Lost and Found in Prague (20 page)

“Does anyone else know the truth?”

“The nuns came in to dress the Infant for the Holy Saturday services, and then, yes, of course they knew. They know the little Infant as if he were their own child. I’ve spoken with them, explained what I did and why.”

Father Borelli attempted to put all this together, to determine if finally Father Ruffino was telling him the truth. “But why, Beppe, when I arrived, did you not share this with me? Do you think I’m so stupid that—”

“How did you know? The replica is quite authentic, particularly looking up from in front of the altar.”

Father Borelli sighed. “That’s a complicated story in itself; let’s just say it involved a small theft, then an unauthorized visit to Our Lady Victorious.”

He detected a small smile lifting the corners of Beppe’s mouth. “I’m sorry, Gianni, that you had to go through this. I know I should have told you, but once I began the lies, the first led to another, then another. In my insanity, I thought you would locate the thief—it is this Pavel Novák?—you would tell me where to find him, I would go and speak to him, the Infant would come home. I know . . . I know . . . I wasn’t thinking right. And now . . . something else.”

“Something else?” Giovanni asked.

“I received a note.”

“Concerning the Infant?”

Beppe nodded.

“A threat?”

“Possibly.” Again Beppe buried his head in his hands.

“What did it say?”

Father Ruffino closed his eyes, and, reluctantly, yet as if he had memorized the words, he recited the message. “‘Remain silent and it will be returned and no one will suffer. Otherwise it will be destroyed.’”

“The Infant?”

“There could be no other possible explanation.”

“How did this note come to you?”

Beppe glanced around, more customers having arrived. But the chatter among those at the other tables would have made it difficult for anyone else to hear the priests’ conversation.

“We have a website,” he said, and Giovanni nodded, aware of this. “One of our brothers, Brother Marcello, maintains the site, but he checks it infrequently, perhaps a couple of times each week. With the Easter holidays, I don’t believe he had looked at it for several days. Not knowing the significance, he brought this e-mail to me.”

“These things, I believe, can be traced. We need to find out where it came from. When was it sent?”

“Early Friday morning. But I did not read it until . . . it was Wednesday.”

“The day we met at the church, had our discussion in the garden?”

“Yes, early that morning Brother Marcello brought me the message.”

“So you decided to continue your lies? The note warned you to remain silent?” Father Borelli saw that as a threat in itself.

“Perhaps I should have told Investigator Damek everything in the beginning, allowed the Easter services to be performed as a sideshow. Or perhaps not at all.” He rubbed his damp forehead nervously, and then lowered his eyes. He looked up at his friend. “Will you hear my confession?”

“Not yet,” Giovanni replied. “None of this will be protected under the seal. We must share with the police everything you have told me.” He placed his hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder, and then in the forgiving voice he used in his confessional, he said, “Let me tell you what we have discovered so far. Then we will proceed from there.”

Dana woke for the second time that morning. Glancing at the bedside clock, she couldn’t believe she’d slept so late. It had been an exhausting several days, but she still had much to do before she could return home. She showered and dressed, then grabbed the convent keys on the nightstand and went to the closet to get her handbag. She opened the safe to gather what she’d need for the day. When she reached in she could see, along with her wallet, her passport. Damek had left without it.

Her face burned, her chest compressed at the thought of him. What a fool she’d made of herself. She’d hit him, grabbed him, kissed him. He’d resisted. But he’d taken her to her room with such tenderness. She’d fallen asleep, exhausted. What did he think of her now? And yet, she knew they had shared with each other emotions they each guarded closely. His son, a miracle. Hers, lost.

Attempting to dismiss these thoughts, she left the room, grabbed a cup of coffee in a disposable cup from the breakfast room, and stepped out of the hotel. Sunday—lunch with Caroline at the convent? Sipping as she walked, she headed down Nerudova. She wanted to talk to the old men who hung out at the square before meeting with her cousin. And the children—no, it was Sunday, and they wouldn’t be passing by on their way to or from school. She wanted to know if anyone in the neighborhood had seen the man who’d come to sharpen knives and scissors. Though Borelli didn’t think much of her theory, and she’d not even mentioned it to Damek, Dana thought it worth checking out.
L’arrotino
—could he possibly have a connection to Pavel Novák?

Just as she’d hoped, they sat lounging on their bench in the morning sunshine. Recognizing the old man with the dancing eyebrows, wearing the same sweater, same tweed cap, she waved and approached with a friendly smile.

“Dobrý den,”
she said.

He returned her greeting, but Dana wasn’t sure he recognized her.

“There was a man,” she began, though she recalled he didn’t speak English.

All three listened intently. The youngest, who she guessed was in his early seventies, nodded, his eyes narrowing. The fellow sitting on the end of the bench smoked a pipe. He took in a deep suck, then blew out a circle of smoke.

“He was here to sharpen scissors and knives . . . ?” she added.

“English? American?” the oldest said as if he didn’t recall their earlier conversation. She wished the children were there to help her.

Dana made a motion with her hand, like a scissors—which reminded her of that old scissors, rock, paper game she used to play with her brothers—then a knife cutting motion, then sharpening as if using a whetstone.

The men chatted with one another, each possibly offering his own interpretation of what she’d said. The pipe smoker laughed, slapping the oldest man on the back in an affable way. She could see now, none of them spoke English. English English or American English.

“Maria?” she asked, and then, “Jan?” Dana guessed the children lived close, and maybe they could help.

The man smoking the pipe, the one she had decided was the most friendly and likely the most helpful, nodded and smiled. He pointed to himself with two open hands.
“Dedecek.”

She didn’t understand.

“Maria, Jan.” He extended a hand, palm down, then lowered it a couple of inches as if to indicate the children’s sizes. Then, tapping his heart, he said,
“Jsem dedecek.”

“Dedecek?”
she questioned, and then she realized this must be the word for grandfather.

“Maria and Jan?” she repeated, glancing around.
“Kde?”
Where?

The man stood and motioned her to follow. The other two remained on the bench.

They passed through the small square, toward the largest building on the opposite side, circled around, down a narrow street. A boy on a blue bicycle passed by. A black dog ran out in front of them and jumped playfully up on the old man, who gave it an affectionate pat. They walked slowly, he drawing on his pipe, puffing out circles of smoke. They turned another corner, then down a tiny street that dead-ended. The old man stepped up on the concrete porch in front of the last door. He set his pipe on the ledge that ran under the window as if it had been placed there just for this purpose. He knocked, calling out in a loud voice, “Maria, Jan,” as he gazed up at the second-floor windows, lined with planters filled with early spring blooms—tulips and daffodils. He knocked again with the rhythm of more words.

A plain-looking woman about Dana’s age opened the door and stepped out. A half-eaten apple in one hand, she gave the old man a hug. “Papa,” she said. Then her eyes slid toward Dana, her brow furrowed with confusion. Father and daughter exchanged several words, and the woman turned back and called out, “Maria. Jan.”

Within seconds the boy stood at the door, tucked protectively under his mother’s arm. “Good morning, Jan,” Dana said. “I need your help.”

“Yes, I help,” he said brightly.

“There was a man”—Dana started in slowly—“he came to the convent, to the nuns.”

“Yes,” he said, leaning in toward Dana, his mother’s arm still wrapped around his shoulder.

“He came to sharpen the knives and scissors.”

She could see by his puzzled look he did not understand.

The old man said something rapidly to the boy, along with the pantomime Dana had enacted just minutes before—cutting scissors, slicing knife. The child nodded as if he understood.

“Yes, a man,” the boy said, then looked up at his mother for reassurance. The woman nodded encouragingly. “I see this man.”

“Dana Pierson.” Another small voice came from the doorway, and now Maria stood by her mother’s side. The woman looked surprised that the girl knew Dana’s name.

As they exchanged quick words, the mother looked at Dana, offered a smile as if her mind had been set at ease. Maybe the girl had explained that Dana was a friend of Sister Agnes. She imagined the nuns were well respected and trusted, and some of this might transfer to Dana. Little Jan spoke to his mother, then the grandfather. Then, again, Maria to her mother. Czech words flew right over Dana’s head.

“What did this man look like?” she asked the boy.

“The man,” Jan said, “he tall, like this.” He raised his arm to a half foot above Dana’s head, which might have been a stretch for the boy had he not stood one step above her in the doorway. “He not fat.” He held out his arms, then pulled them in. “He thin.”

Dana remembered the copy of the Internet photo she had in her bag—Pavel Novák. She pulled it out. “This man?” she asked, pointing.

“No,” the boy replied without hesitation.

Dana felt a weighty disappointment settle over her. But, of course, Pavel Novák would be much older now; maybe he looked nothing like this—a photo from twenty years ago.

“Like this, but older?” she asked with encouragement.

The boy shook his head. “No. The man have some big hair. It not black color like this man,” he said with confidence. “More like white color. He wear hat with big hair, like this.” The boy cupped his hands just above his ears.

The grandfather studied the photo now. “Karluv most,” he said, pointing at the image of Pavel.

“You saw him?” Dana asked. “On the bridge?”

The man nodded.

Dana turned to the boy. “Your grandfather saw this man on Karluv most?”

The boy spoke to the old man, whose head bobbed up and down enthusiastically.

“But older?” Dana asked. “This man, but older?”

“No,
not
older,” the boy said emphatically. “This man just like this man. The same.”

The grandfather was continuing the little game of charades as he played an invisible flute, a bass, trombone, finishing with an air guitar. The children watched, Maria’s eyes wide, Jan covering his giggles with spread fingers.

Was the grandfather telling her that this man in her photo was one of the musicians on the bridge? Dana wondered. She’d walked over it so many times over the past few days. Was Pavel Novák right before her eyes, under her nose, entertaining the visitors in Prague?

The old man poked an assertive finger at Pavel in the photo, as the boy said, “Young man, same like this in photo. He play . . .” Jan couldn’t come up with the word, but imitated the grandfather, strumming a guitar.

According to Damek, Pavel had disappeared years ago, and Caroline had written that he’d left the city.

Young man?
Dana wondered.

Suddenly, she realized that the man the grandfather had seen on the bridge could have been Pavel’s son, Václav. He would now be near the age his father had been in the photo. The woman at the bar the previous night had told Dal the boy was a musician.

Maria said something to her brother, who in turn said to Dana, “My sister see other man. Man who come to sharpen.”

“Yes, I see the man.” Maria joined in now. “The man who come to . . . to . . .” She made a cutting motion with her fingers.

“At the convent?” Dana asked.

Maria nodded. “I see other place also.”

Dana realized they were speaking of two different men. The young musician on the bridge—possibly Pavel’s son, Václav—and a second person, the man who had come to the convent to sharpen the knives and scissors.

“Where did you see him?” Dana asked.

Maria consulted her brother, the two children carrying on an animated conversation. Then the mother joined in.

Finally Jan said, “Near the Staromestské námesti. It is a shop for . . .” He held up his hand, wiggling his fingers as if something dangled below, attached to them. “Marionettes!” he exclaimed.

“Maria saw this man in a shop near the Staromestské námesti?”

“Yes.”

Attempting to calm her voice and slow the pace of her questions, Dana asked for a description, some directions. After much discussion among the four—grandfather, mother, and children—Jan described where the shop was located, tracing a map on his hand. No one seemed to know the exact street or the name of the store, but with this general information, Dana thought she could find it, though there were numerous such shops in the city.

After thanking them all for their help, Dana returned to the convent square, attempting to put all of it together and decide what to do next. It appeared that Pavel Novák’s son was a performer on the bridge, the sharpener also a shopkeeper near the Staromestské námesti. But did either have any connection with the Infant’s disappearance?

Was it possible that Václav looked like his father had twenty years ago? As she walked, Dana thought of how much her younger brother looked like their dad, and then a thought came to her—his voice was identical to her father’s. Had Sister Claire heard Václav speaking in the church and recognized this voice, thinking it was Pavel? Had she merely recognized a voice identical to one she’d heard on a recording entitled “Laterna Magika”?

Dana glanced at her watch, then in the direction of the river. She had time. If she hurried, she could make it to the bridge and back again by noon.