The Vyšehrad Drowned

16: The Moonlight

Perun left the apartment, thundering down the stairs and out onto the street. An open-top carriage was just passing, the women in large, plumed hats and one older man inside staring at him as they passed by at a trotting pace. He paid them no mind, darting out behind the vehicle and into the centre of a little square. Walking at a fast cut, he passed beneath the shade trees not bothering to tip his hat to the people taking an afternoon stroll.

From his point of observation, Perun could tell he was in Small Side. An upscale part from what he could see. A few of the old, well-maintained buildings looked familiar. A shop selling cheese and milk looked very familiar, and he was sure he'd been in the bakery on the corner, with its door propped open and the smell of bread and rolls flowing out, on more than one chilly morning. The more he saw of the streets he was barrelling down, the more he felt he knew this place.

Turn around, he urged his former self. Show me the house where she lives.

He didn't, of course, and Perun once again felt the helplessness of his position. His former self raced on, turning right and then right again once he reached the embankment of the river, his mind so locked on his destination that no other thought passed through it. The scenery was a blur of colour and sound on the periphery, and all sense of time seemed to have left him. His mind was a repeating wheel of what he would do, who would bleed, when he got to the theatre. Just the word was enough to bring back another chunk of memory.

Theatre. He had owned a theatre. One with a stage and with thick, red curtains and footlights that he'd only recently changed over from lantern to electric. One that offered a constantly changing show every fortnight to draw in the crowds not once, but twice a month. One with posters slathered onto every Litfass pillar and fence in town and that sandwich board men advertised on all the major thoroughfares. And one where someone was going to be in a lot of pain very, very soon if he had any say about it.

The theatre he remembered was on the other side of the river. His side. He crossed over one of the wide stone bridges spanning the Vltava, horse carriages and a few rickety motor wagons passing him by, clanking and spewing acrid fumes. For a moment, he regretted not having doubled back to drive his own, but just as soon the thought was forgotten in a haze of determination and anger.

The streets he recognised now. This was a part of New Town he didn't have much reason to venture into. One he'd rather overlooked as not being nearly as profitable. Sure, didn't he have a club and a few legal bars somewhere in these streets? That's right. A few loud, dank beer rooms more for sitting and drowning your sorrows in than entertainment. He didn't oversee their management himself as they were nothing big, just a light smattering of the lightning bolt to make it clear who was in charge, even this far south.

But a stage theatre wasn't one of his holdings. Not here, not anywhere. Why didn't he have the theatre anymore? Cinemas were better, of course, more modern and far more high-profile, but there was still money to be made on music acts, classic dramas and comedy shows with dancing dogs.

What had gone wrong that he'd sold it? Or had he even sold it?

The façade of the theatre told him nothing. Bright red double doors with brass handles and large windows through which a lobby could be seen. He barely had time to take in the posters and the current play bill before he darted down an alleyway, coming out in a cobbled courtyard where he headed for a green door with a sign that read "Artist's Entrance" over the top. He took the four steps two at a time, jerked open the door, and thrust himself into the muted hush inside.

The smells of dust, metal polish, old cigar smoke and paper, so much paper, flooded his senses and Perun felt his head swirl as memories came back like lazy bees stirred up from a honeysuckle hedge, humming and stinging their way past him.