The Doctor Dines in Prague
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
The Journey
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
The City
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
TRYST ENDS IN DEATH OF TWO
Also by
The Feast
EPILOGUE
Notes
Copyright Page
To Václav Havel,1
playwright, statesman, philosopher … scooter-rider
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deepest thanks to my editor, Ruth Cavin, my agent, Laura Langlie, my husband, Bob, and my daughters, Julie and Anne, for their generous advice and moral support. And special thanks to Vít Hoejš for his book, Czechoslovak-American Puppetry, published by GOH Productions/Seven Loaves, Inc., in 1994, and to William Keyes for his essay “‘We Were—And We Shall Be’: Puppetry and Czecho-Slovak Politics, 1860–1990,” and to Milan for his essay “The Marionette Proud and Dignified,” both of which are included in this beautiful book.
PROLOGUE
While going through his mail, Dr. Andrew Fenimore came across the latest issue of the Prague Times, which is the only Czech newspaper published in English. Fenimore subscribed to it in order to keep in touch with Prague, his mother’s beloved native city. One day, he promised himself, he would brush up on his Czech and subscribe to a bona fide Czech newspaper. He had even bought some Berlitz tapes. But that day had yet to come.
As he perused the paper, a headline caught his eye:
TOWERKEEPER PLUNGES TO DEATH
The story went on to tell about the unexplained drowning of Tomas Tuk, who had guarded the tower of the Charles Bridge for over thirty years. It was his job to warn visitors of the danger of falling from the top and to make sure the tower was vacated at closing time. Apparently Mr. Tuk had fallen accidentally from the tower. There were no witnesses to his fall.
“Hmm.” Fenimore stroked his chin. Odd, that a man who had guarded a tower for thirty years—and was familiar with its dangers—should have such a freak accident. Defenestration was historically a favorite murder method used in that part of the world, Fenimore recalled. There was the uprising, in 1618, when Czech Protestants tossed a whole bunch of Catholic dignitaries from a window in Prague Castle. That incident had started the Thirty Years War. And, more recently, in 1948, it was suspected that Jan Masaryk, son of Thomas Masaryk—the former president of Czechoslovakia—had been pushed from his bedroom window by Communist thugs. There was no window involved in the Towerkeeper’s case—just an open archway—but the principle was the same.
Taking a pair of scissors from his desk, Fenimore clipped the article and filed it under S: STRANGE CASES. Crime detection was a hobby of the doctor’s and his STRANGE CASES folder was overflowing.
The Journey
And I may dine at journey’s end …
W. B. Yeats
CHAPTER 1
With the telephone receiver tucked under his chin, Fenimore continued packing. As he listened to the repeated staccato rings—European, not American—his anxiety rose. After a dozen rings he hung up.
He had been calling his cousin, Anna, in Prague, every day for two weeks, to no avail. He had assumed she and her family were away—at their summer cottage. But three nights ago, when he had called at four A.M.—Czech Republic time—the receiver had been lifted for a split second. No one spoke. He detected no sound of breathing. And as soon as he said, “Hello,” the receiver was replaced. That was when he’d decided to go to Prague.
It seemed crazy, even to him, to take such a long trip simply because someone didn’t answer the telephone. But he had a strong feeling that something was wrong—call it intuition. And he couldn’t let it go. He owed it to his mother to look into it. Anna was his mother’s sister’s only child, and his mother and her sister had remained very close, despite the geographical distance that had separated them for all those years.
He had been in closer touch with Anna recently because her husband, Vlasta, was ill. He suffered from angina—a suffocating pressure in the center of the chest caused by too little blood getting to the heart. They had been making plans for him to come to the States for a complete cardiac evaluation. Then, suddenly, they had dropped out of sight.
Some people might wonder why Fenimore didn’t notify the Prague police. This did not occur to him. Since he’d been a small child he had heard his mother’s tales of the police. The secret police. The gestapo under the Nazis; the KGB under the Soviets. These stories had come from his mother and her family in Prague, and they had remained indelibly engraved in his mind. Despite all the noise about police brutality in the United States, the fear of the police in the States was nothing to the terror of the police in Central Europe. Although the Czechs had been free of Communism for over ten years, there had been very little retaliation—or purging of the old guard. (Czechs, by their nature, are not a vengeful people.) Some thugs from the former regime still held positions in the bureaucratic ranks. Most were probably doing a good job, but Fenimore could not bring himself to call on the Prague police for help.
Only a few things remained on the bed to be packed. A green-and-black tartan bathrobe—faded and frayed. Well, why not, after a dozen years of wear? But it was still warm, and no one ever saw him in it, except Jennifer, and she didn’t care about such things. A pair of bedroom slippers, once lined with something warm and fuzzy, but now bare. And a battered shaving kit. He placed these items into the shiny new suitcase that lay open on the end of the bed. His friends had presented him with the bag the night before at an impromptu bon voyage party. His decision to go to Prague had been sudden and there had been no time to plan anything more elaborate. His good friend Detective Rafferty had brought the champagne. Mrs. Doyle, his nurse, had made the cake. Horatio, his teenage office helper (also known as Rat), had decorated the office with red and green streamers (the only ones available in Fenimore’s “party drawer”). The boy had also ransacked a thrift shop and come up with an old poster of an ocean liner (although Fenimore was traveling by plane), which he had tacked on the wall. Jennifer, Fenimore’s frequent companion (he refused to use the more trendy “significant other”), had organized the whole thing.
His biggest problem—getting someone to cover his patients while he was away—had been easily solved. Larry Freeman, a cardiology colleague, had offered his services as
soon as he heard Fenimore’s destination. But Freeman had his price: Fenimore had to take a photograph of Franz Kafka’s house for him. Fenimore eagerly agreed, only to remember that he didn’t own a camera. Mrs. Doyle offered to lend him her old box camera, but Jennifer bought him one of the new disposable kind. “It’s lighter and easier to carry,” she said. “And if you lose it you won’t feel guilty for the rest of your life.”
There was no denying it, the new suitcase was handsome. But much too extravagant. Fenimore would have preferred a more economical backpack. Not because he was hip or into camping out, but because he had few clothes and paid little attention to his appearance. He didn’t think much of his looks. Short, middle-aged, verging on bald, with prominent ears—when confronted by his image in the mirror, he had been heard to mutter, “You certainly won’t win any beauty contests.”
“How do you know?” Jennifer had retorted once when overhearing him. “You have very expressive eyes, artistic hands, and a certain … indefinable charm.”
“Humph,” he said, and his ears turned bright red, which did nothing to enhance them.
The only things left on the bed were his traveler’s checks, his passport, and his plane ticket. He glanced at his watch. Four-thirty. In a few minutes Jennifer would arrive to take him to the airport. Since she didn’t own a car (a real city girl), they had agreed she would drive his. He had one ordeal to face before he left. As if by extrasensory perception, that ordeal sidled into the room. Sal, his marmalade cat, had sensed impending doom for three days. Now she realized it was imminent. She hopped on the bed and investigated the foreign objects lying there. Fenimore stroked her back and scratched under her chin.
“Now, don’t mope,” he said sternly. “You’re in good hands.” He had arranged for Horatio to stop by once a day to replenish her food and water and change her litter box. “I’ll be back in two weeks,” he assured her. “Before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”
Her two, sharp, answering mews, Fenimore was sure, would translate into “Jack Robinson.” As she leapt to the floor and wrapped herself around his ankle, the doorbell rang. Hastily disentangling himself, Fenimore picked up his suitcase and started down the stairs. With a final glance around his office and waiting room, he made for the front door. Sal was close on his heels. When he reached the vestibule, with a single adroit motion he shoved his suitcase in front of him and shut the vestibule door behind him, leaving Sal on the other side—an act that had taken years to perfect. An indignant “Rowrrr!” was the last sound he heard as he stepped outside.
CHAPTER 2
“Dobré 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 palainky 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.
G
etting 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.
CHAPTER 3
When 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.