Dimiter (24 page)

S
eated at his desk with a hand against his stomach, Mayo grimaced as if he had tasted sour wine. “I don’t know what it could be,” he groaned softly, “but I’m suddenly feeling so punky.”

“And so what did you eat today that was different?”

Samia was seated in her favorite low position on the faded green Naugahyde chair. “This is funny,” she added. “I mean,
I’m
asking
you.”

“I ate latkes with sour cream and apple sauce, Doctor, and it’s never affected me like this my whole life.”

“And so what have you got, Moses? What do you think it could be?”

“Must you stare without blinking from that low-down position? You look like a white anaconda with feet.”

“Don’t change the subject. What is it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, if
you
don’t, who would?”

“Very true.”

“Want to hear my opinion?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re getting it. You’re lonely and depressed and that’s how that stuff shows.”

“I’ve been lonely and depressed all my life.”

“That’s not what
I
heard.”

“I don’t care what you heard.”

Mayo turned to stare pensively out through the window.

“Samia, why would a priest have a radical face-lift?”

“Is this a joke? Does it have a joke answer?”

“I hope so,” Mayo murmured broodingly.

“What do you mean?” Samia pressed him.

“Nothing.”

Mayo turned back to her.

“Would you take a little blood and run it down to the lab for me, darling?” he said weakly. “I’m feeling really, really rotten,”

Samia struggled to her feet.

“Poor guy. Yes, of course.”

“This is really just the worst,” Mayo said.

He was wrong.

Y
ou shaved off your beard, Wilson. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sergeant. Spring cleaning, I guess.”

They were sitting having coffee in front of Fuad’s. The massive door to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher across the way had been pushed wide open and tourists and pilgrims were already walking in.

“How old are you, Wilson? You look so very young.”

“I’m fifty-two.”

“Fifty-two? I can’t believe it!”

Wilson grinned.

“You know, in bright sunlight and without that beard . . .” began Meral.

“Without the beard, what?”

“Well, your eyes. They’re blue. I always thought they were dark. Almost black. Wilson, where do you come from?”

“California. Didn’t you know that?”

Meral’s demitasse coffee cup was halfway to his lips when he stopped to study Wilson’s face. He was simple, he decided. But hardly dull-witted.

Meral sipped and then set down his cup.

“Yes, I did. I did know that. Of course. And you’ve been here six months. A little more. So what brought you here, Wilson?”

“Guess I’m searching.”

“For what?”

“For the meaning of my life, I suppose.”

Meral quickly turned away, his look of tolerance putting up a brave but futile fight against a spasm of impatience. “Yes, one can have romantic illusions about this place. But the reality is envy and noise and hostility and squabbling over coins and cold hardness of heart. Just the same as it’s always been.” He turned back to look at Wilson. “You haven’t learned that yet?”

“No.”

“Good for you. Or too bad. How do you live, by the way? You do volunteer work.”

Wilson shrugged.

“I’ve got a little bit of money saved up. Just enough. I guess I’m lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“Money keeps you from seeing.”

“Seeing what?”

“What’s really there.” Wilson picked up his coffee cup, took a sip and then put it down. “Are we going to talk about the hospital supplies?”

“As I told you, they aren’t a concern of mine, Wilson. Although at some point I’ll certainly want to know why you took them.”

“
Ahlan!
May I sit?”

It was Tariq. He was standing by their table.

“Yes, of course, my friend, sit,” Meral told him. “Have a coffee.”

“You don’t mind?” he asked Wilson.

“Why would I?”

Wilson gestured at an empty chair.

“Come on, join us.”

Tariq sat and immediately started staring at Wilson intently.

Wilson smiled and said, “It’s Tariq. Isn’t that right?”

Meral stared without expression, trying not to give away his surprise.

His mousetrap hadn’t failed; it was unnecessary.

“You know Tariq, Wilson?”

“Yes. Yes, we met the other day when I was visiting the church. We had a chat about falafel.”

Befuddled, Tariq’s eyes were now open wide as they shifted back and forth between Meral and Wilson. “I had a beard then,” Wilson told him. “A big bushy red beard. You remember?”

Meral looked toward the church.

“Tariq, I think someone’s waving for you to come back.”

Without a word Tariq bolted from his chair and began to walk swiftly across the street toward the church, his arms swinging and his heart filled with gladness and relief to get away from it. Whatever it was.

Wilson watched him.

“He didn’t get to have his coffee.”

“He won’t mind.”

Wilson turned back to Meral. The policeman was studying him appraisingly, his head tilted slightly to the side as he measured Wilson’s questioning look of innocence and utter lack of guile.

“You were in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on the seventh of March?”

“Oh, what day of the week was that?”

“A Tuesday.”

“Oh, I was, then. Yes. I was there when they were closing.”

“You were alone?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“You want to help me, don’t you Wilson?”

“Oh, so much, Sergeant Meral! So very much!”

Meral paused for a moment, surprised by the fervor in Wilson’s voice.

“Well, then tell me: Were you with someone?”

“Yes.”

“Was it the man who once lived with you? Joseph Temescu?”

“Yes.”

“And did you enter the Tomb of Christ with him?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing with him there?”

“He wanted me to help him die.”

“What was that?”

“He wanted me to help him die. He asked me to inject him with chloral hydrate to help knock him out and make the end come quicker. He’d brought it all along himself: the syringe, the chloral, morphine.”

Taken aback, Meral didn’t know what to say next.

And then his stare began to narrow.

“He could have injected himself though, could he not?”

“Sure, he could have.”

“Then what need was there for you to be present?”

“Listen, Sergeant, I’d have to explain things for an hour before I could tell you and know you’d believe me. It’s just too complicated. Too weird.”

“Is that so? Very well. We’ll put that off to another time. Meantime, why did he want to die in Christ’s Tomb? Or is that too complicated as well?”

“He said he wanted his death to be all over the news.”

“Are you serious?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“Was he mentally unbalanced?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I must say, he certainly got his wish.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t read the morning paper?”

“No.”

“The man posing as Joseph Temescu was in fact an American government assassin.”

“He was
what
?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He didn’t tell you that?”

“No! An assassin? Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s on the front page of
The Jerusalem Post.
His name was Paul Dimiter. Quite famous in his circles. You can count yourself lucky.”

“Lucky? Why lucky? He— Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, a killer. A killer in my apartment. Though I still can’t believe it. I mean, the man seemed so kind.”

“Yes, as killers often do. And so honest.”

Wilson’s head tilted to the side.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Less than nothing. So let’s try now to focus on what this Dimiter was doing in Jerusalem. No. No, let’s back up a bit. Tell me how you met him.”

“And you’re sure there won’t be trouble about the hospital supplies?”

That child’s look of worry had returned to Wilson’s face, and once again it disarmed Meral’s latent suspicions.

“There’s a connection?” he asked.

“Yes, there is. And I’ll tell you. But no trouble? That’s a promise?”

“That’s a promise. Now then, how did you meet him?”

“He had a terrible accident late one at night at the Paz gasoline station just below the Jaffa Gate.”

Meral’s eyes widened. “You’re the second man!” he breathed out.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind now. No, really. Go on, now. Go on. Tell me everything.”

“Well, the engine of my car was overheating and I needed some water for the radiator. So I stopped there. Late at night they put water cans out at this station. Tins of gasoline, too. Then you pay the next day.”

“Where were you coming from?”

“Ramallah. I was on my way home. So as I said, I made a stop and then all of a sudden I hear this car speeding toward me, and then it veers and it crashes into the gas pump and there’s an explosion. It was awful. I ran over and I’m hauling him out of the car and—

“Hauling who?”

“Oh, well, the driver. The man you call Dimiter. Whoever. He was all banged up. Badly burned. Unconscious. The car was on fire. I got to him as quickly as I could but he was already pretty badly burned. His face and hands it seemed, mostly. So I took him to the Arab Government Hospital. The one for the poor. It was the closest. But Hadassah’s much better equipped for burns, and so in a couple of days, when they’d done all the emergency stuff and he seemed to be pretty well stabilized, that was the place where I wanted to take him. But he didn’t want to go. He was adamant. Something about him not wanting to go into the system. About being identified. At Government they’re loose about that.”

“Yes, they are. But they try. They’re good people.”

“I could see that. Well, so after two days I checked him out of the hospital and took him to my apartment and looked after him.”

“And so here we have the explanation for the pilfered supplies,” said Meral. “The return of the ‘Good Samaritan.’ ”

“It tore me up to see someone in that kind of shape. All the burns. All the cuts on his face. And then that god-awful cancer.”

“Oh, he told you about that?”

Wilson lifted his head.

“Oh, he told me all kinds of things. He knew he was dying
and so he completely opened up to me. A lot. Lots of things about his life. But all lies, though, I guess. Isn’t that right?”

“I hope not. We’ll be going into all of that, Wilson. It’s the main thing that I’m after. But for now, though, just give me the basic narrative right up until the last time you saw him.”

“Oh, well, that’s pretty much it. What I told you. I took care of him until he was able to walk. Short walks down the street. Just for air. And then one day he wanted me to take him to a church.”