The Fury of Rachel Monette (22 page)

“Unfortunately,” he resumed, “we have to fly separately. I've booked you a flight on the thirty-first and one for me on the third.”

“Of April?”

“Yes.”

“But that's impossible. I'll miss your speech.” Gisela seemed quite upset.

“It's not going to be much of a speech. It's very mild. You can read it if you want.”

Gisela drank her cognac in one gulp. “It's not the same.”

“I know,” Calvi said. In the near darkness he saw the round cerebellum-shaped roofs of the Old City, and the television antennae sticking into them like probes. He turned to Gisela and covered her hand with his own. “I want you to do a favor for me. That's why you must go on the thirty-first.”

“What favor?”

“I am sending a large package to Munich by air freight the night of the second. I want you to pick it up.”

“What's in it?”

“I can't tell you,” Calvi said. “It's a surprise.”

“For me?”

“Yes, partly for you,” Calvi answered. “I know you will like it. Don't spoil it by making me tell.”

“All right, Simon.”

“You'll do it, then?”

“Yes,” she said, gazing across the valley at the Dome of the Rock. No one was sitting on it yet.

Smiling broadly the waiter presented Calvi with the bill. Perhaps he was amused by its sheer audacity. Calvi paid it and added a tip that was audacious in its own way.

They waited in front of the hotel for a taxi, standing slightly apart. When one arrived Calvi opened the door for Gisela but did not get in himself.

“Do you mind going home without me?” he asked her through the window. “I won't be long.”

“What do you mean?” Gisela said, annoyed. He realized he was about to ruin the evening.

“There is a meeting I couldn't avoid.”

“At ten o'clock at night?”

“That's the way this business is.”

“Where is it?” she asked. “I don't mind waiting outside.”

“That's not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

The driver twisted around in the front seat. “Make a decision,” he said.

“Drive,” she told him. He slipped the car into gear and rolled away with Gisela looking straight ahead in the back seat. Calvi waited for another taxi. He knew the fare would be ridiculous but he didn't see his former wife very often.

20

The taxi dropped Calvi in front of a block of workers' flats in the northwest part of the city. It stood on grassless and treeless level ground among a herd of other blocks which had all come from the same litter. Law compelled the builders to use native limestone on the outsides of all new structures. The intent was to blend old and new, but all it did was make the workers' flats tawdrier than those in other cities, like plain women wearing too much make-up. Jews from Morocco, Yemen, Iraq, Kurdistan, and Tunisia lived in these flats. Calvi was visiting his constituency.

Before entering the building he looked back along the road the taxi had come. No one followed. Calvi went inside. A sign on the elevator said out of order. Under it someone had written what he thought of that. Calvi climbed four flights of dreary unswept stairs. On the last landing he trod carefully around a cluster of teenagers singing along with the pop tunes vibrating from a tinny little transistor radio. They made no effort to clear a passage; he was too old for them to see.

They were waiting for him on the other side of the flimsy pressed wood door. It opened at the first touch of his knocking hand. A dark young man of his own height closed the door after him. Calvi turned with the idea of embracing him, but modulated the movement to a handshake instead. Then he crossed the bare wooden floor of the living room and shook hands with the two other men, younger and shorter than the first, who stood up from the worn couch.

“So,” Calvi said, calling each one by name, “you all look very well.” None of them had his bulk, or the prominent brow ridge and strong wedge-shaped nose, but the sensitive full-lipped mouths were almost identical.

“We are well,” the oldest one said. “And you?”

Calvi shrugged. He didn't have time to give a true answer. “You become a resident soon?” he asked the eldest.

“By September if I get through the exams.”

“Did you hear that?” Calvi asked the other two, trying to strike a light note. “If he gets through, with that brain of his.” None of them saw the joke. He abandoned levity. “And you two,” he said to the younger ones, “are you studying hard?” They nodded. “Good,” Calvi said, perhaps overemphasizing the approval in his tone.

An inner door opened and a small thin woman who looked old enough to be Calvi's mother come into the living room bearing a tray.

“Why don't you all sit down?” she said in a voice that was quite deep. All sat except Calvi, who approached the woman and stood opposite her.

“Hello, Aziza,” he said, watching her eyes. They were dark and quick-moving, and seemed much younger than her face. They didn't meet his.

“Hello, Simon,” she said. “Take your tea.”

He lifted the cup and saucer from the tray and sat on the couch between the two younger men. The scent of mint rose from the tea, tea sweet and fragrant in the Moroccan style. Calvi sipped it and sighed with satisfaction. In truth, on top of the rich dinner, it threatened to make him sick.

“Yours is still the best tea, Aziza,” he said.

Aziza said nothing. She sat on a wooden chair by the kitchen door. The two younger men sat beside Calvi. The eldest leaned on the wall by the front door. They had waited for him to arrive. Now they were waiting for him to talk. He stared intently into his cup as though the script floated on the surface of the thick green tea.

“I have some news,” he said. He looked up at Aziza. “From now on I am not going to be in a position to give the boys money to pay—to help with their educations. Instead I have brought with me tonight a lump sum.” He took a long envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to Aziza. “It is all I can afford.”

Aziza opened the envelope and counted the money without removing it. The three young men watched her carefully. She nodded. “It is generous.”

“I know,” Calvi said. “But the boys have to earn it.”

Aziza's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

So Calvi told them about Grunberg. He told them about the ambulance by the broken fountain in the walled yard, and the hot-water bottle on the top shelf in his bathroom. He told them about schedules, and flight numbers and undertakers. He told them just what they had to know. And then he told them what he wanted. They didn't like it.

“Can't you simply retire?” the eldest asked him.

Calvi shook his head, smiling. “This is the only way.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

“You'll just have to trust me.”

“Why should I?” the young man said hotly. “Why the hell should I? You've got your nerve coming here and asking for trust.” Calvi saw angry tears in the young man's eyes.

“Don't trust me then,” Calvi said, his voice rising. “The question is, will you help me or not?”

The three young men looked at each other and in some unseen way came to a decision. He could see that the answer was no. The eldest opened his mouth to speak the word.

“They will help you,” Aziza said.

“Mother—”

“They will help you,” she repeated firmly.

“How much money is in that envelope?” sneered one of the younger men.

“How much is not the point,” she said. “But don't belittle money, either.”

“And don't take that tone with your mother,” Calvi put in stupidly. It roused fury in the three young men. The two sitting beside him jumped up and faced him. The eldest stepped forward.

“You'd better keep your mouth shut,” he said in a shaking voice.

Calvi knew he had been wrong to say it, but he wasn't going to be talked to like that, either. He got to his feet, making them aware of his size and strength, and looked at each of them in turn.

“You have to grow up some day,” he said very quietly.

The front door opened. A wiry little gray-haired man stood in the entrance. He wore filthy blue overalls and the hands that dangled from his thin wrists, almost as if they were foreign objects, were the swollen, calloused hands of a man who had worked at hard labor all his life. His wrinkled face was gray with fatigue. He looked shyly around the room and went into his kitchen without a word. The three young men followed him, closing the door behind them.

Calvi and Aziza remained together in the bare living room. Calvi's eyes were fixed on the kitchen door.

“I have to get dinner ready, Simon,” Aziza said quite gently. He remembered that tone. It was like a lullabye. He turned toward the door.

“Goodbye, Simon.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Goodbye.” He opened the door.

“The boys will help you,” she said. “They are good boys. They're your boys, Simon.”

“No, they're not,” he said softly and went out.

The basement in which he stood was really a cavern cut into the limestone foundation of the city. He heard an echo of dripping water which seemed to come through the walls, and he felt the dampness in his nose and under his feet. Two naked bulbs hung from the ends of wires which were taped crudely to the ceiling. Damp currents set them swaying above his head. Their light rose and fell along the walls making him slightly seasick. Perhaps he would have felt sick anyway. The room was filled with coffins, some stacked in piles to the ceiling, others lying randomly on the floor. Several of these had open lids. The bodies in them were dressed for a formal party. They had straight parts in their hair and a waxy composure on their faces. Men and women alike wore exotic perfumes. He smelled sandalwood, lavender, rose hips, and laurel, and another scent the others couldn't hide.

“You're late,” whined the Arab undertaker sitting on a coffin in the shadows, his legs casually crossed. He rose and approached Calvi. He had arranged his full lips in a pout like Clara Bow's, but it didn't look cute on him. Perhaps the large, flat, fleshy ears spoiled the effect, or maybe the pallor of the recently shaved head. Calvi noticed that his eyebrows too had been shaved; no hair at all was visible on him, other than the long curling lashes and the few dark ones that emerged from the pits of his nostrils. “I've been waiting and waiting,” he added in a hurt voice.

“And you're getting paid for it,” Calvi said sharply. His anger reverberated through the cavern. It buffeted the Arab enough to make him step back, but not enough to take the peevishness out of his tone.

“When?”

“Tonight, if you've done what I asked.”

“I have.” He turned and led Calvi into the depths of the cavern. His big hips engaged in a rolling struggle with the fabric of his tight blue jeans. He stopped beside an olivewood coffin which lay at the rear of the cavern near the worn stone steps leading to street level.

“Here,” he said, with a hint of pride in his tone.

The coffin was big and solid. Ornate brass handles were screwed into both ends, and all the corners had been reinforced in brass as well. The Arab opened the lid. The coffin was lined in red silk, and a soft red silk pillow lay at one end. On the inside of the lid, near the head, was another brass handle, smaller than the others but equally fancy.

“Watch,” said the Arab. His hand grasped the ring, twisted it a half turn, and pulled. It came away in his hand. Calvi saw that the ring was attached to a square block of wood, the size of a man's head. A dozen or more small cylinders of olivewood were glued to the face of the wooden block. There were now a dozen or more small round holes in the lid of the coffin. The Arab replaced the wooden block and closed the lid. Calvi leaned forward to look closely. He saw no sign of the holes in the highly polished lustre of the wood. He ran his hand carefully over the surface. He felt nothing that interrupted the smooth flow of the grain.

“It's good,” he said.

“Good?” cried the undertaker. “It's perfect. Perfect.” He caressed the wood with his hand.

“Open it again,” Calvi said. The Arab lifted the lid. Calvi climbed inside the coffin and lay on his back. The big unshaven head loomed over him. “Close it,” Calvi ordered.

The lid closed, shutting out the Arab, the cavern, and the sound of dripping water. Calvi lay in complete darkness, his head on the soft pillow. A peaceful sleepiness crept over him. He fought it off and reached above his face for the brass handle. To grip it he had to tuck his elbow into his chest and cock his wrist under his chin. He turned the ring and pulled, the way the Arab had done. The block came loose. Carefully he moved it along the length of his body and placed it by his hip on the floor of the coffin.

At first there was plenty of air, even some light. Then, quite suddenly, no more light filtered through the holes in the lid. No fresh air. Calvi inhaled deeply but the air in the coffin seemed thin and impoverished. It made him breathless. He felt sweat break out all over his body.

“Open it,” he shouted. There was no response. He felt the air holes with his fingers. They were too small to allow the entry of any but his smallest finger. He stuck it into one of the holes. The fingertip touched the blockage on the far side. It felt like rough cloth, denim he realized, the denim used for making blue jeans. Struggling for air Calvi banged on the inside of the lid, but he was too cramped to bang with any force. “Open it, you bastard,” he yelled again.

He heard a faint crack, close to his face. He smelled an odor. Quickly it filled the coffin, displacing whatever air remained. It sickened him. The Arab, sitting on the air holes, had farted.

The lid swung open. Fresh damp air flowed over his soaked and panting body. The unshaven head above him was thrown back in hysterical laughter. The meaty jowls shook with it. The wild laughter bounced off the limestone walls, sweeping back and forth through the cavern. Calvi felt that he lay inside a laughing bell.