Elusive Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  It grew slowly dark, and then cold. They could show no lights except in the cellar and after an hour Mrs. Pollifax felt stifled by the smallness of the room and by the single candle that illuminated them. Debby and Georgi talked earnestly in one corner about their countries and their friends. Kosta, Boris and Radev were arguing heatedly in Bulgarian. Watching them, Mrs. Pollifax had too much time to recall her rashnesses, and the many people she had involved in this assault on the Institute, as well as the terrible risks they would all be taking before dawn. Yet given just one small opportunity to save a human life–and the factor of being in the right place at the right time–was there anything to do except try? One made a decision with the mind, she thought–with the cool logic of a chess player–and then it became necessary to grow to it, to curb the emotional protests, resist the longing to give up, to doubt, to flee. The real enemy was fear.

  “I believe I shall go out and sit under a tree,” she told them.

  “Don’t go far,” Debby called to her.

  She was seated under the tree when Tsanko arrived, driving the van without lights across the untilled earth. He did not see her until she called out to him. He walked over and sat down beside her on the rough bench. “It is gravest concern to me how you are tonight,” he said. “You are well?”

  “Anxious but well,” she said.

  He nodded. In the darkness his face was dim, without dimension. “No moon, we are fortunate,” he said.

  They sat quietly together, the sounds of the night encircling them: the shrilling of cicadas, the call of a whippoorwill, a murmur of rustling leaves from the forest. It was extraordinary how fond she had become of this man, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and she reflected upon how few persons there were with whom she felt an instinctive rapport. There was never anything tangible about this. It was composed of humor, attitude, spirit–all invisible–and it made words completely unnecessary between them.

  He said abruptly, “You have good life in America? Tell me of this. A Cpeda–Wednesday–for instance. What do you do on a Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax thoughtfully. “I wake up in my apartment in New Brunswick, New Jersey–I have one bedroom, one large, sunny living room and a kitchen with dining space. The New York Times is on my doorstep and I read it with my breakfast.” It seemed incredibly far away and unreal. “On Wednesdays I wheel the bookcart at the hospital. It’s a very quiet life,” she admitted. “Except on Fridays when I have my karate lessons. And lately I’ve considered flying lessons.”

  He looked at her, smiling. “For you this would be good, very good.”

  “And I have grown a night-blooming cereus on my fire escape,” she added almost shyly.

  He said quietly, “This is important. Why?”

  She hesitated. “Because lately I’ve had the feeling we rush toward something–some kind of Armageddon–set into motion long ago. There are so many people in the world, and so much destructiveness. I was astonished when I first heard that a night-blooming cereus blooms only once a year, and always at midnight. It implies such intelligence somewhere.”

  “And did it bloom?” he asked.

  She nodded triumphantly. “At twenty minutes before midnight, the week before I left for your country.”

  “Then there are still mysteries left in this world,” he said with relief.

  “And your Wednesdays?” she asked. “I’m not allowed to ask about your Wednesdays? This is not a dialogue?”

  He sighed heavily. “I wish you may, but no, I cannot, even to you. This is sad because you have become very dear to me, Amerikanski.”

  She said softly, “It’s like a problem in mathematics, I think. For me so much has been added by knowing you, and when I leave–if I am so fortunate,” she added wryly, “it will be with a sense of loss, of subtraction.”

  “At such an age,” mused Tsanko, and chuckled. “As if the affections count years! But for me there has been a long time without feeling. My first wife and my little daughter die in 1928–no, not die, they are shot against the wall by the Orim. Murdered. There were three thousand people killed that night, arrested as suspected communists. My daughter had high fever, you see, and despite curfew Adriana wrapped our child in blankets and hurried to find doctor.” He shook his head. “My son survived, he is forty now. It was madness, we were not even communists then, But it made one of me,” he added.

  “How terrible that must have been for you.”

  “It was. Later I married again, when my son, Vasil, was a grown man–1945, that was. I was most political, and my wife was also political.” He shrugged. “That was bad mistake, we have been divorced many years, she is an engineer in Varna. Alas, the climate of Bulgaria is not good for love. But good for peaches,” he added with humor, bringing a peach from his pocket. “Please? For you.”

  They sat eating peaches until Georgi came to the door and said, “There you are–it’s time to begin preparing for Panchevsky Institute.”

  “Suddenly the clock moves too fast,” mused Tsanko. “Early in morning I have appointment I cannot avoid. I will not see you again. Everything has been said but this–please do not be killed tonight, Amerikanski.”

  “Nor you, Tsanko,” she said, and they stood silently together for a moment.

  “We are of different cultures on the outside,” he said slowly, “but inside we are alike. If only you were born Bulgarian, Amerikanski, we could change the world! You will remember, eh?”

  “On Wednesdays,” said Mrs. Pollifax gravely.

  He laughed. “On Wednesdays, yes,” he said, and very formally leaned over and kissed her on each cheek.

  21

  It was dark and silent in the vicinity of Panchevsky Institute. Only the building itself glowed with light. At five minutes before three o’clock Mrs. Pollifax sat in Assen Radev’s farm truck that was filled with honking geese in the rear. She was wearing a shapeless cotton dress, a shabby sweater and over her head a bandanna tied at the nape of her neck. On her shoulder was pinned a card bearing unintelligible letters that supposedly read: I AM A MUTE. “Well, Mrs. Pollifax?” said Radev cheerfully.

  She was not quite so cheerful, but she guessed that he was a man who thrived on danger, and therefore his interest in life increased in proportion to the nearness of death. On the whole it was not a bad way to approach Panchevsky Institute, she thought. She glanced at her watch; Radev glanced at his and nodded. “We go,” he said, and headed the truck down the street and around the corner into Ordrin Square. Ahead of them, a block away, she could see the walls and the front gate of Panchevsky Institute.

  At the top of the hill on Persenk Boulevard, Georgi checked his watch. “One minute to go,” he said to Kosta in Bulgarian. “You think we come out of this alive, comrade?”

  “Who knows?” said Kosta with a shrug. “It’s better to be all dead than half dead.”

  On the opposite side of the wall, on narrow Ordrin Street, Debby sat beside Boris in the van and shivered from cold and nervousness. “I feel a little sick,” she told Boris.

  He said very gently, “It’s the waiting, you understand. It grows better when there is something to do, you will see.”

  “It’s one minute before three o’clock, Boris,” she said, looking at her watch. He nodded, climbed out and began to unlock the rear door of the van where the ladder was hidden.

  Tsanko had crossed Persenk Boulevard and now he strolled along beside the high wall, one hand in his pocket fingering the bundle there. Reaching the middle of the wall, he checked his watch, kneeled as if to tie a shoelace and inserted the bundle tightly against the wall. A match flared. When he straightened he began to walk very swiftly, almost running toward a van parked diagonally across the road, near Stalinov Avenue. He appeared not to notice the large truck soundlessly moving toward him down Persenk Boulevard on his left; it gained momentum as it neared the bottom of the hill. Tsanko had just opened the door to the van when the outer wall of Panchevsky Institute erupted, a portion of it bursting into fragm
ents. The sound of the explosion followed a second later, just as the massive truck rolled through the broken wall and entered the courtyard.

  Half a minute later came the sound of the truck’s crash, followed by a second, louder explosion.

  At the gate Assen Radev was saying, “You may not be expecting two dozen geese for your kitchens, but they are your dinner today. Hell, what do you want done with them? Who’s in charge? I tell you they are ordered for this morning.”

  The guard pointed to Mrs. Pollifax, and Radev said carelessly, “She belongs at the collective, I’m taking her back. She can’t speak, she’s a mute.”

  A second man casually joined them and with a wink at Radev spoke persuasively to his companion; it was Miroslav, earning his bribe. The guard fingered the papers with annoying slowness and then nodded. “Take them into the inside court, they can kill the geese there, idiot. But be fast.”

  Slowly the truck from the collective inched through the gates and then through the second iron gate into the courtyard. “You see the stairs?” said Radev in a low voice to Mrs. Pollifax. “On the right. The door to each floor is kept locked, but the stairs are clear and go up to the top floor.”

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. She climbed out and opened the tailgate at the back of the truck. Two dozen geese stared at her, and with a furious motion she gestured them outside, scattering them as they fluttered to the ground honking in outrage. A moment later came the sound of the first explosion.

  Boris and Debby heard the sound of the first explosion as they waited in Ordrin Street, the ladder half out of the van. It was dark on the street, but noonday on the top of the wall, and Debby was thinking about Mrs. Bemish and the lights. If Mrs. Bemish couldn’t reach them–or damaged them too late–what on earth could they do?

  “Set up the ladder,” Boris told her. “I’ll go first and you follow. Watch the ropes–nothing must tangle them! Do it as we practiced all day.”

  “I will.”

  They heard the second explosion and then, abruptly, the sound of a siren began to shrill and was just as suddenly cut off as the lights all over the Institute died. Mrs. Bemish had reached the fuse box. “Now,” said Boris, and they hurried up the ladder.

  Georgi and Kosta were bent low in the truck as it rolled through the gaping hole in the outer wall and continued, on momentum alone, through the Institute courtyard. As it neared the brick wall of the Institute, Georgi shouted, “Jump, my friend!”

  They threw themselves out of the truck, rolling over and over until they crouched under the walls of the building. The truck roared through the wall, setting off the explosives wired under its hood; bricks and stones rained down all around them. “Now,” shouted Georgi, and they leaped over the rubble and ran into the cellblock. They were hailed by cheers from the cells and Georgi was grinning as he made his way through the dust. There was plenty of dynamite, he was thinking. He would first free their four friends, among them his brother, but while Kosta hurried the four out to Tsanko there would be time to release a few others as well. They might not get far, but what the hell, he thought; they could have a taste of freedom, smell the free air, feel like men again. He could give them choice at least.

  He was opening the door of his brother’s cell when the lights went out.

  In the inner courtyard Radev and Mrs. Pollifax were busy directing the geese consistently toward the stairs leading up into the higher cellblocks. Before the echo of the first explosion had died away at least six of the frightened geese had settled on the stair. As the second explosion took place Mrs. Pollifax and Radev each seized a goose and ran up the stairs, driving the dozen others before them. They had reached the second-floor landing when the lights went out. Someone came running down the staircase, tripped over the geese and brushed past Mrs. Pollifax with an oath. With the goose under her arm Mrs. Pollifax continued to climb. A dark shape suddenly careened into her, almost knocking her over; a man grasped her arm, a match flared, a guard spoke sharply and Mrs. Pollifax lifted the goose, making noises in her throat and pointing skyward. The guard disgustedly gestured her aside, blew out the match and hurried on down the stairs.

  She had lost Radev; the goose she carried had just learned that by arching his long neck he could peck at her chin and draw blood. With considerable relief Mrs. Pollifax reached the third floor and paused. The door stood open, knocked from its hinges, and she could hear the fluttering of wings ahead of her in the darkness.

  She went in quietly, disoriented and suddenly without direction. She faced a long dark hall with a window at the far end; to her left lay another window. Between these stood cellblocks, line after line of them. She stood there, lost until a light flared at the window on her left. The light sputtered like a Fourth of July sparkler, made a small sound and then she saw Radev lean forward, silhouetted against the sky, and lift out the bars of the window. She dropped the goose and joined him just in time to help him pick up the rope Boris had shot across the yard and secure it to the bars of a cell.

  Geese were honking. All over the building men were shouting. She called out, “Philip? Philip Trenda?”

  “I have to be dreaming,” said an American voice from the cell next to the window.

  “Over here,” she told Radev, and he lighted a match. In its glow they saw a white face with hollow eyes staring at them from behind bars, a face Mrs. Pollifax had last seen at Customs, on Monday. She said inadequately, tears in her eyes, “Hello there,” and then: “We’ve come to get you out.”

  Debby kneeled on the wall next to Boris, her teeth chattering. Once in a while they had gently tested the rope, but it remained slack and without support. It was awful, waiting, thought Debby. She tried to picture Mrs. Pollifax and Radev climbing the stairs to the third floor, tried to live it with them. She wished she could have gone with Radev; Tsanko had said no, a pretty young girl would draw too much attention at the gate.

  They ought to be there now, she thought, and staring at the window she was rewarded by the sight of a small flicker of light. She whispered to Boris, “They’ve reached the window.”

  Crouched low, Boris said, “Da, thank God!” He leaned over and tested the rope, tugging gently. Triumphantly he said, “It is anchored, we get ready now. Say your prayers!”

  Now Mrs. Pollifax and Radev would have found Phil, the last bundle of dynamite would be applied to the lock of his cell and any moment he would be at the window, ready to cross. “How much more time?” she asked Boris.

  He glanced down at his illuminated watch. “It is now 3:11.”

  “He ought to be crossing,” she whispered. “Radev and Mrs. Pollifax ought to be going downstairs to the truck.”

  “Patience,” said Boris.

  Debby strained her eyes trying to peer through the darkness. She leaned over and felt the rope; it was secure, but there was no weight on it. She thought, I won’t panic, but he ought to be crossing. I’m not scared, I’m not. She realized that never before had she cared or felt so much about two people as she did at this moment. It was insane, it was as though her whole life had begun only a week ago. She was suddenly terrified for everyone involved in this, but she was the most frightened for Phil and Mrs. Pollifax.

  “Boris,” she said, her voice trembling.

  He turned and she saw him nod. “Da–something is wrong,” he said heavily.

  “I know,” she said, and stood up.

  On the third floor of the Institute, Radev had stuffed dynamite into the lock of Philip’s cell and applied a match to it. As the light flared for a brief second Philip Trenda said to Mrs. Pollifax in astonishment, “I’ve seen you before! I know I’ve seen you before!”

  “Ssh,” hissed Radev.

  The fuse ignited and Mrs. Pollifax stepped back. There was the sound of a muffled crack! and they were in darkness again, but in that darkness Mrs. Pollifax felt someone breathing down her neck from behind. She said in a low voice, “Assen?”

  But Radev was opening the door of the cell. She said, “Who …?” but before she could
turn around she felt a gun pressed into the small of her back.

  Radev had not noticed. The person behind Mrs. Pollifax suddenly spoke to Radev roughly, in Bulgarian, and Radev growled in his throat and turned.

  “What is it?” asked Mrs. Pollifax. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Miroslav, the guard.”

  “He has a gun in my back,” protested Mrs. Pollifax.

  Radev spoke sharply to the man and the gun was removed. In the darkness Miroslav and Radev shifted positions cautiously. Miroslav backed to the window to stand outlined against it, gun in hand. Radev moved away from Philip’s cell in order to conceal the rope tied to its bars. They stood like this in silence and then Radev spoke to the man in anger.

  It was torture not knowing what they said. Radev’s voice was biting; Miroslav’s was calm. The man had been well paid–and not even in counterfeit rubles, after all, but in authentic Bulgarian leva–but still he stood with his gun directed at them, not willing to let them go. “What is it?” cried Mrs. Pollifax impatiently.

  “The dog,” said Radev, and spat on the floor. “The dog. He took the bribe, now he says he gets more money turning us in and getting a medal. He didn’t know I was going to release the American capitalist spy.”

  Mrs. Pollifax heard Philip say, “Oh God.”

  “He’s barricading the window,” went on Radev, “and he says in a few minutes both lights and guards will return. He has only to wait.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “No.”

  “Have you any dynamite left?”

  “No.”

  “He hasn’t noticed the rope yet. If one of us could just reach him and hold him long enough for Philip to get to the window …”

  Radev’s voice was cynical. “You wish to volunteer? That’s exactly what he’s waiting for.” Then in a peculiar voice he added, “Wait. Something is happening.”

  “What?” demanded Mrs. Pollifax.

  “Ssh,” he said, and then: “Pray God the lights do not come on. The rope is tight, do you understand?”