The Catastrophe

by Ian Wedde

  So – where was the piece she was holding back? And who was the opponent she was causing to hesitate – whom she would move past swiftly at the end? Certainly it was not Philippe, whom she would never outwit in this life, nor in any case had any desire to. Nor, clearly, was it the food writer Christopher Hare, whose mind was too confused to make him an adversary. Clearly, the enemy today had been her husband Abdul Yassou, simply, and this was what she had to keep clear in her own mind. Abdul Yassou, now, here. It was Abdul Yassou and his like that she was engaged with, to make an example of, for the benefit of those who might also consider a profitable career at the expense of others who ate only the meagre charity of Gaza. So it might be that the food writer immobilised in the room upstairs was the piece she kept back in this game, to be a nuisance and a distraction to the real adversary, which after all she and Philippe had in common.

  But, yes, that still left the problem of Antun the maître d’, who by now might be making his way home to an apartment that suddenly seemed to have walls of glass incapable of concealing him from either the French police or, what was worse, from the associates of Abdul Yassou, whose intelligence would be better than that of the police.

  So, whatever happened, whatever her move, it would have to take care also of Antun and his nerves. Her cleaning-up of this mess would have to be as thorough as she could hear Philippe’s had been upstairs where, even now, the food writer might be beginning to ask fate why he had chosen to act in that way.

  There was another day she commemorated in the secrecy of her own memory, not as a performance like her grandmother’s, nor like the pedagogic example of al-Hakim’s backgammon moves, but as an instruction to her own instinct to act. How to move into the danger of a given situation? How to confront it, and how to pass through it? On that day in April 1970 when she was only eleven years old, the schools were closed because Fatah militias had stormed the American Embassy and then moved on to the US Information Service on Jebel Amman. Her father came rushing home shouting from his clinic with a smell of spilled mouthwash on him. Perhaps now it is starting, he was cursing – those fools, those children, did they think that Hussein and his camel-herding cronies would allow this to continue? Yes, they would see, he was right, now it began again, then it was the Jews and now it would be the camel-herding Bedouin that would oppress the Palestinians! And to think that he had welcomed that loud-mouthed Godless fool his cousin al-Hakim to be a guest in his house, worse fool that he was, now see if they were not marked for the attention of those camels! Yes, look, soon they would arrive!

  But towards lunch time he calmed down and, insisting that even the fedayeen would be resting at this time from their labours of firing ammunition into the empty sky, in the heat of noon, as the radio also suggested they were, he sent her older brother Habib to accompany her on the bus to Jebel Amman for her English class at the British Council. Where, at once, when they stepped from the bus, they saw that the fedayeen were not resting after all, but were about to burn down the American Library nearby. Many were boys no older than her brother, they hardly looked strong enough to hold the Kalashnikovs they were carrying. When they saw her brother Habib in his respectable pants and jacket, some of them began to jeer because they were full of the bravado of the moment, and she felt him hesitate where he held her by the elbow at the side of the road across the traffic island opposite the British Council. The others from the bus had all rapidly dispersed away from the American Library, and away from the youths with their guns who were shouting there and in the streets and alleys they had blockaded in the vicinity of the First Circle traffic island. But now the only way to the British Council was through the rear entrance, which was in the opposite direction to that taken by the fleeing bus passengers.

  When she felt her brother’s hesitation and saw the laughter and excitement showing in the faces of the young fedayeen who were even then advancing towards them in a mob, shouting, from the narrow street beside the British Council, she felt her body and her mind make a decision together, in perfect unison. And as one of the boys lifted his Kalashnikov to fire exuberantly into the air over their heads, she seized her hesitating brother’s arm and rushed with him directly into the faces of the advancing fedayeen – who then parted as though the eleven-year-old girl and her big brother were pushing the prow of a ship ahead of them through a strong current. They rushed directly through the column of youths, parting them, so close that she could smell the sweat and cigarettes of their day-long excitement and effort. And then they were through and out the other side. There were Bedouin police with an armoured car guarding the back entrance of the British Council, who opened the door in the great steel gate there and let her and Habib in. They hurried to the the roof of the British Council building, and she heard a loud cry go up in the street as the American director of the library arrived and was allowed to visit the building to see to the safety of the people there – but the fedayeen had already taken care to remove them, and soon those watching heard the sound, like heavy rolls of carpet dropped from balconies into the street, of bombs exploding in the library’s elevator-shaft, and then the phosphorus explosives going off and white smoke gushing suddenly from the windows. The dull sounds of the explosions echoed back and forth between the hills of the city, and a great cacophony of barking dogs began then and continued into the evening, as if, like the young fedayeen, they could not stop once they had started.

  But all she could think of then, watching the spectacle of the burning library from the roof of the British Council, while Habib reasserted his authority by scolding her and complaining about her to the others on the roof, was the moment of her decision. She was calm on the roof while her brother trembled, and she saw that he had even wet himself a little during their run, though she never mentioned this to anyone. Nor did she talk about the moment to anyone, not even when her brother misrepresented her action to their father, when at last they got home again.

  The city was very quiet, later – because, her father said, there was now a curfew with army checkpoints appearing suddenly at the major intersections, as if the camel-herding Husseini had all along been waiting for an excuse, which they had now, to drive the trouble-making Palestinians from the city.

  She had carried the memory of her decision and of its subsequent calmness into her life as her secret, it had been at her disposal more than once over the years, and now forty years later she sought its clarity and simplicity again as Philippe came back into the room, drying his hands on a towel which he then threw with disgust on the floor by the door to the truck garage.

  It was five years after the burning of the American Library that handsome Abdul Yassou was sent by his father away from the outbreak of war in Beirut, to reside with his old friend and colleague in Amman and to seek opportunities in the city from which the fedayeen had, indeed, been expelled by Hussein’s Bedouin, and into which the grateful Americans were, indeed, pouring dollars. That was when she became aware that Abdul Yassou was looking at her, but carefully, while her grandmother performed the yearly ritual of the Lydda key. Another four years and he appeared again, a little thicker and more manly, looking at her still but with less circumspection now, where she was living in Paris at the apartment of her brother Habib and his family on the Boulevard de la Chapelle and attending classes at the Campus Universitaire de Jussieu, with her keffiyeh-wearing friends.

  What had she done with her secret memory of decision and calm then, at that moment, when her life turned towards Abdul Yassou? Towards his dangerous smile that reminded her of a shark, a white chevron shape, a bite waiting? Perhaps, at that time, her secret memory had deceived her. But then, it was also true that he had wooed her with distinction and success, he had been her strong lover, her first one. And that at this time she had lived more completely in the present than at any other, and that this present had remained so for a long time afterwards, even after she had left him – until this very day, perhaps.

  ‘So, you have decided.’ This was a question from which Phi
lippe had removed the sense of interrogation.

  ‘I have until morning.’

  The older man sighed and made a slight sideways inclination of his head, at once affirmative and sceptical. ‘Then you must also know that Antun has been foolish enough to telephone again after he was forbidden to do so. His mind is agitated. Your friend the writer was seen to enter the taxi. Now the police believe that he must be with us.’

  ‘You mean, one of us?’

  ‘Yes, since he can hardly have kidnapped himself.’

  She waited, letting the tension of Philippe’s sarcasm dissipate. There seemed to be a kind of tumult around her that she would have to pass through – a palpitation in the atmosphere of the squalid room, as if the air pressure there had thickened and was pressing on her senses.

  Philippe shrugged, as if to say, You may want to take this intelligence into consideration. But then he added, ‘Don’t worry – the SIM to which Antun called has now gone where your friend’s dinner went, into the sewer. Next time it will be Antun himself in person who announces that famous assassin’s location to all the world. That woman with the memorable hair.’

  So, yes, he had thought about what she had said about the risk of Antun, while cleaning up the mess in the bathroom. So, until dawn, this was her decision to make. Their necessary unanimity extended to that point at least.

  At that moment the driver Mahfouz came in stinking of spray paint and with reddened, furious eyes from the fumes. He jerked his head at the floor above and made a slicing gesture across his throat – but Philippe stopped him before he could speak.

  ‘Go and sleep, my friend,’ he said calmly. ‘In the morning early you have to drive to Italy, not so far, but without incident.’ He paused, keeping her also within the span of his attention and his gaze. ‘Here, we have a final move to make, Doctor Habash and I. The piece held back.’

  So – he had guessed something of her intention. But perhaps not all of it. She picked up the key to the room upstairs, and the gun that was on the table under her discarded grey wig, and left the room without speaking.

  CHAPTER 4

  He’d been looking at the closed window forever and thinking how much he longed for a view, any view – but better still, one across a wide blue bay, or across some paddocks to hills and mountains in the distance. Even the view through a car’s windscreen would do the job, going somewhere that was almost like a view because it was in the distance. The distance that was like the future, over there. To be going into the distant future over there, with TG, with Miss Pepper.

  But now he was in here. And closing the shutters and then the window had been like a decision he couldn’t, now, change his mind about. Besides, there wasn’t much to look at, out the window – a little glimpse of the twinkling hills, not far away; there was a place up there that did a good octopus terrine, they used a fennel bulb in the stewing – but in any case he was alone. Christopher-where-the-fuck-are-you.

  Collecting mushrooms in the paddocks up behind Nana Gobbo’s place, early in the morning, looking back down at Tolaga Bay, that was a view! – the long finger of the old jetty poked into the side of the sea that went out all the way to the sun that was coming up out of it. Uncle Antonio’s Parkercraft tearing down the river towards the messy white water at the sandbar, out to his cray pots at the Rocks. After they were cooked, Christopher got to scoop his finger in the creamy mustard inside the bodies, the best bit. You had to get the mushrooms early before the worms did, or before the sheep trod all over them. Nana fried them up with bacon; they even tasted black. Providence. Provvidenza. Food with a view. His nostalgia for the past and some weird hope for the future were folding together, emulsifying – the image of a salsa verde came to mind, fragrant, tantalising because he couldn’t separate the flavours. Yes, he was trying to taste his feelings. Crazy. He made a bowl-wiping gesture with his finger and pressed it to his lips. Then he found himself wiping his eyes, from what emotion he wasn’t sure.

  When the woman from the taxi came back in, he saw at once that she had hardened somehow. Before, there had been something a little sarcastic, mocking, in her manner, but at least that was a sign there had been some kind of connection between them – or so he thought. And she’d see that he hadn’t tried to jump out the window, or scream for help. Here he was. He was still here. He didn’t have to be a problem, she’d said so herself. Maybe she’d had an idea about how he could be useful? Where to go next with this? Or not, in which case, why couldn’t he just walk?

  It was the hope for some view of the future – a distinct taste – that made him smile at her. But she seemed only to flinch, coldly.

  ‘So, you see, Mr Christopher Hare or “Rosenstein” whichever you prefer, it is easy to find you in the times of Google and also the name you like to hide in, yes? We Google you and voilà, a famous man, and also his, how do you say, “secret identity”.’ Her scorn made him gape; he felt his smile fall open, stupidly. ‘How long did that take – long enough for you to think about your bizarre situation, I hope?’ She sat down opposite him – her long hands, without gloves, now, hung down over her knees. Her nails were trimmed, and she wasn’t wearing rings of any sort. He was staring at her in astonishment. Of course the longish grey hair had been a wig. Her real hair was cut short – it was dark and curly with little flecks of grey. She’d applied dark-coloured lipstick and some kind of neutral face-powder, and the overall effect was minimal and efficient. ‘Also on the blogs people are asking, “Where is Thé Glacé?”’ She pronounced ‘blogs’ as if with an umlaut, pushing her aubergine-coloured lips forward. ‘They are missing her, this Thé Glacé, your broken-heart readers about food.’ She leaned close and he caught a whiff of food on her breath, something with thyme. ‘This Thé Glacé, maybe she is missing you also?’ Her eyebrows were raised. ‘Or maybe not?’

  ‘Water,’ he shouted, jumping to his feet. He felt an absurd, overwhelming disappointment. This wasn’t what he’d expected. What use was the past, now? His tongue was sticking to the inside of his mouth. The woman also stood quickly and moved away, but not far. ‘I need to drink some water. I already told you this. And it’s none of your business. Thé Glacé, I mean. Or those stupid fucking bloggers. You leave her out of this.’ He was ashamed of the moisture in his eyes, which he thought she would see as tears.

  The thickset older man with the moustache had put his head around the door when Christopher shouted. The woman made her stopping gesture towards him, palm extended. She said a word, it sounded like ‘Maya’.

  ‘Tell me about this interesting pen name.’ She accentuated the two letters ‘n’, making a mocking space between the words. She remained standing, facing him. ‘This Rosenstein.’ The nostrils of her bony, curved nose tightened with derision or perhaps amusement.

  She was as tall as him, though her heels gave her an advantage. They were standing quite close together – he could smell the thyme on her breath. But he wouldn’t step back. Now he was really angry – completely furious.

  ‘Oh, please!’ he shouted. ‘Give me a break. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.’

  Her eyebrows went up again. ‘It’s Jewish?’

  ‘He was a fucking Austrian,’ he yelled. ‘How should I know if he was a Jew? He was a scientist. He lived a long time ago. A histologist!’ He paused to wipe his mouth, and the tears from his eyes. He could hardly talk around the sticky dryness in his mouth. ‘You know what that is?’ he asked her, hearing the querulous tone in his voice – ‘His-tol-o-gist?’ He was trying to mock her sarcasm with the pronunciation of ‘pen-n-name’, but it didn’t come out right.

  ‘He study tissue structures,’ said the woman, with a deadpan expression. ‘Am I right, Mr Rosenstein?’ She seemed to be deciding whether to be offended or not. He was astonished and it must have showed in his face.

  She shrugged. ‘I am a doctor, usually I don’t shoot people, but I can. I know how to do it. I can do it very well. But usually I try to make them better. Not always doing it, but we try.’ She reached out a b
ony hand and pushed him quite gently towards an armchair. Behind her, the bulky older man came in holding a glass of water, his little finger delicately extended.

  A doctor! – what next? She handed him the glass. ‘Have a drink of water, Mr Hare. I think we call you this, it’s better, otherwise you get upset. And we try, yes? To make something useful? Because I don’t want to shoot you. That’s not really what I prefer to do in my life. Making people better, more like cooking than killing I think. Maybe we have something in common, Mr Hare. Anyway, we can try.’ But her manner was still hard, and he sensed that she had prepared herself.

  But try what? What could they try? No longer moody and sarcastic, the woman with short salt-and-pepper hair now seemed to be all will and determination, and he sensed that there were absolute limits to her patience. She had a deadline. Perhaps he was her deadline? The thought was obvious, yet it filled him with a kind of familiar inertia. Deadlines – a lifetime of them!

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘that pen-n-name.’ Now, he could even tell himself the truth. ‘I used to use it. When I needed to ...’

  ‘... to protect yourself. Your métier.’ A faint smile lifted the corners of the doctor’s hard mouth. She waved one hand dismissively. ‘It’s all right. We all do it, Mr Hare. But I do not think you are a coward.’ That chesty bark of her laugh. ‘And in any case, not so successful, your secret identity.’ Then her moment of humour was over; her expression hardened.