Lost and Found in Prague Read Online Free PDF Page A

started down the aisle, that organization based in Italy—much older than and often as mysterious as the Mafia. Those perfectly manicured hands? A man who held the body of Christ would keep his hands as pristine as a newly baptized baby’s soul.

• 4 •
    Father Giovanni Borelli hated to fly. He did not enjoy the bustle of airports, the queues for boarding, and then the dreadful, confined, cramped quarters of an aircraft. He loved his work, which often, at least in the past, required that he travel—wherever the miracles, the apparitions, the transgressions might take him. But he liked to be in the middle of things, not going there or coming back.
    Yet he often met interesting people in his travels. He had enjoyed speaking with the woman from Boston. Years ago, they’d played a little game of cat and mouse. He recalled watching her then—he peering through the blinds in the bishop’s study, she stepping off the front porch, glancing back, and then hurrying down the sidewalk with a quick, agitated gait. When he found his seat on the plane, he easily recognized her, though there was nothing that would make her stand out in a crowd. She looked to be perhaps in her late thirties, though he knew she had to be at least forty if she’d been traipsing about Europe during the time of the revolution in Czechoslovakia. Her frame, slight. Her hair, an ordinary brown. He guessed with a little makeup and perhaps a more flattering hairstyle—hers hung limply to her shoulders—she might have turned a head. Her style of dress—jeans and T-shirt—certainly did nothing to enhance her figure. Borelli remembered when women used to take care with their appearance, dress like women. Gia had always attired herself as a proper, refined lady. He found this trend of casual dress, surely started by the Americans, inappropriate.
    But he’d been unkind, and he’d have to confess. He’d engaged in a verbal game as if they were opponents, which they were not. They’d both arrived at the same conclusion in Boston.
    He knew it was that old, yet familiar, sin of pride—he liked to have the upper hand and had quite enjoyed their conversation, she having no idea who he was. He should have walked off the plane with her, introduced himself, told her how fairly he believed she’d covered the events in Boston. But, damn, he had to get to the terminal and find the restroom. And he needed a cigarette.
    He’d probably never see her again. Prague was a city of over a million and this time of year, with the advent of spring, it often appeared as if the population had doubled. One could practically walk across the Charles Bridge, the Karluv most, without lifting a foot, the tourist traffic so heavy a person might be carried along in the stream of flowing bodies.
    After using the men’s room, he made his way out of the terminal, along with other travelers hefting, dragging, and wheeling an assortment of baggage. Father Borelli had but his briefcase, preferring the ease of traveling sans luggage. His wardrobe was limited, though he took pride in a neatly pressed suit and a fresh cassock being available at all times. He always packed a box and sent it ahead to his hotel with instructions to have the garments pressed and waiting in his room when he checked in. This assured he’d have a presentable wardrobe for the duration of his stay, though he was concerned since the urgency of this trip required he send the box special delivery. With the holiday weekend he was aware it might not arrive until several days into his stay. The thought irritated him, though the shipping company guaranteed his package would arrive within a day, and his hotel was always good about seeing to his requests. Fortunately he’d called ahead and been assured a room would be available for him, even on such short notice.
    At least a dozen passengers waited in line at the cab stop, though he noted not a single cab in sight. Tourists everywhere. He reached into his pocket, grateful he