Lost and Found in Prague (13 page)

Banik.
The name came to her as she brushed her teeth, though it had been playing around the periphery of her troubled sleep all through the night. She had awakened several times, and it felt like he was right there beside her, on top of her, pushing himself into her. When finally she slept deeply, then woke, it was almost nine.

Yes, his name was Branko Banik. If she could find him, maybe she could find Pavel. Sister Claire’s services, according to Borelli, were scheduled to begin at ten, so time wouldn’t allow for a run up to the Internet café for research. Because of Damek’s following her last night this probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. Surely the hotel had a computer for guests to check on travel plans and flights.

She stopped at the front desk to inquire and was led to a room no bigger than a closet. A boxy, ancient-looking computer sat on a desk. A sign taped to the wall requested guests limit use to checking flight information. If she had any problems, the clerk told her, please come back to the desk.

Without difficulty she found numerous references to Branko Banik, most in Czech. The computer froze up every minute or two and it took forever to open the sites listed. She could have read a book during the time it took to translate. Branko Banik was well-known in the Czech Republic for his business dealings—primarily music and entertainment production. Several photos revealed he had not lost his swagger, though the rebellious beard had been shaved, the longish rocker hair neatly trimmed. But it was the same man. His image, the memories, sent a quick shiver through Dana. She’d never shared the events of that evening with anyone. She was jotting down a business address and number when the system crashed. Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d have to leave soon. She thanked the clerk on her way out and took off for the convent.

Finding a bench at the far side of the square, she had a perfect view of the front of the building. She didn’t want to linger too close to the convent entrance in case others were attending the funeral, though she guessed it unlikely that a childless, ninety-plus-year-old woman who’d spent nearly her entire life as a nun would have many friends or family left. Perched on the bench, gripping the edge to calm and anchor herself, Dana gazed down the street, then up into windows, checking for Damek.

At the far end of the square she noticed the old man who’d helped her the first day she came to the convent. He sat conversing with two other elderly men. One sucked on a pipe, blowing circles of smoke into the air. Dana envisioned Caroline, along with the other nuns, heads bowed in prayer, solemnly filing into the chapel. She checked her watch. It was now ten. No one had entered the convent through the front door. If anyone else had come for the services, they were now inside the building. Just to play it safe, she waited until five after, then looked around again, making sure no one was watching or had followed her. She glanced toward the opposite side of the square. One of the old men stood and left; the two others sat for several more minutes before they rose, crossed the square, and shuffled down the street. It was eight minutes after ten. She guessed she still had at least an hour. She stood and walked up to the iron gate, and when everything looked clear, she unlatched it, hurried to the door, turned the knob, pushed, and walked inside just as easy as that. Borelli had come through for her.

A long, dark hall stretched out before her. A worn, gray rubber mat covered the stone floor at the entry. Scents of ancient stone and incense mingled in the musty air. Vaguely she heard chanting—sweet, melodic voices drifting from the chapel, which sounded like it was located at the other end of the building on this lower level. She crept as quietly as possible, noticing a faint squeak from her rubber-soled shoes as she proceeded along the bare stone. Adjusting her step, careful to lift each foot, she continued on. Maybe she should remove her shoes. Barefoot Order of the Carmelites, Dana thought with a nervous inner chuckle. God, she felt jittery. What was she doing here? She moved quietly down the hall, peering in the first open door to the right, which appeared to be an office. She stepped in, glanced around. A crucifix on the wall, three arched windows, all frosted glass. A movement outside caused her to jump, but she quickly realized it was just the branch of a tree.

She went to the desk and pulled out the narrow top drawer, searching for a key. Finding one, hidden among a pile of paper clips in a divided tray, she decided it was too small for a building key. She was sure it wasn’t the church key. Could it be the lock to the altar box? No—it appeared to be for the lock on the file cabinet built into the desk. She slid it in, turned it, and opened the upper drawer, finding it full of files. Lifting one out she guessed—from what appeared to be a name, along with several dates—it was one of the nun’s personal files. With shaky fingers she flipped through several sheets that seemed to contain medical information, including prescriptions. She opened the file labeled
CLAIRE
. The last entry was made several months back. Though Dana could not make out most of the Czech words, she knew Aricept was a drug used in the treatment of Alzheimer’s patients. This seemed to confirm the nun had some memory loss, just as Borelli had suggested, and Dana wondered if searching for Pavel Novák based on the old nun’s words was a waste of time.

She opened the second drawer and found several hanging file folders. She really needed to get on with her intended task—finding the keys to the church and altar box, which surely wouldn’t be stashed here in a file cabinet. Yet, curious, thinking she might possibly find something inside the convent to point them in the right direction, something that might be more valuable than the words of an old nun with dementia, she opened the first file. Filled with bills. A few of them had business logos. From the hammer and saw images on one, she guessed it had come from a carpenter or repair person. Another, with wrench and pipe, a plumber? It seemed the nuns’ quiet contemplative life required physical upkeep just like everyone else’s.

Suddenly she had a thought. Father Borelli had suggested that someone outside the convent or monastery might have somehow gotten a key. Of course, entry could be gained into the convent by a person coming to do repairs or maintenance. She checked the dates on the top receipts. The only one within the past two weeks was a generic-looking bill without printed logo. Then she found another, dated a day later, same type of receipt, same scratchy handwriting. She needed copies. Her eyes darted around the room and landed on a copy machine. No quill-penned manuscripts in this convent. But if she turned on the copy machine, it might be noisy, and it might take forever to warm up. She slipped the two small receipts in her pocket, closed the drawer, relocked the upper file drawer, and placed the key back where she’d found it.

She left the room and walked down the hall, coming upon what appeared to be a library. She stepped in and surveyed the shelves of books, which she guessed to be religious tomes. No desks, no drawers, nowhere she might look for a key. She returned to the hall.

She came to the cloister, an open area surrounded by a columned, arched, covered walkway. Sounds of the city filtered through the cloudy sky hovering above the grassy square. Traffic on the street, a man calling out, words unclear. Continuing on, creeping along the open corridor, at the far side she found a staircase. From the music, the chanting, she knew she was very close to the chapel. She glanced at her watch. Ten twenty-seven. Borelli said the services would last at least an hour, probably an hour and a half. She started up the stairs. Hard, cold stone, no creaking loose boards here. When she got to the top, she found another small desk in an open corridor, much like the one in the office. The drawer was locked but a box sat on top. She opened it to find an assortment of tangled headsets and CDs. From the labels, affixed with small stickers, she gathered they contained sacred music—many titles in Latin, among them “Ave Maria.” Lenten and Christmas songs, church music.

Quietly she continued down the hall; it was lined with doors. She peered into one. A small bed, covered with a plain gray blanket, stood against one wall. A door on the other—maybe a closet? A small bureau with three drawers. She stepped in, opened the closet to find a nun’s habit and a simple faded white tunic. A nun’s entire wardrobe. A spare habit and a nightie. She was touched with guilt at this invasion. These were women who had chosen a simple, private life, and Dana was an intruder.

Yet she knew she had to keep up her search. She’d made an irrevocable decision as soon as she opened the convent door. She went to the bureau and pulled out the top drawer. A rosary and prayer book. Writing paper and envelopes, neatly stacked. A small container of pens and pencils. The second drawer contained undergarments, the last some shampoo, toothpaste, a wrapped bar of soap—all the things a woman would need for minimal care. She moved down the hall, past a bathroom. Then past another room, and another. The nuns’ chanting voices were low and quiet, and she imagined she was above the chapel, the notes muffled by the layer of stone between the two levels. She wondered which room was Caroline’s, Sister Agnes’s. No nameplates on the doors, no telltale posters or photos on the walls—this wasn’t exactly a college dorm. She stepped into the last on the left and opened the small bureau. The most recent letter she had sent to Sister Agnes sat on the top. More letters underneath, some from her aunt, Caroline’s mother. The next drawer was filled with personal items—toothpaste, shampoo, soap, deodorant. Sanitary pads. Caroline—Agnes—a woman still, though a woman who had chosen to give up the possibility of children. Dana remembered how she and her cousin used to share their secrets as girls during those weekend sleepovers, reading naughty romance books with a flashlight under the covers, talking about boys, about love, about how babies were made, how they would grow up to be mothers. Caroline had voluntarily given this up. Dana had not.

The lower drawer contained underwear, white cotton bras and panties, then, hidden in the bottom, a half-empty box of red licorice, Caroline’s favorite. Her cousin’s secret stash? Dana smiled. The girl still had a bit of the rebel in her.

And underneath, a CD with most of the label scratched off. A corner of color remained, the pale green strangely familiar. Dana flipped it over. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Caroline had sent her a copy of this CD years before, recordings of musicians who’d been active during the revolution. Dana had listened to it then, but it had been long ago and she hadn’t understood the Czech lyrics. Song titles and artists were listed. She felt her breathing deepen as she scanned the list. Then everything stopped abruptly: her breathing, her heartbeat. The title,
Laterna Magika
. The artist, Pavel Novák. Dana knew she could not dismiss the old nun’s words. This was it—the connection; the musician’s name, the title, the exact words spoken by Sister Claire. She tucked the CD into the waist of her jeans, fingers shaking, and then put everything else back in order and crept out into the hall.

She arrived at the kitchen, which smelled of the previous night’s dinner—fish, she guessed. Not a pleasant smell, though she could also detect the scent of toast. Large aluminum pots sat on shelves above a stove. Dishes were arranged in the cupboards, visible behind glass panels. The refrigerator hummed. She could no longer hear the nuns’ voices. Again she glanced at her watch. If Borelli had calculated correctly, she still had time. They were probably only halfway through the Mass now. She pictured the nuns taking Communion, palms pressed together, fingers pointed heavenward, heads bowed in prayer.

Off to the right of the stove, she noticed a door, then another at a right angle to that, which she guessed led to the staircase that led to the hallway that led to the back door, which, according to the young girl, Maria, the nuns used in their daily comings and goings. Dana walked over to the stove and glanced through the first door into a small narrow room, the pantry. Cans and boxes, bottles of oil and syrup, napkins, and paper towels sat on the shelves. She turned and noted a small table next to the second door. A small dove-shaped water font hung to the right of the door. She walked over. The nuns’ voices started up again, and Dana could imagine the priests gathered around, reciting the final prayers, sprinkling the old nun’s casket with holy water. A large, round, ceramic container filled with black umbrellas sat on the floor next to the small table. Stacked on the bottom were several books and magazines. The top held additional books, a box of paper and pencils, and a phone book, though she could see no phone.

She heard a sound, a door lightly hitting a wall. Her heart jumped! She turned. A cat, up on the counter, arched its back, pushing against the cupboard door.

“Shh . . . shh,” she whispered. The animal leaped down and sauntered over on padded feet along the carpet runner on the stone floor. It rubbed up against her leg, creating a spark of electricity. She gave the cat a little pat. It was black, brown, and white—the colors of the Carmelites’ habits, which she found rather amusing. It moved gracefully along the floor, finding a bowl next to the table filled with a lump of wet food that Dana now guessed was the source of that awful fishy smell. The cat started in on the food.

Dana glanced back at the small table. A tiny box was partially hidden behind the phone book. She moved closer and peered down into the open box. Inside she saw two keys held together on a key ring with a medal of the Virgin Mary staring up at her. She studied the keys for a moment, her heart pounding. The larger was big enough to be a key to the church, the other small enough to fit the Infant’s altar box. A second medal was attached to the smaller key. She was about to reach in when she felt a movement against her leg. The cat had finished the food and was now purring like a little motor of fur, attempting to lick her leg just above her sock under her jeans. Thirsty, she thought, and she glanced down at the floor, searching for a water dish. A second bowl stuck out from under the stove. A dead fly floated in the water. She glanced at the cat and could almost imagine it saying, “You don’t expect me to drink out of
that
, do you?” Dana smiled despite herself, stooped, feeling the CD still secure in her waistband press against her stomach, and picked up the bowl.