CHAPTER 49
Nicholas
Prague
Nicholas stood at one end of the Charles Bridge gazing at the statues, musicians, street traders and tourists. The Vltava flowed under the bridge like a sheet of molten steel. Funny, he thought, that he’d never been here before.
It was cold. The latest email from Joanna Shepherd had arrived yesterday, and although she couldn’t have known he’d be here, she had included an attachment: the text of her latest bridge walk piece. Nicholas felt privileged.
It hasn’t been revised or edited yet, she had written, so it’s a bit raw. But it’ll give you the flavour.
And it certainly had.
He had enjoyed a couple of beers at a bar next to his hotel – no, he wasn’t staying at The Three Ostriches as Joanna had, though he’d spotted the hotel perched by the side of the bridge’s pier, the ostriches painted on a fresco on the wall, muslin curtains billowing.
He hadn’t planned to come to Prague at all.
Maybe that’s what happened when you lost sight of where you were going – you began to travel in tangents, following behind some wacky writer, as if you had no pathway of your own.
He shook his head. It wasn’t like that, though.
In fact, this felt like his pathway – the city had been on his bucket list for a long time.
He’d been at the airport in Rome yesterday, about to go through security, his head full of what had happened.
Celie and Tom getting married . . . well, that was good.
And then there was Rachel and that smooth-talking Italian.
What exactly did Nicholas think about that?
He frowned. Why should he care what Rachel chose to do with her life?
But was it only him who thought the guy was a bit of a dick with his gold signet ring and flash Italian suit?
Or was it plain old-fashioned jealousy? Was his ego hurting, just a little bit?
Be honest, now . . . Yes, damn it. Did the woman have no taste?
The Old Tower stood in front of him, dour and grey, though the sky was still blue, paling into dusk, the milky winter sun shimmering on the water. Nicholas shielded his eyes from the glare, felt the alcohol lurking behind his sinuses.
He pulled his sunglasses out of his top pocket, put them on and walked past the wooden African carvings on the first stall, past the pen-and-ink pictures of a Prague that was long gone, past the jewellery (could there be a market for their jewellery in Prague?
Maybe he’d check out some of the more upmarket places while he was here) and the cheap leather bags.
The Charles Bridge was wide and packed with tourists, most of whom seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to Nicholas – a group of Japanese businessmen in shades and natty suits, families with small children and buggies, a pack of guys on a stag do, a huddle of giggling girls, young lovers, old lovers, middle-aged lovers; they swarmed by.
A band of musicians were playing ‘Blue Moon’.
They were really into it. They were just a group of old guys, baseball caps stuck on their white heads; leaning against the parapet or sitting on fold-up chairs; a saxophonist, a banjo player, a man on the bongos; feet tapping, easy grins on lined, weather-beaten faces.
Evening was drawing in. Nicholas moved over to the parapet and stared into the Vltava, at the diagonal weir where the murky grey water poured down.
Into the distance, outlined against the blushing early evening sky, the bridges stretched out into the future, exactly as Joanna Shepherd had promised they would. He smiled.
Everyone else in his family seemed to have their future sewn up.
But not Nicholas. He needed a project, he realised.
And maybe some time off. Maybe a few months in Fuerteventura exploring some of those remote beaches on the west coast. A retreat from life.
From people. Enjoying the rediscovery of his self, remembering what it felt like to be free.
He turned back to face the musicians. They seemed happy enough, this motley crew, playing for their supper; they couldn’t make much per hour by the time it was split between the six of them.
But he’d hazard a guess that they felt free.
He dug a ten-euro note out of his wallet and chucked it in the saxophone case. ‘Something,’ he called.
Surprisingly, they seemed to understand. The lead singer nodded, spoke to the rest of the band. They struck it up. ‘Something’.
At the airport outside the city of Rome yesterday, he’d sent an email to Joanna Shepherd while he had a quick coffee and pastry for breakfast. But when he headed for security, he found that the flight he wanted – back to the UK – had been cancelled due to technical issues, whatever that might mean.
Perfect. He groaned. Queues were forming and people were panicking.
Should they buy a flight from another airline or wait for it to be sorted out?
Nicholas looked up at the departures board and found himself playing that game he’d played with Celie at airports in the past. Where would you most like to be going?
And then he saw it. Prague. Synchronicity, he thought.
When he enquired, it turned out that the flight wasn’t full. And so he bought a ticket.
Nicholas turned back to the river. The flow of the water was hypnotic. Maybe tomorrow he’d do a boat trip – Joanna had recommended it. Listen to him – Joanna this, Joanna that . . . And where was that guy she’d written about?
The musicians finished the song, looked to him for another request. He shrugged.
Ah . . . Here he was standing almost right beside him – St John of Nepomuk, the man who had been flung into the river, thus becoming martyred forever.
Head on one side, kind of wistful looking.
Nicholas pulled out his phone and read the text once again.
According to Joanna, she’d seen St John here taking a running leap into the river at dawn .
. . He shook his head. It had given her the shivers apparently – understandably.
Still, he’d seen some pretty strange things himself lately.
If you look long enough, she always said.
He flipped back to her email.
I’m not based in London. But I am here right now, she had written. So if you happen to be around in the next few days or so, if you’re flying back from Rome, I’d be happy to meet for a coffee or a drink. It would be good to put a face to your words.
By the time he’d read this, his flight to the UK had been cancelled anyway. If not for that, they might have met face to face by now. He read on.
In answer to your question – yes, I do get the sense that someone is orchestrating things, but I’m surprised you feel that too. To be honest with you, I have been ‘led’ on these walks by some research that I’ve been doing. It’s a long story and perhaps if we meet, I’ll tell you about it.
Interesting, thought Nicholas.
Let me know – I’m only here for another day or so, but if you’re not back yet or you’re busy, no worries.
Joanna
The crowd had thinned. A few metres away from the statue – which, to Nicholas, appeared firmly rooted – a woman sat painting.
She was frowning and biting her lower lip in concentration.
Her fair hair was piled on top of her head and fastened with a comb, and she was wearing a long black skirt.
Curious, Nicholas drew closer, to see the quality of the work.
She was painting with watercolours, mixing shades in an old ceramic dish, and after a few deft strokes she cleaned her brush in a small jar of water.
There was something old-fashioned about her appearance and the way she was working.
But that wasn’t so strange. Prague was an historic city – it had an old feel to it, its architecture and people were steeped in the past.
He wanted to speak to her, to ask her about her painting – she was only a girl really, probably about Celie’s age – but something stopped him.
The expression on her face of intense concentration, maybe, or some ethereal quality about her.
She wasn’t beautiful, but there was a paleness in her light blue eyes and a translucence to her skin that made her look .
. . different. And something else. Something .
. . The song echoed in his head and he realised the musicians were playing it again.
Something familiar about her, almost as if he’d seen her before.
Suddenly she looked at him and smiled. And then he knew.
Bloody hell. So, it was his pathway too.
Half hypnotised, he took a step closer towards her to see the picture.
Somewhere inside of him, he knew exactly what he would see.
The painting featured St John of Nepomuk of course, with his sad bewildered eyes, the dog sitting at his feet, golden stars clustered around the saint’s cocked head, shooting up towards the darkening sky.