The Doctor Dines in Prague (6 page)

Read The Doctor Dines in Prague Online

Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague
12.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Once inside the airport terminal, Fenimore tucked Marie's passport into a cloth purse he had found in his cousin's bureau, and added some U.S. currency—two twenties and some coins. He
pinned the purse to the inside of her jacket with two giant safety pins. “Keep your passport in there at all times,” he told her sternly. “Don't show it to anyone except the man in the window here,” he pointed to the airport official checking people's passports, “and the man in the window in Philadelphia. You understand?”
She nodded.
He prayed that she did.
Last night, while Marie was sleeping, Fenimore had made a small passport for the bear—out of cardboard—and drawn his picture inside. When it was their turn to step up to the window and show Marie's passport, Fenimore pulled out Jiri's, too. He hoped the official had a sense of humor. The clerk's eyebrows shot up. He looked from the bear to Marie. Without a word, he stamped the little passport. Marie's smile was his reward.
After customs, there was a half-hour wait before boarding. Fenimore thought Marie should have something to eat. First he checked the restaurant area for suspicious-looking characters. All seemed clear. He headed toward an attractive café that promised coffee, hot chocolate, and some succulent Czech pastries. He was beginning to salivate when he felt a tug on his arm. “Look, Uncle Andrew!” Marie pointed to a red awning decorated with two golden arches. Reluctantly, he changed his direction.
At the barrier, Fenimore briefed the flight attendant, who spoke Czech and English, about who was meeting Marie. She assured him that Marie would be given safe conduct to his friends in Philadelphia. He reminded Marie about the sign in her suitcase, to be sure to take it out when she reached the other airport, and to hold it up high. He gave her a peck on the cheek and Jiri a pat on the head. As Marie headed down the ramp, she turned twice to wave. The second time she raised Jiri's paw. Then they disappeared.
Fenimore swallowed three times and was amazed to find the lump was still there. He headed for the nearest bar. Not even a Pilsner helped. He ordered another. He needed to get his bearings. He was not a chameleon. Switching from nanny to detective would take a little time.
He let his mind idle, watching the people rove to and fro through the airport. The crowd was not as varied as in the Philadelphia airport. Here, everyone looked pretty much the same. The same color, the same demeanor, the same economic background. And they were quieter. Missing was the occasional raucous outcry or sudden belly laugh. No doubt about it, Czechs were more withdrawn and subdued than Americans. But, not long ago, they had been ruled by an oppressive Communist regime. Such a regime did not encourage freedom of expression—or hilarity. The Czechs were not chameleons, either. It would take time.
Leaving the bar, Fenimore stopped an airport official to ask where he could buy a bus ticket into the city. He had decided on his next step—to go to the Charles University and talk to his cousins' colleagues. Maybe one of them could throw some light on the kidnapping. As Fenimore climbed onto the bus, it dawned on him that he was free. Being trapped in that apartment caring for a child for three days had weighed on him more than he realized. Despite the heavy responsibility that still lay before him—the rescue of his cousins—he felt a lightness of being.
Prague—a precious jewel in the country's crown of stone.
Goethe
O
nce on the bus, Fenimore immersed himself in his guidebook. The Charles University was founded in the 1300s by the emperor Charles IV and modeled after the Sorbonne in Paris—“so that the Czechs did not need to beg for the crumbs of learning abroad but found at home a laden table,” the book quoted the emperor.
It was the oldest university in Central Europe. His mother had graduated first in her class from the Teachers' College, a great achievement in the 1940s. Then she had been given a teaching post. His father was American and had met her at the end of World War Two when he was stationed briefly in Prague. Captivated by this brilliant, auburn-haired beauty, he proposed after only a few weeks. Equally enamored, she accepted. The plan was for him to return to Philadelphia, establish his medical practice, and then send for her. (People were more conservative in those days.) But shortly after he returned to the States, the Communists took over Czechoslovakia, adopting Prague as their headquarters. Members of the Czech faculty and students were forced from the University and made to work in factories and mines. Those were the lucky ones. Others were beaten, imprisoned, and even killed. His mother's letters to his father became more and more desperate. He sent her money and, with
the help of friends, she escaped to France. When she arrived in Philadelphia, she and his father were married the same day in a civil ceremony, at City Hall.
His mother had no desire to teach in America. “My English will never be good enough,” she said. The women's movement had not yet begun and she was under no pressure to work outside the home. She was content to look after her husband and two sons—cooking, sewing, gardening. In her spare time, she took advantage of Philadelphia's cultural opportunities, of which there were many. The Philadelphia Orchestra at the Academy of Music, under Eugene Ormandy, was universally acknowledged as the best in the world. There was the theater—the Walnut, the Locust, the Forrest, the Shubert—and the opera several times a year. And many art museums. Her favorite was the Rodin Museum. Within walking distance of their Spruce Street town house (“walking distance,” by his mother's standards), she would go there and sit for hours—especially in the spring when the tall French doors were thrown open and the cherry trees bloomed in the garden. It reminded her of Praha, she said. Sometimes she would take Fenimore and his brother along—and after they had dutifully admired the statue of Balzac, and she,
The Kiss
—she would take them to Fairmount Park to play.
He searched his guidebook for more information about the University.
A well of mineral water, from which fourteenth-century students quenched their thirst, still holds a place in the reception hall. And the timbers in the ceiling—half a meter (nearly two feet) in diameter—are reminders of the great forests that surrounded the city long ago. The black marble floor shines like a lake in the moonlight.
Fenimore tucked the book into his jacket pocket and prepared to meet his cousins' colleagues—all learned professors at this venerable university. In Central Europe, a professor is a revered personage,
not an object of faint ridicule (sometimes labeled “absentminded”), as in America.
Absorbed in his thoughts, Fenimore descended the bus. When he raised his eyes, his first sight of the city struck him with the impact of a physical blow. Before him rose a panorama of bridge, castle, and cathedral—in Technicolor! Fenimore had seen this view many times, but always in the muted, sepia tones of his mother's old picture books. In the late-afternoon sun, it glowed with the warmth of rich gold. He stood riveted—staring, until a passerby inquired,
“Zatril jstese?”
(
“Lost?”
)
Fenimore shook his head and moved on. Although his feet were drawn toward the Charles Bridge and the castle, conscious of his obligation, he turned resolutely toward the University.
 
The entrance to the University was a disappointment. A utilitarian building constructed of ordinary blond brick, vintage 1950s. Where were the medieval stone walls that soared to a ceiling of thick, ancient beams and the black marble floor that shone like a lake in the moonlight? CLOSED. UNDER CONSTRUCTION, a sign read.
Because of the spring break, the prosaic reception area was empty and silent, missing the usual noisy bustle of students. The only human being in sight was a stubby man in workclothes pushing a broom in a desultory manner over the dusty wood floor.
“I'm looking for the dean,” Fenimore said in Czech. (He had prepared this statement the night before with the aid of his dictionary.)
“Nobody here. Closed for vacation.”
Fenimore's heart sank. “Nobody?” he repeated in disbelief.
With a smile the man shook his head, taking pleasure in repeating the bad news.
Refusing to believe that such a vast university could be completely empty, Fenimore headed for the stairs.
“Halt!”
Pausing, Fenimore adopted a desperate expression and said, “Toilet?”
The man's face relaxed and he gave directions to a washroom on the second floor.
On the second floor, a long corridor confronted Fenimore with a string of closed doors. He began systematically to open them and poke his head inside. Room after room revealed row upon row of empty desks, a blackboard, and that ripe odor of unwashed students that lingers in centers of learning throughout the world. Persisting, Fenimore climbed the stairs to the third floor. Here he found most of the doors locked. Those that were unlocked, opened into small offices, probably belonging to faculty members. By American standards, they were meagerly furnished with only the basics—a desk, a chair, and a bookcase—all in shabby condition. About to give up, Fenimore opened a door at the end of the hall.
A slight man with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses glanced up, startled.
“Excuse me,” Fenimore apologized. “Can you help me?”
“Ameri
an?”
Fenimore nodded sheepishly, ashamed that his American accent was so obvious.
“Jan Redik.” The man rose and offered his hand. “What can I do for you?” His English was perfect.
“Andrew Fenimore. Cardiologist.” He mentioned his credentials only because in Prague he knew they would inspire respect and he needed all the respect he could get.
The professor's nod bordered on a bow.
“I am looking for my cousins—Professors Anna and Vlasta Borovy.” Did he detect a slight intake of breath? “Do you know them?”
“Of course.” He nodded.
Not wanting to elaborate further, Fenimore said, “I came to Prague unexpectedly. I had no time to let them know, and I haven't been able to locate them. I wondered if they had mentioned any special vacation plans … .”
The man shook his head. “We are only colleagues. They would not have confided their plans to me.” He spoke rapidly and Fenimore detected a faint whiff of academic politics.
The man began packing up his books and papers, preparing to leave.
“Would you happen to know any friends of theirs who I might contact?”
He paused in his packing and frowned. “Ah …” He suddenly brightened. “Ilsa Tana
ek. She would know. Come.” Stuffing the remaining papers into his briefcase, he picked up his books and grabbed a shabby parka from a peg on the wall. Locking the door behind him, he led Fenimore to an old-fashioned pay phone tucked in a niche at the end of the hall. In America, every professor would have his own telephone—and probably a cell phone as well. Fenimore waited while Redik placed the call and spoke to someone in rapid Czech. Fenimore did not even attempt to follow his words. Finally the professor turned. “She will speak to you,” he said.
When Fenimore took the receiver, he was relieved to hear a woman's voice speaking in English, with only a slight accent. He explained his problem. The voice suggested they meet for coffee, and named a café near the University. To identify himself, Fenimore told her he would be carrying a small blue book titled
Byways of Prague.
The woman laughed heartily. “And I will be wearing a big red rose!”
After thanking Professor Redik profusely, Fenimore hurried from the building.
At last, I'm getting somewhere,
he told himself. The thought lent wings to his feet.

Other books

Beautiful Torment by Paige Laurens
Two Shades of Seduction by Monica Burns
Red Run by Viola Grace
Foxglove Summer by Ben Aaronovitch
Sun Signs by Shelley Hrdlitschka
Silverlight by Jesberger, S.L.
1 - Warriors of Mars by Edward P. Bradbury