The Doctor Dines in Prague (2 page)

Read The Doctor Dines in Prague Online

Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague
3.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“
D
obré jitro,”
Jennifer greeted him with the only Czech she knew. (“Good day.”)
“Nazdar,”
he answered. (Czech for “Hello.”)
They walked to the car and Fenimore shoved his bag into the trunk. She let him drive, sensing he would be happier if he had something to do.
“Got your passport?”
He nodded.
“Traveler's checks?”
“Yep.”
“Plane ticket?”
He patted the breast pocket of his new navy-blue suit—the one his nurse had insisted he buy for the trip. “It's not right to show up at your cousin's, whom you've never even met, in that shabby old jacket and pants,” she said, and handed him a catalog from Strawbridge's. A page was turned down at the corner, bearing a picture of the suit he was now wearing.
“Oh, here's something for you.” Jennifer handed him a small parcel.
“More presents?” He tore it open. Inside was a book entitled
Byways of Prague
. Jennifer and her father owned a bookstore specializing in rare and antique books, and she came up with an appropriate volume for every occasion. He flipped through it, glancing at pictures of bridges, churches, and castles. Would he really be seeing all these in a matter of hours?
“It's a little out-of-date,” she apologized, “but it's full of juicy historical anecdotes. Did you know that Charles IV's wife could bend a sword with her bare hands?”
He entered the Expressway and headed for the airport. Ever since he could remember, his mother had shown him pictures of Prague—or “Praha,” as she called it. Black-and-white or brown-and-white. Never in color. How she cherished those old picture books she had brought from home. Big, thick books she protected with mauve cloth covers stitched by her own hand. As a child, he had pored over them with her for hours, dreaming of the day when he would visit this magical city. “Not until the Communists go!” his mother would snap, and close the book. Then that sad look would come into her eyes and she would murmur, “I couldn't bear it.”
He remembered the first time he had discovered she was homesick. It was opera night. His mother had brought her love of opera with her from Prague—“the city known as the Queen of Music.” Unfortunately, his father didn't share her enthusiasm. And he hated to get dressed up in that “monkey suit,” as he called his tuxedo. But he bore up bravely once a year for Marie's sake. On these occasions, it was his mother who held Fenimore's gaze. She piled her auburn hair on top of her head, donned a pair of diamond earrings—a wedding present from his father—and an azure velvet cloak which she fastened at her throat with an intricate silver clasp. When she kissed him good-night, her perfume was mixed with a faint hint of cedar. The cloak had been taken from its tissue paper nest in the cedar chest. He also loved her gloves. Made of soft creamy leather, he would watch her pull them on, one finger at a time, and roll them up her arm until they reached her elbow. The gloves also had a pleasant scent, but he had no words to describe it.
It was always very late when his parents returned from the opera.
Usually he was asleep. But one night he woke when they came in. He heard his father hurry up the stairs to get out of his monkey suit. But he didn't hear his mother's footsteps. She must be lingering in the hall. He slid out of bed and peered over the banister. There was only one small light on the table at the bottom of the stairs. A mirror hung above it. His mother stood there, still wearing her cloak, her auburn hair not quite as neatly arranged as when she had left earlier. A wisp of hair strayed down her cheek, giving her a girlish look. She held the opera program in one hand. As he listened, he heard her softly humming an aria. It was a familiar one. He had heard her play it often on the record player. From
Don Giovanni
. Suddenly she stopped and a strange sound came from her throat—something between a cough and a sob. She bent her head and stood that way for a moment. Then she turned and started up the stairs. Fenimore darted into his room and pretended to be asleep. Sometimes she would come in and kiss him before she went to bed. But not that night. Her footsteps passed quickly by his door without a pause. He felt uneasy. Was it possible that he and his brother and his father were not enough for her? He resolved to try to do more to make her happy. It was a long time before he fell asleep again that night.
“What are you going to do when you first arrive?” Jennifer broke in on his reverie.
“Have a bona fide Czech dinner,” he answered promptly. “Schnitzel with dumplings and
pala
inky
for dessert.” He began to salivate at the thought.
“But you'll be arriving at nine o'clock in the morning.”
“Hmm. Well, I'll have an early lunch. A párék—that's ‘sausage'—on a poppy-seed roll.”
“And then?”
“Then I'll check into my hotel and call Anna.”
“And if there's no answer?”
He glanced at her sharply. He hadn't told anyone that he had been unable to reach his cousin. He had told everyone that he had decided on impulse to visit Prague because there was a cardiology
meeting there, and he could deduct his travel expenses. “I'll keep trying until I get her.”
He searched for the airport DEPARTURES sign. When he spied it, he bore left and began to look for his airline.
“There it is.” Jennifer pointed to the entrance. “Wouldn't it have been better to let her know you're coming?”
He eased into the curb. “I wanted to surprise her,” he lied.
Getting out, he took his suitcase from the trunk. Jennifer got out, too. They had made good time. He had an hour and a half before takeoff. Plenty of time for the security officers to do their work.
“Are you going to take her out to dinner?”
“If I can find a good restaurant. There was one my mother used to rave about. ‘The Black Cat.' But I can hardly expect it to be there after sixty years.”
“You never know,” she said. “Things move more slowly over there. I'll park the car and wait with you.”
“No.” He spoke more brusquely than he intended. When he was anxious, he liked to be alone. He preferred not to talk to anyone—even Jennifer. Seeing her expression, he added hastily, “No point your wasting an hour. I have your guidebook to entertain me.” He smiled.
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and walked around to the driver's side. “Take care,” she said, and drove off.
He looked after her.
“Take care”
? Why not,
“Have fun,”
or
“Bon voyage”
? Had she figured out this was not a pleasure trip? Of course she had. If it had been a pleasure trip, he would have invited her.
He turned and went inside.
W
hen the flight attendant came for his drink order, Fenimore hesitated, between a martini or a ginger ale. He decided on the latter. He didn't want to arrive in Prague with his mind befuddled. It was too important. He wanted all his senses to be keen and sharp when he got off the plane: when he would first see this city he had heard so much about since he was a child and for which his mother had such a deep, abiding love.
He took
Byways of Prague
from his pocket and began to read. It opened with a short history of Czechoslovakia—beginning with the earliest settlers from the north and ending with the liberation from Germany at the end of World War II. The Communist years were left for someone else to tackle. He returned it to his pocket and stared out the window. He had been lucky to get a window seat on such short notice. They had left the East Coast behind and were high above the Atlantic Ocean. Only a few clouds were visible. Thick cotton beds floating beneath the plane, ready to catch it if anything went wrong.
Ha!
That reminded him of the fairy tales his mother used to tell him before he went to sleep. They always began in the cozy surroundings of his bedroom, but somehow ended in a spacious palace or cavernous castle in or near Prague. Were they
really as splendid as she had remembered them? He glanced at his watch. In a little over eight hours he would find out.
Then he remembered why he was headed for Prague. Not to enjoy the history or to admire the architecture but to find out why his cousin, Anna, didn't answer her telephone. He began to tick off the most common reasons people don't answer their phones: (1) They weren't home. (2) They were in the shower. [For two weeks?] (3) They were home but didn't want to talk to anyone. (4) They were asleep. [For two weeks?]
Anna could be at their country cottage. He didn't have that phone number and it was unlisted. But the middle of March was an odd time to go to the country. The climate in Prague was about the same as in Philadelphia. Cold, wet, windy—full of false harbingers of spring. Sometimes it even snowed this time of year. Besides, Anna and her husband Vlasta both had jobs. They were professors at the Charles University. Anna was professor of Czech history and Vlasta headed the architecture department. During the Communist regime, they both had been relieved of their posts and forced to hold menial jobs at the post office. But, after the Velvet Revolution in 1989, when Soviet rule ended peacefully, they had been reinstated. And surely their daughter Marie (she was named after his mother) would be in school. (He calculated that she was about nine years old.) Unless she was on spring break. But what about that time his ring had been cut off—as if the receiver had been lifted and then replaced?
“Have you chosen your dinner, sir?” The flight attendant pointed to the menu card he was holding, but not reading.
“Oh … uh … I'll have the chicken breast.”
“And your drink?”
“Coke, please.”
She moved on to the next passenger.
As soon as the dinner trays were cleared away, many passengers pulled down their windowshades, requested pillows from the flight attendant, and tried to catch a few hours' sleep. Some continued to read, or listened to the radio with headphones, or watched the
movie. Fenimore did none of these. He left his shade up and looked out into dark space. He rarely flew. His medical practice kept him homebound and he seldom attended conferences in other cities. As a result, he wasn't as casual about flying as most of his colleagues. The glimpse of the heavens outside his window thrilled him, quickening his thoughts about the nature of man and the universe. Were there other universes out there, with different life forms? If so, were those shadowy species any better than us? Less or more evil? Stuff for a science-fiction novel (that somebody had already written)?
There was no sense of motion, except when a star seemed to move. Then he remembered that it was he who was moving. “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight …” But he didn't make a wish. Instead he thought about his mother. Thoughts he had not had for years. She had died when he was in medical school. No need to dwell on that. The first picture that came to him was of his mother striding along the East River Drive (now the Kelly Drive), her hair blowing in the wind. She had loved to walk, in all kinds of weather. And she always had been in good shape. In her youth she had trained in the Sokol—the Czech organization for fitness and well-being. Often she took him and his brother Richard along, but they usually had trouble keeping up with her. Sometimes they would quit and wait on a bench or lean against a tree until she returned for them—still striding, never tiring. Fenimore began to doze.
 
The flight attendant tapped him gently on the shoulder. Fenimore woke with a start. He had been about to dig into his favorite Czech meal—schnitzel, dumplings, and palacinky—his mother's specialty.
“Your coffee and roll, sir.” The flight attendant tried to make up for her poor offering with a bright smile.
Never mind, Fenimore. Soon you'll be able to order your favorite meal every day of the week
. “Thank you,” he said. “When will we be landing?”
“In about forty-five minutes.”
After a brief calculation, Fenimore adjusted his watch. They would be landing at about six A.M., Prague time.

Other books

Campaign Ruby by Jessica Rudd
Sweet Annie by Cheryl St.john
The Deep End of the Ocean by Jacquelyn Mitchard
Code Talker by Chester Nez
Clockwork Romance by Andy Mandela
Q: A Novel by Evan Mandery
The Waiting Land by Dervla Murphy