The World of the End (38 page)

She laughed in desperation and recalled how she’d feigned rapture after asking the reporter for a rundown of recent cultural events, and how the Frenchwoman had gone on to tell her about Rushdie’s upcoming book, and how the licking torches in her eyes conveyed her ravenous interest, and how, only when the enthused speaker slowed, did she spur her on with another question about Rushdie, trying to figure out what it was in
The Satanic Verses
that so infuriated the Iranians, and why, she wondered, did they commute his death sentence, and, by the way, did his own personal distress ever come through on the pages of his later books, and, if she were to start reading him, which book would be best at welcoming her into his complex world; the questioner yawned inwardly and nodded outwardly while the questioned showed yet another side of her winning character as she proved not just beautiful and clever but also well read and analytically adept, perfectly capable of splitting the books wide open without once straying into academic jargon, relying instead on pure curiosity, and so, the nervous nurse listened, enchanted, to learned explanations about the Indian Anthology edited by the renowned author, and a little more about the writing, and the wordplays, and even the book covers, and how the picture on the front cover of the
The Moor’s Last Sigh
encapsulates the entire novel, and please do not confuse the Moor and the matter of spices in his family with a different book, also written by an Indian author, where she, too, plunges headlong into the mystical qualities of spices, and, in general, how authors from that part of the world tend to season their writing with strong lively flavors, so much so …

Ann lost her as she delved into the sensory assault she’d experienced while reading
The God of Small Things
and, just as she was starting to praise the literary feats of Vikram Seth, Ann caught hold of the string she needed, entangled though it was between a web of words, poured her guest a seventh glass of wine, seized the abrupt silence of drinking, and smiled gaily. “But with all due respect to the others, you love Rushdie the best.…”

Marian nodded, her eyes misty, her smile widening as her host announced, “I think I’ll start with the one about the artist. What’s it called again?”

“
The Moor’s Last…”

“
Sigh,”
Ann said, like an attentive pupil. “The one with the interesting cover.”

“The picture drawn by…” Marian said, smiling and not finishing her sentence.

“Oh God, I’m such a scatterbrain.…” Ann giggled, her fingers fidgeting with the chain. “You mentioned that picture and I just realized that I have something of yours.…”

“Really?”

“Hm-mmm…” Ann said, trying to sound mellow as she bounded out of her seat, returning a few seconds later from the bedroom with the picture between her fingers. “That night outside the restaurant, when we were arguing, this fell out of your bag.”

Marian glanced at the picture and shrugged. “It’s okay, you can throw it away. It’s not mine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know the people in the picture,” Marian said, intent on getting back to Rushdie but unable to disregard the shade change on Ann’s face.

Placing a hand on her arm, she asked, “Are you alright? You’re pale as a ghost.”

Ann pulled her hand back, looked long and hard at the photo, and asked, “What do you mean you don’t know the people in the picture?”

“Two days after getting to Israel, I was riding the bus, on the way to my new office, and my mind was elsewhere, I think you know where. It was before we’d met and I really wanted to surprise him. This woman and her son sat down opposite me, and I think, although I’m not sure, that they were staring at me and arguing, because eventually the woman took the picture away and gave it to me. She must have thought I was someone else. I glanced at the thing and put it in my bag. I haven’t thought about it at all since then. It was just an honest mistake.”

“You don’t seriously expect me to take that story at face value, do you?”

“You can take it however you want. I’d just appreciate it if we could drop it altogether because, in all honesty, I have nothing more to add on the matter.”

“I just want to understand,” Ann said, “if this picture is so irrelevant to you, why didn’t you toss it?”

“I told you, I completely forgot about it. The fact is, I didn’t even know it had fallen out of my bag.”

“And really, in all honesty, you have no idea why the woman on the bus handed you this photo?”

“I realized that apparently she found some similarities between the woman in the picture and…”

“Some similarities? Please,” Ann said, “you’d have to be blind to not realize that you two are the same person.”

“Very interesting,” Marian said, lighting her seventh cigarette as she scanned the photograph. “I admit she looks a lot like me, but her style is not exactly my cup of tea, and the world is full of similar-looking people … and anyway, both of us know how they say that every person has a double.”

Ending a brief silence, Marian said, “Can we please talk about something else?”

“Is there any special reason why you so don’t want to talk about the picture?”

“Is there any special reason why you so
do
want to talk about it?”

The tension that had been accompanying Ann since her first waking moment was no longer exclusively hers. A delicate hostility hovered between the two tired women. Neither could figure out what the other one wanted, and the free exchange of giggles did not deceive either of them; a foul wind swept through the room, turning even an innocent giggle into a ruse of delay, and when the guest showed her first signs of boredom, yawning and rubbing her eyes, the hostess grew vigilant and scratched her knees under the table. “I know why you want to change the topic,” she said.

The tolerant expression on Marian’s face didn’t baffle the small frightened woman before her. “You just don’t want to recall the good days you had with him.”

“With whom?”

“Your husband.”

“My husband?”

“The two of you look very happy together in the picture.”

“This is not the first time you’re confusing that scum with other men. First it was Yonatan and now it’s this guy who I don’t even know.”

“I understand why you’d want to keep him to yourself.”

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

“Darling, if I could I’d take his face and shove it in a hungry lion’s mouth…”

“I find it hard to believe, especially when you continue to ignore the photographic evidence.”

“And for me it’s hard to believe that we’re still talking about this silly photograph as though it has something to do with me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“Your ex.”

“Jacques.”

“And where does he live?”

“Jacques? I don’t know, I guess in our old apartment in Paris.”

“How long has he been living there?”

“Seven years.”

“Impossible.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen him working out at the health club at the end of the block for an entire year.”

“We didn’t even have a health club on our street.”

“Here, Marian, at the end of this street.”

“In Tel Aviv? Jacques? He can’t stand this country.”

“And yet he spent the last year here, up until two weeks ago when he disappeared.”

“Ann, you’re making a big mistake. Jacques never…”

“Do you still love him?”

“Are you deaf?”

“Then why won’t you help me find him?”

“I told you exactly where he is. If he hasn’t moved, then he’s in Paris, in the…”

“I couldn’t care less about Paris.”

“But for some reason you care a great deal about Jacques. Why do you want to find him?”

“I can’t say.”

“Okay. But I can tell you aren’t looking for the SOB for the right reasons.”

“As far as you’re concerned.”

“What do you want from me?”

“That you leave Jacques alone and help me get in contact with him.”

“I left him alone a long time ago. And I’m more than happy to give you his address.”

“In Tel Aviv?”

“No, Ann, not in Tel Aviv. He has no address in Tel Aviv.”

“Why did you go to Paris?”

“Excuse me?”

“To Paris. That urgent trip you took. It had to do with him, right?”

“No, not in the slightest.”

“I’m starting to get the impression that you’re living a double life.”

“And I’m starting to get the impression you’ve gone too far.”

“Yonatan is your virtual lover, to quote you, and Jacques is your real lover. One in Tel Aviv, one in Paris…”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Marian, stop, I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to understand why you’d lie about Jacques.”

“I have no reason whatsoever to lie about the scum!”

“Then why did you go to Paris?”

“It’s personal.”

“I rest my case.”

“Don’t be ridiculous … I went to France … Wait a second, why should I have to explain myself?”

“So I can know if I have any chance of getting to Jacques or if you’re just taunting me.”

“There’s no reason for me to taunt the woman who saved my life.”

“So save hers in return and tell me the whole truth about the man in the picture.”

“God, we’re back to that damn picture. Ann, how many times do I have to tell you I don’t know a thing about it?!” Marian grabbed the picture from Ann and ripped it as many times as she could. “Here you go. You want proof that I have nothing to do with this thing, well here you are! Now there’s nothing left of it. Same as the rest of this idiotic evening!”

Ann watched as Marian left her seat and walked to the coat hanger. She ran after her and called piteously. “I’m sorry, Marian, please stay a little longer.”

Marian slipped into her jacket. “It’s late already.”

“I’m asking you, please, don’t go yet. I didn’t mean to badger you. I will hate myself if you leave now because of what I’ve said. And I really wouldn’t want to totally ruin this idiotic evening.” With a rare display of nerve, she began to help her sour-faced guest out of her coat, hanging it back up, and leading her by the arm toward the living room, where she sat her on the couch, opposite the TV, right near the glass table she’d gotten when it had become clear that little kids would never enter this home, and with the smile she saved for obstinate patients on artificial respiration, she asked, “Coffee or tea?”

Marian smiled. “Tea, no sugar.”

Ann nodded and pointed to the remote control. “In the meantime you can watch…”

“I’m fine,” Marian said.

“If the vase is in your way…”

“I said I’m fine.”

*   *   *

In an instant everything collapsed.

Then came the improvised Plan B. The thrill Ann felt when she decided not to let the information channel known as Marian slip away called for decisive action. A vision of the man from the health club haunted her as she filled the kettle and pulled two tea bags from the silver box, forcing her to admit that if she harbored hopes of ever seeing him again, then she simply had to struggle against the crude obstacle in her way. That woman is the embodiment of evil, she thought, as she slipped into the washroom and snatched a bottle of sleeping pills she’d taken from the hospital during the week when Jacques had kept her up at nights. Back in the kitchen, she stared at the bottle of pills with a kind of playful terror.

*   *   *

She could not relent!—she washed the dishes. She could not relent!—she threw away the scraps of food. She could not relent!—she blew out the candles. Once she had mended the photo, sticking all twelve pieces together, she nodded enthusiastically. “I must not relent,” she mouthed, and went out to the old shed, returning with a length of coarse rope. On the way to the bedroom she eyed the mirror and asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

The reflection answered laconically. “Got a better idea?”

She pondered that for moment and shook her head.

“So then what, exactly, are you waiting for?” the reflection nudged.

Ann looked away from it, coiled the rope, took a deep breath, and walked into the room. “It’s going to be a long weekend,” she heard the mirror at her back giggle.

Ann fulfilled her obligation with utmost tenderness. Once she was sure that only supernatural powers would suffice to extricate Marian, she turned off the light, dragged a chair over to the side of the bed, and sat down to watch her, both threatened and threatening. The dizzying thought that she could do with her as she pleased brought a smile to her lips, a smile that receded after eight hours of dreamless sleep. She awoke from her painful sleep and recoiled at the sight of the woman bound to her bed. It took a few seconds, but the events of the previous night came back swiftly. The morning light made it all seem as though she had gone well beyond the pale.

It’s still not too late. It can still be undone. She ran to the kitchen and pulled the chopping knife out of the dishwasher. Then she froze. The scream from the bedroom parted the silence that hung in the house. Striding somberly, she made for the room, forgetting the glinting knife in her sweaty palm and forcing herself not to make eye contact with the mirror.

But the mirror was mum and the guest fell silent at the sight of the armed hostess. The terror in her eyes melted away, and she smiled at Ann. “Oh, Ann, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Ann looked her over, trying to decide what Marian was up to, wondering if this was some kind of wily feminine trick, as the Frenchwoman called her close with a sideways nod of the head and asked in a whisper, “Did you get rid of them?”

“Of whom?” Her grip on the knife loosened.

“I don’t know; the burglars or whoever it was.…”

“Burglars?”

“I’m tied to the bed and you’re walking around with a butcher knife in your hand. So I assume…?”

“Marian, I think that you’re…”

“Shhh…” Marian silenced her. “Maybe they’re still here. Let me go and we’ll call the police.” Not hearing a response, she bit down on her lower lip. “I hope they haven’t done anything. You look like you’re in shock and I, I don’t even know how I got here. God, they must have given me Rohypnol or whatever the hell it’s called…”