The Doctor Dines in Prague (19 page)

Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague

10.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

I
t was after nine when they left the hotel room. So much for twilight. But evening in Prague wasn't so bad. For the first time since he arrived, Fenimore felt relaxed and happy. He was completely unaware of the two scruffy, tattooed youths a few yards behind them, and of course, of Mrs. Doyle. He was aware only of the pressure of Jennifer's hand. He returned it. “Where to?” he asked.

“No plan,” she said dreamily. “Let's just wander.”

And so they did, through the crooked gaslit streets, over the ancient cobblestones. Turning right, then left, and left again, completely unaware of the trouble they were causing the three people hot on their heels behind them.

“This looks nice.” Jennifer paused at an open doorway, from which melodious music wafted. Music was everywhere in Prague, Fenimore noticed. “The Queen of Music,' Mozart called the city,” he told Jennifer. Inside were tables, each bearing a vase of fresh flowers and a flickering candle. They went in. They didn't talk much, content to sip their wine, stare at the candle flame and, now and then, at each other. Fenimore recognized the music in the backgroundâa piano concerto by Mozart. He roused himself to say, “Mozart was a favorite son of Praguers. It was here that
Don Giovanni
was first performed and acclaimed. Not Vienna.”

“To Don Giovanni!” Jennifer raised her glass. “Wait a minute.” She lowered her glass. “Wasn't he that unscrupulous Casanova?”

“Umm.” Fenimore had the grace to blush.

After two glasses of wine, Fenimore said, “I'm hungry.”

“I read about a restaurant in my guidebook,” she said. “It's across the Charles Bridge and known for its traditional Czech dinners.”

Visions of succulent schnitzel, dumplings, and
pala

inky
rose before him as he helped Jennifer on with her coat. Taking her arm he guided her out to the street and looked up and down. Which way was the Charles Bridge? he wondered. They had made so many turns he had lost his bearings. It took them a while to find the bridge, and their followers cursed them roundly. Even Mrs. Doyle resorted to a few swear words. “Where the hell are they going?” she muttered. “These damned cobblestones are killing my feet!” She blamed this verbal lapse on her recent close association with Horatio. To atone, she said a few Hail Marys.

The bridge was less crowded now. The vendors had left and the few strollers were taking their time, pausing to gaze at the river in the moonlight. The statues of heroes and saints cast shadows across their path.

They paused too, to look at the river.

“Was your mother ever homesick?” Jennifer asked, unexpectedly.

He remembered that night long ago, when he had observed his mother after the opera. “Yes,” he said, “I'm afraid she was.”

“It would be hard to leave a place like thisâespecially if it was your home.”

“True. But when your home is desecrated and under the rule of a ruthless foreign power, it makes it easier.”

“I suppose â¦ .”

Fenimore did not want to be reminded of his mother just now. She would not have approved of his conduct since he had arrived in Prague. He blushed to think what she would have had to say about it. “But I did save the crown!” he reminded his mother's reproving ghost.

To reach the restaurant, they had to go down some steps and take a path that wound through the trees along the river. The air was full of the smell of growing things and the moon danced through the branches, lighting their way. At one point, Jennifer made Fenimore climb over some old, creosoted logs and onto a wharf, to get a better view of the Charles Bridge from the river. The statues were silhouetted in the soft glow of the lamps and a fine mist was rising from the water. Fenimore chose this moment to turn her face toward his and â¦ . fall into the river.

Jennifer quickly followed.

But they didn't fall; they were pushed. And when they came spluttering to the surface, the pushers were poised on the wharf, oars raised, ready to whack them over their headsâwhich they did.

That was the last Jennifer and Fenimore remembered.

Their assailants melted into the trees. The riverbank was empty except for one lone jogger. Breathing hard, the overweight, middle-aged woman thumped down the path toward the river.

Mrs. Doyle put her handbag down on the bank and removed her shoes. She stared intently at the water. First Fenimore, then Jennifer bobbed to the surface. Their eyes were closed and they disappeared immediately.
One more chance,
she told herself, and jumped into the river. After the first shock of cold water, she pulled one of the nearby logs in after her. When Fenimore popped up this time, she yelled, “Doctor!” and shoved the log under him. His eyelids fluttered open and he grabbed it. Treading water, Mrs. Doyle waited for Jennifer. When she surfaced, the nurse yelled her name and shoved another log under her. Shaking the water out of her eyes, Jennifer grabbed it. Mrs. Doyle, teeth chattering, maneuvered herself behind her two friends. Placing one hand on each of their bottoms, she kicked furiously, pushing them toward shore. They lay like two miniature whales, flopping and gasping, while Mrs. Doyle crawled out and joined them. If it hadn't been for her karate training, she never could have done this.

She didn't know how long they lay there, but when she opened her eyes, the lights on the bridge were no longer glowing, there was
a streak of pink in the sky, and she was numb with cold. She glanced at her companions. Neither was stirring. She forced herself to her feet and began to rouse them.

When Fenimore opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Doyle bending over him, he felt like Noah when he first saw the dove with the olive branch, or Balboa when he first glimpsed the Pacific, or Lindbergh when he first sighted Paris.

“How did
you
get here?” he asked, drinking her in.

“Angel's wings.”

“I believe it,” he said reverently.

CHAPTER 53

B
ack at the hotel, Fenimore showered, shaved, dressed, and realized that his problems were far from over. How could he leave his cousins in Prague, with their enemies still at large? It would be several weeks before Vlasta would be strong enough to come to the States for his evaluation. Fenimore's recent experience with the police had not increased his confidence in them. Whom could he turn to for help?

He glanced at the newspaper Jennifer had handed him along with a cup of steaming coffee from the lobby. The
Prague Times
. The only English-Czech paper, it was distributed to hotel lobbies free, primarily for the benefit of American tourists. There, on the front page, was a picture of the one person he could trust. The one person in Prague he knew was incorruptible. But he had no way to gain his ear. He had no contacts, no influence, no clout. Fenimore could hardly walk into the president's office at Prague Castle and say: “Hi! I'm an American, but my mother was Czech, and I've read all your plays. How 'bout helping me with this problem â¦ ?”

He shook his head and turned the page. A headline leapt out at him:

TRYST ENDS IN DEATH OF TWO

Three photos accompanied the article: Ema, pretty, in a dewy, unformed way; Redik, resembling one of the lesser Roman emperors; and Ilsaâlooking like a rose in full bloomâthe way she had looked that first day in the coffeehouse.

According to the story, Ilsa had discovered Ema and Redik in his dressing room, in a compromising position, and stabbed them to death.

Fenimore felt dizzy. He heard Ema's shrill voice defending the puppets. He saw Redik's mad dance on the tower. He felt the tingle of Ilsa's touch â¦ .

Charles IV's curse, it seems, was still intact. And Fenimore was not entirely glad.

He stared at the three photos again.

When Jennifer emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel, he showed her the article. She sat on the edge of the bed, biting her lip. “Why do I feel so bad?”

Fenimore didn't answer.

“For her, I guess.” Jennifer indicated Ema's picture. “And I never even met her.”

“I met her,” he said slowly, refolding the paper. “Redik's marionettes have lost a friend.”

Anna was to be released that morning. When Fenimore arrived at the hospital, he went to check Vlasta first. His condition was steadily improving. Fenimore felt confident he could safely leave his cousin and return to the States. But it would be several weeks before Vlasta could travel by plane and come to Philadelphia for his cardiac evaluation. Anna, of course, would stay with her husband in Prague. But what about Marie? Fenimore would like to keep her in Philadelphia until her parents arrived. But, by then, school would be in session â¦ .

These thoughts flitted through his mind, on one level, as he made his way along the corridor to Anna's room. On another, deeper level,
lay the news of Ilsaâlike a coiled snake. He had known double-murderers before, but not quite in the same way. He was still numb from the shock. When the numbness wore off and the snake uncoiled, he wasn't sure what his reaction would be. With effort, he concentrated on his family problems.

When Fenimore entered Anna's room, she was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, speaking animatedly in Czech on the phone. Mrs. Doyle was sitting nearby, leafing through a magazine. She looked up, pointed to the phone, and mouthed,
Marie.

Fenimore smiled. This was not the time to tell her about the murders.

After consulting with Anna, it was decided that Marie should stay in Philadelphia until her parents arrived. Anna would have to tolerate this further separation from her child, and Marie could make up what she had missed at school. She was very clever, and third grade was not that difficult, after all.

Fenimore accompanied Anna home in a cab. During the ride, he showed her the newspaper article. It didn't have the impact Fenimore had expected. After her recent experiences, Anna was impervious to shock. The human psyche can absorb only so much; Anna's had reached the saturation point. Scanning the article, she returned the paper to Fenimore with a mere shake of the head.

When Anna entered her apartment, she walked from room to room taking everything in; touching a book here, a lamp thereâto make sure they were real. “I thought I would never be here again,” she explained. “Yet, here I am â¦ thanks to you and Jennifer.”

Fenimore quietly went about collecting his things. He had decided to spend the rest of his stay with Jennifer, at her hotel, and leave his cousin to enjoy her homecoming in peace. He had told her that he had retrieved the manuscript. And there it sat, snugly in the bookcase, where he had stowed it. Before he left, Fenimore told Anna that he had paid the April rent.

“What?” She was dismayed. “I already paid for April. We always pay a month in advance.” She shook her head in disgust as she wrote
him a check. “That horrible man. He sneaks around here, eavesdropping. And I think he runs some illegal business from the basement. Black market, smuggling, orâ”

“Marie is afraid of him,” Fenimore interrupted.

“She is?”

“I think he may have hurt her once.”

“No!” Her ability to react was returning.

Fenimore described Marie's strange behavior on the day they were to leave for the airport.

Anna's eyes narrowed and her fists clenched. “I'll take care of him,” she said.

And Fenimore knew she would.

“By the way,” he said in parting, “be sure to order some pizza now and then. Milo is a good friend.”

Anna looked after his retreating back with a bewildered expression.

Fenimore returned to the hotel to find Jennifer packing.

“I've made our plane reservations,” she said. “Mrs. Doyle's, too. Our flight leaves tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty.”

He nodded, preoccupied.

“Is that too soon?” She was afraid she had been officious.

“What?”

“Would you rather leave later?”

“No.” He wandered over to the window and looked out. “There's that picture of Kafka's house that I have to take for Larry â¦ .”

“We can go this afternoon.”

“You know”âhe turned back to the roomâ“Redik was mad! Did he really believe he could conquer the Czech Republicâand specifically Pragueâthrough subliminal propaganda via puppets?”

“Don't forget the crown. He thought it had mystical powers.”

“In a psychology course I took at college, we watched a movie that glorified the German Youth Movement,” Fenimore said. “It had been made during the Hitler era. The teacher told us he had to break it up into four segments, with ten-minute intermissions, otherwise
we might all be converted. We laughed, scornfully, of course. But, do you knowâeven
with
the intermissionsâwe all came out of that film marching and singing and wanting to join up?”

“You're kidding.”

“I kid you not. Little Fritz was so cute, and the music was so strong â¦ . Never underestimate the power of the media, whether film, radio, TVâor puppets. Goebbels knew this. He once said that Americans didn't need a propaganda ministry, they had Hollywood.”

“
Casablanca
is a good example,” Jennifer agreed. “When they sing âLa Marseillaise,' I'd do anything for them.”

“The thing I don't understand is why Ilsa bought into it. She seemed like an intelligentâ”

“Love.”

He looked at her sharply.

“Why do you think I hang around with you?” she said.

“You think
I'm
crazy?”

“Well, every now and then â¦”

After a long silence, he said, “I wonder what Ilsa would have been like, if she had achieved her dream.”

Jennifer paused in her packing. “And what was that?”

“To be an actress,” he said.

“She
was
an actress,” Jennifer said tersely. “And a very good one.”

He couldn't deny that.

“And her last act was worthy of a Verdi opera!”

After a while, Jennifer forced herself to ask, “Do you want to see her before we leave?”

“Hell, no.” He headed for the door. “Let's go take that picture.”

As they made their way to Golden Lane, Jennifer asked, “Where is our lifeguard today?”

“On a bus tour of Prague. I thought she should see something of the city before she left. You know what she said? âI'll go anywhere as long as it's not on foot.' Apparently cobblestones and Doyle's feet are incompatible.”

“She does better on sea than land. Where did she learn those lifesaving techniques?”

“She was a Navy nurse â¦ and keeps fit with karate.”

“There it is.” Jennifer stopped in front of a stucco cottage with a crooked chimney and reached into her purse. She handed Fenimore the cheap little camera she had picked up at the airport.

Fenimore took two pictures of Kafka's house.

Jennifer scanned the guidebook. “Kafka lived in about a dozen places in Prague. Should we take them all?”

“One's enough for Larry,” Fenimore said emphatically. He took a picture of Jennifer leaning over the wall, gazing at the city. Then
she
took one of Fenimore leaning over the wall, gazing at the city.

A woman was about to walk between them, but paused so she wouldn't spoil their picture. Then she said, “Would you like me to take one of you together?”

They smiled self-consciously, and Fenimore handed her the camera.

Click.

“Thanks so much.”

“Yes, thanks.”

“No problem.” She walked on.

They took the steep, cobblestone path back to the city.