse." Mac looked awestruck: "There's no signature but I bet you know who sent it," and then cried out: "Holy Crap! What did you do for the man?"
Red took the postcard from Mac's hand, looked at painting with narrowed eyes. Giggling softly she had murmured: "Uh, naked lady," then she'd started sniggering and said: "You slut!"
"Shut up! How old are you two again? Five?" Black said.
Mac was getting ready to come back with a snappy retort when Kira stopped him with a hand motion. The Ghost never raised his voice when he was truly angry, so when he said: "Go," in a tone barely above a whisper, Mac and Red obeyed immediately. They left after leaving Marek's gifts on the desk.
Light lifted Black's jacket from the coat rack and sniffed a sleeve: "He must have a keen nose. I can't smell anything." He examined the postcard: "One of Mucha's best." He turned the card around: "Nice penmanship." Then he'd rubbed an orchid's petal between his fingertips. When he talked facing Black his voice was smooth as silk: "I'm sure the poem is not his. It's a good choice, though. The imagery is a bit forced but it works. It evokes the girl stealing a kiss from her sleeping lover. As for the flower arrangement, what can I say? My likes and dislikes on that subject are influenced by a different cultural sensibility. The bouquet is as good as could be expected, from a gaikokujin. It has a pleasing color combination, though it overuses blue. And the composition is a bit naïf. All around it's a fine attempt, but the lilies of the valley are a false note. That's explained by the scent you spray yourself with. Perhaps he enjoys the simplicity of it. A trip downtown as they say. For the looks of it he could afford a better fragrance, if he wanted to. The fact that the gift has to be explained is another false note. I think he's trying too hard to impress you. Or maybe you haven't known him long enough for him to be aware of how good your deduction abilities are. But casual lovers don't leave morning after gifts, not like this at any rate. You've gotten yourself quite a catch. Who is this old oak that sprouts flowers for you?"
She took the bouquet away from him and held it close to her, shielding it from his eyes. Black thought that the Ghost was a mean motherfucker who was sure able to convey so many layers of insult behind words that were superficially praiseful. And the way he could disguise what was a third degree questioning behind that conversational tone must had been really useful when he was a copper. At some other time, she might have admired all that, but she wasn't going to let him rain on her parade.
"None of your bloody business, that's who he is. I've already agreed that Kira's cause requires commitment. Maybe you have some reason to complain about my recent performance but I'm doing my best. If that's not enough, say it. And as long as I deliver, I want you to keep your nose out of my personal affairs. While at it, stop going through my stuff trying to sniff my perfume. That way we won't risk the smell offending your exquisite sensibility. Before you say anything else, riddle me this, since you're so smart: If human average walking speed is 3 miles per hour and the train station is less than two miles away. How long will it take me to get the hell out of here, considering I can have my bags packed in about twenty minutes?"
She could hear him grinding his immaterial teeth before he said as he left: "If you have any appreciation for the man, make sure he doesn't become my business. And while you're at it, you might find some time to work on delivering something other than failure."
She rested her back against the wall and sighed in relief. She had been bluffing. She had nowhere else to go. And the Ghost had gravely miscalculated the situation. Left on her own she would've never seen Marek again, but Kira had gone and made it a challenge, one that she couldn't resist.
And challenging it had been. Through out their time together, to Black's chagrin, Marek had behaved like the perfect gentleman. They had gone out several times for lunch and dinner. They had done the city's museums tour. They had gone to a couple of plays and a really boring B&W movie they had quitted half-way through. But besides holding her hand and giving her a few kisses, most of them close-lipped, he hadn't tried anything. Even though, to the best of her abilities, she had made it plain clear that she wasn't going to refuse his advances.
She really enjoyed their long talks but she wasn't much for patience so one day she'd decided to take the initiative. She wasn't much for subtlety either; she had taken advantage of an unwarned moment and had assaulted the man.
She had gone to pick him up to the hotel for one of their outings. She thought that it was best if he stayed clear from the Ghost's path. As usual he'd said hello with a light peck. Black had deepened the kiss and hadn't let go. Then, before he could back away, she'd moved right for the kill. At first Marek seemed surprised but then he'd just rolled with the punches. Finally, Mr. Black Wolf showed her he had some red blood flowing through his veins. He began kissing and touching her all over and Black let out an enthusiastic gasp.
They were half undressed and she had just begun unzipping his pants when he'd taken off her hands and muttered and strangled: "No."
Black moaned in frustration. She'd wanted to threat him with death if he dared stop. Instead she'd said: "You can't be serious!"
But he was serious, dead serious. He made her remain sited on the bed while he regained his composure sitting on a chair. When she'd finally mastered her anger enough to get up and start looking for her knickers, he'd looked at her startled.
She'd laughed derisively: "I wasn't going to attack you. I know no means no."
Without another word Black began getting dress. She was ready to leave and never look back when he'd pulled her close to him, making her sit on his lap. He'd embraced her so tightly she had to breathe through her mouth between kisses.
"If you have doubts about my willingness, I hope this clarifies the issue for you." He'd mouthed the words next to her cheek.
Being so close she could feel just how willing he was. So she'd hit him playfully on the chest: "Then why on earth did you made me stop, you arsehole?"
He had explained while putting some distance between them. He'd said that after his wife had left him he'd gone through a rough patch. For a couple of years he'd woken up almost every morning next to women whose names he couldn't remember. After a while he'd grown weary of sharing a bed with strangers who never got past the skin. But he quickly found out that women who are looking for something other than casual ask for things he couldn't give them. He'd made himself the promise not to start something he couldn't finish and had been leading the life of a monk when he'd met her. He wanted their first time together to be special. Black felt such tenderness for the man that it frightened her.
"I'm not exactly a blushing violet. And I'm not asking for anything. I have some inescapable obligations."
He'd let her go saying: "Allah kahretsin! Are you married? That would explain a lot."
"I don't speak Turkish so this is a guess: I think that's the first time I hear you curse," she'd laughed and enjoyed seeing him twist for a while, then she'd said: "No, I'm not married. I'm as single as can be. But things back home are, well, complicated. It's hard to explain."
"One of this days I hope you'll trust me enough to tell me." He'd said caressing the scars on her legs.
They had talked it over at dinner and they had agreed that they would wait. Finally last week they had both thought the time was right. They were going on Easter's long weekend to visit the Sedlec Ossuary. A quaint little chapel in the outskirts of Kutná Hora decorated with approximately 40,000 human bones. She was especially interested in the chandelier and the skull-made monstrance.
Since she had to go check on her plane and the Shinigami, she'd told Marek they would meet at the church. After the visit they would eat lunch and go back to Marek's hotel where they would have the spa treatment Black had dreamed of. Then she was going to stay with him 'til Monday.
She had intended to share the expenses but Marek had asked if she was trying to offend him. She'd been saving up for the big day, so she'd found herself with some unexpected money. She already had a nice little black dress she'd bought for a New Year's celebration that just didn't happened. So she decided to buy some sexy underwear to go with it.
She had tried going to a cute store a block away from home. She'd left without buying anything after two minutes of suffering the half-brained innuendo coming out from the mouth of the girly behind the counter. Then she'd tried her luck in a big mall. But there she'd been faced with a stuck up arsehole that thought she was brainless for not knowing the difference between French and guipure lace. That beastly woman had told Black that she couldn't help her if she didn't know what she was looking for. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? And how was she supposed to know when all her experience with fancy underwear had been limited to sneak peaks of her brother's dirty magazines? She was about to give up and just go with some off-the-rack knickers when she'd remembered that Red had tried to slip past her a note from this underwear store called Agent Provocateur. She'd unearthed the piece of paper from her drawer and found the web's address.
The page was a lingerie fetishist's fantasy land. After browsing through a lot of crap she finally decided to go for a wireless boned black low-cut bra with a frilly ribbon trim and tie side French cut panties with big bows on the hips. She wasn't going to be able to wear pantyhose with those bows so she considered buying stockings and a garter belt but felt that would be pushing the envelope. As an after thought she'd added to the list a thigh high black flowery French lace kimono with a satin sash. Spring mornings were a bit cool and she didn't want to catch a cold. It came to 729 euros plus expenses if she wanted to have it delivered home. She'd almost logged out thinking that she wasn't mad enough to pay that for a few pieces of sheer cloth. But in the end she'd wanted to feel special and had coughed up the money.
The package arrived while she was out, she came back home to find Red and Mac pawing their way through the black silk in the dinning room.
"Are you sure these are undies? They are so small. And how the hell are you supposed to wear them?" asked Red while inspecting the tie side panties.
Mac told Red to hold them with her hands while he tied the bows: "See, luv, you tie them like this. Making bows, then it's just like Christmas morning." He pulled one end with two fingers, untying them and laughed: "Surprise, surprise."
Red guffawed: "Wow! That's nasty."
After having bought the underwear Black had told Marek she had a surprise present for him, complete with ribbons. Now Red and Mac were unknowingly making fun of her fantasy. She'd hated them for turning it into something dirty.
"Get your paws off my knickers!"
She yelled opening the door. She entered just in time to see the Ghost as he took the package away from Red and Mac ordering them to leave. He'd looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
"I assume this is yours." He said dropping the box on the credenza.
"Yes it's mine. Blimey! I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you. I won't be around on the weekend."
She'd expected him to make a smartass remark or even try to forbid her going. He'd just shrugged and said with a mean smile: "What can I say? Have fun, perhaps?"
She picked up her things and thought that she was going to have fun, in spite of all of them. When Friday arrived she'd packed up her bags and decided she would change her clothes in the hangar. She didn't think she could stomach their speculative staring.
While she was getting ready she heard a noise. She thought it might be a cat but it's better to be safe than sorry so she took out her knife, put on her coat and went out to have a look.
Someone tried to pass a sack over her head while someone else tried to immobilize her arms. She twisted away and freed herself. She hit the face of brute 1 with the sole of her hand. Thinking that would teach the stupid not to stand in front of his victims. Then she'd managed to connect a kick on the other while she ducked. She smiled wickedly as she heard the guy moan, she had hit somewhere soft. Keeping her back to the wall, and slashing the air with her knife she began to take off the sack but the brutes had brought a stun gun.
"Do it now! Before she sees us!" cried brute 1 in a Czech accent.
"I'm trying! She's a fucking hellcat!" said brute 2 with a broken Bulgarian accent as he shoved the weapon in her belly.
They don't call them stun guns for nothing. They can drop you even if you aren't a 5 feet 1, 100 lb girl. As she fell twitching to the ground the third brute delivered the coup de grâce. This one she knew, or at least she had thought she knew.
"Don't hurt her!" He ordered in his perfect English.
Black wanted to laugh and cry at the same time thinking: 'Too late, bastard. Too late.'
"You've heard the boss." said Czech brute as he tied her down.
"You didn't got kicked in the nuts." protested Bulgarian brute as he put a chloroform-soaked rag on her mouth.
But Black didn't need the confirmation. All the pieces of the puzzle had fallen in place as soon as she'd heard Marek's voice. As she passed out she thought with bitterness: 'If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.'
Next on Kira's Kingdom: Scroll 11: By any other name. Having lost his precious weapon and being attacked from two fronts, can Kira turn the tables, defeat his foes and make a grab for the crown?