The Doctor Dines in Prague

by Robin Hathaway

  Ilsa stopped in midstride.

  “Sometimes people are kidnapped for their knowledge,” he told her. “They know something that someone else wants to find out.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Some secret. The location of something valuable … . A treasure?” Fenimore thought of one of his earlier adventures.

  “Fairy tales,” muttered Ilsa.

  “What about a code? Sometimes people need to break a code.”

  “In wartime, not peacetime.” Ilsa squelched that idea.

  “I know,” he said angrily. “I’m clutching at straws.”

  “What?”

  “Straws—it’s an expression meaning … I’m so desperate I’m talking nonsense.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I’m afraid you are.”

  He thought of Vlasta’s medicine. Time was of the essence. Without his nitros and the longer-acting drugs, Vlasta could suffer severe chest pain—even a heart attack. It was so frustrating playing the tourist when time was short and so much was at stake. He only half-watched the quaint figures of the Apostles emerge through the little door above the Astronomical Clock.

  The sun had grown warm. They were washing down sausage rolls with beer, when Fenimore raised the subject of the thugs again. “Where do those toughs hang out?” he asked unexpectedly.

  Ilsa squinted at him over her foaming mug. “Some sleazy bars in New Town.” She shrugged. “Why?”

  “I want to go there.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? I’m not as feeble as I look. I’m trained in karate,” he challenged her.

  She shook her head. “You don’t know them. They’d make mincemeat of you. And how would you know if they’re the right thugs?”

  “It’s my only lead, Ilsa. And time is running out.” He told her about finding Vlasta’s medicine, and his heart condition.

  “But they’re just hirelings. They won’t be able to tell you anything.”

  “They can tell me who hired them.”

  Ilsa sipped her beer in silence. When she had drained her mug, she said. “Very well. But they don’t gather until late evening. We’ll go after the theater. Instead of aperitifs at Café Slavia, we’ll have cheap malt at Café Dábel.” She grimaced. Dábel meant “devil.”

  The high point of Ilsa’s tour for Fenimore was the St. Wenceslas Chapel. Housed in St. Vitus Cathedral, it was a fitting shrine for the Czech’s most venerated saint. According to Fenimore’s guidebook, the saint’s body was brought to this site in 935 A.D. But worship of him didn’t reach its peak until the 1300s—during the reign of Charles IV. The emperor hired his best architect and sculptor, Peter Parler, to design the chapel and the tomb.

  An iron grille prevented them from entering the sacred space, but nothing stopped them from gazing through the bars. Frescoes enhanced the altar and the vaulted ceiling was decorated with gold and silver stars and an elaborate chandelier. The walls were inlaid with polished gemstones—opals, rubies, and lapis lazuli. At the back, to the right of the tomb, was a golden door.

  “Behind that door lie the crown jewels,” Ilsa whispered with reverence. “See the locks?”

  Fenimore knew about the crown jewels. They consisted of a sword, an orb, a scepter, and a crown of incalculable worth. The crown had a special religious significance, too. Imbedded in one of its points was a thorn supposed to have come from Christ’s crown of thorns. Fenimore had learned all this from his mother. But the thing he remembered best was the curse. The emperor Charles IV had placed a curse on the crown: If someone wore it who had no legitimate right to it, he would die a swift and unnatural death. This legend had proved uncannily true during the German occupation of World War Two. Reinhard Heydrich, former SS general and vicious Reichsprotektor of Prague, had placed the crown on his head and paraded it in triumph before his children. A few weeks later, while driving to his headquarters, he had been ambushed and assassinated by members of the Czech resistance. Whenever Fenimore’s mother told this story, her eyes filled with tears. Not for Reinhard’s murder, but for the Germans’ subsequent act of retaliation: They destroyed an entire Czech town—Lidice—and executed many of its inhabitants. They also murdered many members of the Czech resistance. Fenimore felt cold, and not from the chill of the cathedral.

  “There are seven locks and seven keys to that door,” Ilsa continued. “For security’s sake, each key is in the custody of a different dignitary: the president, the archbishop, the lord mayor … The jewels are displayed only on state occasions. The last time they were on view was at the Proclamation of the Czech Republic in 1993.”

  As they passed from the dimly lit cathedral into the brighter square, Fenimore wondered when the crown jewels would next be displayed.

  He didn’t have to wonder long. Propped on an easel near the cathedral door was a yellow poster, announcing in thick, black type,

  The Canonization of St. Agnes

  April 3rd

  1:00 P.M.

  (Crown Jewels to be displayed)

  April 3. And today was the second! Should they come? The crowds would be terrific. He pointed out the sign to Ilsa. Her reaction was strange. She grew pale. Fenimore took her arm. It was trembling. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “It was so cold in there. Let’s walk. I just remembered, I have to make a phone call.” She led him at a brisk pace across the cobblestone plaza to a gift shop. “Go buy yourself some trinkets,” she told him. “I won’t be long.” She headed for a phone booth nearby.

  CHAPTER 15

  They were running late. Ilsa’s phone call had gone on for some time. She had seemed to be chewing someone out vigorously—and at length. Then, Fenimore had lingered over her medieval manuscripts at the Strahov Library. As a result there was no time for a leisurely Czech dinner (surprise! surprise!). Instead, they grabbed sandwiches at a street stall and rushed to the theater. The heading on the marquee surprised Fenimore: PRAGUE PUPPET THEATER: “CHARLES IV,” od REDIKA.

  “Redik, Redik … Why is that name familiar?” mumbled Fenimore.

  “Because you spoke to him yesterday at the University,” Ilsa said.

  Was that only yesterday? It seemed like years ago.

  “I hope you don’t mind not going to a traditional play,” Ilsa said. “But you were so enchanted by those puppets last night, I thought …”

  “Absolutely! I’d love to see a puppet show. Is Redik the chief puppeteer?”

  She nodded. “The best puppet master in Prague. It is his hobby. Tonight’s production is an old Czech legend he has re-created for marionettes, starring Charles IV.”

  “Fabulous. Lead on.”

  They entered the crowded lobby. The first thing Fenimore noticed was the absence of children.

  “Oh, in Prague many puppet shows are not for children. Some of the action is quite risqué.”

  “Hmm.” The evening was looking up.

  Ilsa had purchased excellent seats in the third row from which it was possible to see the smallest detail of the puppets’ painted faces and every stitch of their exquisite costumes. As the curtain rose, “the Emperor” was on his throne, dressed in a velvet cloak of midnight-blue, trimmed with creamy ermine. On his head he wore the Czech crown. The pasteboard jewels glittered and sparkled every time he turned his head. His face was not stern, but benign. All the facsimiles of Charles IV, in sculpture and paintings throughout the city, portrayed him as kindly, Fenimore realized. The eyes were the most striking feature of the puppets’ faces. They were larger in proportion to the rest of their features—almost bulbous—like in the sculptured figures that decorate churches and cathedrals. In both cases, the eyes were emphasized, to make them more visible from a distance, whether on a stage or embedded high in a church wall. Later, Ilsa told him that many puppet carvers were employed during the day as church sculptors, and puppet carving was a hobby, reserved for the evening hours. Most of the marionettes they would see tonight were over a hundred years old.


  As the Emperor sat on his throne, the Town Crier was brought before him bearing an important message: “There is no work in the land. The people have no money. They are roaming the countryside, begging for food. And conditions are worsening. People are starving. They have no bread for their families.”

  Charles IV became distraught. He bent his head, placing his wooden face in his wooden hands. From offstage, the plaintive music of a lute could be heard. Suddenly the Emperor raised his head. He had an idea. He stepped down from his throne and called for a conference with his Chief Ministers. They appeared in black robes, some with beards, all with large, staring eyes. Bending their heads together, they nodded wisely. Finally Charles emerged from the group and spoke to the Crier: “Take this message back to my people,” he said. “Tell them I want to build a great wall beside the river Vlatava, and I need many workmen. They should come to the Castle tomorrow at dawn. If they work well, they will receive enough bread to feed their families.”

  The Crier rubbed his hands together and took off, ringing his bell. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” he chanted as the curtain fell.

  When the lights came up, Fenimore also rubbed his hands together, pleased with himself. He had understood every word. The puppets’ language was simple. He was enjoying the puppet show more than he would have enjoyed a traditional play, he told Ilsa.

  She seemed pleased. Rising, she led him out of the row.

  Fenimore followed. “Where are we going?” He had expected to go to the lobby for refreshments, but Ilsa was heading down the aisle, toward the stage. She opened a door at one side of the stage. There was the smell of sweat, greasepaint, and tobacco. She led him to another door on which was stenciled REDIK in small black letters. Such small letters for the star of the show?

  Ilsa’s hand was poised to knock, when a voice on the other side thundered, “I am the Emperor—master of all!”

  Ilsa looked at Fenimore warily, to see if he understood. Fenimore made a pretense of bewilderment.

  “I am your master!” the voice bellowed, with such force that Fenimore involuntarily stepped back from the door.

  Ilsa frowned. “Rehearsing,” she whispered apologetically. She waited a moment before knocking.

  “Come in.”

  When they entered, Fenimore didn’t recognize the professor at first.

  Redik was stretched out on a chaise lounge, wearing a silk bathrobe, smoking a cigarette. “Ilsa!” He half rose. “I didn’t expect …”

  “Don’t get up.” She waved him back.

  A slim young woman in an abbreviated outfit—short shorts, a skintight tank top, and sandals—emerged from behind a screen. “I’ll be backstage, Jan,” she murmured, and headed for the door.

  Ilsa’s gaze followed her out and there was an awkward pause. Redik turned to Fenimore. “Now you see me in my other persona.” He laughed. “Cigarette?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Ah, that’s right. The Americans have repudiated the cigarette. More power to you.” He continued smoking.

  Redik seemed much more at home in his dressing room than in his office at the University.

  “Your puppets are marvelous,” said Fenimore.

  “You like them?”

  “Tremendously.”

  “Have you made any progress with finding your relatives?”

  Fenimore glanced at Ilsa. “No,” he said.

  “Will you have a glass of wine? Or is that outlawed in America, too?”

  “You make me feel like a Puritan. I’d love a glass of wine. A recent study has revealed that red wine—in moderation—is good for the heart.”

  Ilsa disappeared behind the screen and they heard the clink of glasses.

  “Where are your puppets?” Fenimore looked around the sparsely furnished room. Unlike most dressing rooms, this one lacked the usual clutter of makeup or costumes. The puppeteer needs neither thought Fenimore. No one expects him to dress up. He remains hidden from the audience until the very end, when he answers his curtain call. He could appear in workclothes—a pair of overalls and a sweatshirt.

  “They are hung on special hooks in a cupboard behind the stage. They are old and fragile. The less they are moved, except during a performance, the better.”

  Ilsa appeared with only two glasses of wine.

  “Wine may be good for the heart, but not for the mind,” Redik explained. “I need all my wits during a performance. Afterward I will drink to my heart’s content—to all our hearts,’” he added.

  “Yes, your wits have been slipping lately,” Ilsa muttered, unexpectedly.

  Redik glanced at her sharply.

  Fenimore wondered if Redik had been the recipient of Ilsa’s angry phone call. He had detected a certain animosity between the two since they had entered the dressing room. “How did you get into this puppet thing?” he asked Redik.

  “Since a boy, I have always loved puppets. The art of puppetry has a long and proud Czech history—stretching back to the Middle Ages … . In Bohemia many families had their own puppets and performed shows not just for children but whole villages. They were precious possessions—as valuable as the family silver. During World War Two they hid them in their cellar walls and chimneys.”

  There was a power in this man—a magnetic pull—that Fenimore had been unaware of before. It affected Ilsa, too, he noticed. Despite her former irritation, her gaze was fixed on him now, like a puppet to a string.

  “Under the Hapsburgs,” Redik continued, “the only theater in which the Czechs were allowed to speak their native language was the puppet theater. The official language was German. The authorities mistakenly thought puppet shows were too low to matter. They were wrong. The shows were full of buffoons making fun of the nobility, and they sowed the seeds for the later revolution.”

  “The Nazis weren’t so stupid,” put in Ilsa. “They stamped out puppet shows from the beginning.”

  “True, and so did the Communists,” said Redik. “You see, Doctor, the Czechs are always being oppressed by someone. We are not allowed to express our thoughts and feelings. We must go underground and let the puppets do it for us.”

  “But surely now—”

  “In 1989,” Ilsa broke in, “on the eve of the Velvet Revolution, Redik and other puppeteers took to the streets mocking the Communist regime with their puppets.”

  “But today there is no reason to use puppets for political purposes,” Fenimore reminded them. “You are free, and—”

  “You Americans have a puppet of your own,” Redik changed the subject. “The one Walter Disney made famous?”

  “Oh, you mean Pinocchio?”

  “Yes, the boy with the long nose,” said Ilsa. “It grew a little more every time he told a lie.”

  “But, that story originated in Italy—” A bell interrupted Fenimore.

  Redik sat up and crushed out his cigarette. It was time to go. Ilsa finished her wine. Fenimore followed suit. They thanked him and hurried back to their seats. Before the curtain rose, Fenimore asked, “Who was the young woman in the dressing room when we arrived?”

  “Ema.” Ilsa frowned. “An intern from the School of the Arts. She is studying under Redik and helps with the performances.”

  Act Two opened with Charles IV on his balcony. A group of peasants was gathered beneath him, cheering. The Emperor made sweeping gestures and spoke with eloquence. He told them The Wall was coming along well. People were eating again. He was pleased. He would never allow his people to go hungry again. From now on, the wall would be called “The Bread Wall.”

  Cheers. One man’s voice rose above the others. “Dkuji,” he cried. (“Thank you.”)

  The Emperor bowed. As he did so, his crown fell off.

  There was a gasp from the real audience as well as the crowd of puppets.

  The man who had spoken caught the crown. (No mean feat for a puppet!)

  “That’s Kasparek,” Ilsa whispered. “The clown.”

  Twisting and turning the circle of jewels, Kasparek stared at i
t. The Emperor reached down, expecting the man to hand it back to him. Instead, he deliberately placed it on his own head.

  Again the audience gasped.

  The man pranced around the stage, doing a two-step and crowing. “I am the Emperor. I am master over you.” He waved at the crowd. After circling the stage, he pointed upward—at the Emperor: “I am your master!” He laughed.

  The crowd made a lunge for him as the curtain fell.

  “When is the risqué part?” asked Fenimore.

  “Now,” said Ilsa, “this is a little something extra—a soupçon, if you will. It has nothing to do with the main story.”

  The curtain rose again, revealing two puppets—a peasant man and woman. The woman shouted something at the man. The man pulled out a stick and began beating her with it. She ran across the stage. There was a haystack on the other side. She disappeared behind it. The man followed. When they came out, they were both naked. The man knocked her down and they fornicated then and there. The puppeteer pulled their strings in perfect unison. They were still at it when the curtain fell. The audience roared.

  “A porno Punch and Judy,” said Fenimore. He was surprised to see Ilsa blush.

  In the lobby, as they sipped their orange drinks, Fenimore grew restless. Glancing out the window, he saw the tram lights glowing in the dark. The bar where Ilsa had promised to take him would be filling up. He was itching to get going.

  Act Three. The curtain rose on the Emperor sitting alone in his tower. Bare-headed and clad in a simple white robe, he looked weak—vulnerable. He was grieving for his people. Without his crown, he said, he felt impotent, unable to take care of his kingdom. The Ministers organized a search party to look for the thief. Soldier puppets in gleaming armor roamed the hills and dales. A solemn drumbeat accompanied their search, the thief was nowhere to be found.

  Darkness fell. Suddenly, the window in a cabin at the back of the stage, which had gone unnoticed before, lit up. Inside, the silhouette of the thief could be seen, still dancing, still wearing the crown in the yellow square of light. Slowly the soldiers approached, surrounding the cabin. The head officer pounded on the door. “Otevid!” he cried. (“Open!”) The light in the window went out. All was dark and silent on the stage, for what seemed to Fenimore to be a very long time. But the audience remained perfectly still. When the scream came, Fenimore almost jumped out of his seat.