Magnus Flyte - City of Lost Dreams

Sarah stood to give Max a hug, and then collided with his chin as he went in for the double cheek kiss. Nico snorted. Sarah noted that the scent of the guy she had once fallen for now carried the unmistakable trace of another woman’s perfume. Gardenias. A flashbulb went off, briefly blinding Sarah. Max turned to the paparazzo leaning precariously over another table.

“Please, Jerzy,” said Max. “This is a private evening. If I pose for one, will you take the night off?” The photographer nodded, and Max offered his profile to the camera.

“Our little princeling has become quite the celebrity,” said Nico dryly.

“Ticket sales at the museum are up.” Max settled himself in the chair next to Sarah. “As are donations. The press is useful.” Sarah knew that Max struggled to keep his family museum afloat so that he didn’t have to sell off any of the treasures his ancestors had amassed. It wasn’t a job he had asked for, but he had taken it on as a duty to his family and to future generations. During the summer she had spent authenticating Beethoven manuscripts at his museum, Sarah had watched him struggle with the responsibility of being thirteenth in a line of princes. Now she saw that the cuffs of his dress shirt were monogrammed. Apparently, he had adapted.

“We’re talking about Pollina,” said Sarah.

Max touched her shoulder in sympathy.

“You know she’s been playing weekly concerts at the museum,” he said. “I’ve tried to get her to cut back a little, but . . .”

“I know,” said Sarah.

“I would do anything for Pols,” said Max.

They all sat in silence for a moment. Plates of roast pork and dumplings arrived, along with another bottle of wine, which Nico again largely appropriated. He began telling them about the time when, after a week of heavy rains, the Vltava had overflowed its banks and submerged several areas of the city, including the Prague Zoo. More than a thousand animals had to be evacuated in extremely dangerous and dramatic conditions, including lions, tigers, rhinos, and hippos. Nico waxed rhapsodic over the aquatic feats of Gaston the sea lion, who escaped his enclosure as the water rose and swam all the way to Dresden. He described the anguish of the Czechs, weeping for the loss of their dear old elephant Sabi, who had been put down as the water rose to her ears. Of course, Nico being Nico, this led to the tale of a young male gorilla called Pong, who went rogue during the deluge and whose breakout had been hushed up by the authorities.

“I have seen him,” Nico said. “I, and a few others for whom the tunnels below Prague hold no terrors. For that is where he lives to this day. He feeds on fruit. And, I believe, carp.”

“You’re drunk,” said Max. Sarah realized this was true. The little man was listing sideways. He had certainly imbibed enough, but Nico’s tolerance was legendary. He had once told Sarah that he had to drink solidly for nearly a month before he could become even slightly inebriated.

“I tell you I have seen his huddled form, slipping into the shadows!” Nico shouted. “And once . . .”

And that was when Sarah heard the splash, and a cry.

She looked over the railing into the inky darkness of the river, and she heard it again.

“Oh, shit.” She pushed back her chair. “I think someone might be out there in the water.”

“Very funny.” Max joined her at the rail. “Nico has become quite the ventriloquist. It’s one of his less amusing talents.”

But through the light of the torches surrounding their table, they could both see someone struggling in the water just below them. Max called to one of the waiters, then pulled out his phone. Sarah looked down at the water, saw the white flash of a hand shoot up, then saw it disappear. The person wasn’t that far away, and Sarah couldn’t just stand there and watch someone drown right in front of her. There wouldn’t be much time. She kicked off her shoes, climbed up on the railing, and dove in. The water was freezing. She surfaced, spluttering.

“There,” called Nico, grabbing one of the torches and holding it out over the water.

Sarah paused for a fraction of a second to get her bearings, then kicked hard in the direction Nico was pointing to, trying to remember everything she could from high school lifesaving class.

It was nearly impossible to see anything in the water. Floating cans and plastic water bottles knocked into her head. The current was swift, carrying her close to the middle of the river. Sarah thought she could hear the sound of oarlocks on a rowboat, but when she yelled, no one answered.

Then she heard a gasp and a choked cry, close.

“Hey!” she shouted, stroking toward the splashing figure. A man.

Sarah ducked under the water and came up next to him, reaching to get an arm around his neck. The man panicked and, flailing, fought her at first, and she was pushed momentarily underneath the water. Sarah yelled versions of “It’s okay” and “Stop kicking me” in as many languages as she could remember. When she got to “Arrête!” and then, more absurdly, “Pax!” the man finally went limp and let himself be towed along. Sarah wondered if he was dead. He was wearing something incredibly heavy that slowed her down and nearly exhausted her strength—a sleeping bag? Who jumped into the river wearing a sleeping bag?

Now she was having to swim against the current, burdened, and the distance suddenly seemed impossibly great. She could hear the voices on the shore, but she was growing tired very quickly. It occurred to her that many people who jumped into rivers to save others drowned themselves. Her legs felt heavy and it was getting hard to keep her chin above the water. She had a minute, maybe two, before she would have to drop the man and save herself. If she could. His long beard had wrapped itself around her arm like a manacle.

Again Sarah heard the creak of oars in an oarlock. Someone was definitely out here. Maybe Max had found a boat. She called out again. No answer.

And then, ping.

Something hit the water next to her head.

Sarah recognized the next sound. A gun being cocked.

Ping. Ping.

She dove under water, pulling the man with her. Fear mixed with outrage in her brain. Bullets? Are you fucking kidding me? Was this how she was going to die? Wearing out-of-season snowman underwear? There was so much she hadn’t achieved yet, professionally. Who would remember her? She needed more time!

Who would help Pols?

Stop it. It was Pols’s voice in her head. Don’t think. Swim.

Sarah opened her eyes as her face emerged from the water, took a deep breath, and kicked hard toward the lights of the restaurant. She heard the creak of oarlocks again and ducked under the water, still kicking, still towing, until her lungs were depleted.

“Sarah!”

Max. Max was in the water.

“I’m here.” She moved forward, towing her burden. “I’m here! Someone’s shooting.”

Max grabbed her hard around the ribs, almost polishing her off, but he had also brought a float ring. Together, dragging the man, they moved toward the wharf, where Nico and the entire staff and clientele of the restaurant were ready to help pull them out. One of the waiters worked to revive the man, breathing into his mouth, as Sarah lay on her side, gasping. Shock would set in soon, she knew, and she would begin to shiver. A waiter wrapped table linens around her, and Max, dripping wet, was rubbing her arms and telling her she was amazing through his own chattering teeth.

“Someone was shooting at me,” she said. She had forgotten about the way Max’s hands felt. How could she have forgotten?

“In the river?” asked Max. “Are you sure? I didn’t hear shots.”