The Doctor Dines in Prague (7 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague
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I
lsa Tanacek was not wearing a big red rose, but she resembled one. She was a large blonde woman with a rosy face. Seated by the window at the front of the café, she spotted Fenimore immediately. Carrying his blue book before him like a flag, he entered the cozy café. With a big smile, she waved him over to her table.
Before he could finish his halting thanks, she interrupted : “We are very good friends, Anna and I, but we see so much of each other during the academic year, we don't usually keep in touch over the holidays. You are worried about her?”
“Not exactly,” he said cautiously. “You see, I arrived unexpectedly. I would just like to find them.”
Behind her cordial expression, the woman's gray eyes were keen. “Why are you worried?” she persisted.
“They have been missing for over two weeks,” he blurted.
“Missing?” Her eyes narrowed.
Relying on his instincts about people, Fenimore decided to risk the truth. In low, measured tones, he told Ilsa everything Marie had told him about her parents' abduction. Ilsa did not react as an American would—with stunned horror. And she did not ask the obvious question,
Have you contacted the police?
She was Czech. Abductions
had been a frequent practice under the Communists and she understood exactly why he had not involved the police. Fenimore ordered coffee and it arrived before she spoke again. To his disappointment, what she said seemed to have no bearing on what he had just told her.
“Have you been to Mala Strana?” she asked, rather loudly.
“No.”
“Oh, you must see it. I will give you a personal tour.”
Puzzled, Fenimore nodded. He had hoped for more than the offer of a tour. As they sipped their coffee Ilsa rattled on about other famous tourist sites in Prague. How it was not a good time to visit because of the weather, but he must make the best of it. There were many indoor amusements. The opera, the symphony, the theater. Her face glowed with pride. On and on she went about “the new Prague.” The post–Velvet Revolution Prague. The Václav Havel Prague. She waxed especially eloquent about the president: “What a statesman! What a philosopher! What a scooter-rider …”
“Excuse me?” asked Fenimore.
“When he was first elected, President Havel was so overcome by the size of the Hrad, or castle, where his office is located, that he rode a scooter to help him get from one meeting to another.” She smiled. “The old guard was scandalized.” She laughed the hearty laugh that had won her over to Fenimore on the telephone. Then she glanced at her watch. “Have you had dinner?”
Fenimore grinned wryly. “My total consumption of food today has been half a pancake and a slice of pizza.”
“Come with me.” She rose.
As he followed her, he noticed that, despite her bulk, Ilsa maneuvered a path between the crowded tables with an easy grace.
W
hile they had been in the coffee shop, dusk had fallen. The windows of the passing trams glowed a warm yellow, and in the distance, the statues on the Charles Bridge were illuminated by the bluish flicker of gas lamps. For a moment Fenimore forgot his mission, falling under the spell of the ancient city at twilight.
“We will cross Karlovy Most, the Charles Bridge, to Malá Strana, or Lesser Town,” she translated for him. “I know a restaurant where we can talk without fear of being overheard.” Ilsa brought him back to reality.
They crossed the busy avenue and shouldered their way through the crowd toward the Old Bridge Tower. Black with age, the square structure was decorated with sculpture and shields bearing inscriptions that he would have liked to read, but which were impossible to make out in the fading light. To the right of the tower, one statue stood apart from the rest. Fenimore recognized it immediately: the emperor Charles IV—benevolent ruler of Bohemia and Prague, builder of this ancient bridge which bore his name. Fenimore felt a little dizzy with the realization that he was really in Prague—or “Praha,” as his mother had called it.
In his mother's picture books, the Charles Bridge had always been
half empty, occupied by a handful of strollers. This evening it was thick with vendors, artists, musicians, and tourists.
Ilsa apologized. “It is always like this now, except at four o'clock in the morning. Tourists!
Phttt!
” Then, remembering that Fenimore fell into this category, she covered her embarrassment by asking, “Would you like to go up the tower?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the door open for him.
The steep steps followed the curve of the tower. Now and then they paused to catch their breath and peer through the narrow slits from which archers had shot their arrows centuries ago. At the top of the staircase, loomed a solitary, stone figure.
“The guard.” Ilsa giggled. “Look, he's wearing skirts.”
And so he was. His naked calves were visible in the rear, but the rest of him was nothing to giggle about. He crouched above them, his expression menacing enough to daunt the bravest tourist. But not Ilsa. She pushed past the statue to a small wooden door that opened with a creak. They stepped onto a narrow path that circled the cone-shaped copper roof. The only protection from falling to the river below was a slender iron railing. Fenimore remembered the man he had read about in the
Prague Times
. The human tower guard—Tomas Tuk—who had fallen over the railing and drowned. The name had stayed with Fenimore because one of his favorite nursery rhymes had been about a fellow named Tommy Tucker who sang for his supper.
It wouldn't take much to push a man over that railing,
he thought.
Keeping well away from the railing, Fenimore took in the vast panorama of roofs, steeples, and domes—their sharp edges blunted in the twilight. The vista stretched as far as the eye could see … Charles IV's vision in the 1300s now a reality. And now, after hundreds of years of bondage, the city was free again. Only once before had Czechoslovakia tasted such freedom. Between the two World Wars, when Thomas Masaryk was president and the country had won her independence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Those had been her happiest years, when she was free, prosperous, and united. Until the Nazis came, and after that—the Communists.
Ilsa touched his arm. “Shall we go?”
He shook his head—not in refusal, but to bring himself back to the present. As Fenimore passed the stone keeper of the tower, he waved him a mock farewell.
As they crossed the bridge, Ilsa told him, “Thousands of eggs were sent by farmers from all over the country and mixed with the mortar to form a binder. That's why this bridge has lasted over a thousand years. One farmer sent hard-boiled eggs ‘because they would travel better.'” She laughed. Drawing his attention to a wall on the far bank, she said, “That's the Bread Wall. At one time during Charles's reign the people were very poor. Too poor even to buy bread. The good king created a project for them. He had them build that wall, even though there was no need for it, and paid them not with money, but with bread and shoes for their families. Sometimes it's called ‘the Hungry Wall.'”
Fenimore remembered the legend well. His mother had told it to him often. Once his father, overhearing her, had muttered sardonically, “The first WPA project.”
Passing the many statues of heroes and saints on the bridge, Ilsa paused before only one. Actually, it wasn't even
on
the bridge, but on a pedestal below it. They had to lean over the bridge wall to see it. “I'd like you to meet Bruncvik.” She introduced Fenimore to the statue.
It was of a youth in full armor, carrying a sword.
“He is our ‘Roland,'” she explained. “A knight so brave, a lion befriended him. See the lion in his coat-of-arms?” She pointed.
Peering through the dusk, Fenimore could barely make out a lion engraved in a corner of his shield.
“According to legend, this knight's real sword is buried in the bridge wall and during Prague's darkest hour, it will burst forth and save the city.”
“I thought Prague had had her darkest hour … during World War Two. Don't tell me she's scheduled for another?”
Ignoring this, she led him through the archway of a second, smaller tower and they stepped into Malá Strana, Lesser Town, one of the oldest sections of Prague. Here, instead of broad avenues and
large buildings, the streets were narrow and crooked, crowded with small houses and shops. As they walked, the gas lamps cast their shadows on the walls and cobblestones. Although enchanted by the setting, Fenimore's stomach was beginning to grumble. “Where is this restaurant?” he asked plaintively. He could almost taste the schnitzel, dumplings, and
pala
inky
like his mother used to make.
“Around the next bend.” Ilsa quickened her steps and stopped abruptly before a white sign decorated with Asian characters. A smaller sign below read, THAI RESTAURANT, for the benefit of American tourists.
Swallowing his disappointment, Fenimore followed Ilsa inside.
But he understood her choice. The restaurant was nearly empty and the walls were lined with booths where they could talk in complete privacy. They slid into a booth near the back and began to study the menus. While they waited for their order, Fenimore took advantage of the seclusion. “Did my cousins seem unusually anxious or worried recently?” he asked.
Ilsa thought a minute and shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We are all anxious and worried at the end of term. The crush of reading papers and getting grades in on time is always nerve-racking.”
“Did they mention anything about going away?”
She considered. “No. In fact, I remember Anna saying they were going to stay home and try to finish their book.”
“The book on architecture?”
“You know about that?”
“I found the manuscript in their bookcase when I was looking for some clue to their disappearance.”
Ilsa gazed at him intently. “The deadline is this summer. They've been working on it for years. They had to keep it secret under the Communists, but now … It is hard to finish anything when you teach full-time.”
“The voice of experience?”
She nodded.
“What are you working on?”
“Medieval manuscripts. I spend all my spare time at the Strahov Library.”
“You professors are an industrious lot.”
“We are so happy to be free at last to pursue our life's work. Under the Communists our hands were tied. It was so frustrating.”
“Can you think why anyone would want to kidnap Anna and her husband?”
Ilsa frowned. “Ransom is the usual reason. But there was no note?”
“No.”
“Besides, the Borovys aren't rich … and if they were, the kidnappers would have taken their child, not the parents.”
“Perhaps they were after Marie, but when they couldn't find her, they settled for her parents.”
Ilsa shook her head. “It doesn't make sense.”
“I agree.” Fenimore sighed. “Do Anna and Vlasta have any other friends I could talk to?”
“Everyone's away. Most professors travel during spring break, either into the countryside or abroad.”
The waitress brought their meal, which they ate in silence. Fenimore had trouble swallowing his fortune cookie. Such a poor substitute for
pala
inky
. His fortune wasn't very good, either. “Everything comes to him who waits,” it read. “What's yours?” he asked Ilsa.
“Romance with a foreigner.” Laughing, she cast him a coquettish glance and tossed it in her tote bag.
Fenimore felt his ears blush.
 
As they left the restaurant, Fenimore paused before a shop window with a display of marionettes.
Ilsa, who had gone ahead, turned back. “You like them?”
Fenimore was entranced.
She led him inside. Every niche and cranny was crowded with puppets: kings and queens, princes and princesses, wizards and witches, jugglers and jesters. Even Hollywood was represented, in the forms of Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. The faces were
what intrigued Fenimore. Hand-carved from wood, each one had its own unique expression. And the eyes, although painted, seemed to shift and wink in the dim light of the shop.
“May I help you?” The proprietress spoke to him in English. How did they know? His mother had always told him he looked Czech, with his deep-set eyes and aquiline nose.
“Fantastic,” he murmured.
“Yes. The Czech puppets are famous,” Ilsa said. “These are made by different artists from all over the Czech Republic and Slovakia. If you look closely, you will notice that each group has a slightly different style.”
“That's correct,” said the shopkeeper, and pointed to the signs below each group of marionettes bearing the name of their artist.
“And what handsome costumes! Silk, satin, velvet, and fur. So perfect.” Ilsa gently ran her finger over the ermine collar of one marionette that bore a strong resemblance to the emperor Charles IV. His gold crown was studded with pasteboard jewels. The artist had even captured the former ruler's benevolent expression.
Ilsa and the shopkeeper chatted while Fenimore enjoyed the marionettes on his own. As he gazed at them, dangling limply from their strings—their painted faces stiff and staring—he imagined them leaping and laughing, singing, and dancing, after the shop closed. He had to have one. He would buy one—for Marie, of course. But which one? They were all wonderful. Should he close his eyes and take the first one he touched? No. One seemed to be looking at him more plaintively than the others. The jester. His silvery satin suit was decorated with scarlet pom-poms and his jaunty scarlet cap bore a silver bell at the tip. His smooth, pale face was accented with red at the cheekbones and his rouged mouth turned up slightly at the corners. His eyes were the only sad note. Larger than life, they reflected the sadness behind most jests. Like a puppy in a pet shop, Fenimore could almost hear the marionette pleading,
Take me home. Take me home.
He reached out and lifted the jester from his peg.

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