‘You look so different,’ she announced as Victor approached. ‘I love the tan and longer hair. Very sexy.’
She flicked a lock of hair for emphasis before they embraced and kissed. Victor was careful to pull away before her hands could drift down his back to where an FN Five-seveN handgun was tucked into his waistband.
‘You’ve lost some weight,’ he said.
She beamed. ‘You noticed.’
He hadn’t. ‘How was your flight?’
‘A pleasure.’ She took a tourist guide from her handbag. ‘I’ve been learning all about Sofia.’
Once they’d dropped her case off in Victor’s room and freshened up, they set out to explore Sofia. The City Art Gallery was close to the hotel, so they began there, discussing the exhibits and which they liked and why. Afterwards they used the city’s yellow trams to visit some of Sofia’s many historic Orthodox churches, of which the highlight was the impressive Alexander Nevsky Cathedral with its one hundred and fifty feet high gold-domed basilica.
Aside from the odd communist era tower blocks scarring the skyline, Sofia was a typically beautiful historic European capital. Victor liked the juxtaposition of architectural styles — Western and Central European, neoclassical and Stalinist, Roman and Byzantine. The ever-changing architecture gave each tree-lined street its own unique identity and feel. The roads of the city centre seemed to be almost entirely paved with yellow cobblestones.
‘From Vienna,’ Adrianna was quick to tell him.
It may have been Adrianna’s first visit, but Victor had been a couple of times before, and had always found Bulgarians to be almost universally friendly and welcoming. This time was no different. He liked the climate too, warm but not hot, maybe seventy degrees today.
They ate a late lunch at one of Sofia’s many open-air cafes, where they enjoyed the sun on their faces and the frenetic chatter of the surrounding locals. Victor knew enough of the language to get by and taught Adrianna the odd phrase. Together they tried to follow some of the lightning-fast conversations of those surrounding them, always quickly failing and adding their own fictitious translations.
‘He’s dumping her,’ Adrianna explained as they slyly watched a couple of middle-aged Bulgarians arguing, ‘because her breath smells like old socks.’
He smiled as, out of habit, he watched the crowd for shadows.
As evening came they returned to the hotel to wash and change. Chopin’s Andante Spianato et Grande Polonaise in E-flat major flowed through the room’s radio as Victor buttoned his shirt with one hand. The fingers of his other hand gently moved to the music, pressing imaginary keys.
Adrianna, fixing in earrings, noticed him. ‘Do you play?’
‘I haven’t in months.’ He finished buttoning his shirt with both hands.
‘Any reason why?’
‘I just haven’t had the opportunity.’
He couldn’t help but picture his most prized possessions, a nineteenth-century Vose amp; Sons Square Grand piano, which was now only ashes.
‘I think there’s a piano in one of the hotel bars. I’m sure they’d let you, if we ask.’
‘I’ll be too rusty. I don’t want to embarrass myself,’ he said, using the pretence of shyness to hide the fact that years of trying to remain unnoticed had conditioned him to find such acts as publically playing a piano to be an impossibility.
He finished getting ready, and while Adrianna was in the bathroom, tucked his gun into the waistband over his right hip. He would make sure she walked on his left side only.
‘What do you think?’ Adrianna said as she emerged back into the bedroom.
She looked gorgeous in a black evening gown, pashmina wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair tied up.
Victor didn’t disappoint, and said, ‘Stunning.’
Her glossy lips formed a huge smile.
The National Theatre was only a block away from the hotel. Elegant uplights bathed the grand early twentieth-century building in a golden glow. At the box office, Victor collected tickets for a performance of Puccini’s Turandot. They sat in a box on the south-west wall and watched the performance with opera glasses, Adrianna enraptured by the spectacle and moved to the point of tears by the arias. Afterwards, they walked through the gardens set before the opera house while they discussed the performance.
Other opera-goers did the same, and tourists snapped photographs of the theatre. Couples sat on stone benches and held hands.
Adrianna linked her right arm with Victor’s left and said, ‘I’ve had such a wonderful day. Thank you for inviting me here.’
‘My pleasure,’ Victor replied.
‘After Linz, I wasn’t sure we were going to see each other any more.’
‘What made you think that?’
She took a moment to answer, either struggling to articulate her thoughts or just hesitant of what she was about to say. ‘I’m not sure really, but you seemed so different the last time I saw you. Like a different you. I wasn’t sure if I would fit in with the change, that’s all.’
‘I didn’t know I had changed,’ he said, without meaning it.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she replied, hearing a tone he hadn’t intended her to. ‘I think it’s a positive thing.’ She examined him, and ran slim fingers through his hair. ‘Definitely a good change.’
He smiled to show he agreed, even if he didn’t. ‘I’m glad you think so. And I take it you’re happy I called?’
She smiled and lightly hit him on the arm. ‘Of course I am.’
They walked some more.
‘Excuse me,’ a woman said in British-accented English, stepping into their path.
She was in her late twenties, accompanied by a man who looked thirty, presumably her boyfriend or husband. They were both in casual clothes, jeans, T-shirts, athletics shoes. The guy’s hair was dark, the woman’s blonde. She had a camera in hand. They were both smiling. Big, excitable grins. Tourists.
‘Excuse me,’ the woman said again, speaking slowly, deliberately, as if to a child, long spaces between each word, drawing out each syllable for emphasis, ‘would you take a picture of us, please?’ She made a big deal of pointing at the camera and then to her boyfriend and herself.
‘Sure, of course,’ Victor said back.
He would have thought it impossible, but their smiles grew wider. ‘Oh, you speak English. Great. Thank you so much.’
Adrianna said, ‘You’re British, right?’
The blonde woman made a small laugh. ‘Is it that obvious?’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘British people have a certain way of speaking abroad.’
‘We do, don’t we? Thanks again for doing this.’
He said, ‘It’s no trouble,’ even though it was. Had he been alone he would have pretended not to speak the language and moved on. He didn’t like any contact that was not on his terms, but he didn’t want to show that in front of Adrianna.
The female tourist handed over her camera. ‘If you could get it so the opera house is in the background, that would be great.’
‘No problem.’
He gestured. ‘You might want to move closer together.’
‘Oh yeah, sure.’
She leaned closer to her boyfriend, wrapping her arms around him as though he might run away if she didn’t hang on tight. He put his arm around her shoulder, though somewhat stiffly. British reserve.
Victor stepped back and went down to one knee to get them both in the centre of the frame, with the opera house in the background, said, ‘Say cheese.’ and took the photo. He handed back the camera. ‘Your first photo in Sofia,’ he noted from the camera’s display. ‘I’m honoured.’
The couple looked at the image. ‘Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you so much.’ She nudged the boyfriend. ‘Wait ’til Andy and Meg see this.’
With lots more thank-yous the couple departed, leaving Adrianna and Victor alone again. Adrianna took his
