Page 57 of Six Days in Bombay
“Swing is never going to be the rage that jazz is…”
“I know! Czechoslovakia’s first airport. My father has already reserved a seat…”
When the crowd parted enough for me to catch a glimpse of Petra’s exhibit, I gasped. There was a painting of Mira reading. Mira bathing. Mira looking out a window.
A tap on my shoulder made me jump.
“You made it,” Pavel said. “Come. I’ll introduce you. You’ve met Martina.” The woman from the café smiled at me and raised her cocktail glass. Next was a man in a beret and an impressive satin cape. His name was Emil. Then came Gerta, whose blond ringlets bounced every time she moved. Everyone had a glass of something in their hands—champagne, red wine, scotch, absinthe.Emil plucked a glass with orange liquid from a passing waiter’s tray and handed it to me.
I thanked him and took a sip. It was sweet and strong. I tried not to make a face and resolved to put it down somewhere the first chance I got. Scanning the paintings around the room, I said, “It’s all…”
Pavel said, “About Mira?”
I nodded.
“I told you Petra was obsessed with Mira. Couldn’t get over the fact that Mira had other lovers. Petra had been half-hoping Mira would be here tonight. She’d invited her. A reconciliation of sorts.”
“Had they fallen out?”
Gerta laughed. “Mira was tired of the adulation. People do get tired of being on a pedestal you know. Of course, I wouldn’t know…not yet anyway.” She laughed good-naturedly. “You realize that with Mira’s death, Petra’s paintings have just shot up in value?”
It bothered me when anyone talked of profiting from death. I waved the glass in my hand. “Petra never mentioned that she was putting an exhibit together about her paintings of Mira. When I arrived at her apartment this morning, she was painting—”
Martina raised a tweezed eyebrow. “A young boy? Beautiful, brown-blond hair?”
I nodded.
“Henrich. All the painters use him. Mainly speaks German. Answers tokáva.” Pavel’s group laughed.
“What do you think?” Pavel and I were both startled by Petra’s voice. She was wearing the same silk gown as she had this morning (didn’t she have any other clothes?) but now her hair was in braids. She had a satin pink boa wrapped around her neck and glitter on her eyelids. She looked quite ethereal.
“I call it my farewell to Mira.”
I frowned. “But surely you couldn’t have known about—about her passing before today?”
Petra looked as if I’d struck her. Her face was ashen. She turned away, parting the crowd, which quickly closed the gap. I lost track of her. Had she known of Mira’s death before I arrived? How? It had been three weeks since her passing. I hadn’t seen any notices in the paper about the death of the renowned painter. So how did Petra find out? Did she produce these canvases because she knew Mira had died? If she knew, why did she act so surprised when I told her?
The cocktail had given me a headache. I left shortly afterward, saying my goodbyes to Pavel and his group. I knew I wouldn’t be able to give Mira’s painting to Petra this evening. I would have to manage it tomorrow before leaving for Paris.
***
My hostess sent me off the next morning with strong coffee and homemade apple rolls. The coffee was bitter until I added a little sugar and a lot of milk. Perhaps someday I would get used to this taste that Europeans seemed to prefer. In halting French, she asked me about my next destination, I told her I was going to Paris to speak to Mira’s art dealer.
“Be well.” She smiled. Her baby smiled too, showing me his first two teeth.
Trunk in hand once more and the leather belt around my waist (I hoped it looked more like a fashion accessory than an eyesore), I walked to Petra’s apartment. I wanted to give her time to recover from the art reception the night before, so I loitered around New Town for an hour. Given the way everyone had been drinking last night, I had a feeling the reception had lasted until the early morning hours. The same maid let me into the Hitzig residence. I walked to the top floor and knocked.
When Petra didn’t respond, I tried the handle as I had the day before. It was unlocked—again. Petra was sprawled on her bed, the sheets covering only half her body. I crossed the roomto the bed and held my hand under her nose to make sure she was breathing. Her mascara had run down her eyes, giving her a ghoulish appearance. The hair on one side of her head was matted and her sheath from the day before was stained with vomit. She had a bruise on one arm.
I set down my trunk and went into her makeshift kitchen to boil water. A search of the cabinets revealed a bag of coffee and an open packet of biscuits. The only cups were in the sink, waiting to be washed. I plunged them under hot water (there didn’t seem to be any soap). When the coffee was ready, I poured it in one cup and put cold water in the other. I brought both to her with the packet of biscuits.
“Petra?”
She stirred.
“Drink the water first, then the coffee. I have something for you. From Miss Novak.”
She opened her eyes, gummy with mascara and eyeliner. When she saw me, she groaned. “You’re the nosy one.” She closed her eyes again.
