The Doctor Dines in Prague (11 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague
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T
hey were on the subway when they both realized they were starved. All they had eaten since noon was a sandwich. Escapades like theirs tended to increase the appetite.
“We could go back to the Café Slavia. It stays open until three A.M.,” she suggested. “Or we could go to your place,” she said casually. “It's not far from here.”
Suddenly the thought of being alone was unbearable. “Come back to my place,” he said quickly, as if it were his idea. “I have a nice bottle of wine and I make a mean scrambled egg,” he added.
She smiled. “All right.”
Fenimore wrestled with the eggs while Ilsa set the table. He would have been happy to eat in the kitchen, but she had insisted on the dining room. After he showed her where things were, she set out two plates, two forks, and two wineglasses. She was lighting the candles and Fenimore was vigorously stirring the eggs, when the apartment buzzer buzzed.
“Who could that be?” Fenimore checked his watch. After midnight. He started for the door.
“Be careful,” Ilsa cautioned.
It's probably the super,
he thought,
after me for more money.
“Who is it?” he called out.
“Jen.”
He looked around wildly. The wineglasses glittered in the candlelight. So did Ilsa's lipgloss. He felt his open shirt. “Just a minute.” He started to button his shirt but, feeling Ilsa's eyes on him, left it, and opened the door.
“Surprise!” Jennifer handed him the shoebox full of letters and stepped inside. “You said to send these as fast as possible and cost was no object. I caught a red-eye flight and came straight from the airport.” She scanned the room, her eyes pausing at the entrance to the dining room.
“I'd like you to meet Ilsa Tana
ek. She's helping me find my cousins,” he mumbled.
Jennifer took in the candles, the wineglasses, and Ilsa.
“Let me have your coat.” Fenimore set the shoebox on the coffee table.
“No,” Jennifer said quickly, “I have to get to my hotel or they won't hold the room for me.”
“But …”
“And my cab is waiting,” she lied.
“Where are you staying? I'll call you in the morning.”
“The Cloister Inn. But don't bother. I'll be leaving early. I just wanted you to have the letters. I thought they might be important.” She disappeared through the still-open door.
“Jen … .” He started after her.
Ilsa coughed.
He turned.
“I'm still hungry,” she said.
Slowly, he closed the door and went back to the kitchen.
Fenimore burnt the eggs. While he was making a second batch, Ilsa opened the wine and offered him some. He refused. She poured herself a glass and took it into the living room. When the eggs were ready, they ate quickly. As soon as Ilsa departed, Fenimore tried to call Jen at her hotel. She wasn't answering her phone. Finally, to
take his mind off his troubles, he attacked the shoebox full of letters.
Sifting through them, he read snatches from each year. The batch Jennifer had brought began in the early 1980s. Anna had always written to his mother in Czech. But after she died, Anna had written to his father in English. To decipher the early letters would have been too difficult, that's the reason he had not asked for them. Most of the letters were exceedingly dull. Accounts of births, deaths, illnesses, et cetera of family members Fenimore had never met. Only one caught his eye. It was longer than the rest and had been written about six months ago. He must have read it before, but without paying much attention.
Vlasta and I continue to research our book. Today we explored St. Vitus Cathedral. We searched for signs of secret doors, passageways, and staircases. Our efforts did not go unrewarded. In the crypt, directly below the Wenceslaus Chapel, we discovered a door that opened to a narrow staircase. The staircase—in turn—led to the door of the chamber that contains the crown jewels! The first door is carefully concealed from the naked eye. A thin crack, about the width of a spiderweb strand, was the only evidence. We discovered it with the aid of a high-powered electric torch. The second door, at the top of the stairs, was locked—but with only one lock, and not a very complicated one. As we are not in the lock-picking business, we went no further.
But one cannot underestimate the importance of this discovery. The crown jewels can be reached without the complicated use of multiple locks and keys, which we had been led to believe were necessary. Apparently, Charles IV created his elaborate traditional ceremony purely for a show of security! I am telling you this, because I know it will be safe with you. Vlasta and I were bursting with our historic discovery but could share it with no one here for obvious reasons. It was very frustrating. Wouldn't some robber love
to know our secret? Unfortunately, we will be unable to include our find in our architecture book. In this case, national security must take precedence over intellectual honesty. Such a pity!
Fenimore had been reading intently. When he finished he went over to the bookcase to retrieve the manuscript. He wanted to check the plan of the cathedral to see the exact location Anna had described. He inhaled sharply. On the shelf, where the manuscript had been, was a large gap.
Who had been in the apartment since he had last looked there?
The super? He had a key and could come in any time. And Ilsa. While he was in the kitchen, could she have … . ? But how did she conceal such a bulky item? The image of a large blue tote bag rose before him. He closed his eyes—and cursed.
Later, when preparing for bed, Fenimore reached in his jacket pocket to remove his loose change. Among the coins was Ilsa's crumpled fortune slip. He didn't know what possessed him to open it.
Expect a financial windfall.
Even though his Czech was rusty, Fenimore knew the words did not say “romance with a foreigner.”
T
he next morning, right after breakfast, Mrs. Doyle trudged over to Nicholson Books to see if there were any e-mail messages from Prague. Mr. Nicholson, Jennifer's father, greeted her cordially. “You know, Mrs. Doyle, I'd be glad to check those messages for you and call you if there's anything important. It would save you a trip.”
“That's very kind of you. But sometimes I might have to send a quick answer.”
“Well, you could dictate your answer over the phone and I could type it for you.”
“Thanks. But you have enough to do, managing the store without Jennifer.”
“Yes. Her departure was rather sudden.”
“Someday I hope we'll have a computer of our own,” Mrs. Doyle said.
“I'm sure when the doctor returns, he'll see the necessity of one.”
Mrs. Doyle wasn't so sure. But she had to admit she wasn't completely without blame. She had clung to her old standard typewriter and never had encouraged the doctor to buy high-tech office equipment.
“You have mail,”
the computer sang out. She read the message on the screen:
Dear Mrs. Doyle,
I have arranged via the Internet for you to take Marie to the zoo tomorrow. Two tickets are reserved for you at the Gate under my name. Pick them up at 10:00 A.M.
Sincerely,
Dr. Fenimore
How formal,
thought Doyle. And no word about Jennifer. She should have arrived by now. She was pondering this message so long, Mr. Nicholson asked, “Anything wrong?”
“I don't know.” She moved aside to let him view the screen.
“Hmm.”
“A trifle formal for the doctor, don't you think?” she said.
He nodded. “But he's just begun to use e-mail. People tend to be more formal in the beginning—until they get used to it.”
“I suppose. Do you think I should pick up the tickets, then?”
“Certainly. Tomorrow's weather forecast is ‘clear and sunny.' A perfect day for the zoo.”
Mrs. Doyle's feet began to ache in anticipation.
F
enimore was up at sunrise, fretting over Jennifer. But he didn't dare call her until midmorning, knowing that she would be dead to the world after her plane flight. At ten, he could restrain himself no longer. Her “Hello?” was thick with sleep.
“I have to see you.”
“Oh?” Her single, sharp utterance was not encouraging.
“I want to explain about last night.”
“Don't bother. I understood perfectly.”
“It wasn't what you think … .”
“How do you know what I think? I'm booking an evening flight back to Philadelphia.”
“That's how I know what you think. Please don't go.”
A long pause.
“You can't leave without seeing the city … .”
“I can. I am.”
He tried a different tact. “There have been some disturbing developments regarding my cousins' disappearance.”
“Oh?” The word had lost some of its brittleness.
“Last night, after Ilsa left, a few minutes after
you
left,” he interjected, “I went through the letters you brought and found an
interesting item. When I went to check the item out in my cousins' manuscript—the architecture book they're working on—the manuscript was gone!”
“Gone?”
“I think Ilsa may have taken it.” There was a lengthy pause. “I'm afraid I've been a total ass,” he admitted.
A longer silence ensued. Finally Jennifer said, “You always had a weakness for blondes.”
“You're not a blonde.”
“I was the exception.”
“Was?”
She didn't answer.
“I have to get going,” he said.
“Where to?”
“To find Ilsa and confront her with the theft.”
“Do you think that's wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, wouldn't it be better to pretend you didn't notice, and continue to see her? You might be able to find out more about your cousins.”
“You're right. You see, I need you.”
More silence.
“I'll pick you up at noon.” Fenimore forged ahead.
“But I have jet lag … . I haven't even had my morning coffee … . I—”
“I'll call you back in ten minutes.”
“No. I'll call you.” She hung up.
Fenimore sweated for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. To fill the time he checked his e-mail. Nothing.
The phone rang, jarring him. He picked it up.
“I've postponed my flight. But only until tomorrow.”
“Great. I'll see you in the lobby at noon.” He hung up before she could change her mind.
As Fenimore stepped out of the apartment, he saw the super edging his way down the hall. The word
slinking
came to mind. Had he been listening? He remembered Marie pointing to the wall and then to her ear. He shook his head and hurried toward the bus stop.
A
s Fenimore disembarked in the center of Prague, a poster caught his eye. The same yellow poster he had seen outside the St. Vitus Cathedral when he was with Ilsa. A reminder that the Canonization of Saint Agnes was to take place that day and the crown jewels would be on display.
The Cloister Inn was only a few blocks from the bus stop. The small lobby was empty except for a desk clerk and an elderly woman sipping free coffee offered at a table nearby. He helped himself to a cup. Prague coffee was the best he had ever tasted. He sat down to wait for Jennifer. He didn't have to wait long. Jennifer did not play games. If she was angry at Fenimore, she would tell him; she wouldn't make him pay by keeping him waiting or making him miserable in other mean little ways.
She wore a black pants suit with a turquoise silk blouse. Despite her remonstrance about jet lag, she looked surprisingly wide-awake and ready to go. “What's the plan?” she asked.
“I thought we'd start with the cathedral.”
“Fine.” She handed her room key to the desk clerk.
It was warm for April. Some men had removed their topcoats
and were carrying them over their arms. One woman was wearing a straw hat. The cobblestones glistened in the sun. They must have been washed by an early-morning shower. The dampness brought out the designs and patterns in the stones—circles, diamonds, zigzags—in varying shades of gray. They reminded him of the brickwork in south Jersey. How he wished they could just enjoy the day, without the burden of looking for his relatives. Then he cursed himself for being such a selfish bastard.
“Now—why the cathedral?” Jennifer asked.
He told her about the canonization ceremony and the crown jewels. “They are only shown on rare occasions. The last time they were on display was after the Velvet Revolution—in 1989. This is the chance of a lifetime.”
“But what do they have to do with finding your cousins?”
“I'm not sure … .” He frowned. “It's just a hunch. But everywhere I've turned since I came here, I've bumped into the crown jewels.” He told her about Redik and the puppet show in which Charles IV lost his crown. And about the passage in Anna's letter that described the secret entrance to the chamber where the jewels are stored. And now this opportunity to see them on display. “It just seems important for me to be there,” he concluded weakly, searching her face for confirmation.
“Let's go,” she said.
The Charles Bridge was even more crowded than usual. He was about to point out Bruncvik—the brave knight—to Jennifer, but decided against it. There wasn't time. The ceremony began at one o'clock and it was already twelve-fifteen. Once across the bridge, all the ways leading to the Hrad, Prague Castle, were jammed. Fenimore began to have second thoughts about his plan. Even if they could get inside the cathedral, would they be able to see the jewels? Of course, the weather didn't help. The beautiful, mild day had brought everybody out. But it was a polite crowd. No pushing or shoving. Gradually, they made their orderly way up the steep stone steps onto the grand plaza before the wrought-iron gates.
Jennifer gazed at the statues of the two giants—one wielding a club, the other a dagger—on top of the gates. “I wouldn't want to tangle with them.”
Locating
The Battling Giants
in his guidebook, Fenimore declared, “They're only copies.”
“They look real enough to me.” As Jennifer passed through the gates, she noted the palace guards in their attractive uniforms—navy-blue, with red-and-gold trim.
“Havel ordered those festive outfits to replace the dull khaki ones the Communist guards wore,” Fenimore said. The young guards maintained a rigid demeanor, until a pretty teenager waved at them. Then they had to work hard not to crack a smile.
The throng inched across the square toward the wide cathedral doorways. Many were better dressed than Fenimore and Jennifer, decked out in their best attire for the occasion.
At least I'm wearing a tie,
he thought,
and Jennifer looks good in anything
.
As they neared the entrance Jennifer whispered, “By the way, who is Saint Agnes?”
“She was Sister Agnes—a member of the convent.” And Fenimore retold the story his mother had told him years ago. “She saved many refugees during World War Two—Jews and Romanies, who were Gypsies, especially children—hiding them in the wine cellar of the convent. When her work was discovered, she was captured—and killed.”
Jennifer shivered.
The history of Prague was full of such dark tales, Fenimore thought. Jan Palach—the young student who, during the Prague Spring in 1968, set himself on fire to protest the Communist takeover. The members of the Czech resistance who assassinated Reinhard Heydrich—the wicked Reichsprotektor—and were destroyed in turn by the Nazis in 1942. And Jan Masaryk, son of the founder of Czech independence, who fell (or was pushed) from his bedroom window one night in 1948 and found dead in the courtyard below. Václav Havel, himself, had been imprisoned for his part in Charter 77, the human rights document created during the brief “Prague
Spring” in 1968 under Dub
ek. Victims, all, of vicious groups wanting to take over their native land. And these were only the ones Fenimore remembered by name. Hundreds of others had died, nameless to history.
The vast cathedral was packed with people, shoulder to shoulder. The only space was above the crowd, soaring to the vaulted ceiling. Candles flickered in their sconces, aided by electric lights, skillfully hidden in niches and recesses among the sculpture on the walls and pillars. The organ boomed the opening chords of the Czech national anthem, a signal for the throng to disperse and make room for the parade of dignitaries about to enter.
Fenimore grabbed Jennifer's hand and pulled her toward the Wenceslaus Chapel. Squeezing against the iron grille, they caught a fleeting glimpse of the crown jewels before guards forced them back to make way for the promenade. The procession was headed by the archbishop, in full regalia, followed by lesser church officials decked out in their most colorful finery. Behind them walked President Havel in a simple dark business suit. No pomp or frills for him. Fenimore's chest swelled with emotion at the sight of this unassuming man, whose courage and sacrifice had led his country to freedom. After him came the cabinet ministers, also soberly dressed.
Then the lights went out.

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