Dimiter (28 page)

“Thanks, I will.”

As he sat and set the briefcase down beside him on the floor, the policeman was still gazing around the living room. Three of its walls were pink while the fourth was fully covered with painted blue flowers.

“You have a very nice apartment,” he said.

“It’s a dump, but I try to cheer it up.”

“I like the wall with the flowers.”

“Yes, my favorite,” she said. “Blue iris. I can’t believe you’ve come by. Want some coffee? I can make some really quick.”

“Oh, no, please! Please don’t trouble yourself, Samia.”

“Oh, come on. It’s no trouble at all.”

Samia stood up and started plucking the makings of coffee from a cupboard. “You like rosewater in it?”

“Yes, I do, please. If it isn’t any trouble.”

“So what’s up? You’ve got a case in the neighborhood or what? What’s going on?”

“What’s going on in your window, Samia?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your window,” he repeated. “Over there.”

He pointed at the back of the life-sized plastic torso seated on the ledge of a living room window: a long-fanged, grinning vampire, its upraised hand clutching a foot-long dagger.

Samia looked and then turned back to the stove and the coffee.

“Oh, is
that
what you’re here about? Someone complained?”

“No. No one complained. But what’s it there for?”

“Security. People see it and they figure someone crazy must live in this apartment and they never want to mess with that. Crazy really scares them.”

“Scares who?”

“You know, burglars. Everybody. Them. At night I keep a spotlight on it, Meral. Really spooky.”

Meral stared at her back without expression as she measured out coffee, finely ground to brown dust, into a very small long-handled brass pot. “I know this isn’t my district, Samia,”
he offered, “but to the best of my knowledge this area is the safest in all of Jerusalem, with rarely any break-ins or burglaries reported.”

“That’s the problem. The law of averages says we’re overdue.”

Meral had no answer.

The nurse set the coffeepot over a burner and sat down at the table across from Meral. “So more questions about Wilson for me, right?”

“No, that isn’t why I came.”

“You mean you just stopped by?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Are you sick or lost? This is Apartment 2B. My name’s Samia.”

“Come, I’ve brought you a gift.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, not kidding.”

“What is it?”

“After coffee,” Meral told her.

“Oh, surprise, huh? Like a summons?”

“Not a summons.”

“Something good or something bad?”

“I wouldn’t ever bring you anything bad.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

She was staring at him gently, her head slightly tilted to the side.

“You seem different somehow, Meral.”

“Different? How?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you seem a little sad,” he observed.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, a bit. Just a bit. Is it Mayo?”

The nurse shrugged and then nodded, lowering her head as she leaned a little forward and rested her weight on her folded arms. “Yes, a little, I guess.”

“Me, too.”

“I feel so lonely with him gone.”

“You have no other close friends?”

“Not like him.”

“And your parents? They’re still living? Siblings?”

Samia shook her head. “No, none.”

She looked up and turned her head to check the coffee.

“Just like you,” she finished matter-of-factly.

Meral stared and was silent.

Samia turned back. “Almost ready,” she said. “Now come on, Meral! Tell me! What’s the gift? What did you bring me? And why? Come on, what’s this all about? What’s going on?”

“After coffee,” he said firmly.

“Oh, you’re just a big tease!”

Soon the coffee had been poured, and for a time they idly chatted.

“Aggravating town, this Jerusalem,” Samia declared at one point. “You can’t find a Mexican restaurant anywhere. These Jews must think Mexicans are actually just Arabs who call arak tequila.”

“Now that doesn’t make sense, Samia. Really. There are Arabic restaurants all over Jerusalem.”

“Oh, well, sure, closing
them
would be way too obvious.”

“Really.”

“Well, of course. So they stick it to the Spiks.”

The nurse finished her coffee and then set down her cup.

“Okay, Meral, coffee’s finished. What did you bring me?”

Meral reached down to the briefcase and removed two items, which he placed on the table as he answered, “These. I was able to secure them for you. But I wanted something warm inside of you first.”

Her eyes full of sadness and fond remembrance, Samia stared down at the travel poster of the Big Sur coast of California that had once been on Mayo’s office wall. She picked it up tenderly. “Thanks, Meral. I’ll cherish this. Really. So much. It was his dream, you know. Or maybe you don’t. He dreamed of going back there to live someday. Someone lived there that he loved.”

“In Carmel?”

“Yeah, Carmel. He said he’d even be happy to see her by chance every now and then, if it came to that, like maybe on the street or in a supermarket or something just so he could smile and maybe wave a hello. Maybe meet her son.”

“And so who was she? Do you know?”

“No, not her name. Some movie star. He used to talk about it lots toward the end when he was sick.” She put the calendar down beside the other gift, the photo of the boyhood Mayo and Meral. “And this,” she said picking it up. “Thanks, Meral. You’re a peach. Or a date. Freudian slip.”

“What do you mean, ‘Freudian slip?’ ”

Samia set the photo down and said, “Nothing. More coffee?”

“No, no thank you.” Meral glanced at his watch and began to get up from the table. “No, I really must go.” Then, “Oh, no, wait,” he said, settling back down. “There
is
one more thing.” He reached a hand down into the briefcase and picked something out of it.

“The plaque about the soup and the noodles?”

“No, Samia, it isn’t anything of Mayo’s. It’s something else. Not so terribly important, as a matter of fact, but as long as I’m here . . .”

Meral placed it on the table. It was a telecopied close-up photograph of a man in military uniform. Mayo held it up to the nurse’s scrutiny. “I’ve just received this today,” he said. “It’s quite unlikely, but by chance could this possibly be the man who for a time you say was living with our good friend Wilson?”

“Oh, my goodness!”

“It’s the man?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, pretty sure. Let me see.”

Samia took the photo from Meral’s hands and examined it more closely. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said at last. “That’s him.”

Samia put the photo down and then looked up at Meral.

The policeman seemed preoccupied.

“Is this a very big deal?” she asked. “Who is he?”

“Someone lost who has been found.”

Arms folded across her chest, the nurse watched as Meral slipped the photo back into the briefcase and then put his black beret on his head and adjusted it.

“So that’s it?” she said. “I’ve been juiced, so back to work?”

“Can’t be helped.”

And yet for several moments the policeman did not move, both his gaze and a hand gently resting on the table. The only sound was the hissing of the burners’ blue flames.

“So,” he said at last.

“And so?”

Meral looked up at her in pleasant discovery.

“I never realized that your hair was so long and wavy.”

“Yeah, you guys have those handsome little black caps while we’ve got to wear these ugly huge starched white bazon-gas. Why do Arabs need a great big Star of David on our caps? Why not a falafel or a piece of fried
kibbe
? All of that whiteness could be taken to be yogurt.”

Meral looked at her with fondness for a moment.

Then abruptly he stood up.

“Well, I really must go,” he said. “Much to do.”

Both hands on the edge of the table, Samia pushed to her feet. “Me, too. I’ve got a whole bunch of stuff I’ve got to get to. Still I’m glad you came by.”

“No problem.”

“Right.”

As they walked into the living room and headed toward the door, Meral stopped at the wall filled with painted blue irises. “Lovely work,” he observed. “This must have cost you a great deal of money.”

“Oh, well, that’ll be the day. I did it myself.”

Meral registered surprise.

“You paint? You’ve never mentioned this.”

“No. With a talent this phenomenal you’ve got to lay low. Too much envy out there.”

Again that glint of fondness came into Meral’s eyes as for a moment he stood and read the nurse’s face. Then abruptly he turned and, with Samia following behind him, he walked to the door, opened it, stepped into the hall, and turned around. The preoccupied look had returned.

“Thank you for the coffee,” he said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, why can’t you smile?” Samia blurted. “Would it kill you to smile, Meral? Would it? Would it kill you to smile just once?”

Meral lowered his head.

“Thank you for your help,” he said.

And then he turned and walked away.

“Come again anytime,” Samia called out to him. “Maybe next week?”

“So very busy, Samia. But thank you.”

“The week after, then. Bring pictures of Hungarian para-troopers!”

The nurse watched him begin to descend the staircase that would take him down to the street, and only when the policeman had vanished from her view did she slowly and quietly close the door. For a moment she stood in thought, staring down at the floor and shaking her head; then, looking up, she walked briskly back to the kitchen where she sat at the table, slid open the drawer, and extracted her diary. “ ‘Glad you came by.’ ‘No problem,’ ” she mimicked with a mocking face and tone. “No problem?” she expostulated. “No
problem
?” She lowered her forehead into a hand, then looked up, drew a breath, and picked up her pen. “He just came by and my heart began to shiver and dance all at once” she wrote in the place where she had left off. “He did seem somehow different in a way. Can’t explain it though, really. Just something. But in the end his little visit turned out to be basically business as usual. And kind of creepy business at that. I’m so glad I’m just a weirdo and not a cop. Anyway, I guess I’m giving up. Yeah, it’s back to Frank Sinatra records on the phono and a scotch every night for the romantic Samia, or even maybe, like Mayo’s fond dream of Carmel, being happy with a now and then glimpse or conversation or maybe just a smile and a wave of hello.”

Samia read it over and then crossed out the reference to a smile.

Down in the street below Samia’s apartment, Meral sat in his police car alone for a time as he stared in consternation at the teletyped photo in his hand of the Albanian military officer reported to be missing from his U.N. contingent on the Golan Heights: The one Samia had just positively identified as the man who had lived with Wilson. In line with all previous descriptions of Temescu, but unlike the blurry image on his driver’s license, this sharp new photo was of a man with a strong rugged face and a scar that bisected his lips into a snarl. His name was Colonel Jeton Agim Vlora.

W
ilson moved slowly to a chair by the window of his little apartment in Jerusalem Hills. He was looking for light. Head bent, his expression un-readable, he slowly sank down into the chair and for very long moments stared fixedly at the envelope of a letter that minutes before he had taken from his mailbox: “Michael Wilson, 17 Rue Melee, Jerusalem Hills, Israel 90835.” He angled the envelope a little to catch the sun’s rays on the faintly inked postmark. It was local. He tilted it straight and continued to stare
at the elegant and achingly familiar handwriting. At last he slit open the envelope, slipped out the letter inside and read it. Then he lowered it slowly to his knee and for a time sat motionless, staring through the yellowing window glass as the fracture of afternoon sun and shadow mottled the building across the way in slow dull shifts of melancholy drabness, like a broken kaleidoscope with only two colors, yesterday and never more. He stood up and went to sit at a little square writing table where he opened a drawer, took out pen and stationery, and began to compose a letter that in the end would be added to a purple-ribboned bundle of others that would never be delivered.