Read The Doctor Dines in Prague Online

Authors: Robin Hathaway

The Doctor Dines in Prague (10 page)

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.
“Otev
id!”
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.
During this intermission, Fenimore challenged Ilsa. “There's something wrong with the plot,” he said. “Shouldn't Kasparek be the good guy? He always was, in the tales my mother told me.”
Ilsa cocked an eyebrow at him. “In the old days that was true.” She drained her glass and set it down. “Times change.”
The next scene was the Castle. Charles IV appeared in full regalia, wearing his crown. He was hosting a ball. It was a lavish celebration. The castle hall was filled with people dining, drinking, and dancing. The Emperor moved through the crowd, nodding to the people, greeting them with all the grandeur and geniality of a good and great ruler. The lute player sat at the base of the stairwell, playing for all he was worth. The people danced on and on. At last, the Emperor stepped forward and made a deep bow to the real audience. But this time he held on to his crown with one hand.
The audience went wild. Fenimore detected all the fervor of a recently oppressed people. To them the crown represented the restoration of their country and all that it stood for.
But Fenimore felt vaguely dissatisfied with the play. Something was lacking. Shouldn't there have been more emphasis on freedom—and independence?
The curtain closed, the clapping and cheering died down. But no one made a move to leave. The curtains parted and Redik stepped out. In a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt he seemed smaller than ever. Removing his glasses, he bowed slightly. Once again, the audience erupted. Fenimore glanced at Ilsa. Her eyes were fixed on the puppet master, but her expression was inscrutable.
T
he visit to the Poe House was a great success. With one exception. While they were waiting in line for tickets, Horatio accidentally hit the woman in front of him with his yo-yo. Not hard. He was just practicing a new trick called “Slurp the Spaghetti” and one of the slurps glanced off the back of the woman's calf. She let out a yelp, turned and glared at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Put that thing away,” ordered Mrs. Doyle.
An earnest young woman guided them through each of the rooms in the creaky old house. Mrs. Doyle suspected the ghost of Poe was lurking in every closet. In one room there was a desk by a window, with an ink well and an old quill pen resting on it. The guide told them the great author had looked out that very window when he had penned “The Pit and the Pendulum.”
Now, how could she possibly know that? Mrs. Doyle wondered.
At the end of the tour they watched a video of Basil Rathbone reading “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Its awful beats echoed in their heads long after the film was over. Mrs. Doyle worried that Marie would have nightmares.
But the high point of their visit was the Raven, perched on a
pedestal in the backyard, its black wings spread. Here, the guide recited the first three stanzas of the poem by the same name with emotion. Mrs. Doyle shivered at each “Nevermore.” But the somber refrain had little effect on her two companions. Horatio yawned repeatedly. Marie hunted for dandelions in the spring grass.
When the tour was over, Horatio and Marie announced they were hungry. Mrs. Doyle remembered a diner on Spring Garden Street, called Silk City. As they walked, Marie repeated the name, “Silk City, Silk City.” She liked the way the foreign words slid off her tongue. She also liked the diner. Diners were a novelty to Marie. A strictly American invention. And, unlike McDonald's, they had not yet crossed the Atlantic. She loved the gleaming coffeemaker behind the counter, the cakes and pies displayed under their plastic covers, the cozy booths, and especially the chance to play her favorite songs by dropping a coin in the slot of the jukebox at her elbow. There was something very satisfying about putting a coin in a slot and getting something you wanted in return. Maybe
that
was at the root of gambling, the reason Atlantic City was such a success, thought Mrs. Doyle.
She had a moment of nostalgia, remembering the old Automat on Market Street and what a kick she had gotten from dropping her nickels in the slot and getting a piece of moist apple pie, a pot of steaming baked beans, or a dish of creamy rice pudding. Her memories were interrupted by a tug on her sleeve. Marie was calling her attention to the waitress who stood patiently by, waiting for her order.
“Apple pie, baked beans, and rice pudding,” Mrs. Doyle said.
The waitress raised an eyebrow. “All at once?”
“No,” Mrs. Doyle said briskly. “One after the other.”
The woman jotted down the order and took off.
Horatio and Marie had a battle over which songs to play. He wanted rock 'n' roll; she wanted country music.
“How can you stand that sh—” He caught himself in time. “ … corny stuff?”
“What's ‘corny'?” Marie asked.
Mrs. Doyle eagerly awaited Horatio's reply.
“Old-timey. Hayseed. Hicksville.”
Looking even more mystified, Marie said simply, “I like the tunes.”
They listened to country music.
It was almost four o'clock when they got back to the house. They had taken two buses and one of them was long in coming. The youngsters went directly into the waiting room–turned–rec room where Horatio could demonstrate his latest yo-yo tricks without injuring anyone. Mrs. Doyle climbed the stairs to her bedroom “to take a load off my feet.” It was almost seven when hunger pangs woke her and she went downstairs to prepare supper.
The first thing she saw was Jennifer's note on the kitchen table. She shoved the sugar bowl aside and read:
Dear Friends,
By the time you read this I will be on my way to Prague. The doctor said he wanted those letters delivered as fast as possible and I was able to book a flight. You seemed to be getting along so well, there was no reason for me to stick around. I'll be back next week. Take care.
Jen
“
Humph
. She could have
told
us,” muttered Mrs. Doyle. “I wonder if she told
him
? What a surprise … .” The romantic in the nurse stirred as she imagined their meeting. Mrs. Doyle had been in love once. She thought of her husband, Ed, fondly. They had had their share of surprises. She remembered the time—
“What's for dinner?” Horatio stood in the doorway.
Ever since Marie had arrived, he seemed to have become a full-time boarder.
“Have you called your mother?”
“She knows I'm here,” he said nonchalantly.
Mrs. Doyle wasn't too surprised by Horatio's willingness to spend time with Marie. He had brothers and sisters, but they were all older.
He had never experienced the heady sensation of having a younger sibling who looked up to him and whom he could order around. It had its appeal.
“Can we have ice cream?” Marie had become addicted to that Philadelphia specialty.
“Shoo!” Mrs. Doyle sent them both out of the kitchen and told them to set the table. Here she was, supposed to be on vacation, and she was working harder than ever. As she molded the hamburgers, she hummed a few bars of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
N
ové M
sto, or “New Town,” did not look very new by American standards. In fact, it was built in the late seventeenth century, right around the time William Penn was laying out Philadelphia. There were more bars and restaurants in this section of Prague than in other parts of the city. Ilsa forged ahead, steering Fenimore from the swanky tourist watering holes to a string of shabbier, seamier bars and taverns.
Fenimore spotted the motorcycles first. Row upon row were double-parked along the curb. They gleamed purple under the glow of the neon sign—CAFE DÁBEL. When they were still a block away, Ilsa stopped and placed her hands around Fenimore's neck. For a moment he thought she was going to do something impulsive. Instead, she merely stripped off his tie, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and rumpled his hair (what remained of it).
“Hey!” he objected.
“You don't want to stand out too much,” she told him. She produced a compact, lipgloss, and mascara from her enormous tote bag, and began to work on her face. She coated her lips with gloss and tinted her eyelashes with silver. Removing the tortoiseshell comb that held her hair neatly in place, it fell loosely around her shoulders.
Finally, she gave her blouse a yank, baring one ample shoulder.
Fenimore stared. “Medieval scholar becomes ‘lady of the night,'” he said.
“Like it?” She batted her silver lashes at him and formed her shiny lips into a sultry pout.
“Holy mackerel!”
She looked perplexed—unsure whether to be pleased or hurt.
“Sorry. That's an American expression.” He grabbed her hand. “Let's go.”
The noise of the café reached them when they were still a block away. Ilsa paused again. “Now, listen,” she warned, “don't start talking to people and asking too many questions. We go in, drink for a while, blend in with the crowd. See what's going on … .”
“‘Get the lay of the land,' as we say in the States.”
She nodded. “And let me start the conversations. You play the strong, silent type for one night. Could you smoke a cigarette?”
He grimaced.
“It would help your image.” Once again, she burrowed into her tote bag and came up with the necessary equipment. A crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches.
He frowned. “Do you … ?”
“Once in a while,” she said blandly, stowing the cigarettes and matches in his shirt pocket. “Come on.”
A tidal wave of noise, smoke, and the odor of stale beer washed over them. Anxious to play his part well, Fenimore found himself thinking of Horatio—his role model. How would he act?
Stay cool
… . ! He could hear the teenager's familiar drawl.
Don't walk
—
slide. Don't sit
—
lounge. Don't talk much
—
grunt.
Never
smile
.
Thuggery, the world over, was much the same.
They edged between the close-packed sweaty bodies, their eyes smarting from the smoke, their ears throbbing from the noise. Ilsa spied some people vacating a table near the bar. She pushed him into it. He leaned back languidly, letting his eyes slide over the other customers. Too John Wayne-ish. He sat up and grabbed a passing waiter,
“Dv
Plzn
,”
he ordered. He slipped a cigarette from the
pack and let Ilsa light it for him. Catching her eye above the flame, he saw that she approved of him. After his first inhale, he coughed, nearly spoiling it.
He asked where she had learned her knack for being a quick-change artist.
“I always wanted to be an actress,” she said. “But there's not much demand for Brunnhildes who can't sing.” She glanced ruefully down at her ample chest and belly.
That explained her interest in Redik, thought Fenimore. She had transferred her love of the theater to the puppet master and his hobby. She was living her dream vicariously.
As they drank and smoked—Ilsa had lit up, too—Fenimore noticed some of the scruffy youths eyeing her, despite her girth. He also noticed that he didn't like it. One especially muscular specimen leaned down from his barstool and spoke to her. She shook her head, keeping her eyes on Fenimore. The youth shrugged and returned to his beer. Most of the clientele was male—youths between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five. Although decorated with tattoos and earrings, they had none of the colorful, swashbuckling air of real pirates. There was something gray and sticky about them—like leftover oatmeal. How would he find out anything from them?
Noting his depressed expression, Ilsa reached over and pressed his hand. Soon she rose and disappeared. To the restroom, Fenimore guessed. He ordered two more beers from the bar. When he turned back to the table, Ilsa's empty chair was occupied. He wanted to tell the interloper to beat it, but the fellow was bigger than he was, and not quite sober. He decided when Ilsa came back, the situation would take care of itself.
It didn't. When Ilsa came back to the table, the man stayed put, ignoring her. Fenimore had to do something, but without causing a confrontation. He rose and gave Ilsa his chair. As she settled into it, he went to the restroom. While there, he tried to think what to do next. The restroom was not conducive to thought. It was filthy, and stank. When he returned, he was surprised to find Ilsa and the
stranger talking animatedly. As Fenimore approached the table, she shot him an eye signal:
Stay away
. He turned his back and ordered a beer from the bar.
He finished the beer before turning to see how things were progressing behind him. Ilsa sat alone, staring morosely into her glass. She seemed more than a little drunk. He joined her. To his horror, she began to cry. “Take me home,” she pleaded. They rose and he ushered her through the crowd, which had grown thicker since they had arrived. As they walked down the street, Ilsa leaned against him, keeping her head low.
“What's wrong?” Fenimore whispered.
“Nothing. But we may be watched,” she whispered back. Not until they had passed from the purple glow of the café sign to the darkness beyond, did she move away and become herself again.
“What happened?” He was on pins and needles.
“That man knew one of the hirelings.”
“What?”
“It's not that much of a coincidence,” she said. “Apparently, the kidnapping story has been circulating for some time. They all know about it. The thugs responsible bragged about it at the bar for days … .”
“But who hired them?”
“Some syndicate. They thought your cousins were involved in drug trafficking—infringing on their territory.
“Oh my god.”
“I know. Can you imagine Anna and Vlasta dealing drugs? They were kidnapped to teach them a lesson.”
Fenimore paled. “Who is behind this syndicate? How can we find them?”
“He wouldn't tell me. When he found out I wasn't going to leave with him, he shut up like a clam.”
“How could such a thing happen?”
“Misidentification? It happened all the time under the Communists. The wrong people getting killed … .”
Fenimore stood still.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” She touched his arm contritely.
“That's all right.” He squeezed her hand. “You found out a lot, and I'm very grateful.” As they walked on, he wondered how he was going to deal with this new information.

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