The Truth & The Dead

Untitled Part 1

He wore the scent of sin like an exclusive cologne, bought from an unknown boutique on a rainy Sunday afternoon on Na Prikope. The Sunday afternoon would, of course, come at the climax of a thrilling weekend away, but which could never be spoken about. Even amongst the very closest of friends.

Sunday afternoons in the city of a thousand spires are better suited to touring myriad galleries & cafes. The guide books have somehow failed to include a chapter on how to match your lovers cologne to the exact scent that you transfer from your skin to his. Or indeed, how to achieve the same in a perfume, no matter how decadent the cut glass bottle.

He had always been this way. Effortless. Unperturbed by both his looks, and their affect on others.

I sighed, and picked up my cup, inhaling the cinnamon scent and rich, arabica undertones. Settled for watching him through the coffee fogged lenses of thick spectacles, as he moved through the crowd with the grace and confidence of a panther on the hunt. Away from my table, in fact, away from Kafka's itself. I watched as he turned left out of the door, disappearing from view amongst the crowd that were headed, en masse, back to Staromestske Namesti. Scrabbling in my purse, I scraped together enough koruna to pay for the coffee and to add a small tip. The coins clinked as they dropped into the glass ashtray on the counter top. A remnant of the not too distant past, when bars, restaurants and cafes in the city were filled with blue plumes of acrid smoke that clung to you like the early morning mist from the Vlatava. Edging through the early lunch crowd, I risked a glance towards the town square as I left.

He stood head and shoulders above those that had been drawn to him. Even so, I'd have noticed him. A lone raven in a flock of exotic parrots on such a balmy summer's day. A young woman was leaning towards him, whispering into the crook of his neck as she stroked his arm in a proprietary manner. He shook his head, eyes searching the crowd. An enigmatic smile played over his lips as he noticed me, and I thought I saw the slightest of nods. The young woman followed his gaze, her own landing on me with a quizzical expression. I turned then, unwilling to watch a scene that had been repeated in front of me countless times over countless years. If I were a Hollywood writer, I could script what was about to happen.

SCENE. Daytime. Town's Square.

An extraordinarily handsome man is seated on a bench. There are several glasses nearby, some empty, some full. He is joined by several other young people, all beautiful. A slender blonde woman sidles closer and lays her hand on his arm.

I walk slowly back towards the Josefov area of town. My thoughts are usually my own the deeper I get into the Jewish Quarter. I am stronger closer to home, and to love. Today, however, my self-imagined screen play will not leave me. I fancy I hear her laughter, and the script forms behind my eyes as I walk.

SCENE. Daytime. Town's Square.

The man ignores the young woman's enticement, searching the crowd for a familiar face. Spotting it, he smiles, nodding almost imperceptibly. The young woman follows his gaze. Her mouth  drops open in surprise as she spots the woman he was searching for.

WOMAN. "Is that your Mother?"

The man stands, brushing her hand from his arm as he does.

MAN. "No. Not my Mother."

He looks up again, follows the retreating figure with his eyes.

WOMAN. "She is someone to you though? You can hardly take your eyes off her..."

She stands, flicking long blonde hair over her shoulder, and grabs his arm again.