‘Are you thirsty, Juraj?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Take me to the best place to drink in all of Bratislava.’
Though Juraj had never been himself, it was clear where he would take Edgar—the Halls of the Hrad was, without question, the place for anyone in Bratislava to go when they required fine ale, beer and, more to the locals’ liking, spirits.
After a short five minute walk, they arrived, bursting through the large wooden oak door that had ale casket carvings and a castle with four pointed towers. They were greeted by a bevvy of humming and clustered voices, as well as the warmth of the deep building, which was buried into a cosy nook within the streets of the main city itself.
Edgar smiled as he looked around, the people enjoying themselves in a collection of laughter and comradery. Smells of ale and red meat cooking provided a comforting welcome and Juraj appeared excited by the commotion. The men wore white shirts with black jackets and shoes and cordial brown trousers. The women were dressed in neat traditional white dresses, with bands of red ribbons draped across their blouse, their hair tied smartly into buns. The buzz of excitement in the air was electric and all of the troubles Juraj faced back home seemed far away.
‘What would you like to drink, vodka I suspect?’ grinned Juraj.
‘Absolutely not,’ retorted Edgar, still grinning from ear to ear. ‘What else might you suggest instead—something local, perhaps?’
‘Then the matter is easy, it is decided—wait here, I’ll get this,’ Juraj offered.
Edgar took a seat on the well-made hand-crafted wooden chairs and tables and peered around the room as if searching for something. As Juraj waited by the bar to order the drinks, he asked himself what the next play would be. He had not known what exactly they were doing here yet, but, quite frankly, he welcomed the respite after a long day of travel and tremendous emotional turmoil. Anything to relieve himself of grief—if only for a moment—would do him well.
The arching of the room made for quite a spectacle, with trophies of animal hunts hung proudly on the walls, complete with pictures of strong men working in the woods, axes and spades in hand alike. A sense of community was apparent to Edgar—the people appeared to be close, well-bonded, and liked one another. He thought of home for a moment, where life could also be trying at times, and the cold harsh winters in Moscow married with a relentless persistent government agenda made him question his own place and morality in the world.
Juraj startled Edgar, who was caught within his own thoughts, when he abruptly sat down opposite him. He had two small glasses in hand containing clear liquid.
‘Slivovica,’ smiled Juraj, his eyes bright with youthful vigour.
‘And what, may I ask, exactly is Slivovica?’ questioned Edgar, a look of slight trepidation sewn across his face.
‘It is like vodka, but made from plums,’ started Juraj, ‘only, this is better.’ Smirking cheerfully, Juraj raised his glass.
‘Is that so?’ replied Edgar, a wide grin spreading across his face, unable to contain his amusement and fondness of the amiable young aristocrat. He too raised his glass to meet Juraj’s in the centre of the table; they looked at one another with mutual respect and civility.
‘Na zdravie!’ exclaimed Juraj.
‘Na zdorov’ya!’ replied Edgar.
Both laughing, they swallowed their drinks and banged their glasses down loudly on the table.
‘Not bad,’ said Edgar. ‘Not bad at all.’
Smiling with nationalistic pride, Juraj nodded his head in appreciation, gleeful happy to have assisted in being a gracious host to the renowned and respected detective from the East.
Juraj shuffled within his seat as his face revealed his thoughts: he looked trouble once more.
‘The last time I saw him, he was in such good spirits. He had plans for us to celebrate my upcoming birthday.’
‘Who, Peter?’ questioned Edgar.
‘Yes, he was always there for me like that, you know. My big brother. I miss him terribly, Edgar. I cannot express the pain that lingers inside my heart. His loss is felt deep within me and the city of Prague is bleeding for it. His death is not only a loss for our family, but it is an attack on the symbolism and hope of a nation of people—good people, Edgar. We Czechoslovaks work hard. We earn our place in this world, and when the world has nothing to give us, we work hard to find our own. My family, my mother, she has done a lot for the City of Prague, but maybe you know this already.’
‘I am aware,’ responded Edgar calmly.
‘I do not know what happens next, Edgar. The repercussions of these actions...the Soviet state is clearly concerned for they have sent you, but this is bigger than you or I, or even Peter—it represents something larger.’ Juraj sighed and took another look around the room, the party atmosphere continued to rage on in spite of his troubled thoughts; the room blissfully unaware of the torment that lay within this one man’s soul.
‘We’ve had enemies, Edgar. There is no doubt of that. There are some who would see an end to the Teralov family’s power, but I did not think anyone would be brave enough to dare it, to truly take action. You see, the problem is, if a Teralov is not safe in Prague, no one is. The city faces trying times and with all respect to your good self, sir, the Soviet state seeks to reach its arm further into the West, to tighten its grip and stronghold. I mean you no offence, but surely you can see the dilemma? An uprising, or even a cultural revolution, could be sparked from this—the very ignition of an ember lit into a wildfire of infernos and destruction, sweeping across our proud nation. Oh, Edgar, the very thought of the disturbance and suffering
