declaring itself to be Jozef’s Knihu (Joe’s Books) had been listed in my guidebook
as a great place to find out-of-print novels, antique maps, and,
most important to my quest, biographies of old Czech aristocrats.
Good possibility for tomes concerning cultural activities in Prague
through the last four centuries. An added bonus was Jozef’s
location; three blocks away from the café where I’d been scarfing
down a load of pastries while exchanging barbs with two testy males
for the last hour.
For no good reason I took a few furtive
glances around me before stepping foot inside Jozef’s Knihu. No wannabe burglars. No beautiful gods from Austria. No humorless
historicans. No landladies in black. I ducked inside before any of
the aforementioned folks popped up from behind statues in the
street. A grandfather clock nestled between two enormous shelves of
books chimed the hour . Four p.m. I had no plans for the evening.
Johnny hadn’t bothered to even ask if I was free to meet him. I
shoved that thought away. I would wade in and prowl until I was
tossed out whenever closing time hit—which, in the Czech Republic,
would doubtless be after midnight.
It became quickly apparent that my biggest
problem in locating the books I needed was that all the shelves had
Czech titles announcing subject matter. I plopped onto a footstool
in front of shelf one, pulled out my handy Louie’s Lingo and
prepared to fight through names and nouns until I found the words
for biography and culture. I got stalled on the “Eating Out”
section for a moment, entranced with some of the exotic-sounding
dishes that could be found at funky little restaurants all over
Prague. Barely half and hour from Abby’s last snackfest and food
was overtaking my thought processes. I needed to start dancing
again soon or I’d outweigh the armored knights guarding the
ballroom of Kouzlo Noc .
“Excuse me? Miss? Do you need help?”
I looked up. A gentleman who appeared to be
in his seventies loomed over me, smiling, leaning on a cane that
reminded me of the one my grandfather had stored in the closet back
home. Major crows feet crinkled his eyes. He had white hair and a
luxurious white beard. His expression was kind and the English
impeccable. He looked like what God would look like if the Deity
owned a bookstore.
I nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I do need help.
Can you read Czech? Oh heck. Dumb question. Sorry.”
His smile grew broader. “I am Czech. I read
and speak and write Czech. I can also read and speak English,
French, German and Italian. What are you searching for, young
lady?”
I squirmed just a bit. “Um. Well, I’m looking
for oh, uh, old Gothic romances from the Nineteen Sixties or
Seventies?” I explained about Headlights Productions doing a
film.
The man stayed silent. I knew guilt was
stamped all over my face. “And, also… this is a bit strange, but
I’m trying to find any books about Kastle Kouzlo Noc and the
Duskova family. Headlights just rented the castle.”
He shot me an odd glance, pointed to one of
the stacks in the back of the shop, then lightly took my hand in
his. I was afraid without his grip on the cane he’d topple over,
taking the clock and a few shelves with him, but his stance stayed
firm.
“There is one volume on Kastle Kouzlo
Noc . But, tell me—why are you this interested? Are you an
historian or genealogist as well as a movie person?”
What hesitation I had lasted only a second.
One trusts God when God asks a question. One does not lie to
God.
“Honestly? There’s something odd at Kouzlo
Noc . For one thing, people get loony when I mention Mozart.
They hush up or they sidestep the issue or they just out-and-out
lie. And I discovered an Eighteenth Century graveyard near the
castle that’s been ripped to shreds which was disgusting, sad—and
odd. Talk of genealogy just doesn’t sound right to me.
Consequently, I have this feeling that all is not kosher at the
castle. So to speak.”
His smile now lit
as a great place to find out-of-print novels, antique maps, and,
most important to my quest, biographies of old Czech aristocrats.
Good possibility for tomes concerning cultural activities in Prague
through the last four centuries. An added bonus was Jozef’s
location; three blocks away from the café where I’d been scarfing
down a load of pastries while exchanging barbs with two testy males
for the last hour.
For no good reason I took a few furtive
glances around me before stepping foot inside Jozef’s Knihu. No wannabe burglars. No beautiful gods from Austria. No humorless
historicans. No landladies in black. I ducked inside before any of
the aforementioned folks popped up from behind statues in the
street. A grandfather clock nestled between two enormous shelves of
books chimed the hour . Four p.m. I had no plans for the evening.
Johnny hadn’t bothered to even ask if I was free to meet him. I
shoved that thought away. I would wade in and prowl until I was
tossed out whenever closing time hit—which, in the Czech Republic,
would doubtless be after midnight.
It became quickly apparent that my biggest
problem in locating the books I needed was that all the shelves had
Czech titles announcing subject matter. I plopped onto a footstool
in front of shelf one, pulled out my handy Louie’s Lingo and
prepared to fight through names and nouns until I found the words
for biography and culture. I got stalled on the “Eating Out”
section for a moment, entranced with some of the exotic-sounding
dishes that could be found at funky little restaurants all over
Prague. Barely half and hour from Abby’s last snackfest and food
was overtaking my thought processes. I needed to start dancing
again soon or I’d outweigh the armored knights guarding the
ballroom of Kouzlo Noc .
“Excuse me? Miss? Do you need help?”
I looked up. A gentleman who appeared to be
in his seventies loomed over me, smiling, leaning on a cane that
reminded me of the one my grandfather had stored in the closet back
home. Major crows feet crinkled his eyes. He had white hair and a
luxurious white beard. His expression was kind and the English
impeccable. He looked like what God would look like if the Deity
owned a bookstore.
I nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I do need help.
Can you read Czech? Oh heck. Dumb question. Sorry.”
His smile grew broader. “I am Czech. I read
and speak and write Czech. I can also read and speak English,
French, German and Italian. What are you searching for, young
lady?”
I squirmed just a bit. “Um. Well, I’m looking
for oh, uh, old Gothic romances from the Nineteen Sixties or
Seventies?” I explained about Headlights Productions doing a
film.
The man stayed silent. I knew guilt was
stamped all over my face. “And, also… this is a bit strange, but
I’m trying to find any books about Kastle Kouzlo Noc and the
Duskova family. Headlights just rented the castle.”
He shot me an odd glance, pointed to one of
the stacks in the back of the shop, then lightly took my hand in
his. I was afraid without his grip on the cane he’d topple over,
taking the clock and a few shelves with him, but his stance stayed
firm.
“There is one volume on Kastle Kouzlo
Noc . But, tell me—why are you this interested? Are you an
historian or genealogist as well as a movie person?”
What hesitation I had lasted only a second.
One trusts God when God asks a question. One does not lie to
God.
“Honestly? There’s something odd at Kouzlo
Noc . For one thing, people get loony when I mention Mozart.
They hush up or they sidestep the issue or they just out-and-out
lie. And I discovered an Eighteenth Century graveyard near the
castle that’s been ripped to shreds which was disgusting, sad—and
odd. Talk of genealogy just doesn’t sound right to me.
Consequently, I have this feeling that all is not kosher at the
castle. So to speak.”
His smile now lit
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