The Doctor Dines in Prague (4 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague
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“
W
hen?” Fenimore asked loudly, forgetting that he might be overheard.
Marie cautioned him again. Then she wrote the date—day, month, and year—European style.
The child had been living alone in this apartment on canned food and crackers for over two weeks!
Fenimore took the pen from her. Carefully, he drew a picture of a sumptuous feast—including all the delectable Czech dishes he had been dreaming of since he left Philadelphia, the land of the pretzel and the cheese steak.
Carried away, he even drew a stein of beer and wrote
Pilsner
beneath it. Hastily, he crossed it out and replaced it with an ordinary drinking glass and wrote
mléko
(
“milk”
), under it.
Marie grabbed the pen, crossed out the picture of the glass of milk, and drew a can. She wrote
COKE
on the can.
Fenimore raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
For the first time, Marie smiled. It was the most beautiful sight Fenimore had seen since he had arrived in Prague—a city famous for beautiful sights.
“Let's go!” he whispered, reaching for her hand.
The smile vanished and she shrank back.
“What's wrong? I'll take you to a restaurant. Res-taur-ant!” he repeated. That word, at least, was almost the same in every language.
She shook her head and slapped the kitchen counter.
“Here? You want to stay here?”
She nodded.
He opened the refrigerator. Empty, except for a bottle of ketchup, half a petrified lemon, and an open can of baked beans. The cupboards revealed two cans of peas, a bag of flour, and a jar of partially crystallized honey.
Marie opened a drawer under the counter and drew out a business card. With a sly look, she gave it to him.
PIZZERIA, it read, with an address and telephone number.
Before he could stop her, she reached for the phone and began dialing. Midway, she paused.
“Sýr nebo párky?”
she asked.
“Sýr,”
he said quickly, proud that he recognized the word for “cheese” as well as “sausage.”
She redialed and ordered a large cheese pizza. It wasn't until she had hung up that Fenimore wondered if the phone was tapped. He decided not to worry about it. Exhausted from their earlier attempts at communication, they waited for the pizza to arrive in companionable silence.
The delivery boy came much faster than his American counterpart would have. He came down the back alley to the kitchen door. Marie must have instructed him to do this. Smart child. When the knock came, they both jumped. Marie ran to the door, but Fenimore stepped in front of her and peered out the window. Outside stood a boy with a bicycle, balancing a large, square cardboard box. Who else could he be? Fenimore opened the door.
“Pizza?” The boy grinned at him.
Fenimore drew several bills from his pocket, while Marie took the box. When the boy began to make change, Fenimore put up his hand. “Keep the change.”
“D
kuji,”
he said. (
“Thank you.”
) The boy had understood perfectly.
When Fenimore closed the door, Marie already had opened the box and was tearing off a slice of pizza. She began shoveling it into her mouth. How long had it been since she had had a square meal? What if he hadn't come? It didn't bear thinking about. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. This was the first time he had ever had pizza before noon. Ruefully, he detached a slice for himself.
Her first slice finished, Marie opened the paper bag the boy had brought. She drew out two large red-and-white paper cups with COKE printed on the sides. She had thought of everything. She handed him a straw and poked another into the lid of her cup. As they sipped and munched, Fenimore thought, ruefully, how different his first meal in Prague was from the one he had dreamed about … .
T
he whole time Fenimore was eating, he was thinking—planning what to do next. He had to start looking for his cousins. And he had to start tracking down the two men with the gun. The trail was already cold. But he couldn't leave the child alone. He knew no one in Prague, except her parents: his cousins. And they obviously were not available. There was the super. But Marie had not turned to him once for help, since her parents had left. There must be a reason … . He was stuck.
Brring. Brring.
Short, staccato rings. Like gunshots. Marie and Fenimore faced the telephone as if it were a loaded gun. Fenimore moved to answer it, then thought better of it. What if it were tapped? But it might be Jennifer. He had given her the number and she had said she would call. They sat staring at the phone, listening to it ring.
When it fell silent, Fenimore grew restless. He paced the kitchen. Then he paced the apartment. He had to get moving. He had to get out of there, if only to buy food. He felt helpless. He needed help—even if it had to come from the States. He went to the phone and picked up the receiver. Replaced it and resumed pacing. His
eyes roved over the living room, searching for an answer to his predicament. Books, lamps, an old-fashioned clock, a sofa, two overstuffed chairs, a desk … and a computer. Following his gaze, Marie came and sat down in front of the computer. She hit the mouse. The screen glowed instantly with the card faces of her most recent game of solitaire. She began to play.
E-mail!
thought Fenimore. “E-mail!” he said aloud.
The child looked at him.
In halting Czech he asked if she could send e-mail.
With the swift touch of a few buttons, she called up the e-mail screen.
Fenimore scratched his head. What was Jennifer's e-mail address? She had mentioned it once, but since he didn't own a computer he had had no reason to remember it. He went to the phone again. This time, he dialed. Jennifer answered. At the sound of his voice, she said, “You made it!”
“What's your e-mail address?” he asked, without preamble.
“You're
not
using a computer!” She laughed.
“This is an emergency,” he said shortly. “What's your address?”
She gave it.
“As soon as I hang up, I'm going to send you a message. Please answer right away.”
“What's wrong, Andrew?” Now she was alarmed.
“Read my message.” He hung up.
Fenimore took Marie's place at the computer. Marie showed him where to type the address, then pointed him to the message space. With two fingers, he slowly began to type on the Czech-alphabet keyboard.
I need help. Marie's parents were kidnapped at gunpoint. I found her alone in the apartment, living on crackers and canned goods, hiding in the stove! I can't look for her parents or their kidnappers because I don't dare leave her alone. Please contact
Mrs. Doyle and ask her if she will come over here and baby-sit—all expenses paid. Rafferty can get her a plane reservation. Get back to me as soon as possible.
P.S. I am using e-mail because the phone may be tapped.
Helplessly, Fenimore turned to Marie who had been watching at his elbow.
She grabbed the mouse, placed the arrow on the SEND box, and clicked. The message disappeared. At last Fenimore was catching up with the electronic age.
While he anxiously waited for Jennifer's answer, Marie taught him how to play solitaire. Fenimore played while Marie kibitzed. After half an hour, he asked her to check the e-mail messages. Blank screen. Fenimore traded places with Marie and she began to play. But he didn't kibitz. He was too preoccupied.
An hour passed before they checked the mailbox again. This time there was a message.
Dear Doctor,
We're all here at the bookstore.
That explained the delay!
I've read your message and I have a suggestion. Why don't you send the child over here? I can take much better care of her where I can speak the language and I know the ropes.
Best wishes,
—Kathleen Doyle
P.S. This is Jen. If you want, I could come over and baby-sit. My passport is up-to-date and I could leave tomorrow.
P.P.S. Hi, Doc. Rat here. I'd be glad to come over. I've never been on a plane.
P.P.P.S. “Meow!” (Me, too!)
P.P.P.P.S. That was Sal.
Had they taken Sal to the bookstore?
Doctor—Doyle again. Don't forget to get Marie a passport.
As if I would!
Send plenty of warm clothes. It's still cold here even though it's almost April. And if she has a favorite toy, be sure she brings it. She may be homesick and a doll or a stuffed animal would help.
How does Doyle know that?
Then Fenimore remembered: His nurse was from a family of eight and she had oodles of nieces and nephews.
Make a sign for her with her name on it to hold up at the airport. We don't want to miss her. We'll wait here at the bookstore until you send her plane's arrival time.
So, Doyle's “suggestion” was already a fait accompli!
P.P.P.P.P.S. I TOLD you, you should get a computer! Jen
That was all.
Fenimore typed “PASSPORT” on the e-mail screen.
Marie looked puzzled.
Frustrated, Fenimore reached for the dictionary. In Czech, passport was
pasport
. He typed, “PASPORT BUREAU.”
“Ne, ne,”
Marie said, and with a few keystrokes, took him to the Web. When
www
appeared, she typed,
czechpasportbureau.com
. After a brief pause, the Web page for the Czech Passport Bureau appeared, with instructions on how to apply in many languages: Czech, German, French, Russian, and English.
Magic,
thought Fenimore, and cursed himself for being such a computer dunce.
He learned that in order to get a passport for Marie he must supply her birth certificate and a photograph. The latter would be easy, but the former might be hard. He read on. There was an application form and the address of the passport office in Prague. At the end was the warning: “Processing a passport takes three days.”
Three days!
Fenimore groaned.
Marie showed him how to download the application and print it out. He laid it aside and asked her to find him some U.S. airline Web sites. He found a plane that left Prague in three days. He ordered a one-way ticket and paid for it with his Visa card. He relayed this information to his friends in Philadelphia. After he had sent the message, he looked for Marie. She had vanished. He went to her room. She was lying on her bed, clutching her teddy bear.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
For answer, she rolled away from him—onto her stomach.
He went and sat on the bed. “Marie?”
She looked up, her dark eyes wet with tears. “Neodjížd
j,” she pleaded. (“Don't leave.”)
In her distress she had reverted to Czech.
“Oh, my dear …” He reached for her hand. “You don't understand.
I'm
not going. You are. To America!” He grinned, sure that this news would make her happy.
She drew her hand away.
“Ne,”
she said into her pillow. “I want to stay with you.”
Fenimore took a pad and pen from his pocket and began drawing. “How would you like to see this?” He showed her his crude picture of the Liberty Bell.
She shook her head.
He drew again. “How about this?” He showed her a picture of Betsy Ross hard at work on the flag.
No response.
In desperation, Fenimore reached for the bear. “What's his name?”
“Jiri.” (“George.”)
“Look, Jiri.” He showed him both pictures. “You want to go to America, don't you?”
With a little help from Fenimore, Jiri nodded yes.
“I know what you'd like to see.” Fenimore drew again.
At the sight of his relatives, Jiri clapped his paws.
Marie peered hesitantly at the picture.
“How 'bout it, Jiri?” Fenimore bounced the bear on his knee. “You can have pretzels, and cheese steaks, and ice cream—the best in the world!”
The bear jumped up and down, clapping his paws.
“But you can't leave Marie.”
Jiri looked at Marie and shook his head. He touched her hand with his paw and, in a gruff, bearlike voice (which only slightly
resembled Fenimore's) said, “Come on, Marie. Come with me to America!” He began jumping up and down again.
The glimmer of a smile crossed the child's face.
Fenimore placed Jiri in her arms.
She hugged him to her chest.
Fenimore asked, in his normal voice, “Is it a deal?”

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