Just before I closed the door, I put an envelope addressed to Anna on the hall table.
* * *
Jack loved the plane journey and didn’t once look at his iPad or his books. He sat, his body angled away from me, with his nose glued to the window, looking out at the clouds, the spreading sky. We landed in the sunlight, the fields around us covered with snow. The airport was clean and bright, and we were efficiently swept through passport control, our bags already waiting for us. Outside, I braced myself for taxi bargaining, but there was a fleet of bright yellow cars and a dispatcher who spoke English.
“Did Mommy call?” Jack asked as the taxi pulled away from the terminal.
“She didn’t. But remember, she’s with Granny, and Granny’s not feeling very well.”
“Granny has injuries, like me?”
“Yes. Anyway, we’re going to get your injuries better.”
Jack didn’t acknowledge what I had said. “When is Mommy coming?”
“She’s not coming now, Jack. She has to be with her mom.”
“Her mom?”
“Yes, Granny is Mommy’s mom.”
“Oh,” Jack said.
The taxi sped through the tidy, suburban streets of the Prague outskirts. I had expected rows and rows of drab apartment buildings and graffiti-strewn bus shelters, my impression from a business trip to Katowice years ago, but at least this part of Prague looked like Austria, with large Cubist villas, expansive gardens, the flags of foreign embassies blowing in the wind.
The taxi driver was speaking on his phone, and I listened to him speak Czech. It was unlike any language I had heard before: there seemed to be an absence of vowels, but it was still soft, precise, as if you were being counseled. Jack was happily absorbed, looking out of the window, taking pictures of the snow.
We passed a small château and some shuttered food stands and there, nestled behind some trees, was Dr. Sladkovsky’s clinic, a modern prefabricated building made with huge blue tiles and large square windows.
It was cold, about three degrees below freezing, but the sun was strong and the clinic sparkled like an upmarket spa. A few patients were sitting outside, reading books and magazines, wrapped up in coats and blankets. As we got closer to the entrance, I could see the garden, with a small pond glistening with ice and a winding path, which the website said was designed for barefoot walking.
Inside, the clinic was a warm fusion of glass and soft wood. There were green pod-like chairs and large soft rectangular sofas in the waiting room.
“Where are we, Daddy?” Jack said.
“We’re here to see the doctor, Jack. The doctor who might be able to take some of your injuries away.”
Jack pulled on my hand, and I could see a flash of fear in his eyes. “Daddy, they’re not giving me the medicine, are they? The chemo medicine?”
“No, they’re not, Jack. Don’t worry.”
I gave the receptionist my name, and we went to sit on two of the pod chairs. There was a waiting list at the clinic, but Nev was still on good terms with the receptionist and had managed to pull a few strings to get us fast-tracked. Through a glass door, I could see a café where some of the patients congregated. The patients were gaunt, but with their grooming, the expensive shawls thrown over their shoulders, they looked like they came from money.
“Like spaceship chairs,” Jack said, his legs dangling from the pod.
“You look like a turtle,” I said.
Jack smiled. “You’re a turtle.”
* * *
In the doctor’s office, there were black leather couches, bookcases packed with medical tomes and antique surgical instruments. On the wall, embossed awards and certificates hung alongside pictures of the doctor. Sladkovsky on a hunting expedition; Sladkovsky shaking hands with various dignitaries; Sladkovsky hiking in the mountains, a floating ledge of cloud behind him.
When the doctor entered from a side door, he looked younger than I expected. His face had a healthy crimson hue, a mustache hiding the remnants of a hare lip, and he was wearing a tailored white coat, with his initials, Z.S., embroidered on the left breast. There was something vaguely plastic about his complexion, a waxy variegation of his skin, as if parts of his face were coated with TV makeup.
“Mr. Coates, how are you?” Dr. Sladkovsky heartily shook my hand, and his hand felt unusually dry.
“And you must be Jack. Hello, Jack.” Jack smiled weakly and huddled closer to me on his chair.
“Do you like ball pits, Jack?”
Jack nervously nodded.
“Well, that’s good. Because we have an amazing one out there. Do you want to go with Lenka? She might even give you some candies.”
I looked up, and a tall blonde woman had appeared through a side door. Lenka smiled and held out her hand, but Jack stayed in his seat, unsure whether to go.
“It’s okay, Jack,” I said. “Why don’t you go and play with the nice lady?”
Jack cautiously slipped off his seat and put his hand in Lenka’s.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Coates,” the doctor said, when Jack and Lenka left the room. I noticed for the first time his Slavic accent. There was something avuncular about it, like an elderly Polish watchmaker.
“We are so very glad to have you with us. Thanks for sending me everything. I’ve looked through Jack’s notes and scans at length and, while his disease has progressed quite far and looks to be aggressive, I think it would be worth trying some treatments.”
He smiled, and I noticed just how thin his top lip was when it wasn’t hidden under his mustache.
“I assume you have an idea of our treatment here, Mr. Coates?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve read a fair bit and Nev—his son, Josh, was treated here for a brain tumor—has told me a lot about it.”
“Ah, yes, Josh. Such a nice little boy. Last I heard he was doing very well. They always send me his scans,” Sladkovsky said. I noticed that he hissed on certain words, the remains of a lisp, studiously curtailed over the years. He
