The Fury of Rachel Monette (23 page)

He sat up and pulled himself from the coffin. Unsteadily he stepped in front of the Arab. Something made him stop laughing. Calvi grabbed the man by his shirt and lifted him onto his toes. He felt his fingers sink into the soft flesh of the Arab's chest. The man yelled in pain. Calvi drew back his right fist.

“Don't, please don't,” the undertaker pleaded. “It was only a joke.”

Calvi struck him hard on his Clara Bow lips. The lower one split, releasing a trickle of blood which ran onto his chin.

“Stop,” the man cried. “I won't help you if you strike me again.”

Slowly Calvi relaxed his grip, lowering the Arab's heels to the floor. Both men were breathing heavily. Fear and hatred fought for possession of the Arab's eyes. Calvi felt his anger ebb, too late.

“I didn't mean to hit you. But you shouldn't have done that.”

“You shouldn't have hit me,” the man said sullenly. “You have no sense of humor.”

Calvi was prevented from arguing that point by the sound of a door opening above. Footsteps approached on the stone steps. Out of the shadows appeared a slender boy of sixteen or seventeen, wearing white sailor pants and a black T-shirt. His heavily lidded eyes moved carefully over the two men. They stopped on the bloody pouting lip.

“Is something wrong?” he asked in a voice still not secure in its lower register.

“No,” replied the undertaker. “Nothing. Please go upstairs and fetch Mr. Calvi's urn.” The boy turned and ascended the steps. The undertaker kept his eyes on the boy's buttocks until they disappeared in the shadows.

In his back pocket he found a soiled handkerchief. He dabbed his lip with it, wincing at the touch.

“You shouldn't have hit me,” he repeated in a tone that seemed at once both hurt and menacing.

“I'm sorry,” Calvi said. “But you provoked me.” The undertaker shook his head.

“That's the trouble with you Jews. You provoke too easily.”

It made Calvi laugh. He was still laughing when the boy returned. It turned out to be a good place for laughter. First the undertaker, now him.

In his hands the boy held a tall ceramic urn decorated in a mosaic of white and navy blue squares. He set it gently on the stone floor. The undertaker gazed at it in admiration.

“Beautiful isn't it?” he said. “It's our most expensive model. We only sell about four or five a year.”

Calvi stood over the urn and peered into it, but beyond the circle of light at the top he saw nothing but darkness. “Have you put the ashes inside?”

“Not yet. We're waiting for a new shipment.” His voice teetered on the edge of a laugh, but when he saw that Calvi and the boy weren't in the mood he bit it off.

“What about teeth?” Calvi asked.

“We grind up anything the furnace doesn't burn, and throw it in with the rest.”

“That's important,” Calvi said. “They are sure to ask about the teeth.”

“Don't worry. Everything will be perfect.”

“Why cremation?” Calvi asked in a catechistic tone.

The undertaker rolled his eyes. “Must we go through this again?”

“Why cremation?” Calvi persisted.

The undertaker sighed. “The boy made a mistake,” he answered wearily. “He didn't know cremation was forbidden to Jews.”

Calvi looked at the boy. The boy nodded. He had intelligent eyes under his heavy lids. Calvi took a starter's pistol from the pocket of his coat and handed it to the boy.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

The undertaker covered his ears. The boy raised the pistol over his head, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The report sounded like a cannon firing in the stone cavern. The noise crashed against the rock walls trying to escape, then folded back on itself and its family of echoes and slowly died away. The undertaker removed his hands from his ears.

“Good,” Calvi said to the boy. “Remember you have very little time to get here. Ten minutes at the most.” The boy's eyes showed that he remembered. “And ten minutes after that,” Calvi said, turning to the undertaker and jabbing his finger at the coffin, “this is on the road to Lod.”

“Stop worrying. If they come, all they will find is ashes, just ashes.”

“They'll come,” Calvi said grimly. “Don't fool yourself about that.”

“It makes no difference. We are ready.”

Calvi nodded.

“Perfect,” the undertaker said. “Is there anything more you want of the boy?”

“No.”

“Good.” He turned to the boy. “Take the urn upstairs.” The boy lifted it and went up the steps. “So,” the undertaker said to Calvi. “The fee.”

This had been a problem. The undertaker had no use for Israeli cash, which might be devalued at any time, and Calvi could not risk an attempt to buy foreign currency. But they had found a solution. From the front pocket of his trousers Calvi drew a little jewel box, covered in purple velvet. He handed it to the undertaker, whose fingers opened it eagerly. A single cut diamond rested on the velvet lining. Immediately it began to play with the yellow of the light bulbs and the purple of the box. It was almost the size of a pea. The undertaker couldn't take his eyes from it. They radiated a gleam of their own, empty of the stone's beauty but just as hard. Reluctantly he closed the box.

“And the other one?” he asked.

“You'll get it later.”

“When?”

“When I know that the job has been done.”

“But you promised tonight.”

“Stop whining,” Calvi said. “You'll get it.”

The undertaker shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He reopened the box and gazed again at the stone. Calvi went up the stairs. “Send the boy down on your way out,” the undertaker called over his shoulder.

Calvi walked home. A light rain fell and he had the streets to himself. Worries bubbled through his brain. They had the run of the place. He was too tired to argue with them. He wanted a glass of milk to quiet his stomach and a long sleep to quiet his mind. But he knew that any sleep which came would bring images of cremated Jews and hard diamonds and the nothingness that waited inside a coffin.

The rain had driven off the painter in the broad-brimmed hat. Calvi saw a black four-door car parked in front of his villa. He walked past it and opened the gate.

“Mr. Calvi,” a voice called from the car, a voice he knew.

He turned from the gate. “Yes, Major?”

“Would you come here for a minute, please?” Grunberg spoke in a cold tone which belied any courtesy in the words.

“Can't it wait till morning? I'm very tired.”

“I am afraid not.”

Calvi walked around the car and sat in the passenger seat. Grunberg was behind the wheel, and a very large man in an old tennis sweater occupied most of the back seat. Grunberg switched on the overhead light and looked impassively at Calvi.

“A man your age shouldn't keep such late hours,” he said. Calvi didn't answer. “Would you mind telling me where you've been?”

“At dinner.”

The thick black brows which hung like cornices over the sunken eyes lifted slightly. “Your companion has been back for more than four hours.”

Calvi stiffened. “I'm getting sick of you spying on me,” Calvi said angrily. “I am a legally elected member of the Knesset and I have a right not to be subjected to these Gestapo tactics.”

Grunberg's eyes remained calm but his quiet voice sounded very dangerous. “Let's not throw that word around loosely, Mr. Calvi.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two. The rain danced lightly on the roof and fog spread over the windows. The car was too small for the three of them. Calvi rolled down the window, letting the rain dampen his shoulder. He needed the fresh air.

“What makes you think I'm spying on you?” Grunberg continued.

Calvi snorted. “Don't toy with me. Your man Picasso is rather obvious.”

Grunberg laughed. “Picasso. He'll appreciate that. He loves Picasso. But you've made a mistake. I didn't send him here as a spy. I sent him to protect you. I shouldn't have kept it a secret from you, that's all.”

“Protect me from what?”

“Enemies. Your movement has made many enemies for you. The rally that you plan has made more. It is making people nervous. And not only in Israel. I am receiving reports of odd movements of Syrian men and armor along the border. Have you heard anything like that?”

“How would I hear that kind of information?”

“Tell me. I'd like to know.”

Calvi grabbed the door handle and jerked it open.

“Just a minute.” Grunberg's voice froze his hand where it was. “Close the door.” Calvi closed it. “Thank you,” Grunberg resumed. “As I was saying, I have a duty in these circumstances to protect you. A man in your position has a right to a bodyguard. Twenty-four hours a day.”

“No thank you.”

Grunberg shook his head. “You have no choice in this matter. My department is responsible for your security. From now on, at least until after the rally, you will be accompanied by a bodyguard whenever you leave your house.”

“The hell with that,” Calvi said, raising his voice.

“Let me introduce the man taking the first shift,” Grunberg said, ignoring him. He turned to the man in the back seat. “Sergeant Levy, this is Mr. Calvi.” The huge man bared his teeth at Calvi in a big cheerful smile. He held out a hand that looked capable of crushing melons. Calvi let him hold it there. Grunberg touched Calvi's arm. “Please try to cooperate, Mr. Calvi. If you should happen to disappear, on a bus near the King David Hotel for example, Sergeant Levy is under orders to notify the police, who go on a full-scale alert until you are found. Don't make us waste the taxpayers' money like that.”

Calvi got out of the car and walked toward the villa. Sergeant Levy got out too, and went to stand under the carob tree across the street. Grunberg drove slowly away.

No lights shone in the villa. Calvi entered the bedroom. Gisela slept on the far side of the bed, her back toward the middle. Calvi undressed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, and lay down. He closed his eyes and saw everything he feared he would see, and more.

21

“Wake up madame,” a female voice urged her. “We are on the ground.” Rachel opened her eyes and slowly focused them on a face that was ready to play the role of Carmen at a moment's notice. All the woman had to do was take the little stewardess cap off her pile of hair. “That's the way,” she said, smiling. She had missed a tomato seed caught between her front teeth, but you had to be front row center to see it. “There's no time for sleeping in Paris.”

But sleep was all she wanted. She felt a filament of saliva against her cheek and wiped it away with her sleeve before moving to stand up. The seat belt kept her firmly in place. The stewardess found it amusing. “What have you been doing to get so sleepy?” she tut-tutted, reaching down to undo the buckle. She led Rachel off the empty plane.

A sodden sheet of gray had been thrown across Paris, hiding the sky. It dripped steadily on the city, making the old buildings look just plain old. It couldn't do anything to the new ones that hadn't already been done. The taxi careened around the Arc de Triomphe, splashing any pedestrians it could get near, and braked to a violent stop in front of the Hotel Lancaster. It was the only hotel Rachel knew in Paris; she and Dan had stayed there on their trip to Europe. She was too tired to worry whether it would bring back memories.

Rachel remembered the doorman. He had a neatly trimmed white moustache and the face of a benevolent king. He remembered her too and seemed happy about it. “Mrs. Monette, isn't it?” he said, taking her suitcase. “It's been a long time.”

“Four years,” she replied, wondering what kind of tip Dan had given him.

“As long as that?” He looked at the departing taxi. “And the professor? He will be coming later?”

“No.”

They gave her a room on the top floor, overlooking the courtyard. She opened the French windows which led to the balcony. The last time she had seen the courtyard it had been full of people drinking champagne and nibbling homemade potato chips. Now black tarpaulins covered the wrought-iron furniture and wet pigeons pecked at the marble flagstones, searching for crumbs. The hum of traffic barely reached her ears, although the Champs Elysées was only a few yards away.

Turning back into the room she saw herself in the full length mirror on the bathroom door. She was filthy. A grimy film covered her clothes, skin, and hair. She stripped and examined herself closely. Bones showed where they had not shown in years. She had bruises she couldn't remember getting, except for the one on her jaw.

She started a bath. While the water poured into the white tub she called room service and ordered two ham and cheese sandwiches and a half bottle of red wine.

When the waiter arrived she had finished bathing and was standing beside the tub watching the brown tepid water swirl down the drain. She had dirtied the bathwater like that once before. A man died that night, too.

She wrapped herself in one of the white terry-cloth robes that lay folded like towels on a shelf above the toilet, and left the bathroom. The waiter had placed the tray on the bedside table. The fresh rich smell of the baguettes reached her nose, and the scent of vinegar from the Dijon mustard. A copy of
Le Monde
lay beside the wine glass. Rachel ate the sandwiches, sipped the wine once or twice, and left the newspaper folded where it was. For a few minutes she sat on the edge of the bed, very still. Then, dropping the robe on the floor she pulled back the covers and got into bed. She had no idea what she should do next. In a few seconds she fell asleep.

Rachel awoke shortly after dawn the following morning, Monday March 29. She rolled over and looked through the window at the sky, a luminous silver-blue making a color-coded promise of a fair day. As she got out of bed she felt the soreness in her muscles and the stiffness in her joints, but her mind was fresh and clear. It even offered a thought. Perhaps it had come from her memory of people drinking champagne in the hotel courtyard, or
Le Monde
neatly folded on the tray: ebbing sleep had left it behind on the shore of her consciousness.