The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance Read online

  It was a mistake, a foul-up. Nowhere had it been said that I would serve as village policeman. I read the cable again. I identified the code of the unit which had sent it and the counter-code of the man who had replaced me in the mail room. Scheckler's eyes were fixed on me in curiosity.

  "Something wrong?"

  "Do you know him?" I showed him the piece of paper.

  "He's a doctor or something like that. Lives up there, on the mountain." Before I could say anything he got up. "We'll soon deal with it," he said and disappeared somewhere off in the building. When he returned his undershirt was covered by a shirt bearing the insignia of a staff sergeant. "I need eight guys," he called into the mechanics' recreation room, "from the midday shift."

  "Will eight be enough?" I asked apprehensively.

  "He's a quiet man."

  "In that case," I assayed, "maybe you could deal with it yourself?"

  His willingness disappeared suddenly. There was a sour look on his lips.

  "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me. If I help here and there and I'm prepared to lend a hand, that doesn't mean you can dump all the dirty work on me..."

  He waited, annoyed, while I extricated myself from the narrow gap between the bench and the table. Then he followed me, keeping very close, along the corridors. Outside, for some reason, only six soldiers were waiting, in addition to the driver. They were dressed sloppily, like a gang setting out to go hunting or rob a store. When they got in behind us, on the two benches which ran along the open command car, their faces evinced displeasure; the shady awnings of the garage were a better place to spend the hot afternoon hours.

  Beyond the chain at the entrance, bare roads led to the edge of the village, from where a rocky road climbed the mountain. We passed rusty signs pointing back where we came from: "Villa Athenaeum. Spacious rooms. Restaurant." We stopped for a flock of sheep and a battered green Morris in which a tall man was sitting stiffly, his head touching the roof.

  "That's the priest," Scheckler said as if he were a tourist-guide.

  "Maniac!" our driver yelled and pulled over to the side. We crossed a wide intersection, bounced over a steel bridge, rapidly passed a long row of trees and rolled into a sandy square to the barking of a dozen dogs.

  The driver switched the engine off. The dogs, dirty and mangy, surrounded us in a circle, baring their teeth. The soldiers teased them, shouting, yodeling and chirruping at them.

  "What do we do now?" Scheckler asked. One did not need to be overburdened with sensitivity to feel the tension in him. He was testing me.

  "We'll wait," I said.

  "By all means. Only get a move on. These people," he gestured towards the back of the vehicle, "are working men. We have vehicles to fix."

  At the other end of the sandy square two figures were standing at the entrance to a low building, the left one of three, on the wall of which was written, "Clinic" in Arabic. The central building was apparently used for accommodation: a checkered curtain fluttered at a window and a bougainvillea shrub climbed the wall. From the last building, obviously a garage, I could see the enormous rear of a yellow car sticking out. A broad sycamore tree shaded the entire area.

  One of the figures, a woman, called something to us.

  "Come here," I shouted in rusty Arabic. "Come here."

  The dogs burst out with a flurry of barking. She said something to the other figure, a tall youngster who was leaning against the door-post, wiping his hands on a rag. After that she started walking, taking small, careful steps. Her head, which was crowned with a mane of reddish-brown hair, was bent to the ground.

  "Make her look up," someone shouted from behind us. "Let's see her face."

  "Shut them up," I told Scheckler.

  "Quiet," he shouted, half serious, half mocking.

  The woman gave the dogs a command and they surrounded her obediently as she stood in front of the command car. "What do you want?" Her voice was low and slightly husky.

  "To see..." I studied the cable, "Anton Khamis."

  Her face clouded. "He's not here."

  "When will he come?"

  "I don't know."

  "We'll have to wait for him," I said.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "Calm the dogs down." I swung my leg over Scheckler's skinny knees, jumped down and began walking across the sand towards the building. Behind me I heard the sound of another six pairs of boots landing on the ground. The driver remained in his seat.

  "There's a car here," Scheckler said. "Maybe he's hiding."

  The woman retreated, silencing the dogs with a gesture. The soldiers overtook her and ran towards the clinic and the garage.

  "Wait," I shouted, before they got out of control. "Three of you guard the front, three go to the back." The uneasiness I was feeling increased when I noticed the youth slip into the garage. How many people lived here? If there were a lot we'd have to come back another day.

  "We'll have to search," Scheckler said eagerly. I waited for the woman, who was walking behind us.

  "May we see the clinic?" I asked politely.

  Silently she changed direction. The sound her feet made in the sand was uneven, unmatched. Her light panting indicated that she was making an effort. We followed her into the treatment room, which was empty, and from there into the doctor's surgery. A tall glass cabinet with rows of jars stood next to the bookcase. Scheckler glanced over them rapidly. I lingered. I read the labels one by one. In my imagination I saw the iodine solution turn into crystals and the phosphorus in the germicidal cream melted down together with the sulpha into a fast-acting incendiary material. The woman stood behind me and waited, her reflection in the glass of the door; her mouth was taut with exertion, her face contorted in the grimace of someone who thinks he is not being observed. She tried to straighten her posture by throwing out her hand, and then I noticed that one of her legs was lame.

  Outside, on the way to the second building, I walked slowly, to make it easier for her. She did not show any gratitude. On the contrary, at the entrance to the house I could feel her disapproval burning the back of my neck. I peeped in through the window at a room that was untidy but full of warmth. The table was set for three. Something was cooking, giving out a delicious aroma, quite unlike the stewed fat smell of soup at the Athenaeum. Scheckler pulled at the door-handle with the joy of a child at the entrance to a toy shop. I dragged him away from there to the third building, with the yellow car. It was an old Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible. Cracked layers of black lacquer shone beneath the amateurish yellow paint. The teenager was waiting for us, leaning over the open engine. He surveyed us with an angry expression, tossing his head to shake his blonde forelock off his forehead.

  This was the end of the tour. I called the three soldiers guarding the front to come inside. I could see the soldiers at the back through the garage window. The woman and the boy leaned against the Rolls. Scheckler went out to call the driver, who had parked the command car behind the sycamore. When he came back he stood inside the doorway.

  "What now?" he asked.

  "We wait," I said.

  One has to know how to wait. I relaxed my muscles, half-closed my eyes and breathed rhythmically. The air in the garage was hot and mingled with the smell of petrol. The soldiers stood along the walls then crouched down. The woman's face glistened.

  "When will he come?" I asked again.

  "I told you, I don't know." Her voice indicated otherwise. "What do you want of him?" she asked.

  I did not answer. There was no point. Our appearance was enough to remove the true, innocent meaning from the simplest words. Scheckler smiled and glanced at his watch. The woman gave him a pained look.

  "You're wasting your time," she said.

  Scheckler asked, "What's she saying?" The driver translated. Scheckler added, "I think she's right. Who knows how much longer we'll roast here."

  "He'll be here soon," I said calmly.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Ex
perience..."

  He looked at me doubtfully.

  "...and the three plates on the table."

  His mouth widened into an admiring smile.

  Then, with a timing which made my heart turn sour at the paucity of the audience witnessing my achievement, the sound of an engine could be heard from the road. The soldiers stood up. The youngster's body stiffened. His long, muscular arms were frozen dangerously near the toolbox.

  The green Morris, the one we had met on the way, stopped at the edge of the sandy square. The man who climbed out was known to the dogs, judging by the noisy, adulatory welcome they gave him. Scheckler shifted uneasily in the doorway, the submachine gun in his hand pointing to the outside.

  "The car's leaving," he reported, and I imagined the man who had been dropped off as he examined the furrows of the square made by the command-car.

  "Yvonne?" the man called softly. "Michel?" We heard the door to the clinic open and close, then the door to the house next door. A long shadow advanced over the sand. My eyes met those of the woman, which were very brown and deep. She closed them and opened them immediately, in a trusting gesture.

  "No one's to move," I said quietly. The shadow came in and stood in the space which the sun made on the garage floor. Scheckler and the driver moved, closing the entrance, blocking the light that came from the outside.

  "You," I threw out into the dimness, to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, "will have to come with us."

  Scheckler bent into the Rolls and pressed a button. Yellow light flowed from the headlamps along two paths of dust. I closed my eyes, partly because of the sudden glare and partly because of the surprise. All my achievements of the morning disappeared: the man facing me, the one I had been told to arrest, was my man, the one who had been giving out vitamins in the refugee camp.

  This time there was no expression in his eyes and, surprisingly, not even astonishment. "I have to pack a few things," he said immediately in the same calm voice with which he had spoken to the children three hours earlier.

  "Why?" the youngster behind me said suddenly. "What has he done?"

  I retreated to the wall, so that I could see everyone. "We've received instructions..."

  "You can't simply arrest someone just like that," the woman said.

  I agreed with a movement of my head.

  She rushed forward a few paces. "He's got commitments, plans..." Her face reddened. "Where will you take him?"

  "I don't know."

  "For how long?"

  "A few hours, maybe a little longer..."

  The man shifted in his place and gestured towards the woman. "May I ask you to leave us alone for a moment?"

  With a slight, almost evasive, movement I shook my head. He did not argue, but walked back towards the entrance.

  "I'll go with him," Scheckler suggested.

  Still without speaking, I ignored Scheckler and gestured towards the opening. The man thanked me with a movement of his head. Outside we were momentarily united, both blinded by the sun. He recovered first and began walking quickly. I left him enough room for privacy. The dogs followed us, their noses up.

  At the entrance to the house he paused to wait for me. I indicated that he should go in. There was something disturbing about his impeccable behavior. For a moment I almost hoped he would try to escape through the back window, straight into the arms of the soldier who was waiting there. I stood at the front of the building, by the window. Inside the room the doctor stood on his toes and took a cardboard suitcase, a larger version of the one he had been carrying in the morning, from the top of a cupboard. On the opposite wall, as if to complement the temptation of the medicine cabinet, were shelves laden with books. I strained my eyes trying to look at the bindings. He saw me out of the corner of his eye, then came over to the window and said, "I would like to ask you..."

  I gestured with my fingers for him to hurry. He tightened his mouth and his hands gripped the handle of the suitcase. He disappeared somewhere inside the house and after a brief moment, too brief, in fact, went through the front door and walked straight into the garage. How had he managed to pack so quickly?

  Scheckler looked out. "The woman and the boy want to come out to say goodbye," he shouted.

  "Let them come out," I shouted back.

  The man stopped and waited without being asked to do so. His suitcase was on the ground, his hands were free and spread out. The way they trembled revealed, I guessed, an internal vitality which was hidden by his tall, ungainly stature. The woman came out, accompanied by Scheckler and the soldiers, who surrounded her and the boy. She fell into the man's arms and detached herself immediately, in a movement which touched something inside me: delicate, arching, a wave touching the shore.

  For a moment I envied the arrested doctor for her warmth as she parted from him. Secretly I studied her face, a beauty beginning to fade, a tautness in the skin above her upper lip, two furrows around her full, wide mouth, a fine network of wrinkles extending to her cheeks from the corners of her eyes. I nodded to Scheckler, who grabbed the doctor's arm and led him briskly to the command car. The woman walked beside them. When he climbed the iron step she wavered and froze in mid-movement. I called the soldiers who were guarding the back of the buildings and we all climbed into the vehicle.

  Scheckler drove. The doctor was sitting between us. The woman's face, as she looked at her husband, was inevitably turned to me too. A pallor spread beneath her tanned skin. A tear rolled onto her bottom lip and she licked it.

  "Get a move on," I said to Scheckler, banging the tin panel with my hand, "go..."

  The doctor waved to the woman and the boy, then put the suitcase on his knees, eased himself into the seat and relaxed his facial muscles, as if preparing himself for a long journey. He did it so naturally that for a moment I thought that the rules of the game we were playing were clearer to him than to me.

  ***

  The way back was shorter, maybe because we were going downhill or because all the time we could see the top of the roof of the Athenaeum, appearing and disappearing into and out of the cypresses in the garden.

  "You did that nicely," Scheckler said suddenly. The compliment hinted at a certain comradeship and made me feel contemptible. The doctor, wedged between us, was silent. At one of the bends in the road he leaned over my knee and looked up at the massive summit of the sycamore. His full lips moved, then stopped. Then he looked from the other side. Neither of us reproved him.

  When we got to the main street of the village he suddenly said, "I must pay a debt in a shop." The shops were closed. A few dozen men and women were coming out of a church, the last building in the row overlooking the abyss.

  "It's Sunday today," I remarked.

  He pointed to the opening of a few unpaved alleys which extended into the maze of houses.

  "There the shops are open." In his voice there was the tense friendliness of someone who believes that troubles end well if they are tackled cautiously and intelligently.

  "Don't let him," Scheckler intervened. He had to slow down, almost stop, to avoid hitting the worshippers leaving the church. Some people had already noticed us and were standing in groups, watching. On the other side groups of youngsters burst out of the alleys and stood by the roadside. Scheckler added: "It's dangerous."

  One of the boys shouted something. The others froze where they were. The transmission creaked as Scheckler changed gears. The car leaped forward but the doctor made no protest, his face once more assuming its relaxed acceptance. He no longer looked back, just sat bent, one shoulder thrust forward, as if sitting comfortably on the seat caused him pain.

  In the courtyard of the Athenaeum I jumped out of the command car and spread the arrest warrant out on the bonnet.

  "If you want," Scheckler suggested to me in a friendly voice, "you can stay here and I'll drive him..."

  "Thanks." Surprised, I filled in the tiny squares on the form. The pen was bad and the letters came out uneven. Even so, they were suff
icient to make the doctor a prisoner and the detention camp his next address. I gave the papers to Scheckler and escaped up the stairs to my room.

  Towards evening I tried to write to Jonathan again. I felt a sense of both oppression and need, but had nothing to say to him apart from the fact that twenty-four hours had passed since my arrival and the only event which I had regarded as an attempted contact had turned out to be a complete mistake. Restless, I got up and wandered around the offices. There was dust on the desks. The wastepaper baskets were empty. I opened a few files and read the material inside. It was worthless, reports of trivial incidents which had occurred in the area, neatly-filed general orders. Then I went to the kitchen, the garage and the courtyard. Now, in contrast to yesterday, all the witnesses were a nuisance. How could the soldiers be gotten away from this place so that they would not be hurt? I wandered among them, as lonely as a teacher in a busy playground. In the evening I was almost pleased to see the command car hooting by the gate.

  Scheckler was exultant. His thin lips were stained with red juice. The car's toolbox was laden with ripe cherries.

  "The orchards, you should have seen them," he exulted to the mechanics. "Plums and peaches, each one as big as my fist. As many cherries as you want..." Coming from him, even the descriptions of the fruit had an obscene aura. I indicated to him to follow me upstairs, to the office.

  "How was it?" I asked.

  He put a dripping bag on the desk. "You see, I didn't forget you..."

  "How was it?"

  "The usual, what were you expecting? We took him there, and that's that."

  "Did he say or do anything?"

  "He kept quiet all the way."

  I put my hand out. "The papers."

  "What papers?"

  "A copy of the arrest warrant. They were supposed to stamp it and give it back."

  "They didn't give it back."

  "Phone them."

  "O.K."

  "Now!"

  "What's your hurry?"

  "I'm responsible for him."

  He shoved his dirty hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out a creased envelope. "If you have to have proof, you've got this."