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.
CHAPTER 4
To Fenimore’s disappointment, at customs he had no opportunity to try out his Czech; the clerk spoke perfect English. At the end, after surreptitiously consulting his guidebook, Fenimore ventured, “Odkud jede autobus?”
“Over there.” The clerk pointed to a bus, clearly visible through the window, parked at the curb.
Chagrined, Fenimore put his guidebook away. Before getting on the bus, he called his cousin’s number from a pay phone. As usual, there was no answer.
The trip into the city was another disappointment. Row after row of gray, utilitarian apartment buildings, stretched out on either side. Constructed during the last thirty years, they were depressing reminders of the Communist era. Some even displayed graffiti. Fenimore was glad his mother couldn’t see them. Turning his attention to the passengers, Fenimore strained his ears to hear some Czech spoken. But the people seated in front of him were German, those behind him were British, and the people across the aisle—who looked the most Czech—appeared to be married and had no need to talk to each other. Fenimore gave up and stared out the window at the stream of gray, nondescript buildings.
The bus driver let Fenimore off a few blocks from his cousin’s apartment, in a placid suburb on the outskirts of town. It didn’t look much different from some areas of West Philadelphia. There were plenty of trees, wide cement sidewalks, and trolley tracks embedded in the asphalt. As Fenimore walked, checking the house numbers, a trolley passed, clanging its bell. It sent a wave of nostalgia over him. The trolleys in Philadelphia had been replaced by buses long ago. He missed their cheerful clanging.
Anna’s apartment house was also gray, but of an earlier vintage—from before the Soviet reign. Topped by a green copper roof, its tall windows were decorated with floral designs engraved in stone. When Fenimore pressed 1E, his cousin’s number, there was no answering buzz. He pressed 1A, hoping to rouse the building superintendent. He was about to give up, when a harsh buzz made him jump. His nerves were not what they should be. He pushed open the door. The long hall was somber, but neat. Dark green carpeting, gray walls, and a large mirror on the right. Midway on the left, a door stood half-open. Sounds of a television came from within. Fenimore made his way toward it. As he poked his head in the door, a stout man slouched in front of the screen, glanced up. A wrestling match was in progress.
“I’m looking for Anna Borovy in one-E,” Fenimore said, forgetting to use his Czech.
“Not here,” the man spoke in Czech. “I haven’t seen her for over two weeks.”
By concentrating hard, Fenimore was able to make out “Not here” and “two weeks.” He consulted his guidebook and explained in halting Czech that he was a relative who had come all the way from America and he would like to make sure she had not returned. The man, taking note of Fenimore’s new suit (chalk one up for Mrs. Doyle), rose and led the way. At the end of the hall, he turned left. At the third door on the right he knocked.
Silence.
“Mrs. Borovy?”
More silence. The superintendent raised his eyebrows at Fenimore.
With a nod at the door, Fenimore indicated that he would like to go in.
With another overt appraisal of Fenimore’s suit, the man drew a ring of keys from his pocket. Selecting one, he inserted it. Fenimore noticed that the man’s meaty, freckled hand swallowed the key. As the door swung open, Fenimore found his heart racing. You’ve been involved in too many murder mysteries, he admonished himself. What met his eye was not a body, but a tidy living room, conservatively furnished, decorated in neutral tones of gray, beige, and brown. He stepped inside.
The super shook his head with a frown.
“It’s okay.” Fenimore assured him with a smile.
The man gestured at the door.
Fenimore debated. Bribery did not come easily to him. He reached for his wallet. The super’s frown miraculously disappeared. Waiting until the man’s footsteps had died away, Fenimore quietly closed the door. He preferred to do his snooping in private.
One wall was entirely taken up by a bookcase. A book lover by nature, Fenimore naturally gravitated toward it.
Mostly hardback, academic tomes on Czech history and architecture. A few novels. One mystery—an Agatha Christie in Czech! And here, at the end of the row, a bulky manuscript. He pulled it out. Somewhat dog-eared and coffee-stained, the cover page read:
The History of Prague
—People and Architecture—
by
Vlasta and Anna Borovy
Anna had mentioned in her letters that she and her husband were coauthoring a book. Fenimore riffled though the text, pausing near the center at a thick cluster of photographs bound by a rubber band. Flipping through them, he glimpsed some of the splendid buildings of Prague. He drew out a photo of the façade of St. Vitus Cathedral. And another of the Wenceslas Chapel where the crown jewels were stored. He must visit that, he told himself—but not now. Now he had other things on his mind. He returned the manuscript to the shelf and continued his search of the apartment.
The dining room was also immaculate. Not a crumb on the carpet or a chair out of place. His mother’s sister’s child had inherited all the good housekeeping traits of the family. Unfortunately, they were limited to the female side. Through a narrow hallway, he continued toward the back of the apartment. He passed two doors, side by side. Behind one lay a tub, shower, and sink; behind the other—a toilet. According to European custom, the latter was separated from the rest of the bathroom.
Then he came to the master bedroom. It had a double bed, two bureaus, a large bookcase, and a straight-backed chair. A print of an abstract design hung over the bed. The top of one bureau was empty. The other had a woman’s brush and comb, a china dish filled with trinkets, and two framed photographs. The largest photo was a formal grouping of the family in sepia tones. Anna, Vlasta, and Marie. Marie looked about four years old. He glanced at the smaller of the framed photos and drew a sharp breath. His mother, father, brother, and himself stared back at him in stark black-and-white tones. Fenimore had been about twelve. His brother, Richard, was ten and still shorter than Fenimore; his unexpected growth spurt didn’t occur until he was in his mid-teens. Since then, Richard had towered over Fenimore. The rest of the family was smiling, but Fenimore wore a scowl. He hated to have his picture taken. It reminded him of his prominent ears.
The second bedroom was much smaller, containing a single bed, a bureau, and a small bookcase. A well-worn teddy bear lay on the bed and the lampshade was decorated with a border of dancing children. Marie’s room. The beds in both rooms were neatly made-up and the curtains drawn. There was a feeling of disuse about the rooms—as if their occupants had been away for some time.
Fenimore felt shy about opening the closets. Odd for a detective—even an amateur one. It was one thing searching a stranger’s rooms. Quite another to ransack a relative’s home. He forced himself to open the door of the child’s closet. Several dresses hung in a row. The kind children had worn to school in the States in the 1960s, before jeans and T-shirts took over. Several pairs of jeans were folded on a shelf at the back, next to a colorful pile of T-shirts. And on the floor were three pairs of shoes. A pair of brown leather school shoes, a pair of patent-leather shoes for dress-up, and a pair of top-of-the-line sneakers. His relatives were solvent, Fenimore decided. How strange that he should measure their financial status on the basis of a pair of sneakers—shoes that had cost ten or twelve dollars when he was a boy, before Madison Avenue had elevated them to a luxury item. The closets in the master bedroom yielded nothing but the usual assortment of dresses, business suits, shoes, and sandals.
As Fenimore wandered back through the hallway, he realized he was hungry. Turning left, he passed again through the small dining room and followed a short hallway into the kitchen. For the first time, his eyes were assailed by color. A huge, ceramic stove glowed a bright yellow in one corner. It had been polished to a high gloss and its brass fixtures shone. In winter, such a large stove could probably heat most of the apartment. He ran his hand lightly over the smooth surface with pleasure. His mother had told him about these stoves. They were one of the things from her childhood that she missed. Her family had had a sea-green one, she had told him. There were two ovens. The smaller one, on the top, was used to bake delicate pastries for special occasions such as birthdays and holidays. The larger one, at the bottom, was used for baking everyday things like rolls, bread, or coffee cakes. When his mother was a girl, she used to curl up on the floor beside the stove and do her homework. “The smell of baking was such a comfort,” she told him.
The thought of bread baking increased his appetite. He decided to search the kitchen—not for clues, but for food. Turning from the stove, he glanced at the kitchen counter and was startled to see a bottle of apple juice and some crackers. The bottle was half-empty and one of the crackers had a small bite out of it, as if nibbled by a mouse. He stared at the remnants of this small meal. No female member of his mother’s family would ever leave half-eaten food on a kitchen counter before going out, he thought. And certainly not if she was planning to be away for two weeks!
“Ah-choo!”
Spinning ninety degrees, Fenimore fixed his eyes on the stove.
Silence.
Had he imagined that sneeze? Keeping his eyes on the stove, he fumbled behind him for the knob of a drawer. Pulling the drawer out, he rooted inside. When he felt the sharp edge of a knife, he grabbed it. He listened a minute more, before quietly edging his way toward the stove. In a split second, this beautiful, shining purveyor of comfort and warmth had turned into a menacing monster. Knife raised and ready, Fenimore yanked open the larger oven door. Nothing happened. He bent to look inside. At first, everything looked black. Slowly, something began to take shape. A mound of old rags wedged into the space? Fenimore prodded it gently with the point of the knife.
“Ow!”
Jumping back, Fenimore watched the mound become a small figure. Slowly a pale face with two dark eyes emerged. The child in the photo!
“Marie?”
She crouched in the opening, her eyes full of fear.
“Come out,” he spoke softly. “It’s your cousin … Andrew. I won’t hurt you.”
She seemed unable to speak or move.
“Where are your parents?” Then he remembered: she probably didn’t know English. “Where are your parents?” he repeated, in fluent Czech—and had no idea where the words came from.
Her head drooped down on her chest and she made her first sound, a harsh sob.
“My dear child.” Taking hold of her hands, Fenimore gently helped her climb down from the stove.
Marie’s feet had barely touched the floor before she placed her finger to her lips and hissed, “Shhh.”
Fenimore looked at her in surprise. He had been racking his brain for Czech words in order to make conversation with her. What had happened to that fluent sentence he had produced a second ago? Under stress, all the vocabulary his mother had taught him seemed to be at his command. Now his mind was blank again. The human mind is a peculiar thing.
Marie ran to the back wall of the kitchen, the one that adjoined the next apartment. She touched the wall and pointed to her ears.
“Someone might hear?” Fenimore whispered, in English.
She nodded. She did know some English. They must teach English early in the Czech schools. He took a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket. Placing it on the counter he began to draw stick figures. A man, a woman and a little girl. He wrote names under them. Mama. Papa. Marie. Then he circled the Mama and Papa figures and wrote, Kde? (“Where?”)
Tears filled Marie’s eyes. They were beautiful Czech eyes, deep-set and brown. The warm brown of autumn leaves. Taking the pen from him, Marie drew two stick figures. Men with round heads. She added an object to the stick-hand of one of the men. A gun.
CHAPTER 5
“When?” Fenimore asked loudly, forgetting that he might be overheard.
Marie cautioned him again. Then she wrote the date—day, month, and year—European style.
The child had been living alone in this apartment on c
anned food and crackers for over two weeks!
Fenimore took the pen from her. Carefully, he drew a picture of a sumptuous feast—including all the delectable Czech dishes he had been dreaming of since he left Philadelphia, the land of the pretzel and the cheese steak.
Carried away, he even drew a stein of beer and wrote Pilsner beneath it. Hastily, he crossed it out and replaced it with an ordinary drinking glass and wrote mléko (“milk”), under it.
Marie grabbed the pen, crossed out the picture of the glass of milk, and drew a can. She wrote COKE on the can.
Fenimore raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
For the first time, Marie smiled. It was the most beautiful sight Fenimore had seen since he had arrived in Prague—a city famous for beautiful sights.
“Let’s go!” he whispered, reaching for her hand.
The smile vanished and she shrank back.
“What’s wrong? I’ll take you to a restaurant. Res-taur-ant!” he repeated. That word, at least, was almost the same in every language.
She shook her head and slapped the kitchen counter.
“Here? You want to stay here?”
She nodded.
He opened the refrigerator. Empty, except for a bottle of ketchup, half a petrified lemon, and an open can of baked beans. The cupboards revealed two cans of peas, a bag of flour, and a jar of partially crystallized honey.
The Doctor Dines in Prague Page 2