"One meter," I requested, putting my hand into my pocket to feel the folded bills. "Actually, two meters."
"Ahlan wasahlan, welcome," he said and smiled, revealing two large white teeth. He continued turning the screwdriver. I waited politely for him to finish, but he merely bent over and transferred the screwdriver to another screw.
"Two meters of tar-paper," I said again.
"Ahlan wasahlan." The willing expression on his face was constant and his hands continued to turn the screwdriver. "Ahlan wasahlan."
A car arrived and hooted noisily. He put his tools down and went over to the pumps. I began to leave. The garage attendant exchanged a few words with the driver of the car in a low voice. They both watched me. The donkey escorted me part of the way, leaving a trail of dung in his wake.
Beneath the arched gateway of a house I drove a nail between the sole and the upper of my shoe and undid the stitches one by one. A little further on three women were standing by a shoemaker's stand. I stood behind him, the shoe in my hand. They moved aside uncomfortably. The shoemaker looked up from the bag he was mending. I held the shoe out to him. "Do you have some glue?"
"I only stitch," he said into his mustache. I pointed at the boxes of glue beside him.
"I'll buy a box."
"I only stitch," he said again. Behind his back the women shuffled. "Where can I buy glue?" I asked them. The older one shrugged her shoulders, took the younger ones by their arms and dragged them away.
I put my shoe back on and walked cautiously to the sound of the flip-flap of the open toe. At the Athenaeum I would mend them with tire glue from the garage. Plastic glue suited to the army's requirements - completely barren and non-flammable. Provided, of course, Scheckler had not sold it in exchange for something looted from somewhere else.
How did he get the Arabs to cooperate? To what part of their minds did he appeal that they crawled at his feet? Three teenagers were coming towards me, their arms linked, in a united front. I moved to the left, to the middle of the road. After they had passed me one of them shot a curse over his shoulder. The others replied with laughter which echoed through the openings of the alleys and was taken up by the occupants of a nearby café. I stopped. There were only two alternatives: to be humiliated or to endanger myself. With a sudden impulse I chose the latter.
A great many people were sitting bent beneath a canopy of blue smoke. A huge radio emitted monotonous oriental music. The moment I went in and sat down all interest in me was lost. I was frozen, worried and devoid of any thought other than an ever-growing sense of failure. The unnecessary risk involved in entering the café was a warning sign, an indication prior to an act of stupidity or ruin. One way or another everything was connected with Charles Vincent being stifled within me. With him gone I had lost the ability to act with no involvement or superfluous emotion. The clatter of the backgammon pieces on the wooden boards beat in my head reminding me of a chance night I had once spent, burning with a fever, in a hotel near Teheran's main prison. It was the sound of hammers that beat in my head that night and I was sure that they were building a gallows. My fever had gone down in the morning and, my head spinning, I looked out. The street was full of girls. The night-shift from the wooden clog factory was streaming home.
A boy came in and put some money on the marble counter. Where had I seen him? They all looked so alike. The waiter put a large pile of packs of cigarettes in front of him. The boy tore the wrapper off one pack, took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. The waiter laughed and lit it with a gold lighter. Then he put all the packs into a paper bag and walked with the boy to the door.
Then I recognized him. He was the youngster I had seen in the courtyard of the church yesterday. Where was the money from and for whom was he buying all those cigarettes?
A large car stopped in the street, by the entrance. Too late I recognized the Rolls. It was covered with filth and dust. A long crack, like a thread of spittle, ran across the windscreen. The cloth roof was torn in two places. The doctor's son, who jumped out and tossed his head with that gesture I remembered so well, did not look much better. His jeans were dirty and on his face, near his eye, there was a purple bruise.
"Michel," the waiter called through the screen of smoke and went over to speak to him. The boy joined them. Their heads bent towards one another as they talked, two dark ones and one fair. Michel turned round and glanced into the café. I looked away then looked back immediately. Who was I afraid of?
The waiter came back inside. The boy with the cigarettes and Michel opened the doors on opposite sides of the car. Like a nagging pain, the thought of the medicine cabinet returned to me. What would he demand in exchange for a jar of antibiotic ointment? Cigarettes, perhaps, or some petrol for that enormous car... before he managed to sit down I was at his side.
"Good evening," I
He replied with a nod of his head.
"The car's in a terrible shape."
"Yes." There was a look of apprehension on his face, just like his mother's.
"An accident?"
He said nothing. Now all eyes were on us, turning his anxiety into aggression.
"What do you care?" he said out loud.
"I wanted to help."
"I'd sooner die than take help from you."
Those blue eyes, cool islands in his olive skin. From whom had he inherited them? A threatening murmur rose from the café.
This time retreat was the only possible course. Slowly, without haste, I began walking down the road. Behind me I heard the Rolls start up. I jumped to the side quickly and it passed me with a heavy roar. From behind the shoemaker's stall, I could hear laughing. If I had been knocked down would anyone have come to my aid? At the end of the road a white cloud formed where the Rolls had suddenly stopped. After a moment, like a heavenly vision, an enormous, white, clumsy figure came walking through it.
Most striking, it was obviously blind. And young, eighteen or twenty years old, a very fat young girl. Her white hand rested on the shoulder of an old man who was leading her slowly into one of the alleys. Her immense behind joggled with each step. From the back she seemed to be pushing the old man almost forcibly, rather than being led. What exactly had the doctor's letter said about blindness and someone opening his eyes? It occurred to me that nothing had yet happened by chance: the doctor's arrest, the agent who refrained from making contact, the priest's dubious occupations, the sudden appearance of the cigarette-purchasing boy and now the blind girl. Were they really just random happenings, or were they signals in a complicated and obscure language of pictures and symbols which I was unable to decipher?
The Rolls moved off and disappeared down the road. I began to walk more quickly, limping slightly because of my torn shoe. The guard at the gate released the chain. The cook nodded from the entrance to the kitchen. When I opened the office door Scheckler was no longer there. On his desk, atop of a pile of papers, was a copy of a movement order he had issued to himself and signed with the repair-shop supervisor's name. The destination was Nabatiya.
I sank into my chair, facing the calendar. It was my tenth day. I was tired of waiting and ready for a very certain kind of hope. I looked through the window at the slate-gray sky and longed for some- thing, anything, to happen.
***
Towards evening I finished the book I had started to read that morning. Then I looked through the newspapers lying around the drivers' room and ate alone in the dining-room. Across the room, the two tire repairers were arguing loudly about something that needed to be greased periodically. A vat of army soup emitted a fatty smell. There was an oppressive calm in the spacious halls of the Athenaeum. Only a resort which had deteriorated into a barracks could generate such oppression from simple loneliness.
The communications room was locked. I found the duty officer in the bathroom, shaving. No, Scheckler had not called. I went up to the office to phone. An annoyingly slow operator connected me. I was transferred from one duty officer to another. Each time I explain
ed everything anew. The answer was always the same: "Yes, the telegrams arrived, yes, you've received your reply." All the same, they would check it again.
To them, the subject did not seem urgent. What would I tell her in another hour?
I went to wash. Along the way I thought about contacting Tel Aviv. The instructions were not to make contact with them, but I had urgent queries, and what did they really know? Who was reporting from here? The priest? Someone else? Maybe Scheckler, with his efforts to be friendly, his remarks about being jealous of spies, his freedom and his business deals...
At seven-thirty I went out into the garage courtyard. The command car was standing in front of the commander's office, all fixed and shining. Should I not get in? Or ask for it? Walking would better settle my thoughts. The guard looked at me, intrigued.
"It's not a good idea to walk around alone in the dark..." I turned, walked around the building to the other side and went into the street through a gap in the fence, where he could not see me.
***
In the haven of the ruined building, the night dark round me, it struck me that for several days I had not heard birds singing. Now, there was only the twittering of fruit-bats, the wail of hyenas and the usual explosions in the distance. My watch chimed weakly. Eight o'clock. I had not expected her to be punctual. In fact, I was prepared for her not to come. I was ready to renounce it all. My appearance here at the appointed hour was enough to exhaust the adventure. In a flash of sanity I decided that any additional development meant complications. At eight-fifteen, I would walk back to the Athenaeum to wait for the morning.
The oak trunk imbued me with a certain calm. I settled myself on the mattress behind it and wondered about the birds again. Near the window, a rodent of some kind was gnawing the dry summer brush. I lit a cigarette, the burning match crossing the darkness like a comet as I flipped it away. The rodent responded with a nervous rustle.
I jumped to the window and leaned out. When I lifted my head up I found myself face to face with her. Somewhat confused, I retreated.
"Where's the entrance?" she asked. In the thick darkness, no torch in her hand, her guttural French sounded like a nocturne on an untuned piano.
I jumped out. As I landed, my wounded leg sent out a reminder of pain and brought me down onto the soft undergrowth.
"I came only because I owe it to Anton."
My loneliness was intensified by the way she pronounced his name, like sugared fruit.
"Well?"
To gain time, I rubbed the leg which had been bitten the previous night.
"Did they reply to the telegram you sent?"
"Yes."
"Thank God," she breathed with relief.
That was the delicate angle of deviation, the holy name seemed to have authorized the start of misapprehension, which went further when she blurted out, "I hope he's feeling all right."
It was still possible to retreat, to say, "I received a reply, but it was negative." I missed the moment.
She went on quickly, "I greatly appreciate your help. I'd like to send him a few things. If there's any expense involved..."
"No," I replied quickly, "there's no expense." I could almost touch her gratitude, feel it together with the faint, flowery scent which was so alien in this field of thistles. "You prepare a parcel. I'll get it to him." What would she say if I asked to inspect the medicine cabinet or to borrow a book from the shelf?
"Thank you," she stepped back carefully. I advanced towards her.
"When will you bring it?"
She hesitated.
"Tomorrow, here, at the same time?"
She agreed with a movement of her head and I turned to go. Suddenly she said behind me, "It will be the eleventh day..."
I turned round to her.
"Why did you arrest him anyway?"
"You must know..."
She shook her head vigorously. "He never harmed anyone." Talking about him did something to the way she spoke, ridding her tone of its terseness.
Now I would have to say something soothing and convincing. There was only one subject which could arouse her interest. "What kind of a man is he?"
"Special," she said hesitatingly.
"How special?"
"Everything."
By the unsteady light of the moon I saw her eyes deciphering the jealousy in my voice.
"For nine years," she said softly, “I was a nurse at the hospital. Never have I seen a doctor treat his patients like he did. He was so dedicated, always ready to go to the most out-of-the-way places. When the refugees started arriving he was the one who went to them, examined the babies, lanced abscesses, gave injections, listened to stories..."
What did she know about the blind woman?
"Every good deed usually has its selfish motive," I said tentatively.
"The service you're offering as well?"
"You don't owe me anything in return."
"No one does really important things for nothing."
It was another opportunity to mention the subject of the medicine cabinet in the clinic, or at least ask her to lend me a book or two.
Suddenly, in a tone of despair, she said, "If you'll only bring him back," and took a step towards me, engulfing me with a fleeting wave of the warmth of her body.
A sudden fire lit the distant horizon. The edge of the sky burned and before I managed to react, she had turned back into the dense, dark bushes.
CHAPTER FIVE
There are things I suddenly remember in inexplicable detail. One distant morning Charles Vincent was sitting in a café in the middle of Berne, drinking cocoa from a patterned cup. Under the table was a suitcase of materials he had prepared. It was five to nine, twenty-five minutes after the hour when a messenger was to have collected the case on his way to Milan.
At nine Vincent rose up and carried the suitcase carefully to a public phone booth. At the other end of the line someone told him about an accident on a highway on the other side of the Rhine. Traffic to and from the city would be held up for at least two hours.
"I'll take care of it," Vincent said and hung up. He was in a mood of sensual intoxication combined with complete clarity of mind. He hailed a cab in the middle of Münsterstraße and drove to the railway station.
A uniformed railway attendant helped him load the suitcase onto a shelf at the front of a second class carriage. It was too big and two passengers almost knocked it off as they went up the iron step. Vincent was not afraid. He had every confidence in the intelligence of the mechanism he had created. He sat down with a book near the middle of the carriage, and by the time the train reached the Italian border had managed to read one hundred and sixty pages. At Chiasso two Italian border policemen came on for a routine check. One of them tugged the handle of the case, pulled it off the shelf and tried to open its copper locks. "Whose case is this?" his colleague called down the aisle. Several of the passengers remembered Vincent. They looked at him as he put the book down and acknowledged them with a smile. The policeman advanced between the seats.
"La chiave, per favore; the key, please." Vincent took care to display the degree of concern appropriate for such occasions: friendly and relaxed.
He thrust his hand into his pocket and said, "Prego."
The policeman smiled in a friendly manner: "Ah, Italiano?"
Vincent did not hesitate. He instantly felt as if the ground passing beneath the wheels had been his since his birth.
"Si," he pronounced the only other word he knew in that language. "Si."
"Well, then, everything's all right," the policeman waved his hand. His colleague put the suitcase back on the shelf. Vincent thanked them politely and immersed himself in his book. At the next stop, Lecco, he got off the train, hired a car and disappeared somewhere on the coast of the lake.
I would not be recounting all this were it not for the fact that I missed Charles Vincent and mostly his way of moving through life without anything sticking. His greatness lay in his character, which was now gone
. If he had been there, in my place, he would not have paid attention to anything other than his own needs, and as a result perhaps would have put together whatever was required to organize his life here, to implement the mission with his singular precision. Above all, he probably would not have been particularly stirred by the woman's tacit offer. He would have considered it, and even accepted it, on the basis of the clear, unequivocal payment that he exacted from every contact with the world.
But he no longer existed and I was on my own, feeling a sudden compassion percolating through me for a wonderful and silly proposal. It was like a heroic death for a principle which has been completely discredited. I also knew, more clearly even than the compassion I felt, that from now on I could not ignore Anton.
I went to the office at dawn and studied my copy of the letter. The words and sentences had lost their enigmatic, romantic quality and I could relate them to the dark world of merciless vows and deadly commitment. I could ask myself what was meant by, "…grant your Christian forgiveness to Yvonne," and, "…protect Michel from ignorance as well as from knowledge." What were the rainy days which the doctor saw on the horizon and what would happen when "the blind opened their eyes"?
This last phrase had to be clarified if only to arrest a certain sense of moral inferiority beginning to develop within me. I somehow compared the love which had surrounded the doctor with my aloofness, the healing nature of his occupations with the destructive nature of mine, the positive clarity of his character with the uncertainty of my own. What could soothe me more than to discover a few embarrassing skeletons hidden in his cupboard, sins for which blindness was served best?
I went outside, to a morning that was too hot. The stones of the courtyard burned beneath my soles. Cars loaded with new refugees crowded the road that climbed up from the plain. To walk through that furnace was an appalling prospect which would have deterred even the strongest will. I escaped to the strip of shade next to the repair-shop supervisor. My shirt was already clinging to my skin and my face was drenched with sweat.
The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) Page 8