The Doctor Dines in Prague

by Robin Hathaway

  Marie opened a drawer under the counter and drew out a business card. With a sly look, she gave it to him.

  PIZZERIA, it read, with an address and telephone number.

  Before he could stop her, she reached for the phone and began dialing. Midway, she paused. “Sýr nebo párky?” she asked.

  “Sýr,” he said quickly, proud that he recognized the word for “cheese” as well as “sausage.”

  She redialed and ordered a large cheese pizza. It wasn’t until she had hung up that Fenimore wondered if the phone was tapped. He decided not to worry about it. Exhausted from their earlier attempts at communication, they waited for the pizza to arrive in companionable silence.

  The delivery boy came much faster than his American counterpart would have. He came down the back alley to the kitchen door. Marie must have instructed him to do this. Smart child. When the knock came, they both jumped. Marie ran to the door, but Fenimore stepped in front of her and peered out the window. Outside stood a boy with a bicycle, balancing a large, square cardboard box. Who else could he be? Fenimore opened the door.

  “Pizza?” The boy grinned at him.

  Fenimore drew several bills from his pocket, while Marie took the box. When the boy began to make change, Fenimore put up his hand. “Keep the change.”

  “Dkuji,” he said. (“Thank you.”) The boy had understood perfectly.

  When Fenimore closed the door, Marie already had opened the box and was tearing off a slice of pizza. She began shoveling it into her mouth. How long had it been since she had had a square meal? What if he hadn’t come? It didn’t bear thinking about. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. This was the first time he had ever had pizza before noon. Ruefully, he detached a slice for himself.

  Her first slice finished, Marie opened the paper bag the boy had brought. She drew out two large red-and-white paper cups with COKE printed on the sides. She had thought of everything. She handed him a straw and poked another into the lid of her cup. As they sipped and munched, Fenimore thought, ruefully, how different his first meal in Prague was from the one he had dreamed about … .

  CHAPTER 6

  The whole time Fenimore was eating, he was thinking—planning what to do next. He had to start looking for his cousins. And he had to start tracking down the two men with the gun. The trail was already cold. But he couldn’t leave the child alone. He knew no one in Prague, except her parents: his cousins. And they obviously were not available. There was the super. But Marie had not turned to him once for help, since her parents had left. There must be a reason … . He was stuck.

  Brring. Brring.

  Short, staccato rings. Like gunshots. Marie and Fenimore faced the telephone as if it were a loaded gun. Fenimore moved to answer it, then thought better of it. What if it were tapped? But it might be Jennifer. He had given her the number and she had said she would call. They sat staring at the phone, listening to it ring.

  When it fell silent, Fenimore grew restless. He paced the kitchen. Then he paced the apartment. He had to get moving. He had to get out of there, if only to buy food. He felt helpless. He needed help—even if it had to come from the States. He went to the phone and picked up the receiver. Replaced it and resumed pacing. His eyes roved over the living room, searching for an answer to his predicament. Books, lamps, an old-fashioned clock, a sofa, two overstuffed chairs, a desk … and a computer. Following his gaze, Marie came and sat down in front of the computer. She hit the mouse. The screen glowed instantly with the card faces of her most recent game of solitaire. She began to play.

  E-mail! thought Fenimore. “E-mail!” he said aloud.

  The child looked at him.

  In halting Czech he asked if she could send e-mail.

  With the swift touch of a few buttons, she called up the e-mail screen.

  Fenimore scratched his head. What was Jennifer’s e-mail address? She had mentioned it once, but since he didn’t own a computer he had had no reason to remember it. He went to the phone again. This time, he dialed. Jennifer answered. At the sound of his voice, she said, “You made it!”

  “What’s your e-mail address?” he asked, without preamble.

  “You’re not using a computer!” She laughed.

  “This is an emergency,” he said shortly. “What’s your address?”

  She gave it.

  “As soon as I hang up, I’m going to send you a message. Please answer right away.”

  “What’s wrong, Andrew?” Now she was alarmed.

  “Read my message.” He hung up.

  Fenimore took Marie’s place at the computer. Marie showed him where to type the address, then pointed him to the message space. With two fingers, he slowly began to type on the Czech-alphabet keyboard.

  I need help. Marie’s parents were kidnapped at gunpoint. I found her alone in the apartment, living on crackers and canned goods, hiding in the stove! I can’t look for her parents or their kidnappers because I don’t dare leave her alone. Please contact Mrs. Doyle and ask her if she will come over here and baby-sit—all expenses paid. Rafferty can get her a plane reservation. Get back to me as soon as possible.

  P.S. I am using e-mail because the phone may be tapped.

  Helplessly, Fenimore turned to Marie who had been watching at his elbow.

  She grabbed the mouse, placed the arrow on the SEND box, and clicked. The message disappeared. At last Fenimore was catching up with the electronic age.

  While he anxiously waited for Jennifer’s answer, Marie taught him how to play solitaire. Fenimore played while Marie kibitzed. After half an hour, he asked her to check the e-mail messages. Blank screen. Fenimore traded places with Marie and she began to play. But he didn’t kibitz. He was too preoccupied.

  An hour passed before they checked the mailbox again. This time there was a message.

  Dear Doctor,

  We’re all here at the bookstore.

  That explained the delay!

  I’ve read your message and I have a suggestion. Why don’t you send the child over here? I can take much better care of her where I can speak the language and I know the ropes.

  Best wishes,

  —Kathleen Doyle

  P.S. This is Jen. If you want, I could come over and baby-sit. My passport is up-to-date and I could leave tomorrow.

  P.P.S. Hi, Doc. Rat here. I’d be glad to come over. I’ve never been on a plane.

  P.P.P.S. “Meow!” (Me, too!)

  P.P.P.P.S. That was Sal.

  Had they taken Sal to the bookstore?

  Doctor—Doyle again. Don’t forget to get Marie a passport.

  As if I would!

  Send plenty of warm clothes. It’s still cold here even though it’s almost April. And if she has a favorite toy, be sure she brings it. She may be homesick and a doll or a stuffed animal would help.

  How does Doyle know that? Then Fenimore remembered: His nurse was from a family of eight and she had oodles of nieces and nephews.

  Make a sign for her with her name on it to hold up at the airport. We don’t want to miss her. We’ll wait here at the bookstore until you send her plane’s arrival time.

  So, Doyle’s “suggestion” was already a fait accompli!

  P.P.P.P.P.S. I TOLD you, you should get a computer! Jen

  That was all.

  Fenimore typed “PASSPORT” on the e-mail screen.

  Marie looked puzzled.

  Frustrated, Fenimore reached for the dictionary. In Czech, passport was pasport. He typed, “PASPORT BUREAU.”

  “Ne, ne,” Marie said, and with a few keystrokes, took him to the Web. When www appeared, she typed, czechpasportbureau.com. After a brief pause, the Web page for the Czech Passport Bureau appeared, with instructions on how to apply in many languages: Czech, German, French, Russian, and English.

  Magic, thought Fenimore, and cursed himself for being such a computer dunce.

  He learned that in order to get a passport for Marie he must supply her birth certificate and a photograph. The latter would be ea
sy, but the former might be hard. He read on. There was an application form and the address of the passport office in Prague. At the end was the warning: “Processing a passport takes three days.”

  Three days! Fenimore groaned.

  Marie showed him how to download the application and print it out. He laid it aside and asked her to find him some U.S. airline Web sites. He found a plane that left Prague in three days. He ordered a one-way ticket and paid for it with his Visa card. He relayed this information to his friends in Philadelphia. After he had sent the message, he looked for Marie. She had vanished. He went to her room. She was lying on her bed, clutching her teddy bear.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  For answer, she rolled away from him—onto her stomach.

  He went and sat on the bed. “Marie?”

  She looked up, her dark eyes wet with tears. “Neodjíždj,” she pleaded. (“Don’t leave.”)

  In her distress she had reverted to Czech.

  “Oh, my dear …” He reached for her hand. “You don’t understand. I’m not going. You are. To America!” He grinned, sure that this news would make her happy.

  She drew her hand away. “Ne,” she said into her pillow. “I want to stay with you.”

  Fenimore took a pad and pen from his pocket and began drawing. “How would you like to see this?” He showed her his crude picture of the Liberty Bell.

  She shook her head.

  He drew again. “How about this?” He showed her a picture of Betsy Ross hard at work on the flag.

  No response.

  In desperation, Fenimore reached for the bear. “What’s his name?”

  “Jiri.” (“George.”)

  “Look, Jiri.” He showed him both pictures. “You want to go to America, don’t you?”

  With a little help from Fenimore, Jiri nodded yes.

  “I know what you’d like to see.” Fenimore drew again.

  At the sight of his relatives, Jiri clapped his paws.

  Marie peered hesitantly at the picture.

  “How ’bout it, Jiri?” Fenimore bounced the bear on his knee. “You can have pretzels, and cheese steaks, and ice cream—the best in the world!”

  The bear jumped up and down, clapping his paws.

  “But you can’t leave Marie.”

  Jiri looked at Marie and shook his head. He touched her hand with his paw and, in a gruff, bearlike voice (which only slightly resembled Fenimore’s) said, “Come on, Marie. Come with me to America!” He began jumping up and down again.

  The glimmer of a smile crossed the child’s face.

  Fenimore placed Jiri in her arms.

  She hugged him to her chest.

  Fenimore asked, in his normal voice, “Is it a deal?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Is it okay?”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  CHAPTER 7

  That hurdle over, he tackled the passport problem. “Where do Mama and Papa keep their important papers?” he asked Marie, praying she didn’t say, “In the bank.”

  She led him into the master bedroom and pointed under the bed. He peered under and saw a strongbox. He dragged it out and blew off a thin coating of dust. It was locked.

  “Key?”

  She looked puzzled.

  Fenimore imagined having to lug the box into a field and blow it up with a stick of dynamite. He retrieved the dictionary. “Klí?” he said.

  She brightened and led him into the kitchen. On a nail, beside the door that opened into the alley, hung a ring of keys. Fenimore had probably looked at it a dozen times since he arrived—without seeing it. Quickly, he fingered through them—door keys, car keys, closet keys, trunk keys—until he came to a small, nondescript key, cut in the shape of the letter E. It looked just right. He took it into the bedroom. A perfect fit. He turned it and lifted the lid of the strongbox. Inside lay a pile of legal papers wrapped in a large rubber band. A will, a document donating various organs to various organizations, three insurance policies—two life, one car—a marriage certificate, and three birth certificates. Marie’s was on the bottom. “Eureka!” he cried, waving it in the air.

  Marie giggled.

  Hurdle number two had been scaled. Now for number three. “Photographs?” he said.

  Marie led him to her mother’s closet and pulled out a cardboard box. Inside were three hefty photograph albums and numerous packs of loose photos. He groaned at the thought of going through all of them. Marie reached into the box and drew out a large yellow envelope. Inside was a recent eight- by ten-inch picture of Marie and six wallet-sized pictures. They were taken at school this year, she told him.

  Praise the Lord, thought Fenimore. He planted a kiss on top of her head and slipped two of the smaller pictures into his pocket.

  Next, with Marie’s help, he filled out the passport application form. It was a laborious task—communicating his questions and interpreting her answers. But, with the aid of the dictionary, they got through it. He had taken the precaution of writing it in pencil first, then inking it over. When it was finished, Fenimore sat back with a sigh and looked at his watch. Good grief! All this passport baloney had taken almost three hours! It was two-thirty; the passport office closed at four o’clock, and it was on the other side of town.

  An unpleasant thought struck him. What if someone was watching the apartment? If the phone was being tapped, the apartment might also be under surveillance. No one must know that Marie was here. But the government never would issue her a passport without seeing her in person. Somehow he had to smuggle her out. But how?

  “I’m hungry!” Marie handed the pizzeria card to Fenimore.

  His stomach contracted. He glanced at his watch. Almost three! But the last thing he wanted was a pizza. As he stared at the card, slowly his grimace reshaped itself into a broad grin. “Can you ride a bicycle?” he asked.

  Puzzled, she nodded.

  Poor kid probably thinks I’ve flipped, thought Fenimore. With the help of the dictionary and a few awkward sketches, he outlined his plan.

  Milo, the pizza delivery boy, was more than happy to help out. Their pizza had been the last delivery of his shift. For ten dollars, all he had to do was lend his white cap, his jacket, and his bicycle to Marie, and stay in the apartment playing video games for two hours—about the time it would take them to go to the passport office, do their business, and return. The jacket was too big for Marie, but with a sweatshirt underneath it didn’t look too bad. Her jeans and sneakers were much the same as the boy’s. But she had to do something with her hair. It was shoulder-length. Marie solved the problem by pulling it back into a ponytail and tucking it up under the cap. Fenimore inspected her closely. A bit young to be delivering pizza, but she would ride by in a flash, and since the spy would not be looking for a pizza delivery boy, they probably wouldn’t give her a second glance.

  The plan was for Fenimore to leave first, by the front door. Go to the pay phone at the corner and call a taxi. When the taxi arrived, Fenimore would call the apartment, let the phone ring twice and hang up. That was the signal for Marie to leave by the back door, ride the bike down the alley and around the corner to where he would be waiting. Fenimore would store the pizza uniform in a shopping bag and they would take the cab to the passport office. But, what about the bike? They couldn’t leave it on the curb. Prague, like any big city, had petty thieves. Fenimore decided that ten minutes after Marie left, Milo should leave by the back door, stroll around the corner, and pick up his bike. Then he would ride it back to the apartment and park it in the alley. Fenimore found the key to the back door on the ring of keys, detached it, and gave it to Milo. Fenimore checked to make sure he had everything: passport application, birth certificate, photos, and shopping bag. Before leaving, he looked down the alley one last time. It was empty, except for a line of dark-green trash cans.

  Everything went according to plan. There was no trouble at the passport office, either. By the time Fenimore and Marie returned home, it was dark, and Fenim
ore thought it was safe to let the cab drop them at the entrance to the alley. When they knocked at the back door, Milo, immersed in his video game, took a while to answer. After the third knock, the boy came to the door. Fenimore was a nervous wreck. But he gave the boy his ten dollars in korunas, thanked him for his help, and ordered a sýr pizza to be delivered at noon the next day.

  Exhausted, Fenimore fell asleep on the couch early, but Marie—excited after her first day out in over two weeks—stayed up, playing solitaire late into the night.

  CHAPTER 8

  Fenimore woke early, feeling refreshed. Marie slept on. This gave him some time to work out the breakfast problem. He had not gone to the store yesterday for several reasons. First, his time had been taken up with passport drivel; second, he was afraid to leave Marie home alone and he was also afraid to take her with him. Either one was risky. And he couldn’t ask Milo to come to their rescue again. And the thought of pizza for breakfast made his stomach lurch. He opened the kitchen cabinets one by one, scanning their meager contents. A giggle interrupted him. Marie stood in the doorway, staring at his legs. He looked down. All he had on was his long johns. He had removed his trousers the night before to avoid wrinkling them. After all, they were brand new.

  “In America, this is what everyone wears to bed,” he told her with a straight face. “Here.” He took out the flour and sugar and made stirring motions with his hand, indicating she should find him a bowl and spoon.

  Marie quickly produced both, and a measuring cup as well. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. A night’s sleep in her own bed had done wonders for her. She had told Fenimore that she had slept in the oven on a pile of towels every night, because she had been afraid the man with the gun would come back.