They’re rare, exotic flowers the reds of Japanese spider lilies, orchids shaped like insects their pale tendrils creeping down delicate stems.
However, these flowers are extravagant- they are not the sort of thing a colleague would send her. There are other things stranger things- his mother has been receiving flowers lately, and he had thought that perhaps these gifts were from someone in the office- most people know about the situation with her illness, and they’re all very sympathetic. Some nights, when he walks home from the bar or from the station, he feels as if a pair of footsteps are pursuing him along the cobblestones footsteps that mimic his own so perfectly that he would not notice if the pursuer did not permit him the odd, out of time footstep. There is a fresh electricity in the air whenever he inhales as if the very atmosphere of Prague was in anticipation of a thunderstorm. The rest of the guests seem to barely be interested in the art at all these events are more for the social aspect, rather than the art he likes that about them, being more sociable than academic himself (though he does have his moments, he likes to think!).īut, there’s an odd feeling tonight there has been an odd feeling about so many nights before this, too- ever since Johan escaped. They have eyes that look too closely at the viewer, their strange little feet are in shoes that curl like Chinese slippers. Their fingers are too long, their noses too sharp to be human. It reminds him of a childhood rhyme there is something uncanny in the pictures all of the details of them are correct and proportionate, except the creatures themselves. The next painting is a small creature-like man, hiding beneath a bridge. What sort of man can up and leave like that, after being shot in the head and in a coma? No one can do that, Suk thinks, taking a long drink of his champagne and passing by yet another strange watercolour of a little gnarled creature, no one should be able to do that. That journalist had come to ask him a few questions which he had answered as best he could- Johan had fled the hospital, the bed found empty. The Johan case is not over, not by a long shot. The champagne does a lot to wash it away, however. Tonight it’s some obscure mixture of small watercolour paintings and garish pages of folklore picture books the artist is not present, as far as he knows, but something about them reminds him of the fateful, ugly storybook about the nameless monster, and leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
He’s not really one for appreciating art, but this sort of big time show is obligatory when you’re one of the darlings of such a high profile case (the gunshot wounds must have earned him a measure of respect). Suk mills around, trying to look at the paintings. The department had been badly crippled by the whole ordeal, but it turned out that was just what it needed to gain enough notoriety to be boosted in the esteem of the entire population of Prague. It had captured the imagination of the press and the public the internet forums teemed with speculation, with false names, with followers. It’s quite fashionable to be a detective, these days, particularly after the fuss of the whole Johan case. The inspector claps a hand on Suk’s shoulder, before moving off to talk to a pretty lady in a high-necked black dress the man takes a pair of champagne glasses from a server and moves in to offer one to her, which she accepts. “Well Suk, look at us, never thought you’d be a guest at one of these, did you, huh?”