Lost and Found in Prague (27 page)

Dana hovered above. Bright lights. Masked figures. Reflection of light. Under her. Over her. Tubes and wires. Blood. Stainless steel flashing, clinking delicately, fine silverware at a feast. Her body the offering. She floated, somewhere above, watching. She felt no pain.

Then she was turning softly as if wrapped in fresh, warm, white towels, gently spinning through a tunnel of light, feeling the flawless perfect texture, her body weightless. Moving toward something she could not name. Perfect. Good. Comforting. There were no words. And yet she felt the presence of everyone she had ever loved. Her father. Her grandparents. Her son? Everyone, both living and dead. No grief. No pain. Just something warm and wonderful. As if all of life had become one. United in perfection. Without beginning or end. As if she were looking not outside herself but within, a presence that encompassed all.

Then, something pulling her back. A voice? Her own? A man’s? She recognized the voice, though strangely there were no words, as if language did not exist. Quiet, and then again a voice, a question, a call, a pull. An answer and she was sliding back.

Doctors scurried about. Hours had passed, yet time stood still. The clock on the wall, ticking slowly. She could smell the raw content of her own stomach, her bowels, intestines, but also the clean antiseptic scent of healing, of safety. They were sewing her back up, stitching, stapling. The doctors, nurses, chatted casually, foreign words she could not understand, yet words she knew. “We almost lost her.”

•   •   •

“We’ve got an officer posted at his door.”

Dal realized he was in the hospital, that he’d been shot. He wasn’t in pain. Groggy. He’d been sedated. Yet he knew Cerný was speaking of Jankovic, the man who’d shot him, the man who’d shot Dana. “American woman?” He managed to get the words out.

Cerný shook his head. “Doesn’t look good.”

“Alive?”

He nodded.

“Jankovic—”

“Not going anywhere. Obviously you wanted him alive. Kristof filled me in.”

“The press?”

“There’s a reporter outside your door, but so far we’ve been able to keep him out. We’re still trying to piece it together, but looks like Banik is definitely involved.” Cerný smiled. “Detective Sokol, sharp young fellow.”

“Time? Day?”

“Monday morning.” Cerný glanced at his watch and corrected himself. “Afternoon. You’re just coming out from surgery. Little fuzzy?”

Dal knew he’d been out for several hours, a vague memory, being loaded onto the response van.

“Oh, there’s a priest waiting outside, too,” Cerný said. “You’re in high demand.”

“Italian?”

Cerný nodded.

“Bald?”

“Silver hair. Distinguished. Carrying on about some missing kid, how it was all his fault. His friend, another priest, suffered a heart attack. Just down the hall.” Cerný motioned. “Busy place, this hospital this morning.”

“The priest,” Dal moaned, “send him in.”

“No need for last rites,” Cerný replied with a grin. “You’re going to make it. Karla just left for a minute to get me a coffee. Fine girl. Nice girl. You’re a lucky man, Chief Damek.” He smiled again, and Dal wasn’t sure if he meant to be alive or to have such a lovely wife.

She wanted to get up and run, but she was tethered. Tubes and wires. Something had happened, but she did not know what. Or when. Or where.

Her mother was there. Sitting. Standing. Pacing. She looked old and worn, as if years had passed since Dana had last seen her. Speaking to her daughter as though she were a four-year-old child, as if her mother desired nothing more than to cradle her tenderly in her arms. Dana wanted, for her mother’s sake, to tell her she was okay.

Then others, in and out. Speaking to one another in words she could not understand, touching, prodding, adjusting, refilling, lifting the shades on her window, then lowering them as if the light and sun might melt her. She wanted to look out, to see if she was still part of the world. She’d left it—she knew that.

Her mother. Then her brothers. Ben. Jeff. All speaking intimately when they were in the room alone with her. Then speaking as though she could not hear them when they gathered together.

“
This
is the
adventure
you got yourself into here in Prague?” Ben laughed as if making a joke, as if making light of all this would bring her back. His face near hers. She could smell his minty toothpaste, his aftershave. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

She wanted to respond,
Yes, funny story I have to tell you, Ben.
But nothing could dislodge itself from inside.

He smiled, then brushed a hand across his damp cheek. “We’re taking you home as soon as we can.”

More figures, gliding, speaking. Czech? Yes. She was in Prague. In the hospital. Bits and clips of conversations. Everything shifting—night, then day, then back again, at once quickly, then slowly, as unhurried and cold as a glacier. Dark and then light, lingering without advancing, outside her window. Then everything moving, down a mountainside, sliding.

“A miracle,” the doctor said, English, speaking to the woman. Her mother. “It’s a miracle she survived.”

Then Dana slipped away and when she woke it was Damek standing at her side.

“The Infant has been returned,” he said in his slow, thoughtful voice, speaking English, switching to Czech when a woman with lemon-colored hair entered, smiled, made some adjustment to the equipment to which Dana was connected. There was something in her throat and she thought,
Surely this is why I cannot speak.
A tube, like a vacuum hose. Sucking, she thought, sucking language, air, life out of her. No, not out of her, but back inside her. There was something in her stomach, more tubes, wires and lines of plastic everywhere.

“When Father Ruffino took the officers to the church that morning . . .” Damek started in as the woman left the room, “the authentic Infant, it had been returned. Unharmed.” A memory reeled through Dana’s mind like an old-fashioned movie, film turning on a projector, the screen inside her. She watched as a clear image appeared, she and Borelli inside the Church of Our Lady Victorious. She climbing on the altar, examining the Infant. A fake.

Where was Borelli? Had he returned to Italy? How much time had passed?

Then, another thought—it was Borelli, yes, his voice that had called her back.

“I visited Father Borelli,” Damek said as if reading her mind, motioning with his hand as though the priest were just steps away. Then Damek told her a strange story: Father Borelli had received a call from his informant, a meeting was set, he met a man in the Jewish cemetery and was sure the small statue he had examined was the authentic Infant of Prague. He was about to make arrangements to ransom the icon. “A heart attack,” Damek said. “I believe the man involved in the theft was surely Milos Horácek, from Father Borelli’s description, along with Václav. The boy’s intentions as pure as grace, the uncle’s perhaps not so pure, a very human mixture of love and greed. After Father Borelli’s fall in the Jewish cemetery, perhaps a realization came to this thief that he did not want to be involved in the death of an old man. As you have said, there is a big difference between a thief and a murderer. The Infant was there at the church on the altar early the following morning.”

Damek stood and walked to the window. His gait was stiff, and he held one arm to his side. Dana could see and hear it: In front of her hotel. Dark. A loud blast. This was why she was here. Damek had been shot, too, she realized.

“I am sorry, Dana,” he said as he turned from the window.

She realized this was the first time he’d called her anything other than Ms. Pierson.

“I am sorry that I let you become involved in all this.”

As if you could have stopped me,
she wanted to say.

Again Damek sat. “The man who shot you is Jirí Jankovic, just as we suspected. He, too, was injured outside your hotel. The weapon used in the murder of Senator Zajic has been found at his home. So far he does not implicate Branko Banik. But it is just a matter of time.” Dal rubbed his forehead. He looked very tired. “The index Hugo Hutka was constructing . . . more files have been unlocked. It is true what you have said: Banik was acting as an StB informant, playing both sides. These facts, if discovered, would be enough to keep him from pursuing a run for Parliament. A woman on Senator Zajic’s staff, missing for several weeks, now found. She confirms the senator was checking into Banik’s past. Motive, though surely not convicting evidence. At times such as this, I truly wish we had a death penalty in the Czech Republic. The bargaining tools for a confession are somewhat limited. But justice will prevail. Perhaps justice must be wrenched into place.” There was a harshness in his words, something Dana had yet to see in this normally controlled man. “Jirí Jankovic will provide the missing information and Banik will be convicted,” he added.

“The girl,” Damek said as he stood once more. “The daughter. She is fine.” Damek turned again to Dana and looked directly into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he added, and then he was gone.

•   •   •

A woman touched Dana’s forehead thoughtfully, kindly, brushing back a strand of hair. Jesus dangled from the chain on the woman’s neck as she stroked Dana’s forehead.

“Václav’s sister, the girl, is doing well.” Caroline sat. She lowered her head, silent for a moment. “No signs of rejection.” Somehow Dana already knew this. Had Damek told her?

“A miracle, some might claim, a heart taken from one, given to another. Death coupled with life.” Caroline wrapped her arms protectively around her upper body, shivering as if the room had suddenly chilled. Her voice was barely audible. “It was Pavel’s son who took the Infant, I’m sure, though perhaps we will never know. His accomplice—the uncle. When the police went to the church—the authentic Infant stood on the altar. Another miracle?” Caroline laughed lightly.

For the next several days, Dana saw her mother and brothers, then Caroline, then Father Ruffino, with more apologies than Investigator Damek. Again she wanted to say,
Do you think I would not have become involved, even if you had been forthcoming from the beginning?

He told her Father Borelli had returned to Italy, but had left a gift for Dana. He unwrapped three beautifully carved wooden Easter eggs, like those they’d seen at the Easter market. Each was marked with a name: Zac, Quinn, and Olivia, her nephews and niece. Dana had spoken of them only once and Father Borelli had remembered.

“He told me to tell you that they are for next Easter,” Father Ruffino explained. “At home.”

•   •   •

She woke to Caroline again, sitting, softly massaging Dana around the tubes, the wires, the tethers attached to her body. Sister Agnes. No, Caroline. Her hair cropped short, a faded blond, threaded with silver. Caroline swept a hand across the side of her head as if adjusting the wimple that was not there.

“I could go home now, you know.” She wore a dark skirt, white blouse, not the habit of the Carmelites. A pretty, middle-aged woman with a boyish haircut, no makeup, a cross hanging from her neck. No habit, but obviously a nun.

Dana realized what Caroline was saying. She had gone into the convent in hiding. This was one place that Branko Banik would not look for her. She knew Branko had murdered Pavel and feared that her own life was in danger, too.

“Investigator Damek says there is no chance he will go free,” Caroline told her. “With all his money, his power . . .” She put a fist to her mouth, coughed, then stared down at the floor. “The shooter, at first he was unwilling to implicate Banik.” She leaned down close and whispered, “Something happened . . . to make him talk.” She closed her eyes as if praying.

After a moment Caroline’s eyes lifted to meet Dana’s. “You’ll be okay. God wouldn’t allow you to come this far, then take you away.”

“I know,” Dana said, the words releasing themselves as a painful, forced, animal-like grunt, sounding nothing like she expected, horrifying her.

Caroline smiled. “Praise God,” she said quietly.

•   •   •

“And thank you,” Petr prayed, adding as he did each time they sat down to share a meal, “for bringing Papa back to us, for keeping him safe, for letting the bullet miss all his vitals.”

“Amen,” Karla added. “We are truly the family of miracles.”

A family again. Dal knew the moment he saw Karla standing by his hospital bed that they would be together again. In a sense he had never doubted it. But, even for a family that had been gifted with a miracle, there was much to overcome, and both he and Karla were intent on making it work. Often, now, Dal wondered if God truly reached down and placed a hand upon a person’s life to change the outcome. He had witnessed an unexplainable, unnatural event in his son. But wasn’t life itself a complex and often unexplainable series of separate but interlocking links of good, evil, coincidence, appearance, occurrence, men and women acting upon free choice, chaining both chosen and involuntary actions, natural and unnatural one to another?

Was it necessary for a small child to become ill for a miracle to occur? Was it necessary for a child to die, to give the miracle of a new heart to another?

If the daughter, Lisabeta, had not been ill, if the Infant had not been taken, if Dana and Father Borelli had not been summoned, would Banik’s role in the murders have gone undetected? If Banik, a man of evil, had not so loved his daughter?

He knew that neither he nor Dana would have been shot had Dal used better judgment. He should never have allowed her to become involved in his investigation . . . and yet, part of him did not regret that she had come into his life. He thought of the morning she’d told him of her unbearable loss, something he sensed she had shared with few. She would not be called back to Prague to testify. He would not see her again.

“Let’s eat,” he said, glancing from Petr to Karla, offering silently a prayer of thanksgiving and pledging once more to be a better man.

Four years later

It is her first solo journey since Prague. She is on her way to Tuscany to visit Father Giovanni Borelli. He’s insisted on a visit in the fall, when the throngs of tourists dwindle, when the celebration of harvest is about to begin. She will stay at the villa with his family.

Dana has not spoken to him since the evening she sat in his room in Prague, telling him of the loss of her son. For the past four years, beginning with her first attempt at writing—a thank-you note to Father Borelli for the three Easter eggs for her nephews and niece—they have corresponded. He shared with her the events of the night in Prague, his near fatal heart attack.

The same night she was shot. The night Dal was shot.

Now, as he approaches, accompanied by his nephew, at the Peretola Airport just a short distance from Florence, Dana sees he has aged. He is still too heavy, still walks with that sense of entitlement. He kisses her on one cheek, then the other, in greeting.

“Benvenuta in Italia,”
he says and steps back, studying her for a long moment. “You look well.”

She is about to tell him he also looks well—and despite the obvious and inevitable aging, he does—when he turns to the man standing beside him. Several years younger than Dana, Leo Antonelli looks only vaguely like his uncle Giovanni, perhaps a little about the eyes. His brows are thick, his hair dark and wavy, though definitely thinning on top. His build, unlike his uncle’s, is fit and slender. She reaches out as Giovanni introduces them. Leo takes her hand, not meeting her eyes but glancing about as if looking for something or someone. Though it is early afternoon, it appears that he could already use a second shave. He is dressed much too tidily to have skipped his morning shave. He wears jeans and a long-sleeved denim shirt—casual, though neatly pressed. She’s always had suspicions about men with perfect creases in their jeans. She laughs to herself, glancing at Giovanni, his fastidiousness in personal appearance still apparent. The priest is dressed informally, too, no clerical collar—he is fully retired now—gray slacks, an expensive-looking short-sleeved white shirt. Neatly pressed.

Leo asks if she has checked luggage, and when she replies, “Just one,” he offers to pick it up for her. He looks at her now. His eyes are very dark brown, but she sees something in them that she can’t quite read. A distance? A disinterest? She hands him her luggage tag. She and Father Borelli sit as they wait.

“So generous of you and your family to invite me,” she tells Father Borelli.

“Our pleasure,” he says with a warm smile. He and the nephew, Leo’s elderly mother—Giovanni Borelli’s older sister—and Leo’s thirteen-year-old daughter all live at the family villa in the Tuscan countryside. The girl’s mother, Father Borelli’s niece-in-law, died two years ago from breast cancer. The teen is a bit rebellious, but smart and kind to her elderly great-uncle. Dana knows all this through their frequent correspondence, all the old-fashioned way, at the mercy of the U.S. and Italian postal services. Borelli has given up the possibility of e-mail, ridding himself of his ancient and seldom used computer when he moved from his apartment in Rome three years ago. He has assured her that the business, the vineyards and winery, is all up-to-date, using the latest technology in growing, harvesting, wine making, and marketing. His nephew has greatly increased the business and extended their market. He writes fondly of Leo, and Dana expected someone much friendlier.

As they wait, Father Borelli inquires about her mother, brothers, nephews, and niece. “Your cousin, Sister Agnes?” he asks. “She’s doing well?”

“Yes, well,” Dana replies. “She’s happy.”

After Dana’s release from the hospital in Prague, Caroline returned to the States with Dana and her mother, but stayed in Boston only six weeks. Prague was her home, the nuns her family. She had entered the convent in hiding, sure that Branko Banik would not look for her there. After his arrest she felt a new freedom. Branko is now serving a life sentence for murder.

Back home, through correspondence with Damek, Caroline, and Giovanni, Dana continued to arrange pieces of the puzzle, pulling up her own memories, watching closely as the case unfolded in the Czech Republic. For health reasons she was not called to testify in person. No one was prosecuted for the theft of the statue.

The nephew returns, empty-handed, and Dana senses an irritation as he tells her the bag has been delayed in Rome. After a short layover in Rome, she took a second flight to the small airport in Sesto Fiorentino. It seems her bag has not accompanied her. The nephew tells her he’ll send someone the next day to retrieve it. Dana senses a continuing frustration in his voice.

She has a small carry-on, stuffed with as much as possible, but the checked luggage was necessary as she’ll be away from home for three weeks. She and Borelli sit and wait once more as Leo leaves to get the car, the priest explaining he would have come on his own, but he no longer possesses a valid driver’s license. She doesn’t ask, though she is curious, as he emphasizes the word
possess
as if it were a priceless, precious commodity.

Minutes later, situated in the car, Dana and Father Borelli in the back, nephew Leo acting as chauffeur, Dana begins to relax though she feels the weariness of travel and, even as she and Giovanni converse, the gentle motion and soft hum of the auto—a Mercedes, no less—threaten to lull her to sleep. Yet she does not want to miss any of the scenery or conversation—Leo does not take part. Tall, thin cypresses reach up into a lovely autumn sky touched by slender fingers of the wispiest clouds. Silvery olive trees and grape arbors ribbon the hillsides, dotted with red-tiled roofs perched upon pale stucco buildings and dark Tuscan stone. As they drive, Dana’s fatigue meshes with a surge of excitement at the lovely view.

They talk about Investigator Damek. Though he and Dana kept in touch for a time, there was a distance in his correspondence, businesslike, mostly e-mail, to keep her apprised of the case. She learned through Father Borelli that Damek and his wife now have a three-year-old daughter named Rosa.

When they arrive at the villa, the nephew seems to disappear, and Borelli explains it is a very busy time of year. He stops short of apologizing for Leo’s rude behavior.

The home is enormous and in the traditional Tuscan style—red-tiled roof, interior beams, and rustic wooden floors. Inside, Dana finds the furnishings more formal than she would have expected. The floors are spread with expensive-looking Oriental rugs and the antique furniture is more of the style one might expect to find in a French château than in an Italian villa. She’s shown to her room on the second level and Father Borelli suggests she might like to take a rest and settle in, though without her bag she has little to settle. He asks if she’d like something to eat and then offers to send up a snack before she can reply.

“That would be nice,” she says. She grabbed a sandwich on her layover in Rome, but she realizes she is hungry and recalls that Italians eat fairly late.

He tells her dinner is at eight, but she’s welcome to come down at any time.

“Thank you, Father Borelli,” she says.

“Giovanni,” he corrects her.

“
Grazie
, Giovanni.”

Shortly after they began their post-Prague correspondence, he began signing his letters Giovanni, and, taking this as a cue, she addressed her letters likewise. It seems more difficult to do so in person.

A large canopy bed takes up a good portion of the room, spread with a heavy brocade cover, fringed pillows set against the headboard. She hangs her jacket in the closet and unpacks her few items from her carry-on—makeup and meds in the cabinet in the small bathroom with shower off the bedroom, her spare set of underwear and extra T-shirt in the bureau. She hears a knock at her door and opens it to a thin woman of about fifty, who offers her a tray, then comes into the room and sets it on a small table by the window. Dana sits and sips the wine—a Tuscan white—nibbles on the fresh fruit, picks a nut or two out of the bowl.

Weary, she makes a nest among the pillows and falls onto the bed and is asleep within minutes. Several hours later she awakens and glances at the bedside clock, relieved that she hasn’t missed dinner. She shakes the confusion from her head, the webs and layers of jet lag. She hears something just outside, as if someone is shouting.

She rises, steps toward the window, pushes the shear drapes aside, and peers out. Leo is speaking. Harshly, she can tell from the creased brow, the hands flying, though she cannot make out the words nor understand the Italian. She knows it is the girl standing before him who is doing the shouting. Her back to Dana, she has the lazy stance of a teen, her arms to her sides, her back arched, her head bobbing as she speaks. She wears jeans, high boots, the type so popular with young girls now, a short jacket. Dana guesses it is the daughter. The girl’s hands, still hanging at her sides, clench. She turns abruptly. Her eyes are lined with dark kohl, but she has already begun to cry, smearing the black with her fist. Her head is hung, then she glances up at Dana, expressionless.

Dana turns, embarrassed.
Poor motherless child,
she thinks, and at the same time,
Childless mother
. She can’t help this—upon seeing a child the age that Joel would be now. She wonders if she might be going through this herself . . . if. Since Prague, she knows the anger has subsided. Dana still misses him terribly, but she realizes the anger has receded. She knew this as she recovered in Prague. Was it because she had come so close to dying, fought herself back to life? Because she realized that life was indeed fragile? That it was worth fighting for? And yet it was not the end? That there was indeed something after? She had touched it, if only briefly.

She freshens up a bit, washes her face, does her makeup, puts on her fresh T-shirt, which shows the wrinkles from being folded in the small bag. She hopes they don’t dress for dinner.

She carries the tray downstairs, finding the kitchen by following her nose. The woman who brought it up hours earlier is busy at the stove. She accepts the tray with a
“grazie”
and motions Dana toward the dining room.

Giovanni and an elderly woman Dana guesses is his sister have gathered for dinner and stand conversing. Giovanni introduces Estella, who kisses Dana on each check.

Giovanni’s grandniece, Mia, arrives looking fresh faced but red eyed. She wears not a trace of makeup and looks several years younger than she did just minutes ago. Dana is struck by how tiny and fragile she seems. She’s still dressed casually in jeans and boots, but has changed to a long-sleeved, dressier blouse.

They are about to sit for dinner, when Leo arrives. He, too, has freshened up for dinner, now wearing a sports jacket, though no tie, still jeans. Dana feels slightly embarrassed, but realizes they’re all aware her bag did not arrive; when she greeted her, Estella mentioned it with an apology, asking if there was anything she could get for Dana until it arrived.

Giovanni’s sister speaks little English. She is a matronly, distinguished woman, curious and gracious, and, using Giovanni and Leo as translators, she tells Dana that this is her favorite time of year, beautiful, busy, and celebratory, all the while glancing at her son affectionately. Dinner is a pasta dish with fresh autumn vegetables—zucchini, onions and peppers, and garlic—along with hearty Tuscan bread, salad in the Italian style with vinegar and oil, and several bottles of Borelli Vineyards Brunello. She notices that Giovanni drinks slowly, refilling just once. They talk about the festivities scheduled at the winery and in the village during the next several days. Giovanni says that they most certainly will take a trip to Florence and also Siena during her stay. He whispers something to the girl in Italian that makes her laugh. He’s the buffer, Dana thinks. Mia, Dana realizes, speaks English, though she says little. And Dana also realizes Leo is making an effort. She thinks how difficult it must be, raising his daughter alone, though he does have the support of a doting grandmother and great-uncle. And she sees something else that is so obvious to her now—Leo is touched with anger and it is evident in every word, every move he makes.

She understands such grief.

Stepping lightly, they all seem to make it through dinner and dessert, which takes almost two and a half hours.

Leo excuses himself, saying he still has much to do. Mia vanishes.

Dana has coffee with Giovanni and Estella and then retires to her room, but she has difficulty getting back to sleep, finally drifting off, yet awakening several times during the night.

The next morning after breakfast, including Estella, Giovanni, and Dana only, Father Borelli asks if she’d like to go for a walk, and when she tells him she’d love to he says he will pick her up in front of the house in fifteen minutes. He suggests she grab her jacket.

He arrives in a beat-up, old rusty pickup truck, Giovanni himself at the wheel. The air is cool and cloud cover darkens the sky. It looks like rain.

She gets in and immediately says, “I thought you didn’t have a license.”

Giovanni laughs and tells her it is no problem. “We won’t be driving on any public highways.” As they take off, Giovanni pointing here and there, explaining when and how each section of property was acquired by the family through the past centuries, describing the soil, the growing season for particular grapes, the process and time of harvest, Dana realizes they could possibly drive for some time without leaving the estate. She also gets a hint of why Giovanni might have been divested of his license as they bump along, the gears of the old truck grinding and grating, his pointing and talking as if the driving itself requires little attention. Several times, especially as they turn onto a narrow dirt road rising precariously up a steep hillside, they almost veer off the road. Finally they stop.

“Let’s walk,” Giovanni says.

They stroll side by side and she remembers her concerns in Prague as he panted and wheezed as they walked.

“I’ve given up smoking,” he says, as if aware of her thoughts. He seems to be in much better physical shape than he was four years ago. “Doctor’s orders.” He laughs. “Of course, he also suggested I give up eating and drinking.”