CHAPTER 44
Joanna
Prague
Joanna was in Wenceslas Square, which was actually a massive rectangular boulevard lined with trees.
It was home to glossy arcades and the National Museum, to the Wiehl building with its sgraffito decoration and to the statue of St Wenceslas himself.
The wide streets and perfumeries gave the place a cosmopolitan air.
It was her final day in Prague and she was putting the last touches to her bridge walk.
From the square, she walked to the art nouveau Municipal House, Obecní D?m.
It was a golden palace – filigree metalwork, sculptured relief, stained glass and glazed copper dome.
And inside . . . She stepped through the open doorway, sat down on a leather bench.
A classic cream and gold coffee house, she wrote in her notebook, illuminated by chandeliers – long tubes of light hanging from brass rods.
She ordered coffee, gazed around her at the latte and white relief on the ceiling and walls, the gallery, the spiral staircase, the vibrant stained glass.
It was so different from anywhere Joanna had been before.
Afterwards, she walked under the charcoal-grey Powder Tower, originally built in the fifteenth century as a ceremonial entrance to the Old Town, according to her research.
Emmy had probably visited all these places, though it was hard to tell – in the Prague letter she was so much more concerned with her emotions.
Poor Emmy must have found it difficult to enjoy the sights of Prague, with that sense of sad desperation hanging over her.
This was her third letter, and Emmy seemed to be at breaking point.
Joanna continued past tall ornate houses where rococo and baroque facades had been added to the original mediaeval buildings – more total reconstruction than subtle facelift.
The sky glittered with cold, and although she was well wrapped up in her jacket, scarf, jeans and boots, Joanna couldn’t linger as long as she would have liked.
She took a shot of the Black Madonna building – she’d read about it, there was indeed a black Madonna trapped in a gilded cage on the side of the red sandstone – ‘A perfect example of Czech Cubism,’ she said into her Dictaphone.
It made her think about escape and her thoughts returned again to Nicholas and his emails.
Emmy too had written about being trapped, though her meaning was unclear.
Joanna shook her head in despair. When would she find out the truth, Emmy’s truth?
She felt as if she was doing this walk with one foot in the present and one foot in the past.
She ducked inside to admire the graceful curving staircase and the collection of Cubist art.
She was pleased with what she’d discovered so far.
And what else might she see? Would Emmy be providing her with any more clues?
Joanna gave a little shiver. She didn’t have much time left in the city. When would she find out?
Once outside again, she found her way into the cobbled Tyn Square, where small cafés were tucked into corners, and a bench under a tree would provide a space for contemplation.
But it was too cold for contemplation today.
She kept going, wandered past the fountain, a bookshop, a jewellery store selling the famous Bohemian garnets, and into the Botanicus, where she bought some organic soap and body lotion for Harriet and her mother.
It struck her that with its maze of little pruchod passageways, often leading to a pavlac – a secret courtyard – that Prague was rather a secretive city.
This, then, could be the key to her theme.
Joanna smiled to herself. She was used to secretive in her family.
Mother was secretive – look at the way she contacted tradesmen behind their backs.
As for Harriet . . . she’d kept very quiet about this dating site and whoever she’d met just before Joanna came away.
Her sister had never been the romantic kind, but now Joanna wondered again, had Harriet ever minded staying at the cottage, looking after Mother?
Had she ever yearned for a different life?
And Joanna too was keeping Emmy’s secret .
. . Soon, she found herself in an alleyway being serenaded by La bohème.
What now? She stood there, buffeted by the winter breeze and the music, feeling it sweep under her, round her, over her, until it seemed to be coming from inside her.
Joanna shook the music from her head, ducked into a dark, woody cloister that smelt of damp and brazil nuts.
And there, looming in front of her, was Tyn church, all edgy steeples and spiky belfries.
She took more photos. Checked her map. And finally emerged in Staré Město, Old Town Square.
It was massive. An orchestra was playing outside the baroque church of St Nicholas .
. . Nicholas . . . She moved closer, noted the rococo pink and peach Kinsky Palace and the chisel-roofed Stone Bell House; saw the crowds clustering around the corner of the square by the famous astronomical clock.
She exhaled, her breath forming a cloud of steam in the cold air.
Everything she had read about Prague was true.
She sat down on one of the benches under the trees.
She knew from her research that the square used to be a site for hangings and revolution.
And it was this past darkness that intrigued her.
Prague is a city still coloured by its past, she wrote in her notebook.
And yet wasn’t everywhere? Wasn’t everything, everyone, a product of whatever – or whoever – had gone before?
Joanna decided to make her way back to the hotel – she now knew the exact route of the walk.
It would be a secret route. A route that ducked its way around the passageways and alleys, a route that would discover some of the quirkiness of the city – in a tiny white statue of a girl perched on a high town wall, or the ancient sign of a battered red boot carved into a gable to signify a shoemaker’s trading place.
To explore the darker more edgy side of the city that still lived with the shadow of its past, and to emerge next to the unexpected – be it a courtyard garden, a shopping centre or a Gothic church.
A walk that would start and finish on the Charles Bridge.
The light was dimming as she approached the Gateway Tower that led to the bridge, but the street sellers were still there with their prints and their T-shirts, their carvings, their sunglasses and their jewellery.
And the musicians were still playing, faster jazz now, to keep them warm perhaps; they were dressed in straw hats, berets, thick coats and baggy trousers, playing the mandolin, the banjo, the double bass, their feet tapping to the beat, still smiling.
Joanna paused. This was a perfect vantage point.
She gazed southwards along the Vltava to the bridges receding in the hazy distance, down at the weir stretching diagonally across the river, and the steps leading to Kampa Island, built after the big flood.
Up the hill, the castle was already illuminated golden in the half-light.
If only she could see Emmy’s painting of the bridge .
. . How exactly had Emmy painted the Vltava, the river of life?
Joanna looked down once more. The water glimmered platinum in the softly growing darkness, swelling as it flowed under the arches of the bridge, all powerful, a soul-force.
It was the water once used for drinking, washing, powering machinery, sewerage and as a route for trade.
She had read that it symbolised the spirit of a nation, featuring famously in Smetana’s orchestral masterpiece, My Homeland.
She must listen to that, she thought, when she had returned to England, when she was writing this piece, feeling grey and dreary, trying to recapture the feel.
She leant on the stone parapet and her thoughts floated along with the river.
If Emmy had loved Rufus and Rufus lived in Mulberry Farm Cottage, where had Emmy lived?
She must have lived in Dorset somewhere.
Who was she? Clearly not a servant or a farm worker – not if she painted and went travelling with her father; she must have been a girl of class, a girl who had mixed socially with Rufus, a girl who had met him and fallen in love.
If it weren’t for the letters, Joanna thought, her gloved hands pressing into the cold stone, she almost wouldn’t believe . . .
She turned to face the statue of St John Nepomuk, the only bronze statue now remaining on the bridge.
He was rather a cutie. His head was cocked to one side under the famous halo of stars and there was a curious expression on his face, as if he didn’t quite understand the mortal world, as if he was on quite another plane.
His plinth was made of stone and the brass plates had been polished by everyone touching him – for luck.
Joanna stepped forwards and did likewise.
The picture on the left showed him with a dog, the one on the right showed him being tied and thrown off the bridge as a martyr in 1393.
The halo of stars was said to have appeared when he entered the water. Splash . . .
It was hard, Joanna found, to drag herself away from him.
*
She awoke at dawn. The pale morning light was creeping through the muslin curtain. She got up, walked to the window, swept the curtain aside and looked out at the Charles Bridge. It was deserted. No people. No merchandise. Bare cobbles. Still and statuesque . . .
Quickly, she pulled on jeans, a jumper and her jacket, wound a scarf around her neck and slipped out of the room, down the stairs, through the hotel foyer and outside.
Her footsteps on the cobbles of the bridge felt fresh and new as if she were the first person.
For a moment, she felt conscious of a thick-walled silence; then the only sound was the soft murmur of the river.
She knew without thinking about it where she wanted to go.
Was she still asleep, still dreaming? It almost seemed that way in the blurred pink light of dawn as the cold numbed her fingers, her lips, her nose.
She stopped in front of him, but to one side to give him space. There was a look on his face now of sadness and pain. He seemed to be waiting for someone – but no one came. What would he do? What could he do? Joanna waited.
As she watched, he stepped off the brass plinth and looked straight at her. Was he asking her something? Did he want her to carry a message to someone? She couldn’t speak, couldn’t tear her eyes from his.
He ran to the edge, to the stone parapet of the bridge, fast as a flame. Stepped up, pulling his robe around his thin body in one fluid movement. One last look behind him. He jumped.
Splash . . .
My God. Could she have stopped him? She almost thought that she could.
Joanna ran to the parapet, leant over. The river flowed on, like life, the stars spluttered in a firework above the spot where he’d entered the water.
And in the Vltava, swirling out towards the weir, carried outwards and away, were a painter’s palette and a long hank of bloodied red hair.