“You’ve been to New York,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I was an au pair for three years after college. This is where I learn better English.”
“Your English is excellent,” I told her, meaning it but also playing to her pride in the matter.
“Thank you,” she said, her professional smile suddenly seeming more genuine. “You’re American. From New York?”
“Yes.”
She picked up the picture and gazed at it. “I miss it. I loved it there.”
“Why did you come home?”
“Because too many young people are leaving the Czech Republic and not coming back. If we all leave, what happens to this country? I wanted to do something important with children, so I came here to run this orphanage.” She swept a hand around her.
“It’s important work.”
“Yes,” she said gravely, looking down at the picture for another moment, then returning it to her desk. “Now, the matter you wanted to discuss…”
From my bag, I extracted the copy of the transfer order Detective Crowe had attached to the e-mail, held it in my hand. I stared at it for a moment while she waited.
“Have you ever been lied to?” I asked her. I saw her eyes shoot over to her wedding picture.
“Everyone’s been lied to,” she said with a shrug. “That’s life. People lie.”
I told her what happened to me, leaving out some of the gory details. I saw her inch up in her seat as I spun the tale for her. By the time I was done, she was practically lying on her desk, she had leaned so far forward.
“I’m looking for him now,” I said. “I don’t know if you can help me, but this is the only connection I have.”
She shook her head slowly. “It’s terrible. I’m sorry. But I don’t know what I can do.”
“Do you know anything about the man who makes these donations?”
“I know of the donations, of course,” she said. “To us, this is a lot of money, forty thousand U.S. dollars a year. The donations come anonymously. The rumor is that the man who makes them lived out his boyhood here, applied for scholarships to the U.S., and left to go to school there when he turned eighteen. That now he is very rich and successful and wants to help other orphans like himself. But this is just a rumor.”
Outside the window, there was a wide expanse of flat land. In the distance, a large black bird flew a low wide circle in the air. I felt myself coming to a dead end. Yes, the money had come here. But so what?
“My husband’s real name is Kristof Ragan. He has a brother named Ivan. Do you have old records?”
She was already shaking her head before I finished speaking. “Since the fall of communism, all new records are being computerized. Old records were incomplete, nonexistent, or destroyed. In recent years there’s been a lot of purging.”
“But there must be something. Maybe someone who has been here for many years.”
“By purging, I don’t just mean old records. This is a privately run orphanage now but once orphanages like this were run by the state. The practices were archaic, the officials corrupt to an extreme. We’ve had to distance ourselves from those old ways to better serve the children in our care.”
She must have seen the despair on my face, offered a sad smile. What had I hoped? That someone here would know him, that they’d have a current address? That they’d open up old records for me and I’d find something there? I don’t know. I realized how pointless this trip had been. My husband was gone. His history was lost. Had he grown up in a place like this, in a communist orphanage, afraid and alone? Had anything he’d told me about himself been true? I had to face the fact that I might never know.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman said. “I don’t know how to help you. You know more about our anonymous donor than I do.”
I MUST HAVE looked dejected on returning to the waiting room, because Jack rose to his feet quickly.
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing, really.” I recounted the conversation for him as we exited and moved toward the car.
“Where’s our guide?” I asked. We looked around. The wind had picked up and the chill in the air deepened. All the kids who had been scattered about had disappeared.
“I don’t know,” said Jack. “But we better find him. He has the keys to the car.”
I returned to the staircase and sat on one of the low steps.
“I saw Ales talking to some young girl,” I said. Jack walked a restless circle around the car.
“Do you think Marcus grew up here?” I said.
“It would explain a lot.”
“I suppose it would.”
The cloud cover was growing thicker, the sky taking on the silver gray cast of threatening snow. I wrapped my arms around myself against the cold. But the chill I felt came from within. Nothing would warm me.
“I have a bad feeling, Jack.”
He came to stand in front of me. The wind tousled his hair and played with his coat. Behind him, I saw Ales emerge from the trees. The girl I saw earlier followed at his heels. She had dark black hair and a thick frame, wide shoulders and narrow hips. Her eyes were black and the tattoos on her face looked like a mask. She’s hiding, protecting herself with that, I found myself thinking. Tattoos are armor; they keep the world from seeing what’s beneath them. Her hair was mussed. There was dirt and dried grass on the back of her jacket.
“We’re ready to go,” Jack said to Ales as he approached. “Where did you go with her?”
Ales nodded toward the girl. “She think she knows where you can find the man you’re looking for.”
When I looked past the tattoos and heavy, dark eye shadow, I saw someone very young, very scared, and I wondered how many different ways a girl like this had been violated. I felt the urge to wrap my arms around her. But everything about her-her appearance, her attitude-pushed me away.
“How?” I asked, looking at her. She bowed her head, refused to return my gaze.
“She doesn’t speak English,” Ales said. “But she says Kristof Ragan and his brother, Ivan, are like legends here. That they lived here during communism but then went to the U.S. and are now famous and successful businessmen, rich and living in big houses. They send money back to this place. That’s why they have computers and good school-books here.”
The girl kept her eyes to the ground. I had the strong feeling I was being played-whether by the girl or the guide, I couldn’t be sure. But I was just desperate enough to play along.
“Kde?” I asked her. Where? She looked at me, startled. “Prosím,” I said. Please. “Kde je Kristof Ragan?”
26
Kde je Kristof Ragan?
Then there is just this eerie quiet where all I can hear is my own scrambling over the snow, my own labored breathing. Before me a curved cobblestone street, disappearing beneath the falling snow gathering on steps and window frames. Two more shots ring out and I hear a whisper past my left ear and realize it has come that close. I turned to see him, a black tower against the white.
He is unhurried and yet still gaining as I limp, moving slowly uphill past a closed café, a leather shop, a store of children’s clothing. I start pounding on doors, yelling. But the city seems to swallow all sound. No one answers or comes to their door. Up ahead, there are two black iron doors ajar, opening onto a square. I move inside and pull the doors closed behind me. I can’t run anymore. I have to hide.
The wind is captive in the square, howling around the four corners. I edge along the perimeter, trying to walk where no snow has fallen so as not to leave a trail. There is an open door that leads into darkness. I reach it and enter just as I hear the creaking of the door from the street opening. I remember what I said to Jack, I’d rather die in the dark alley than bask a lifetime ignorant in the light. I didn’t mean it.