faded away, for which Sarah was initially grateful. Eleanor pulled a tiny flashlight out of her purse as they turned down a dark corridor with a cheery, “It’s best to keep one of these with you at all times here.” Finally they came to a small door. Eleanor threw it open, and turned on a light.
The room had a sagging but comfy-looking small bed with a clean quilt on it. There was a side table with a lamp for reading and an old bureau for clothes. On the wall was a not bad engraving of a cow.
“The bathroom’s right down the hall,” Eleanor said. “And you don’t have to share. So lucky—those ceramics people are filthy.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept in a room without a window,” Sarah said.
Eleanor looked behind the door, as if a window were suddenly going to appear. “At least you won’t have to deal with the noise upstairs,” she said. “I’d be lost without my earplugs. Why is it art people all have septum issues? Dinner’s at eight. Pretty informal, long table, we alternate who’s cooking. Sometimes the power goes out. Well, anyway, welcome!”
Eleanor’s Moroccan heels clicked away into the distance until there was no sound. Sarah sat down on the bed. She was living underground. Like a mole. Like a bottle of wine. Like a corpse. Like nuclear waste. Sarah tried to tell herself that a window was not an essential part of a bedroom. Bedrooms were for sleeping. And with Prague’s history of defenestrations, she should be happy there were no windows for her to be thrown out of. She sighed, lay back, and fell instantly asleep.
• • •
W hen Sarah awoke, she felt a moment of panic. There was not one glimmer of light anywhere. She put her hand in front of her face and saw nothing. Was she dead? Buried alive? Remembering where she was, she groped for her phone: 3:17 p.m. She had only slept for a couple of hours, then. She felt unsettled, groggy, and hungry.
Sarah found her way through the maze of corridors and up several fl {up bsp;•
“There you are, Miles has been waiting for you,” said an accented voice. Sarah turned and was greeted by a short, plump Czech woman with bristly colorless hair. Her clothing, her expression, her manner all said, “Everything will run smoothly now that I am here.”
“You must be Jana,” said Sarah.
Jana had Sarah holding a steaming cup of coffee and a brioche in what felt like four seconds, and suddenly she was standing in the doorway of a crowded office filled with bubble-wrapped paintings, sculptures, enormous ledgers, photographic equipment, and a large Macintosh computer.
“Here’s Miss Weston,” announced Jana. “And Dr. Wolfmann, the prince wants to see you as soon as possible.” From her tone, Sarah could tell that Jana, at least, respected the prince. Sarah thought it was funny that people who had grown up under communism would still tingle at the thought of nobility.
“Were you able to nap in the bomb shelter?” said a handsome man in his late forties with an academic’s prematurely stooped shoulders and skinny calves. He wore a giant, round, illuminated magnifying lens on his head. “Isn’t it funny that only twenty years ago, they were down there cowering in terror that we trigger-happy, decadent, capitalist Americans would go nuclear on them any minute? Little did they know our secret weapon was Starbucks.” They shook hands and he seated Sarah opposite his desk, removing his magnifier and then fussing somewhat self-consciously with his hair.
Sarah’s eye was caught by a strange little bronze object on Miles’s desk. It had a figure that looked like a Greek goddess, and others that looked like jesters.
“It’s an automaton,” Miles said. “Turn the handle. Gently.”
Sarah did, and the crank made the jesters jump while the goddess spun around. “Cute,” she said.
“It’s worth about three hundred thousand dollars,” said Miles calmly. Sarah withdrew her hand.
“We found it in the Austrian Fine
The room had a sagging but comfy-looking small bed with a clean quilt on it. There was a side table with a lamp for reading and an old bureau for clothes. On the wall was a not bad engraving of a cow.
“The bathroom’s right down the hall,” Eleanor said. “And you don’t have to share. So lucky—those ceramics people are filthy.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept in a room without a window,” Sarah said.
Eleanor looked behind the door, as if a window were suddenly going to appear. “At least you won’t have to deal with the noise upstairs,” she said. “I’d be lost without my earplugs. Why is it art people all have septum issues? Dinner’s at eight. Pretty informal, long table, we alternate who’s cooking. Sometimes the power goes out. Well, anyway, welcome!”
Eleanor’s Moroccan heels clicked away into the distance until there was no sound. Sarah sat down on the bed. She was living underground. Like a mole. Like a bottle of wine. Like a corpse. Like nuclear waste. Sarah tried to tell herself that a window was not an essential part of a bedroom. Bedrooms were for sleeping. And with Prague’s history of defenestrations, she should be happy there were no windows for her to be thrown out of. She sighed, lay back, and fell instantly asleep.
• • •
W hen Sarah awoke, she felt a moment of panic. There was not one glimmer of light anywhere. She put her hand in front of her face and saw nothing. Was she dead? Buried alive? Remembering where she was, she groped for her phone: 3:17 p.m. She had only slept for a couple of hours, then. She felt unsettled, groggy, and hungry.
Sarah found her way through the maze of corridors and up several fl {up bsp;•
“There you are, Miles has been waiting for you,” said an accented voice. Sarah turned and was greeted by a short, plump Czech woman with bristly colorless hair. Her clothing, her expression, her manner all said, “Everything will run smoothly now that I am here.”
“You must be Jana,” said Sarah.
Jana had Sarah holding a steaming cup of coffee and a brioche in what felt like four seconds, and suddenly she was standing in the doorway of a crowded office filled with bubble-wrapped paintings, sculptures, enormous ledgers, photographic equipment, and a large Macintosh computer.
“Here’s Miss Weston,” announced Jana. “And Dr. Wolfmann, the prince wants to see you as soon as possible.” From her tone, Sarah could tell that Jana, at least, respected the prince. Sarah thought it was funny that people who had grown up under communism would still tingle at the thought of nobility.
“Were you able to nap in the bomb shelter?” said a handsome man in his late forties with an academic’s prematurely stooped shoulders and skinny calves. He wore a giant, round, illuminated magnifying lens on his head. “Isn’t it funny that only twenty years ago, they were down there cowering in terror that we trigger-happy, decadent, capitalist Americans would go nuclear on them any minute? Little did they know our secret weapon was Starbucks.” They shook hands and he seated Sarah opposite his desk, removing his magnifier and then fussing somewhat self-consciously with his hair.
Sarah’s eye was caught by a strange little bronze object on Miles’s desk. It had a figure that looked like a Greek goddess, and others that looked like jesters.
“It’s an automaton,” Miles said. “Turn the handle. Gently.”
Sarah did, and the crank made the jesters jump while the goddess spun around. “Cute,” she said.
“It’s worth about three hundred thousand dollars,” said Miles calmly. Sarah withdrew her hand.
“We found it in the Austrian Fine
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