Dozens of faces went by, changing all too rapidly. They grew thin, grew fat, grew ugly; only a few did not submit to the passage of time. This gallery of women’s faces, arranged chronologically, spoke eloquently of the toll of travel in real time.
When he got to the end, the sky outside the window had turned black. There was no Ra Mahleiné.
Anabel returned and said, “Dave, the office is closing. The port is closed until dawn.”
“She’s not here.”
“Tomorrow is another day. You’ll have to spend the night somewhere. Do you have a place?”
“Not really.”
“You can stay with my parents. They have a room upstairs. For thirty packets. A clean bed, breakfast, and for another three packets, Mama will make you lunch. What do you say?”
He wondered what else was included for those thirty-three packets. But the thought came: if he left here, he would never find the way back, in this wilderness of officials, cubicles, desks. If for some reason they were trying to hide the fate of Ra Mahleiné, then, forewarned, they would misdirect him, and he would wander through this vast complex until exhaustion and despair finally defeated him.
“That’s very kind of you, Anabel, but I couldn’t sleep a wink. I have to know! It’s all the same if I stay here or go upstairs—I won’t sleep. And here I can keep looking. There are plenty of folders I haven’t gone through yet.”
“But that’s not permitted.”
He heard hesitation in her voice. She was lying, he was sure of that. He went with his intuition.
“I think I can deal with the person in charge, Anabel. Call your supervisor, let me talk to the woman. I know my rights. It’s inexcusable that finding a passenger should take so long,” he said.
“Actually . . . I’m the person in charge here.” Her tone showed that his bluff had worked.
Gavein gave a disarmingly helpless smile. There was a pause. He outwaited her.
“All right, then. I’ll do this for you, Dave. Let me have your ID; I need it to set up an overnight pass for you. You’ve had no trouble with the law?” She looked at him sideways. “No suspended fines, even?”
He shook his head.
“Wait here.”
In no time she was back with the ID, the pass, and a magnetic key that opened the door to a room with a dresser and a toilet. She wheeled in another cart with photographs. This was more cooperation than he had expected.
“These are ships 077-10 and 077-14. If you don’t find her there, then I don’t know.”
She was not pleased. He didn’t care. In any case, she left. He began with the registers, but found nothing. The only possibility was an error in the name. He believed, he absolutely believed that Ra Mahleiné had got on a ship, and yet the worm of doubt continued to gnaw at him. It showed him an image of a weary Ra Mahleiné striking up an acquaintance at last with the handsome pilot of a seaplane, running away with him from the ship. The marriage, after all, had not been that long. And had he ever really understood her? Her thinking would be totally different from his, and she was four years younger besides. Except that the idea of compensating travel had been hers, not his. There had to be a trace of her somewhere.
The bitch, he thought of Anabel. She spat poison in my head.
His confidence left him: the time difference, after all—he parted with his wife two weeks ago, she parted with him four years ago. Four years was four years.
At night his examination of the folders was slower. He went through all the ships, through 077-12 twice, but not once did he come upon Ra Mahleiné’s beloved face. At the very end of the file for 077-14, he made a discovery: the race was given for each passenger. Included in the column of data was always a B, R, or G. But never an NC, “no category,” for whites. The race letter was placed in a corner of the screen, easily overlooked in the flood of other information.
“I’m an idiot,” he muttered. “How could I have missed this?” He scrolled through the file of 077-12 again: not one white. They were all black, red, or gray. He sighed with relief. He would have to look in some other place. He wasn’t even angry with Anabel for lying to him—all officials lied.
It was dawn.
14
She woke him after three hours. He felt crumpled, crushed. No wonder, he had been lying on the floor. His bones ached, and he needed a shower. Anabel brought a few rolls, with coffee in a paper cup. This went beyond official courtesy. He told her what he had discovered last night. He observed how the satisfaction on her face faded.
“I had no idea she was white,” Anabel said. “There are no whites in the file, of course.”
Gavein remembered that he had in fact mentioned the color of his wife’s hair, but all he said was “There must be at least a list. May I see that?”
“There’s a list, yes. But it has only numbers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once on the ship, the passengers become the property of Davabel. The formalities of changing citizenship are all taken care of the moment they leave Lavath.”
“So?”
“Her Lavath first and last names were not recorded. She is a number. Assuming she is . . . alive.”
Gavein rubbed his hands. He wanted to give the impression of a man rested up and eager for the next challenge, a man who would never back off or give up. “I’m positive this will work out. The coffee was excellent, the roll even better. Nothing like a good breakfast to make a person optimistic. You baked these yourself?”
“Yes, myself. That is, Mama helped me.”
An obvious lie: these rolls came ready-made from the store, the kind you browned and served. Edda made the exact same rolls.
“Mmm,” he murmured, like a cat. “First-rate.” He shook off his sleepiness. “So when can I see the white women from the transport?”
“Well, now, if you like.” She was capitulating. “They’ll be eating lunch. There are cameras in the dining room.”
She led him down a corridor.
“But if she’s among the dead, I won’t be able to find her,” Anabel said over her shoulder. “She had only an identification number.”
The word “among” sent a shiver through him.
In the guardroom were dozens of monitors. They showed different cells: some screens were empty, others had women. The women were all dressed the same: gray-blue skirts, gray shirts with Quarantine on the back.
“Only the dining room and lounges can be viewed, and the bedrooms at night. The showers and toilets may not be viewed, by law. The passengers have a right to privacy,” she explained.
“But the maintenance men can always take a peek.”
“You’re mistaken.” Her lips tightened. “In the showers and stalls there are no cameras, because of rust.”
“Good. Rust rises in my estimation.”
She ignored his remark.
“Over here, Dave,” she said. “This second one in the third row.” She jutted her chin at one of the monitors. “The whites from transport 077-12 are eating lunch right now. With these two levers you can move the camera. Identification numbers are on the front of their shirts. If you find your wife, read out the number, and I’ll call her to the microphone. You’ll be able to get a good look, and if you identify her and she confirms your identity, you have the right to examine her naked. Immigration law allows that. Personally I would advise it, because on the prison ship she will have aged and changed—and then you can back out. No conversation, by the way, is permitted.”
Gavein turned the levers, watching the monitor. Soon he was able to pan slowly across the sad faces of women, their hair tied in kerchiefs as gray as their shirts. Though the grayness might have been a result of the poor camera image, which was almost completely devoid of color. The numbers were on large white patches sewn to the shirts. He couldn’t see the women who sat at the edge of the camera’s range, even at maxi
mum close-up. Some glanced up, taking note of the camera’s movement. They began to speak with animation, and soon most of the women were staring at the lens. A few smiled, but generally the looks were hostile, angry. Two women raised a fist.
“If you don’t find her this way, I’ll order them to walk single file down a corridor. Then they’ll have to walk right past a camera. You want to be sure she’s dead.”
Exactly at that moment, he recognized his wife. She was sitting in profile, bent over. She never sat like that before. She was eating from a bowl with a spoon. She wore glasses, poorly made, of crooked wire. She never wore glasses before. For a moment he fought the lump in his throat. She was alive. He wanted to leap with joy.
“That’s her. She’s sitting over there,” he said at last.
The official started.
“Her number is 077-12-747,” Gavein said. “You can call her. Anabel?” He saw the gesture she made. He couldn’t show what he felt. There was no telling what else they would think up. This was a battle; there would be time to celebrate later.
“Very well.” She gave him a look and said crisply into the microphone, “077-12-747, go to the interrogation room.”
Ra Mahleiné pushed away her bowl and stood up, agitated. Gavein fought to keep his tears from welling. He once believed he was incapable of crying. As she walked, he could see her better. She hadn’t changed so very much, though she looked pitiful, as if after a long illness. She had a stoop. It wasn’t the stoop of young women who are too tall and try to lessen their height by bending—naively, since in profile they resemble birds that stalk, remaining too tall. Ra Mahleiné was bent forward at the waist, like a woman beginning to suffer from osteoporosis. Before, she had had a slight defect in posture; now it was obvious.
“Her name?” asked Anabel.
He was angry that she was making him repeat it. He had no doubt that she remembered that name.
Ra Mahleiné was at another monitor now. She looked calmly into the camera, standing at attention in the way required.
“State your identity,” Anabel snapped into the microphone.
“Number 077-12-747,” answered Ra Mahleiné in a hoarse voice.
“I want your first and last names.”
“You beat those out of me over the years. I’m not giving you an excuse.” The way she spoke was different, defiant. The sweetness was gone.
“Give your first and last names from Lavath. That is an order,” said Anabel.
“Ra Mahleiné Throzz.”
“May I say something to her?”
“That’s not possible,” said Anabel. “For two reasons. On the ship there was an epidemic of mental illness—she might not be able to endure hearing you. And the law forbids it.”
Gavein sensed that on this point the supervisor would not bend.
“Someone called Dave is inquiring about you. Do you know him?”
“I don’t know any Dave. I will not undress in front of the camera for a stranger just because he has taken notice of me. I think my husband hasn’t forgotten me in two weeks. He will come, to . . .” She broke off.
Gavein’s soul sang.
“Anabel, she knows me under a different name.”
“Don’t interrupt. This is the procedure. Now I’ll confirm your relationship.” Anabel had become the perfect official.
“He knows your name,” she told Ra Mahleiné.
“I don’t know where he learned it,” Ra Mahleiné said with a shrug. “It was no secret. You could have told him yourself. You tried to make me believe, before, that Gavein had sold me . . .”
Gavein started. The goodwill of Anabel, her concern, her helpfulness—it had all been a game, to break him. From the first, she had known the one he was seeking.
“Behave yourself,” barked Anabel, no longer resembling a woman who loved to bake rolls. “He came to take you from this place. And you will undress if I order you to undress!”
Ra Mahleiné’s reply was to lift a clenched fist to the camera and kiss it.
“I’ll call the guards,” Anabel threatened.
“You exceed your power, and the tape from this camera will be evidence against you,” Ra Mahleiné said.
He didn’t recognize his wife, so fierce and determined. This exchange was apparently the continuation of a duel that had been going on for a long time.
“This man from Lavath calls himself Gavein Throzz. You know such a man?”
“That was my husband’s name. But I don’t believe you, that he’s standing there. You tried to trick me before and didn’t succeed. Give it up . . .”
But Ra Mahleiné didn’t seem as sure of herself as she had been.
“I don’t want her undressing here. It’s humiliating. Stop this, Anabel. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s her.”
“No, no,” Anabel sputtered. “You have to sign the affidavit, so that in the event of an error you cannot make a claim against us and search more. If you sign, you must accept her. But if she undresses, you can change your mind and look for another.”
Why was she insisting on this? What reaction from Ra Mahleiné was she hoping for?
“I’ll sign the affidavit.”
“All right. I’ll terminate her quarantine in two weeks. We’ll deliver her then to your house.”
“She can’t go with me now?”
“Impossible. Health reasons. She might be carrying a disease.” Anabel shook her head, then barked into the microphone, “077-12-747, you will move to the preparation room, starting today.”
“Gavein,” called Ra Mahleiné. “Do you see me? Don’t look at me now.” She covered her face with her hands and could not speak.
“077-12-747, leave the interrogation room immediately. The matter has been settled. You have been recognized, and Mr. Throzz accepts you. Go.”
“Yes, good . . . Gavein,” Ra Mahleiné said, wiping her glasses with an edge of her shirt. “My glasses . . . My eyes went bad, Gavein . . .”
Anabel, furious, switched off the monitor.
“So it turned out the way you wanted,” she said to Gavein. “But what will you do with her? She can’t be your wife, you know. Whites aren’t written into passports.”
“She was written into mine. They made an exception for me.”
“That was only a note guaranteeing her personal safety, nothing more. In addition to her, you can have a normal wife.”
“Or two red women. I was informed.”
“You’ll have to worry about her health. After those years on the ship. The climate in Davabel isn’t good for the fair-haired.”
“It isn’t. I’ll have to worry.”
He signed the necessary papers, carefully reading everything before he signed. Then he left.
15
His minibus was waiting in the endless, snow-covered parking lot. Pat and Goft both slept; two passengers dozed on their seats. Goft, waking, opened the door.
“So? You’re alone?” he asked. “That doesn’t mean anything,” he added, looking into Gavein’s face. “Sometimes they make a mistake about the port. There’s hope.”
“No, I found her. She’s in quarantine.”
“There you go.” Goft clapped him on the arm.
Pat opened an eye. “We’re here until the evening,” he explained. “We have two others taking care of business.”
The red tape of moving from Land to Land rarely consumed only one day. The drivers had spent the night in the minibus, waiting for the passengers to return.
Gavein nodded off, euphoric. He wasn’t bothered by his uncomfortable seat or by the snoring of the others. Ra Mahleiné was alive; she hadn’t changed, hadn’t become ugly or fat. He liked her even more in glasses—he had always liked women in glasses.
He awoke when they started to move. One of the passengers hadn’t returned, but the agreement had been not to
stay longer. The other brought with him a son he hadn’t seen in thirty years—for five years they would be a family, those two, and then they would have to part forever.
Gavein began to whistle, but stopped at the stern glances of the others. In Davabel whistling in a public place was rude. Thinking about Ra Mahleiné, he fell asleep.
It was early morning when he woke up, ill at ease. He had the feeling that something bad was happening. Pat was seated behind the driver, his face to the passengers. His color was more livid than usual; he was clutching his throat and struggling for air.
“What’s wrong, Pat?” Gavein asked. Everyone else was asleep.
Pat wheezed. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Goft, drive to the nearest hospital! Something’s wrong with Pat.”
Goft turned at the nearest intersection and stepped on the gas. In this part of the city he didn’t need to ask for directions. Pat was unconscious now.
After a quarter of an hour they stopped before the bright door of a hospital. Goft jumped out. He came back with two orderlies, a gurney between them. Together they pulled Pat’s limp body onto a stretcher. A doctor ran up and began to examine him.
“Probably a heart attack. And you’re probably too late,” he said but connected Pat to a respirator. They wheeled him into the hospital and toward an elevator, at a run. Goft went with them; Gavein waited at the entrance. The other passengers slept. It was bitter cold.
After an hour, Goft appeared.
“They’re massaging his heart, but I don’t think that will help. He was an Aktid, and I told him a hundred times he should retire . . . He was too old for this work. I called his family.”
Aktid was one of the Names of Man, and it meant “through activity.”
16
Goft took the passengers home. At the stops he phoned the hospital. The second time he called, he was told that the resuscitation had been discontinued. The death of his partner placed a question mark over the future of their small business.
When the minibus drove up to the front of his building, Gavein saw movement, though it was three in the morning. People were walking about, and there were several cars parked. Blue and red lights flashed: two police vans and a fire truck.
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