The Fury of Rachel Monette (35 page)

Munich. He knew the buildings, the streets. He was a little boy, in white short pants, a sailor shirt and shiny black shoes. Very pretty shoes, but no good for running. And he was running. As fast as he could he was running on a sunny, deserted street. He was being chased. He glanced back over his shoulder. No one. He did not have to see them: he heard them coming closer and closer. They made the sound of shattering glass. He ran. The sun was unbearably hot. The streets were filling with sand. Ahead walked a woman wearing a robe. She walked very slowly but he could not gain on her at all. He knew she would save him. He ran. “Mother,” he cried. “Mother.” But she didn't hear. Glass shattered at his heels.

Calvi awoke drenched in his own sweat. The house was dark. Through a window he looked up at the black sky, the cold white stars. The back of his head ached. Carefully he reached around and touched it with his fingers. It felt sticky and wet. He lowered his hands to brace himself for standing up. His right hand rested on something soft and cool. The coolness passed through the skin of his hand and spread through his body: it turned him ice cold.

He got to his feet. Waves passed over him: dizziness, nausea, pain. He found himself clinging to the wall, quivering. He felt a light switch against his palm, and pressed it.

Sarah lay on her back on the marble floor. She looked fine. No blood. No bruises. Her little round breasts looked fine. Everything was fine except the angle her head was forming with her body. It was wrong.

Calvi knelt and laid his thumb gently on the side of her neck. He felt his own blood pulsing under the skin of the thumb pad. Nothing more. He stayed there for a long time, kneeling on the floor with his hand touching Sarah's neck. “But I did,” he heard her say, over and over. The stars moved across the sky. After an hour, two, three, he didn't know, he made himself stand up and peer through the window in the top of the front door. A small car was parked in the dappled light of the street lamp filtering through the branches of the carob tree. He thought of opening the door and calling, “Sergeant Levy, come here.”

But he turned back instead. He looked at his watch: in less than nine hours the speech; in sixteen, seventeen perhaps if Gisela was slow—freedom.

Freedom, he thought. It means a new identity. He laughed aloud at himself, a short, bitter laugh. It echoed through the quiet villa and came back to him so he could hear the bitterness in it. Was that the laugh of the little boy in the sailor shirt and shiny black shoes? He bent down and dragged Sarah's body into the kitchen.

Calvi opened the broom closet. He pushed mops, buckets, dustpans, detergents to the back. Then he put his hands in Sarah's cold unshaven armpits and lifted her inside so that she stood, facing the back of the closet. Before she could fall back into the room he closed the door and leaned against it. Inside the closet he heard a thud, and then a softer one. He let go of the door and stepped away from it. Slowly it opened, and Sarah Cohn fell stiffly onto the kitchen floor.

Calvi bolted to the dining room. He found the bottle of vodka, tilted it to his mouth and drank it like water. Then moving quickly he returned to the kitchen, stepped over Sarah, yanked everything out of the broom closet, the mops, buckets, dustpans, detergents, pushed Sarah inside, forced the body into a squatting position, threw everything back into the closet and shut the door. It stayed shut.

He returned to the dining room for more alcohol. His hand closed around the bottle. He stopped himself. Nine hours. Timing was important. Self-control was important. They were all he had.

Slowly he climbed the stairs. In the darkness of the guest bedroom he heard the deep regular breathing of Moses Cohn. He switched on the bedside lamp. Cohn lay on his side, knees drawn up to his chin, one hand tucked between his thighs. Calvi rolled him on his back. Cohn sighed a deep sigh.

On the floor beside the bed Calvi found the lengths of electrical wire. He wound one of them tightly around Cohn's ankle three times, and tied a tight reef knot. He drew the free end tautly to the bedpost, wound it around three times and tied another knot. Then he did the same to Cohn's left ankle. The activity quieted his mind.

Working methodically he bound Cohn's wrists to the other bedposts. Then he went down the hall to the bathroom for more adhesive tape.

When he returned nothing had changed except Cohn's eyes. They were open. They turned a poorly focused blue gaze on Calvi.

“Where is Sarah?” Cohn asked thickly.

“How should I know?” Calvi replied. “I suppose she's at home.”

“You're lying.” Cohn's voice was very feeble. Calvi could barely distinguish the words. “You're lying. You always lie.”

“Stop raving.”

Cohn opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “She was here,” he said weakly. “When it was light. She was here.” The blue eyes sought out his own and clung to them like a terrier. “What have you done with her?”

“Yes, yes, she was here, for God's sake. Stop nagging at me. She had to come here, had to make sure her little husband was safe with the big bad man. She treats you like a God-damned baby.”

“Where is she?” Cohn said hoarsely.

Calvi waved casually over his shoulder. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “I had to tie her up, too.” Cohn's face twisted into a shape Calvi had never seen before. “Don't worry, she's completely unharmed. She's in the living room. The knots are so loose she could go dancing.”

“You son of a bitch. Sarah is three months pregnant. If she loses the baby because of this I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you if I never do another thing in my life.”

Calvi felt his stomach rising. “Stop fretting. She's fine.”

But he heard the sickness in his voice, and knew that Cohn had heard it, too. Cohn's chest rose. He filled his lungs. He opened his mouth and screamed as loudly as he could scream. But it was no more than an ugly gurgling. Calvi strode across the room and punched him very hard in the mouth with his closed fist. It was enough to stun him. Calvi cut a long strip of adhesive tape and stuck it firmly over Cohn's mouth.

The door bell rang. Calvi's body jerked as if he were wired to it. Feverishly he untied the four pieces of electrical wire and threw them under the bed. He ripped the adhesive tape off Cohn's face and stuffed it in his pocket. In the closet he found a blanket. He spread it over Cohn and tucked a pillow under his head. Then, with all his strength, he struck him on the point of the chin. Once. Twice. The door bell rang again. He switched off the bedside lamp, took off all of his clothes, tossed them into his bedroom and went downstairs.

“Who is it?” Calvi called through the door.

“Open up.” There was a hardness in Sergeant Levy's voice that he had not heard before. But it didn't surprise him.

“What do you want?”

“Open it or I'll break it down.”

Calvi opened the door. Sergeant Levy swept in, barely glanced at him and started up the stairs.

“Would you mind explaining what this is all about?”

Sergeant Levy gave no sign of hearing. He disappeared down the hall. Without haste Calvi followed. He watched Sergeant Levy snap on the lights of the rooms off the hall and look quickly into each one. He came to the guest bedroom, felt on the wall inside.

“Where is the switch?” he demanded.

“Please keep your voice down,” Calvi said. “There is no switch. There's a lamp by the bed.”

“Show me.”

Calvi pushed past him. There wasn't room for the two of them in the hall. He turned on the light. Cohn lay under the blanket, his mouth slightly open and his eyes shut, like a dreamer of sweet dreams. A red blotch marred his chin, but it was very faint by the light of the bedside lamp. They watched Cohn breathe for a while.

“Where is your bedroom?” Sergeant Levy asked.

“Down the hall on your right.”

Sergeant Levy poked his head into Calvi's bedroom. “Your bed hasn't been slept in,” he said, turning to Calvi. Calvi looked at his toes. Bashfully. “My God.” Sergeant Levy's voice was very low.

“So you've found us out, Sergeant. I hope you're not shocked by our little secret.” Sergeant Levy didn't answer. “Or are you already pondering the blackmail possibilities? That would fit with this sort of storm trooper behavior.”

Sergeant Levy moved very fast. Calvi felt Sergeant Levy's hands squeeze his biceps, he felt Sergeant Levy lift him in the air as though he were a bag of feathers. “Don't ever say that again,” Sergeant Levy said through gritted teeth. Very slowly he lowered Calvi to the floor. A numbness spread through his arms to the tips of his fingers.

Sergeant Levy's great chest heaved: for a few moments his breathing seemed to fill the house. Then he walked down the stairs, across the hall and out the door. He slammed it shut as he left. The whole house shook.

Calvi stood naked in the hall, rubbing his arms. He heard a car door close. After a few minutes he went into the bathroom and found the vial of sleeping capsules. He brought them into the guest bedroom. On his hands and knees he reached for the electrical wire. Again he bound Cohn to the bedposts, as tightly as he had before. He removed the cap from the vial, dropped three capsules onto his palm, pried open Cohn's mouth and shoved the capsules down his throat. Cohn gagged, and then resumed his regular breathing. Calvi tore off a fresh strip of adhesive tape and wrapped it around the lower half of Cohn's head. He switched off the bedside lamp.

In his own bedroom he picked up the telephone and dialed Cohn's home number. A woman answered. “Sarah?” she said in an anxious voice.

“No. This is Simon Calvi. With whom am I speaking?”

“Sarah's mother, Mr. Calvi. Mrs. Perlman.”

“Of course, Mrs. Perlman. We've met. I'm very sorry to call so late, but we completely lost track of the time. I just went down to the living room and saw that Sarah and Moses had fallen asleep on the couch. I didn't have the heart to wake them. I thought I'd call you and see if you could manage till morning.”

“I can,” she said. There was a pause. “But this is very unlike Sarah.”

“She's been working hard lately, because of the speech,” Calvi explained. “They both have.”

“She shouldn't be working so hard.” A fresh wave of anxiety rose in her voice. “Especially now,” she added, more to herself than Calvi.

“Well, Mrs. Perlman, it's time for me to go to bed, too. I hope I didn't disturb you.”

“Will you put a blanket over them?”

“I already have.”

As he hung up the telephone Calvi felt an ache in his biceps. Blue bruises were already showing on both arms. Sleep. He needed it but knew it was hopeless. His eyelids were wired open.

On a wicker chest of drawers was a blue-green vase full of dying red lilies. The vase appeared to be a hard metallic stone like malachite, but was in fact made from clay taken from Solomon's copper mines near Timna. It broke easily when he dropped it on the floor. Squatting, Calvi poked through the ceramic pieces. He found a large cut diamond, and then another, slightly smaller.

He went into the bathroom and took a condom out of the medicine cabinet. He inserted the diamonds into the condom, tied the open end, and forced it into his anus until it was entirely inside his body. He washed his hands.

In the bedroom Calvi gazed at the broken vase and the flowers strewn on the floor. He thought of sweeping up the mess, and of the broom closet in the kitchen. He left it the way it was: a broken vase was nothing to worry about. He kept looking at it all the same.

After a while he returned to the bedroom and opened the towel closet. Standing on the tips of his toes he reached to the back of the top shelf for the small round hot water bottle. He removed the rubber stopper with the string dangling from the hole cut in the center. From the drawer beside the sink he took a packet of coloring dye. He tore off one corner and poured the red powder into the hot water bottle. Then he filled it with warm water from the tap.

Simon Calvi strapped the hot water bottle to his chest. He dressed himself in socks, undershorts, his silk shirt, his navy blue tie, his new suit, his best shoes. He tied the string that dangled from the rubber stopper to the inside flap of his trousers. In the full length mirror behind the door he saw a big well-dressed man in late middle age who looked something like him. But his eyes were the eyes of a stranger. He sat on the bed and waited for morning.

30

Slowly Rachel walked through the Old City. There was nothing she could do until the morning but wait. A long wait, her thoughts and she alone. She felt her memory begin to open: Adam on the playroom floor, kneeling over his puzzles. He liked to hum while he fitted the pieces together. The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi ho the derry-o, the farmer in the dell. Simple puzzles. No piece would fit in more than one of them.

She came to a narrow cobbled street. Medieval arches overhead linked the decrepit buildings on either side; their shadows fell in stripes across the cobbles. In her path stood three fat men, alike in their fatness, business suits, carefully barbered silver hair and clerical collars.

“I can't figure this out for the life of me,” said one, leafing through a copy of the same guidebook Rachel had in her hand. “It should be number four. But I don't see a sign.”

“Five,” the second one corrected. “Four is back where you stepped in the donkey mess.”

“Not according to this.”

“Hurry up, you guys,” said the third. “My goldarn arches are killing me.”

The man with the guidebook waved to a pimply Arab youth leaning against a wall. “Hey there, is this number four or number five?”

The boy came forward with a big smile, eager to please. “Yes,” he said with a thick accent.

“Four?”

“Yes.”

“Or five?”

“Yes.”

“Let me handle this,” said the second man. “Numbers probably don't mean anything to him.” He turned to the boy and spoke in a loud voice, so slowly and with such exaggerated diction that it scarcely sounded like English at all. “Listen carefully, sonny: is this where Jesus met his mother?”