Before leaving Mrs. Pollifax went to her cot and picked up the Guatemalan jacket which an eternity ago she had worn when she left her Mexico City hotel room. She had lived in the same dress for six days and nights, and had passed the point of fastidiousness; but the jacket she guarded with feminine illogic. During the day it was spread carefully atop her pillow; at night it was folded across the table on which she played her card games—it had become almost a fetish with her. As she plucked it now from the pillow her left hand groped underneath for the book on Albania. She slipped it under the jacket and without even a glance at the Gremlin—this nickname had been bestowed upon their stool pigeon by Farrell—she walked out.
“Did you like my book, will you read it?” asked Lulash once they gained the hall.
She nodded with vivacity. She had already done much reading and she was in the process of assimilating some extremely interesting information. She had been wrong to think that a book written in 1919 could yield nothing pertinent; she had entirely overlooked the fact that political parties and wars could sweep like clouds across a country but leave its terrain untouched. Mrs. Pollifax was becoming very interested in Albania’s topography and she eagerly welcomed a few minutes outside her prison to view it.
In the guardroom, as she passed through it, the key to the ammunition drawer had again been left in the lock.
Lulash led her outside. The sun, dazzling even to a normal eye, had an almost searing effect upon Mrs. Pollifax’s eyeballs after the darkness of the cell, and she covered both eyes with her hands, gasping at the pain.
“Here,” said Lulash, and gravely handed her his pair of dark glasses.
“Really you are so kind,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and found that a few seconds after putting them on she was able to look around her without discomfort. They were not a great distance from the precipice from which Farrell had jumped. From here to its edge there were nothing but yellow rocks—boulders, stones, pebbles of every possible shape and size and texture, some worn smooth, others sharp and jagged. On their left the larger stone building cast a sharp black shadow across the stones, its edges as precise as if they were lines drawn with a ruler. On Mrs. Pollifax’s right, not too far away, stood a hill of rock lightly screened by fir trees—it was from this direction that they had come. But Mrs. Pollifax was more interested in what lay in front of her. “I am to walk?” she asked of Lulash.
He nodded, and lowering himself to the bench beside the door he explained, “Better today if you walk within my eye, you understand? From there to there.” With his hands he indicated boundaries.
Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and limping over the uneven stones made her way to the edge of the cliff. There she began what she hoped looked like an aimless stroll back and forth but was in reality a reconnaissance. The valley especially interested her, and from this height she could look far across it. Some distance away she traced with her eyes the winding skein of a riverbed that ran from east to west across the plain. Between herself and the river she could see four small towns, clusters of buildings baking in the brutal heat. The floor of the valley was almost a checkerboard of symmetrical lines dividing field after field—or possibly rice paddies, decided Mrs. Pollifax, having already dipped into four chapters of the book. Off to her right—or to the west, if her reasoning was correct—a road ran toward her into the mountains, and on its surface she could see men at work, so tiny they resembled little black insects. Mrs. Pollifax turned to look at what lay behind her, beyond Lulash and the stone house, and her head had to go up and far back before her eyes found the sky—the mountain towered above her. She concluded that this stony cut upon which she stood, and into which the two fortresslike buildings had been inserted, was an accident of nature, the path of some long-ago landslide or avalanche that had killed the soil for every growing thing. But of one fact she was certain: there could be no efficient escape over the peak above them into Yugoslavia, the only possibilities lay to the west, along the route they had come, or below, through the valley.
Escape … for the first time she acknowledged the direction of her thoughts, and having at last formed the word in her mind she took it out and examined it. Escape … the idea was quite mad—she admitted this cheerfully—but surely some effort had to be made? It struck her as extremely characterless for any human being to sit around waiting for execution. It wasn’t that she had so much character, thought Mrs. Pollifax, but rather that always in her life she had found it difficult to submit. The list of her small rebellions was endless. Surely there was room for one more?
She smiled and waved at Lulash and sat down on a rock near the cliff’s edge, her back to him as she carefully removed the book from under her arm. She had already marked the map’s page and now she opened to it at once. A valley, an alp and a river … yes, there was a river in exactly the right place. On the assumption that her directions were correct she quickly compared its location on the valley’s floor with its location on the map.
“The River Drin,” she exclaimed in a pleased voice, memorizing the name, “Drin …” About fifteen miles away, according to the scale of the map, and if her sense of direction was accurate then it flowed westward into the Adriatic Sea.
Walking back to Lulash she said pleasantly, “The city with the airport, is that Scutari, your capital?”
His face lit up. “Ah, you really did read my book. No, it is not the capital any longer, nor is it called Scutari now,” he said. “Its name is Shkoder. But yes, that is where the airport is, in the north.”
“You are a mine of information about your interesting country,” Mrs. Pollifax told him with complete honesty. “I shall hope to learn much more from your book. Forgive me, but I think I will go inside now, this sun—this heat …” She placed a hand daintily on her brow, impatient to get inside and begin new calculations on her map.
Lulash jumped to open the door for her before he sat down again on his bench.
Considerably refreshed by her small excursion Mrs. Pollifax walked back into the ice-house coolness of the stone building, and closed the door behind her. “Oh—I do beg your pardon!” she said, discovering Major Vassovic kneeling in a corner on the floor. For one fleeting moment Mrs. Pollifax wondered if she had interrupted the major in prayer, but then she remembered where she was and put this thought aside. Curiosity drew her closer. “Is that some form of Yogi you’re practicing?” she asked.
“Zott, no,” he said heavily.
Mrs. Pollifax knew by now that Zott was a derivative of Zeus and a favored exclamation of the country; this much had not changed since 1919; and she nodded.
“The electric wire, there is only the one—ah! I have it!” The major climbed laboriously to his feet, and finding her still watching him he added, “For my heat brick. The electric is difficult here.”
“Yes, it would be,” she agreed. “How on earth do you get electricity? Surely not from the valley.”
“Zott, no,” he said, untangling the wire that ran from the floor to his desk. “We have, what do you call it, a big machine in the other building. But here, only the one wire.”
Mrs. Pollifax brightened. “Oh yes, a generator. That’s clever. And this is your heat brick?” She reached out and touched it. “Why, this is what we call a heating pad at home.”
“Yes, for the back,” he said, nodding. “These stones are hard to live with.”
“Back?” repeated Mrs. Pollifax, puzzled.
“My back. Very cold, very sore.”
Mrs. Pollifax understood at last. “You mean a cold has settled in your back!”
He nodded morosely. “To get up, to get down, it hurts.”
“You poor man,” said Mrs. Pollifax, genuinely concerned. “I know exactly what that’s like. How long has it been bothering you?”
“Since they moved me here.”
Mrs. Pollifax frowned. “Have you tried any deep heat, have you tried massage?”
He only stared at her, uncomprehending, and Mrs. Pollifax made an exasperated sound. “Take off your
shirt,” she said firmly. “Yes, take it off, I won’t hurt you, it’s the only thing that really helps. Have you rubbing alcohol?”
“Alcohol?” He reached into a drawer of the desk and dubiously held up a flask of brandy.
“Yes, why not?” she said cheerfully. “Now the shirt, please, and if you would be so kind as to lie across your desk—”
He retreated in alarm.
“No, no, you don’t understand, I will rub your back. Massage it. This has …” She was making no headway with him. She went to the door and opened it. “Mr. Lulash,” she called, “could you please come and translate for me? I want to rub the major’s back.”
“You want to what?” said Lulash, entering.
“His heating pad will do very little for him, he needs a sound back rub. Please ask him to remove his shirt and lie across his desk.”
With a grin Lulash translated the words. Major Vassovic said, “Ah!” and then, “Oh?”
“He did not understand you,” said Lulash. “He thought you were insisting he lie down and drink the alcohol and his instructions are to never drink while on duty.”
“I see.” The major was removing his shirt.
“He says,” translated Lulash, “that he did not bring long winter underwear here because it is summer. He did not expect a stone house.”
“Nor did any of us,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, her eyes running expertly over his back. Once the major had lowered himself to the desk she rolled up her sleeves, poured brandy into the palm of one hand, and approached him. She was a knowledgeable back-rubber; at one period in her life she had visited a Swedish masseur and had seen no reason why she should not apply the same principles to the backs of her family. Experience added a special fillip to her technique, and now she pummeled, pushed, kneaded and slapped the major’s back with enthusiasm. His small shrieks of protest presently became sighs of joy.
“He will need a blanket now,” Mrs. Pollifax told Lulash. “He must lie still for several minutes before getting up.” Lulash nodded and returned with a blanket. Mrs. Pollifax threw it over the major and collapsed into the desk chair. “Now that was good exercise,” she said happily. “I haven’t done it in years.”
“Was good, good,” grunted the major from the desk.
“You must be extremely careful in getting up,” she told him sternly. “When the muscles are inflamed and swollen they push little bones out of place. This is what hurts you.”
Lulash went to the water cooler and brought back two paper cups. “Allow me,” he said, and with a bow poured brandy into each cup.
Mrs. Pollifax said doubtfully, “I suppose I could call it a late afternoon cocktail?” She accepted the drink with her right hand. Very casually she dangled her left hand in the vicinity of the ammunition drawer and felt for the protruding brass key.
“Half-past three,” said Lulash, and seated himself in the chair on the other side of the desk. He and Mrs. Pollifax exchanged friendly smiles across the lumpy, prostrate form of Major Vassovic. “Skoal!” called Lulash, lifting his cup.
“Skoal,” returned Mrs. Pollifax gaily, pulling open the drawer behind her. In the comfortable silence that followed she filled her hand with gun cartridges and pushed the drawer closed again.
The lumpy figure stirred and sat up. “But that was delicious,” gasped the major. “You do that for my back again sometime?”
Mrs. Pollifax beamed at him. She now had four gun clips in her lap and was feeling congenial indeed. “Of course, Major. At least until they decide how to dispose of me.”
Lulash said in surprise, “Dispose? Dispose?”
She said cheerfully, “Oh yes, I’m sure they’ll eventually have to kill me. What else can they do with me?”
“But you cannot be dangerous,” protested Lulash.
Mrs. Pollifax shrugged. “Does anyone care? This isn’t a democracy, you know.”
“They do not shoot people in a democracy?”
“Oh dear, no. Not unless they’ve committed a murder, and even then—no, really, people do not get shot as punishment in a democracy.” She sipped her brandy appreciatively. “And then it’s in the hands of a jury, you know. It takes twelve people to decide on a person’s guilt.”
Major Vassovic stared at her. “Twelve officers, you mean.”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “Twelve people. Citizens. Ordinary people. Working people.”
The two men stared at her incredulously. Major Vassovic said, “But then no one would ever be found guilty. Who instructs them?”
Mrs. Pollifax smiled forgivingly. “They are free to make up their own minds from the evidence that’s presented.”
Major Vassovic looked thoroughly alarmed; Lulash looked interested. “Explain to me how it works,” he said.
Mrs. Pollifax hesitated, not from any lack of articulateness but because she was holding four gun cartridges in her lap. She said, “First I must put on my jacket, I’m cold.” She left her chair and walked over to the stool upon which she had arranged her jacket so that it would conceal Albania: Land of Primitive Beauty. Slipping the gun clips into the pocket she shrugged on her jacket and managed to squeeze the book tightly under one arm. Her activity reminded Major Vassovic of his own condition and he started buttoning on his tunic.
“It works like this,” Mrs. Pollifax said, and returning to the desk drew pencil and paper toward her and began diagraming a courtroom. “The judge sits here,” she announced, drawing a circle, “and we will call this the jury box and put twelve circles here. You will be one of them, and I will be another, and the major will be a third.”
“Please no,” said the major in alarm.
“It’s only on paper,” she told him soothingly. “And we will pretend that you, Mr. Lulash, are a farmer, and I am a housewife, and Major Vassovic sells ties in a store.”
“What are our political affiliations?” asked Lulash quickly.
“Oh, but that doesn’t matter at all.”
“But it must.”
She shook her head. “No, because this is a court of law and justice. We would be concerned only with truth.”
Lulash said, “But surely the jury would have been appointed by party officials?”
“No,” said Mrs. Pollifax firmly. “Not appointed at all. No commitments, no ties, no obligations. Absolute freedom to decide.”
“Zott,” cried Major Vassovic despairingly.
“Then surely the judge is appointed?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax.
“Ah!” cried Lulash triumphantly.
“But the judge has nothing to do with the verdict,” emphasized Mrs. Pollifax. “He cannot decide whether a man is guilty or innocent. That responsibility rests with the twelve jurors.”
Lulash looked bewildered. “He cannot tell the twelve jurors they’re wrong? He cannot punish them if they bring in the wrong verdict?”
“Absolutely not,” replied Mrs. Pollifax.
From the doorway General Hoong said coldly, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pollifax.”
Mrs. Pollifax turned. She had not realized before how very much the general’s face resembled a fresh brown egg. The skin fitted his bones so snugly that she could not find a single line of laughter or of sadness, and she wondered if he could have had his face lifted. There was something very sinister about a man of forty or fifty who looked so remote and untouched by life. “Good afternoon,” she said.
His nostrils quivered fastidiously. “There is a smell of alcohol in this room. Private Lulash, Major Vassovic, have you been drinking?”
“It’s entirely my fault,” intervened Mrs. Pollifax. “I was allowed a small walk and I had a touch of sunstroke. They offered me the brandy for medicinal purposes.”
Seeing the general’s gaze drift from Lulash to Major Vassovic she continued in a firmer voice. “I’m glad you are here, General Hoong. I would like permission to extract the bullet from Mr. Farrell’s arm. You have seen Mr. Farrell today?”
The general’s glance rested upon her and his
left eyebrow lifted. Mrs. Pollifax was relieved to see that this caused two lines above the brow without cracking the surface of his face.
“It is obvious to me,” she said in her most imperious Woman’s Club voice, “that he will die if the bullet is not removed. This will make General Perdido quite angry, don’t you think? I don’t believe he will appreciate his dying at all. Not at all.”
The general’s gaze lingered on her face. He might have been pondering a piece of rare jade, a beautiful sunset or the fish he was to eat for dinner.
“I will need a knife,” she went on recklessly. “A knife and some boiling water to sterilize it, and a bandage. This is possible?”
The general’s right eyebrow was lifted this time. His lips moved. “It is possible, yes.”
“Good.”
Gradually something resembling an expression stirred the shell-like surface of his face. “There is nothing else?” His voice was brushed with the most delicate sarcasm.
“I don’t believe so,” Mrs. Pollifax told him, ignoring the sarcasm. “Your food is quite good and I’m growing accustomed to the mattress. It’s not exactly posturpedic, but it’s firm. No, I think this is all.”
He bowed slightly. “I am so glad.”
“And now I believe I’d like to go back to my cell and lie down,” she finished. “If you will excuse me?”
Major Vassovic at once produced the key and led her down the hall. As he swung the cell door open for her he whispered, “Tomorrow, same time?”
Feeling like a paramour making an assignation Mrs. Pollifax told him gravely, “Tomorrow, yes.” She entered the cell to discover that the Gremlin had disappeared and Farrell was asleep. As soon as the door closed behind her she hurried to her cot and hid the book on Albania under the mattress. Only then did she bring from the pocket of her Guatemalan jacket the items she had stolen from the ammunition drawer. It was a little like opening up a mystery prize, she reflected, as she held them up to the light to see what she had won. Carrying them to the nearest window slit for a closer scrutiny she found that two belonged to a Beretta pistol, and two to something called a Nambu. Very good, she thought, nodding. Next she wondered where to hide them and she decided at last upon diversification; she placed one in her purse, another inside her underclothes in a time-honored place of concealment, a third she trusted to a hole in her mattress and the fourth she hid in Farrell’s mattress. Since Farrell was still asleep she took out Lulash’s book and turned again to the map.
Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 11