Flashback (30 page)

*   *   *

I could see why the notorious Ivan had chosen Charlie's as his home base. The clientele here was far less sophisticated than at the little jazz bar, and conveniently more transient. A good portion of the women were obvious non-locals, Americans and Brits searching for something off the well-beaten Prague and Budapest path. Ivan could piss people off here to his heart's delight, secure in the knowledge they'd be gone in a week or two, and that someone just as willing would take their place.

The large club was a model for sensory overload, crammed with big-screen televisions, pulsating with loud pop music. There was no dance floor, so people gyrated among the tables, lit cigarettes waving dangerously about. I followed Brian to the bar and waited while he flagged down one of the bartenders, a suspiciously tan woman in a halter top and hip-hugger jeans.

It was too loud for me to hear their exchange, but the woman said something to Brian, the now-familiar look of disgust on her face telling me we'd most likely found our man. Sneering, she pointed toward a table in the far corner of the bar where a wiry man with slicked-back hair and a long leather coat was drinking with two blondes.

“There's our man,” Brian said, starting toward the threesome.

Whatever favors Ivan owed Brian must have been far less odious than his debt to the bartender at the jazz bar. The Russian spotted us well before we'd reached the table, and stood up with his arms out in a ready embrace, seeming genuinely pleased by the interruption. After clamping Brian in a bear hug, he turned to the two blondes and dismissed them, then motioned for us to sit.

“Son of a bitch.” Ivan grinned, punching Brian jovially on the shoulder. His accent was pure Russian, almost a caricature of itself, the
i
in
bitch
long and hard so that the word came out sounding more like
beach
. “What the fuck are you doing in this shithole?”

“We just drove in,” Brian said, then motioned to me. “This is my friend Eve. Eve, meet Ivan.”

Ivan looked me over, then flashed Brian a look of collusion. “This cocksucker saved my life,” the Russian bellowed, hooking his arm across Brian's shoulders, leaning close enough to me that I could smell the liquor on his breath. “Did he tell you that?”

I shook my head and glanced at Brian.

“It's a long story,” he said.

Ivan downed the remaining contents of his glass. “You here on business or pleasure?” he asked, scanning the crowd.

“We need a favor,” Brian told him, shouting to be heard above the music.

Ivan caught sight of a cocktail waitress and waved to her, holding up three fingers, making a circular motion around the table. The woman nodded and started for the bar.

“A favor?” Ivan said, raising his eyebrows, pulling a pack of Marlboros from his coat.

“You still flying for Bruns Werner?” Brian asked.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“We need you to arrange a meeting with him.”

Ivan laughed. “Go fuck yourself, man.”

“I'm serious,” Brian told him.

The waitress appeared and set three shotglasses on the table. Ivan paid her, then waved her off. “Drink!” he exhorted us, picking up his glass and draining it with a quick tilt of the head.

“What is it?” I asked Brian, sniffing at the clear liquid.

“Slivovitz,” he said. “Plum brandy. Nasty stuff.”

I took another sniff and drank most of the shot. It was rough and potent, like the brandy the Tanes made from what was left of the wine pressings each fall.

“Look,” Ivan said. “Werner's a good client. I can't afford to screw things up with him.”

“He'll want to see us,” Brian assured him.

Ivan was skeptical. “The two of you?”

“Yeah.”

The Russian lit a cigarette and leaned forward in his chair. “You're not going to tell me what this is about, are you?”

Brian shook his head.

“Motherfucker,” Ivan said, looking far too serious before his mouth split into a wide smile. He leaned over and put his meaty hand on Brian's shoulder. “I just can't say no to this man,” he said to me. Then he looked up and waved to the waitress, signaling for another round.

*   *   *

It was almost four when we left Charlie's and stumbled the few blocks to Ivan's apartment, stopping at the SEAT to pick up our bags. Ivan's place was an old Soviet-era flat, boxy and plain, the two rooms and small kitchen no doubt built to house a family of four. But it was roomy enough for Ivan and his collections of bad pornographic art and electric guitars.

Ivan insisted on a nightcap before leaving us to the fold-out couch in the living room. It was after five before we could coax him into calling it a night. He seemed deeply disappointed by our lack of stamina, saddened by our frailty. After we'd settled into bed, we heard him slip out the front door. He returned sometime near dawn, but not alone. Half asleep, I heard the front door click open and the sound of hushed female laughter.

Whoever she was, she was gone when Brian and I woke late the next morning to the sound of singing, the smell of frying eggs, and the unsightly spectacle of Ivan's hairy body and scrawny legs clothed only in some old blue slippers and a pair of leopard-print bikini underwear.

The Russian finished the last chorus of “Material Girl,” then turned to us, spatula in one hand, cigarette in the other, like the fry cook in some bad pornographic movie.

“Good morning, my sleepyheads,” he said jovially.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I've said that some new memories are to be savored, and it's true that certain sensations, felt again for the first time, are like unexpected gifts. It's also true that there are some experiences we all wish we could forget. The feeling of waking up in Ivan's living room, my throat dry, my gut churning, my head reeling from my first hangover, was one of those experiences.

“Why do people do this to themselves?” I asked Brian as we stumbled toward the kitchen table, drawn forward by the smell of strong coffee.

He laughed weakly. “It's a kind of amnesia, I guess. You tend to forget just how bad it was.”

“You guys look like shit.” Ivan grinned, setting two mugs of coffee on the table, pouring a water glass of vodka for himself. “You want?” he asked, offering the bottle to us.

I shook my head, stomach reeling at the smell.

Ivan laughed, then turned back to the stove. Anchoring his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he opened one of the kitchen cabinets, pulled out three large plates, and piled a generous helping of eggs, potatoes, and sausage onto each one.

“Good news,” he said as he set the plates on the table in front of us, then slid into a free chair. “I called Werner this morning. Whatever this is about, it must be important because I thought he was going to piss himself when I told him you two wanted to meet.” He stubbed his cigarette out, then laid a napkin across his bare legs. He had a tattoo on the right side of his chest, a faded dragon and a woman in chains. Just beneath the woman's feet was a large, starburst-shaped scar.

“He agreed?” Brian asked.

I lifted a forkful of potatoes to my mouth. It felt good to get something in my stomach.

“He's flying up to Vienna this afternoon,” Ivan said. “I wasn't sure how you wanted to work this, so I told him I'd call him back to arrange the details.”

“Thanks,” Brian said. “When you talk to him, tell him he can meet us at nine tomorrow morning at the war memorial on Slavin Hill. Tell him we've got what he wants and we're willing to bargain.”

Ivan nodded, then touched his scar, the movement unconscious, automatic.

“And tell him to leave his goons at home,” Brian added.

*   *   *

“How long have you been in Bratislava?” I asked Ivan when we'd finished eating and Brian had gone to take a shower.

The food, combined with three cups of coffee, a liter of water, and some aspirin had given me half my brain back, and I was starting to think about Hannah Boyle, wondering if she'd been like those expatriate girls at Charlie's Pub or the woman I'd heard whispering at Ivan's the night before.

“Since 'ninety,” he said.

“I had a friend,” I told him, “an American girl. I was wondering if you knew her. Her name was Hannah. Hannah Boyle.”

Ivan thought for a minute, then shrugged. “There have been one or two Hannahs, but your friend, I don't know.”

“She died. In a car accident. It was a long time ago. Ten years at least.”

“Sorry,” Ivan offered.

“Brian says you know a lot of people here,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

Ivan's pectoral muscle flexed, and the dragon moved its tail. “It's my business to know people,” he said.

“She was a good friend of mine, you see, and I've never been able to find out what exactly happened. Surely there's a record of the accident. With the police, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“We have the afternoon,” I said. “Is there somewhere I could go, someone you think I should ask?”

Ivan narrowed his eyes at me, his look saying he knew I was bullshitting, and that he wanted me to know it, but he would do this for me anyway.

“There are some people,” he said. “I will make a few calls.”

*   *   *

After Brian got out of the shower, he and I left Ivan and walked over to the Tesco department store. The clothes Brian had bought off the Spaniard for me were well past road-weary, reeking now of sweat, cigarettes, and plum brandy, and I was desperate for some clean essentials.

“I asked Ivan to do some snooping around for me,” I said as we crossed the tramway and headed for the giant store.

“Snooping about what?” Brian asked.

“Hannah Boyle,” I told him. “I've been here. I can feel it. And according to Helen, this is where Hannah died. If I can find someone who knew her…” I shook my head at the absurdity of it. “I don't know, but there's a reason why I chose that name in Tangier.”

“If there's anything to know,” Brian said as we merged with the crowds and pushed our way through one of Tesco's front doors, “I'm sure Ivan will find it.”

Needless to say, living at the convent had taught me little about fashion. What clothes I'd always had, mostly hand-me-downs, were picked for practicality, for warmth in the winter, function, and ease of care. Not so with the racks upon racks of leather miniskirts and spangled blouses in the Tesco ladies' department. If I'd been alone, I might have given up and gone back to Ivan's empty-handed.

I stood there for a moment, paralyzed by the selection, before Brian took over, navigating me toward a rack of blue jeans. An hour later we emerged victorious onto Spitalska Street, our bags stuffed with two pairs of jeans, some plain knit shirts, a sweater, several changes of underwear, socks, black boots, and a dark wool pea coat.

Ivan was waiting anxiously for us when we got back to the apartment. He'd changed from his bikini and slippers into black jeans, a black sweater, and a pair of shiny black cowboy boots.

“I found your friend,” he said when we walked through the door.

“Already?” I asked dumbly, setting my Tesco bag down.

“Well, not her exactly, but the police report. I've got a friend who works in the municipal archives.” Ivan beamed at his success. “She wants us to meet her in an hour,” he said, glancing at his watch. He looked from me to Brian and back again, then cleared his throat. “I should bring her a gift, perhaps. For her troubles.”

Taking the hint, I crossed to where I'd set my leather bag and pulled out a fifty-euro note. There was, I was starting to think, nothing one couldn't buy.

Ivan glanced at the note, then shook his head. “Inflation,” he explained sadly, while I produced a second bill.

I'd thought the one hundred euros would be more than sufficient, but on the way to the archives Ivan insisted we stop at a perfume store in Kamenne Square for a bottle of knockoff Chanel.

“So as not to be tacky,” he explained, slipping the euros inside the black-and-white box. “She's a classy lady, my friend.”

*   *   *

At first glance, the Bratislava municipal archives seemed a model of modern record keeping, a civic office like any other, sustained by all the comforts of technology, computers and fax machines and multi-line telephones. It was only after we'd met Ivan's friend, Michala, and descended into the building's bowels that the true nature of the archives was revealed. Down underground stretched the vast vaults of the pre-computerized era, room after room of metal shelves buckling under the weight of boxes and files, a dusty monument to the beast of Soviet bureaucracy and the sheer amounts of paper required to feed it.

Ivan may have been a cad with bartenders and waitresses, but he obviously knew when a relationship was too valuable not to coddle. Whether it was flattery or sincerity, I couldn't be sure, but he treated our hostess with a charm and tact I'd yet to see him exhibit.

I wasn't sure
classy lady
was a term I would have used to describe Michala. Like many aging civil servants, eager to proclaim their individuality, she dressed with a gusto that veered toward bad taste. Her cantilevered breasts were squeezed into a bright pink sweater, her thighs sheathed in black leather. Here was a woman who was no stranger to the racks at Tesco.

Brian and I followed behind as Michala and Ivan led the way through the dimly lit passageways, Michala's heavy key ring jangling like a tambourine as it knocked against her wide hips, her singsong Slovak echoing through the empty halls. Finally, she stopped in front of a blank door and began sorting through her keys.

“The files do not leave,” she announced in English as she slipped the correct key into the lock and put her hand on the doorknob. “Understood?”

“Of course.” I nodded.

She looked at Brian as if for emphasis, then pushed the door open and pressed the light switch, illuminating several rows of shelves.