He put an arm around her. She snuggled like a kitten.
“Next month, you’re going to the hospital,” he said. “The waiting list for whites is long, but I managed to get a place for you on the one for grays. That, and better treatment. As of a wife written into a passport.”
“And then we’ll look for another place.”
31
The interrogation, though overseen by Tobiany, came to no satisfactory conclusion. Haifan succeeded in opening the veins of his wrist with the sharp edge of a spoon. The guard, instead of collecting the eating utensils from the prisoners after the meal, had fallen asleep in front of the TV and didn’t wake until three in the morning, which gave Haifan enough time. They had kept him in isolation, unobserved, though his Significant Name—Sulled—clearly pointed to what could happen.
Wilcox did not part with his book, which had a stamped cover that resembled a mosaic. The title seemed assembled with colored stones: Nest of Worlds. He carried it with him everywhere. The book was falling apart; it had been read by so many. He still had not got beyond the first chapter.
Gavein asked to see the beginning—to see what the book was about—but Wilcox refused.
The man stopped taking care of himself. He would sit until late in the bookstore, poring over the first few pages, then come in around noon the next day, saying that he had been reading.
“It would be nice to read something that absorbing,” Ra Mahleiné remarked when Gavein told her about Wilcox. “The TV commercials are turning my brains to mush. Yesterday, when you were at the bookstore, they showed an old movie with Maslynnaya. Her striptease was interrupted three times by ads. Potato chips, corn flakes. It’s such garbage. In Lavath they had more respect for the television viewer.”
Two days after that, Wilcox’s wife came to see them: Ra Bharré. She asked them to call her Brenda. A blonde, she was small but plump as a bun. She seemed so much younger than Wilcox that at first Gavein assumed she was his daughter.
“Don’t apologize, Dave. Everyone makes that mistake. Harry aged a lot on the force. He wasn’t cut out for it, but if a person spends his whole life daydreaming, that’s how he ends up. As a kid, Harry wanted to be a private eye, like in the movies. What did he become? A cop on the beat.”
Wilcox’s first name was Hvar, the word for a dwarf shrub, remarkably resistant to cold and wind and growing in the north of Lavath. The plant was a symbol of endurance and strength of character. Brenda had changed the name in the Davabel manner.
“You’re surprised by our difference in age?”
“Yes.” There was no point denying it.
“Our story is so romantic. A teenage girl watches a program one day about the dangerous work the police do. It shows a policeman in a hospital bed, hit by a stray bullet. That seems so noble to her, she writes a letter. Receiving an answer, she pays a visit to the hospital. Here I am thirty years later.”
“Ours is less romantic,” Ra Mahleiné said. “Four years separated us, and we compensated for that by my taking a prison ship. A kind of personal victory over time. The two of us. Or a personal defeat,” she added grimly.
“You had the courage to go by prison ship?”
“No one told me it would be a prison ship.” The few thin scars on her face turned red.
“True. It’s not generally known. Harry knew things like that, but he was a cop. I did without him, pined for ten years in Lavath rather than travel with compensation to remove the age difference. My best ten years. And then meeting the old Harry, that was awful. I hadn’t found anyone else in that time,” she said lightly, “so I came to him. He had waited for me.”
All three of them knew what a married person remaining in Lavath had to do.
“I didn’t even have the chance, you know, . . . on that boat,” said Ra Mahleiné. “But how did you get around the difference in category?” To change the embarrassing subject.
“I was too young to pay attention to that in Lavath. And here? I don’t even think Harry was aware he got a three.”
“You came to see me, Brenda?” said Gavein. He was put off by her breezy tone. He had some idea of the lengths Harry must have gone to to secure for her the rights of a legal wife.
“Yes. It’s about Harry and that book. He doesn’t wash. He sits up all night. He thinks of nothing else. He doesn’t even know I’m there. All he does is read. What’s in the book?”
Gavein shrugged. “He won’t give it to me, though he promised he would.”
“If only he’d read on. But he seems to always open to the same place, the beginning. I don’t want him going nuts.”
“He said something once. That the book was active, not passive, that it changed each time. That’s why he reads it in a circle. He keeps going back to page one, experimenting.”
“He told me that too. But sometimes I think it’s the book that’s experimenting. Is this a kind of insanity?”
“I don’t know. You might want to talk to a psychiatrist. Insanity has a chemical basis. If they give him the right pill, that might stop the problem.” Gavein led Brenda to the door.
“Maybe you could take the book away from him, play the bad boss,” Ra Mahleiné suggested after Brenda left.
Gavein nodded. It was not a bad idea.
They were silent. The blue eyes she raised from her knitting were filled with warmth. “Don’t be stiff with me. I didn’t really mean what I said, about not having the chance. She was expecting something like that. She wanted to hear that other women would have done the same. She was lying, of course: she had to marry another man when her husband left.”
“When you said good-bye to me at the airport, my little manul, you gave me a look that reminded me of a look I got from a girl once. I was young, in school. I said no to her. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”
“If you hadn’t rejected the first girl,” Ra Mahleiné pointed out, “then the second would never have been able to give you that look. Ah, I see,” she added, understanding, “you only said that to get back at me. It was a jab.”
“A jab for a jab. But that wasn’t what I intended to say.”
“I’ll have to practice making looks in a mirror,” she said. “The first look, hopelessly infatuated teenager. No, the second, because some hussy stole the first look before we met. She was also a blonde? No doubt, because you’re a one-color man.” And she gave him a look that made him melt.
“Yes, also a blonde. I should have been born earlier. That would have made things simpler.”
“You’re joking. Then I wouldn’t have given you the time of day. Even now, sometimes, you seem . . .” She laughed to herself. “I grew up, Gavein, I matured. That’s the price of our staying together.”
“You were grown up already in Lavath. And I knew you were smarter than me. My only advantage was experience. Now I have no advantage. Some tea?”
“Herbal. But cover it with a saucer, so it steeps.”
“What kind?”
“How about St. John’s wort?” She lowered her head over her work.
He put the tea ball into the glass.
She liked her tea bitter, her herbs bitter. He liked to sit in the chair next to hers and be idle with her.
32
For the next two days Wilcox did not come to work. Prying the book from his hands turned out to be harder than they thought. Laila’s condition worsened; the infection spread, and she developed a high fever. Fatima spent day after day at her bedside.
A gentleman in a gray jacket and velveteen trousers paid a visit to the Throzzes. He was Captain Frank Medved, Tobiany’s superior. Gavein imagined that this policeman would be from the same mold as the other, a giant with a bucket head and fleshy ears. Nothing of the sort: Medved was shorter than Gavein and had a pale, sensitive face.
He sat cross-legged on the rug because the Throzzes as yet had no desk, and he needed to use
his laptop.
“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions in the matter of Tonescu.”
“I thought everything about that had been answered.”
“Yes and no. We determined that Haifan indeed committed the murders.”
“So?” asked Ra Mahleiné. That she had not offered coffee meant that Medved was not welcome. But only Gavein read this signal.
“I’d like to speak with you also, ma’am, but later,” said the policeman.
“My wife and I are both at a loss,” said Gavein. “If it’s known who committed the murders, then what is the problem?”
“The problem is motive, and the circumstances. Some things remain unclear. I’m counting on your cooperation.”
“I know little.”
“Please tell me, in detail, everything that happened—from the moment you rented a room at the Eislers.”
“Ah! So that’s what this is about.” Gavein broke into a laugh.
There was no chance now that Ra Mahleiné would offer Medved coffee.
“Edda told you her stupid theory of Death stalking her house. Her idea of me as Death’s pointing finger. And you believed her?”
“It’s my job, you know, to check out stupid theories. Tell me everything. I’ll take notes.” He nodded at the keyboard. “This is not an interrogation, merely an interview, which means, say whatever occurs to you and with as many facts as you can supply.”
“If it’s merely an interview and not official, then I have nothing to add. I said everything during the investigation. If you want to find out something new, then please go to a little trouble and obtain a warrant.”
Medved sighed and left. Gavein didn’t care to enter into a long account of his life in Davabel, and Medved, without a court order, couldn’t make him.
For two days, the press of events seemed to let up. Laila’s fever fell, and her parents checked her out of the hospital.
“So much for Edda,” Gavein said, dusting his hands. “Her fears didn’t materialize, though the infection came from dirty water and Laila’s Significant Name is Fluedda and, in addition, I was present the whole time. And? And nothing, the girl will live.”
33
Gavein took the book from Wilcox. Without opening it, he put it on a shelf at home. Actually, not on a shelf but on the rug with the other books, because they hadn’t purchased a bookshelf yet. Brenda telephoned to thank him for saving her marriage. Helga moved out—taking Edda’s theory seriously. The house was quieter now, the Throzzes being the sole tenants, not counting the Hougassians, who lived in the kitchen for only eighty packets a month. In exchange, the Hougassians helped with the housework.
Laila’s infection got better, but a skin graft was out of the question, since she was now experiencing in full the discomfort of the first stage of pregnancy. Zef walked about proudly, until he got pasted by Beanpole. He took it out on Earthworm, who was weaker. Zef cleaned his jacket, and it no longer stank. He continued putting studs in it and took to embroidering skulls on his pants. He said he was preparing his wedding outfit.
Ra Mahleiné went to local hospital number 5357, to the ob-gyn ward run by Dr. Elava Nott. Gavein had seen the doctor on television and chose the hospital based on that. Dr. Nott was about fifty, had an energetic gleam in her eyes, a bony profile, and an incongruously fleshy chin. She inspired confidence, though the wattle that quivered under her jaw made her look like a chicken.
In the hospital, no notice was taken that Ra Mahleiné was white. Gavein’s money saw to that. She was to stay a week there, for observation. Gavein visited her every day, on his way home from work.
Both apartments were unsealed, on orders from Medved. The insurance money covered the cost of repainting the rooms and putting down new carpet. The Wilcoxes moved into the Tonescu apartment. Edda, afraid that the history of these apartments would frighten off potential tenants, set a low price, and Brenda jumped at the chance.
The Hanning apartment was taken by Edgar and Myrna Patrick, an old couple preparing to move to Ayrrah. Their daughter, Lorraine, worked at the airport, ate in town, and came home late.
34
The news on television was bad: at the main terminal of the Davabel airport, a large passenger plane leaving for Lavath plowed into the building for arrivals. Carrying several dozen tons of fuel, the colossus exploded, and the building was engulfed in flame. Coverage of the tragedy went on for the entire day. The firefighters worked until the middle of the night. More and more bodies were found. Edgar and Myrna sat glued to the screen. At intervals the name of an identified victim was given. Edgar Patricks had tried calling the airport but couldn’t get through.
Gavein drank tea. Wilcox had his usual place on the sofa, legs up, in his socks, one sock blue, the other cherry red. The tea he made for himself was strong. For Myrna Patricks, the worried mother, he had prepared a sedative herbal tea. He often got up for the hot water that Gavein was boiling in a dented pot.
After midnight the company minibus brought Lorraine home. She had fallen from her chair at the moment of the explosion and hurt her arm. Having taken part in the rescue operation, she was dirty and exhausted.
When the exclamations of relief were over, the young woman sat down. Wilcox rose, introduced himself, and put a metal mug with the sedative tea in her hands. It was Gavein’s mug, and the water had just been boiled. Lorraine, starting to drink it like water, burned her mouth. She didn’t care for the taste either.
“Drink it all down,” Wilcox advised her. “Your mama had three mugs of it, watching television. I hate to think what she would have done without it.”
In anticipation of gory details, Zef hunkered down on the floor, and Laila pulled up a kitchen stool. Under the bandage on her face was a red patch of skin, blotchy, scarred. The Hougassians peered curiously from the kitchen.
“In the confusion my glasses fell off, and someone stepped on them.”
“You have your old glasses, the wire ones. I’ll bring them,” said her father, getting up.
Lorraine Patricks put the glasses on her nose and looked around her. “I finally get to see you all. Usually I’m here only at night, late.”
Edda made the introductions. She left the Hougassians for last, preserving the decorum of classification.
Lorraine squinted. She had bright red hair and large green eyes. “Dave. Of course. I remember you. I was there when your flight came in.”
He remembered her too: the living advertisement for Davabel. But before he could say anything, everyone was asking questions.
Lorraine began:
“It started on the runway. A jumbo ten-engine cruiser, transoceanic, suddenly behaved funny. I doubt it was sabotage. Not that I know anything. One of the engines caught fire, then another, then two more . . . It kept on taxiing. I saw it on the monitor from the control tower. The crew threw out a slide, and the passengers came down it, one by one, and ran off as far as they could. Many survived the explosion.”
Her version differed from the television account in several respects.
“The cruiser went faster then, turned, and hit the building. No one expected that. People hadn’t been evacuated from there. The explosion happened right on impact. Everything caught fire. I must have hit my head—look, there’s blood!” She ran a hand through her hair and showed it. “No one noticed it.”
Edda brought a first-aid kit, and Lorraine’s parents examined the cut. Gavein sipped his tea. It couldn’t be that serious, if she didn’t remember being cut. Wilcox also kept his seat, watching the TV—or perhaps he simply didn’t feel there was any reason to uncross his knobby legs.
After Lorraine had received the attention befitting the heroine of the evening and a quantity of bandages had been applied to her head, she resumed her story:
“The front wall of the terminal is mostly glass, and the plane came through it. Fire filled the hall. A flight had come in from
Ayrrah just then, and there was a line for passports and customs: the line had to be right there! There’s plenty of firefighting equipment at the airport, and fire engines arrived from the city within ten minutes. But even working together, they couldn’t do much. Few in the building survived. I helped carry out the wounded. Hundreds must have perished.”
“They’ve released the names of only nine so far,” said Wilcox. “No one knows about the crew of the plane. Many passengers are missing. They found one man in shock; he was sitting in brushwood on the outskirts of the airport.”
Because Lorraine had emerged from the event in one piece, it ceased to hold people’s attention. Tomorrow was a workday; they had to get some sleep.
35
Ra Mahleiné would be returning from the hospital soon, and the results of almost all her tests were in. Gavein came home late, because Wilcox had left many things undone. Having retrieved the book from Gavein, he had stayed up all night reading and was half asleep at work.
Medved called. He needed to talk to Gavein. This time Gavein didn’t refuse. Medved suggested that they talk now.
The detective showed up in half an hour, carrying his inseparable briefcase. He opened the laptop and attached its modem to the phone. “The police will pay,” he said. “I need the help of our central computer.”
“Let me guess. I was the one who blew up the Davabel airport.”
A nervous tic played on Medved’s face.
“Lieutenant Tobiany is dead,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yesterday afternoon, he stopped a man in a dark alley and was stabbed. He was after a drug dealer.”
“That has nothing to do with me. I was at work, at the bookstore.”
Medved waved a hand, as if at a fly.
“I know. I checked. Tobiany crawled from the scene of the crime and bled for half an hour before someone found him. But even if he had been taken immediately to the hospital, his chances would not have been good. The autopsy showed that the blade of the knife had been coated with some poison.”
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