Lost and Found in Prague (3 page)

BOOK: Lost and Found in Prague
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“You’ve visited Boston?” Dana asked. They stared at each other for a long moment, and she sensed that he was playing with her, that he was enjoying this.

“My work often involves travel.”

“And your work, or pleasure, now takes you to Prague.”

“Not officially . . . yet, as a favor to a friend. Like you . . .” He tipped his head. “On holiday, visiting a friend.”

“I see,” she replied, waiting for more.

He raised his glass in a toast. “To friends and holidays.”

“Salute,”
she replied, using an Italian toast.

“Salute.”

He leaned back, closing his eyes, and took a slow, obviously pleasurable, drink.
Conversation over,
he seemed to say.

She opened her book. She was done with him, too—he’d started this, then cut her off. She refused to play his game, though that ever-present curiosity pried about in her head as she attempted to retrieve a memory of this man who seemed to know her. She dismissed the impulse to ask and gave her glasses a little nudge to keep them from slipping on her nose. She glanced over at the man, napping now, breathing heavily, clutching his empty plastic glass as it rose and fell rhythmically on the perch of his large belly.

After the flight attendant had gathered empty cups, napkins, and snack wrappers—plucking the empty cup from the still-slumbering man as she shot Dana a smile—a deep voice announced their descent into the Ruzyne Airport.

Awakened by the broadcast but still heavy lidded and groggy, the man pulled a black briefcase up from the floor space in front of his feet, unzipped a side pocket, and inserted his newspaper. Dana slid her book into her bag.

He turned to her again and said, “It’s been a pleasure visiting with you.” He’d released his seat belt, though the light was still on. He wasn’t a man used to playing by the rules, she guessed.

“We’ve met before?” she asked, unable to end the flight with the question unanswered.

“Oh, no, but I do know your work.”

The flight attendant glided down the aisle, head bobbing from side to side, checking to make sure those in her care were secure, kindly reminding the man to fasten his seat belt, gesturing toward the lit sign.

He let off an indignant
humph
, but he complied, and they soon hit the runway.

“You’re familiar with my work?” Dana asked.

“Yes,” he replied, but offered no more.

When the seat belt light dimmed, he stood abruptly and made his way to the front of the plane with a sense of entitlement. He had no overhead luggage, just the briefcase.

She watched him, and there was something about the way he moved, the grace with which he carried that excessive weight.

After gathering her own carry-on, it dawned on her in an unexpected flash. They had never met, but she had seen him briefly—from the back as he slid into a shiny black Town Car. She’d attempted to find him when he came to Boston. An elusive ghost of a man.

Ah, yes,
she thought as she started down the aisle, that organization based in Italy—much older than and often as mysterious as the Mafia. Those perfectly manicured hands? A man who held the body of Christ would keep his hands as pristine as a newly baptized baby’s soul.


4

Father Giovanni Borelli hated to fly. He did not enjoy the bustle of airports, the queues for boarding, and then the dreadful, confined, cramped quarters of an aircraft. He loved his work, which often, at least in the past, required that he travel—wherever the miracles, the apparitions, the transgressions might take him. But he liked to be in the middle of things, not going there or coming back.

Yet he often met interesting people in his travels. He had enjoyed speaking with the woman from Boston. Years ago, they’d played a little game of cat and mouse. He recalled watching her then—he peering through the blinds in the bishop’s study, she stepping off the front porch, glancing back, and then hurrying down the sidewalk with a quick, agitated gait. When he found his seat on the plane, he easily recognized her, though there was nothing that would make her stand out in a crowd. She looked to be perhaps in her late thirties, though he knew she had to be at least forty if she’d been traipsing about Europe during the time of the revolution in Czechoslovakia. Her frame, slight. Her hair, an ordinary brown. He guessed with a little makeup and perhaps a more flattering hairstyle—hers hung limply to her shoulders—she might have turned a head. Her style of dress—jeans and T-shirt—certainly did nothing to enhance her figure. Borelli remembered when women used to take care with their appearance, dress like women. Gia had always attired herself as a proper, refined lady. He found this trend of casual dress, surely started by the Americans, inappropriate.

But he’d been unkind, and he’d have to confess. He’d engaged in a verbal game as if they were opponents, which they were not. They’d both arrived at the same conclusion in Boston.

He knew it was that old, yet familiar, sin of pride—he liked to have the upper hand and had quite enjoyed their conversation, she having no idea who he was. He should have walked off the plane with her, introduced himself, told her how fairly he believed she’d covered the events in Boston. But, damn, he had to get to the terminal and find the restroom. And he needed a cigarette.

He’d probably never see her again. Prague was a city of over a million and this time of year, with the advent of spring, it often appeared as if the population had doubled. One could practically walk across the Charles Bridge, the Karluv most, without lifting a foot, the tourist traffic so heavy a person might be carried along in the stream of flowing bodies.

After using the men’s room, he made his way out of the terminal, along with other travelers hefting, dragging, and wheeling an assortment of baggage. Father Borelli had but his briefcase, preferring the ease of traveling sans luggage. His wardrobe was limited, though he took pride in a neatly pressed suit and a fresh cassock being available at all times. He always packed a box and sent it ahead to his hotel with instructions to have the garments pressed and waiting in his room when he checked in. This assured he’d have a presentable wardrobe for the duration of his stay, though he was concerned since the urgency of this trip required he send the box special delivery. With the holiday weekend he was aware it might not arrive until several days into his stay. The thought irritated him, though the shipping company guaranteed his package would arrive within a day, and his hotel was always good about seeing to his requests. Fortunately he’d called ahead and been assured a room would be available for him, even on such short notice.

At least a dozen passengers waited in line at the cab stop, though he noted not a single cab in sight. Tourists everywhere. He reached into his pocket, grateful he had time for a smoke. He inserted a cigarette in his silver holder—he hated cigarette stains on fingers—lit up and drew in a comforting drag. He was content to stand and wait, though if he’d been wearing his collar he would most likely be invited to go ahead. People in Europe still respected the collar.

He tapped his cigarette ash into a receptacle by the cab stand and noticed a wrinkle in the leg of his trousers. Another reason he hated the confinement of an airplane. He gave it a quick, firm brush with his wide hand, pressing the crease with his fingers. By the time he finished his smoke, he’d moved to the front of the line. His cab arrived and he gave the driver the address of his hotel.

As they drove into the center of Prague, he wondered what Ms. Pierson would think coming back after an absence of almost twenty years. It was now a vibrant, commercial city with modern shops and galleries, cafés and theaters, combined in a charming way with the centuries-old buildings, cobbled streets, medieval churches, and ancient castles. Little physical damage had been done to the old city during the war. Most of the historical center had been spared, and he found it one of the loveliest in Eastern Europe. He’d once heard Prague described as the finest Italian city outside of Italy. Yet, during the forty years of the Communist regime, there was no pride in ownership and buildings had fallen into disrepair. The privatization and commercialism after the revolution had done much for the city. A visitor, such as the American woman, returning after a long absence would find the city quite delightful.

His first encounter with Ms. Dana Pierson had been seven years ago now, though the offenses that brought him to Boston had gone back decades, the sins of betrayal, the perhaps equally great sins of denial and cover-up. All had contributed to a terrible time in the history of the Church. When he reported back to Rome, it was with a heavy heart.

The trip to Boston had been one of many sporadic assignments after the dissolution of the office of Promoter of the Faith and then Father Borelli’s resignation from his position at the university in Rome. He had a reputation for being fair and thorough, though many of his efforts received little recognition. Much of his work was done “unofficially,” on special assignment. Now he found himself in Prague, though not officially. Not even unofficially. He had come simply because Giuseppe Ruffino—Beppe—had called. Over the past several years he had often visited his friend, who had been appointed the prior of Our Lady Victorious by the Holy Father shortly after a new government had been established in the early nineties. He’d give Beppe a call as soon as he got to the hotel. Saint Giuseppe, he often called him. They had been best friends since childhood, growing up in a little village south of Florence, one of the prettiest places on earth with its lovely vineyards and rolling hills, an area well-known for its fine wine production.

His cab arrived at the hotel and he tipped the driver generously, as he always did, though he had but the one small briefcase, which he carried in himself. He picked up his keys, inquiring if his package had been delivered. It had not. He’d packed a clean set of underwear in his briefcase, along with his toiletries and breviary, but he should not have trusted that the delivery and pressing would be done, particularly with the holiday. He took the elevator up to his third-floor room, miffed that he had nothing to wear other than what was on his back. Aware that he should be climbing stairs if just for a little exercise, he excused himself by the fact that he’d had a long day. As he stepped off the small elevator, he felt a familiar cramp knotting in his left leg. He also needed to pee. Again. This getting old did not agree with him.

In his room, he used the bathroom, then opened his briefcase, pulled out a bottle, fixed himself a drink, got out his cigarettes, flipped on the TV, and settled down. As a vintner, he enjoyed a nice bottle of wine with dinner. But for a good numbing jolt, he preferred a fine whiskey. How did the Americans say it,
liquor is quicker
? There was something to be said for both distillation and fermentation. He took another satisfying drink.

He would call Beppe tomorrow, when he had a pressed suit and cassock hanging in his closet.

•   •   •

After gathering her checked bag, Dana went out to find a cab. She hadn’t noticed her traveling companion waiting at the carousel, and wondered,
Who travels with so little?
Then realized a man in his line of work would not require an extensive wardrobe. If he wanted to look official, he could slip on a clerical collar. As she waited, she pulled a tourist guidebook out of her carry-on. She’d have plenty of free time in Prague. Caroline had explained in a letter that she’d have no more than one free hour each day. She’d invited Dana for lunch tomorrow.

Grilled lunch—you on one side of the grille, me on the other,
Caroline had written.

Her cousin had always had a sense of humor, though often now the words in her letters were wrapped in such a serious tone, as if the convent had stripped her of her wit. This was obviously a joke, as Dana knew the order wasn’t cloistered in the truest sense. Caroline had explained that the nuns lived a monastic life, meaning they lived in a closed convent and adhered to a strict schedule, with much time dedicated to prayer, meditation, and solitude, though they did venture into the world to work. The small and intimate community of Discalced Carmelites consisted of fewer than a dozen nuns. From the Latin
dis
, meaning “not,” and
calceatus
, “shod.” Dana envisioned her free-spirited cousin, dancing joyfully
unshod
about the ancient convent
,
her toes wiggling without restraint. Perhaps her feet were the only part of her to experience such freedom.

Caroline, Sister Agnes now, had written that among the nuns’ duties were caring for the altars and the priests’ vestments and attending to the Holy Infant at the Church of Our Lady Victorious. She’d also lamented that the church was beginning to take on the trappings of just that—a tourist trap. Tourists coming in and out with all their disruptive paraphernalia, cameras and guidebooks, and noisy disrespectful chatter.

Her cab arrived and the driver helped Dana with her luggage. Easter Monday as well as Easter Sunday was a holiday throughout most of Europe, and it seemed the activity had not subsided even today as she witnessed a continuing celebration, more secular than religious, as they drove toward the city center. Throngs of people scurried about, carrying bags and backpacks. Children slurped ice cream cones, and parents snapped away, tiny cameras recording the festivities.

The driver chatted in English, offering bits of tourist information as Dana gazed out the window. The weather could not have been more different from the damp, dark November of her first visit. The sky was a lovely clear blue, the sun highlighting the fairy-tale village with gothic spires, romantic bridges spanning the Vltava River, and narrow cobbled passages and alleyways. Years ago this had seemed mysterious in an almost sinister way, but it now appeared as if everything had been spruced up to welcome the many visitors. What had the priest said—that Prague was the new Paris?

The cab came to an abrupt halt. A wide ditch stretched the length of the street, which was obviously being dug up—new water or sewer system, Dana guessed. This, along with restoration of one of the medieval buildings covered with plastic sheets and flanked with scaffolds, made the street impassable for a motor vehicle, other than perhaps a small motorcycle, as evidenced by one haphazardly zipping around them right now. The cabdriver turned and motioned outward.

“No drive to hotel,” he said, shaking his head.

“Road construction?”

“Yes, you walk.”

“How far?” she asked, realizing this was the end of the road.

“Not far, just there,” he said, pointing. He jumped out, opened her door gallantly, then hustled around and pulled her bag from the trunk. “No parking,” he said with another wide gesture.

Dana paid, giving him a tip that could have been larger had he actually dropped her at her hotel. Flipping the handle up on her wheeled luggage, she settled her small carry-on on top, hiked her handbag on her shoulder, adjusting it for balance, and started down the narrow street, maneuvering around the scaffolding and stepping carefully on the wooden planks set out for pedestrians to get around the construction. Narrow, pastel-colored structures lined the street, many of them sporting the old names and symbols used before the buildings were numbered
.
U cerveného orla, the Red Eagle, with its faded painting of just that; U tri houslicek, the Three Fiddles, identified by a relief created to designate the home of three generations of an eighteenth-century family of violin makers; U cerveného lva, the Red Lion. Tiled roofs had been scrubbed since her last visit, and stone buildings sandblasted, all pristine and sootless.

She smiled as she continued down the street toward her hotel, her wheeled bag bumping along the cobbles with an even rhythm. The sunshine stroked her face like a warm hand, and she felt a sense of being in a good place. The heat sent a spark of energy through her, coupled with a sense of excitement verging on happiness, something she had not felt in a very long time. She was looking forward to getting together with Caroline. Suddenly she was young and adventurous. It would be a good week.

BOOK: Lost and Found in Prague
2.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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