The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance

by Amnon Jackont

  The heating elements reddened slowly, giving off an odor of burnt dust. I touched the petrol with my finger. It was still cold. The base of the tin was barely warm. I went back to the garage. The officer in charge gave me a sour look. The innards of a car, maybe the carburetor of the command car, were spread out on the metal table in front of him. I asked for some soap, "the simplest kind..." He gestured towards the corner where there was a dripping tap and an almost empty can of soap powder. Beside it were two full, sealed cans. One of the mechanics scraped some of the remaining soap out of the can and washed his hands in a river of black suds. When he had finished I washed my hands too, squinting at the full cans. How long was it till the next coffee break? I went out and sat on the bench from which, eight days earlier, I had watched the doctor giving out vitamins. A group of children recognized me and ran to the fence. This time they merely stood in silence and looked.

  At ten the soldiers of the garage went to have their break. The can beside the sink was lying on its side, quite empty. The other two were still sealed. I took one of them and turned to go. In the doorway I turned back and took the empty one too. Then I carried the two cans, one full, one empty, to the back door of the Athenaeum, carefully passing the kitchen door, and up the stairs to my room. As I had expected, the petrol was lukewarm. One heating element had melted and the other had stopped working. I disconnected the device from the electricity and sat on the edge of the bed to plan everything all over again.

  My next stop was the bathroom at the end of the corridor, where I filled the empty soap can with water. Then I dismantled the steel wire from the water tank of the toilet and took the copper rings from the empty curtain rail. Inside my cupboard every item received a new mission. The Syrian oil can came to rest in the soap can, which was filled with water. Beside it floated the copper rings, hung on two long arms which I had fashioned from the steel wire. I detached the electricity flex from the toaster and connected it to the steel arms. Then I switched on the overhead lamp and put the plug into the socket.

  The light stayed on, meaning that my improvised device had not damaged the electrical system. But there was nothing to be seen in the water. I dragged a chair over to the corner of the room, as far away as possible from the petrol fumes, lit a cigarette and waited. By the time I had finished my cigarette tiny bubbles were already floating beside the rings. For the first time in ages I felt slightly satisfied. I took a book from the windowsill and lay down on my bed to read.

  I had read about a hundred pages when faint steam rose from the water and the petrol was hot enough to absorb all the soap powder. The unlikely smell was like that of burning washing water. I breathed it in deeply, with gratification. Then I opened the window wide and the smell mingled with the almost embarrassing sweetness of the afternoon bread which wafted up from the houses in the village.

  ***

  Towards evening I disconnected the heating unit from the power supply. The mixture in the tin solidified slowly, changing color from murky-white to gray and then to light blue. I watched it, enchanted, as if it was the first time. I shook the tin carefully twice. The glycerin left from the soap hissed, and some bubbles splashed onto the sides of the cupboard, the floor and the opposite wall. I wiped it all away lovingly, as if it were the vomit of a sick child. For a moment the old Vincent was awake within me. 'Isn't it a miracle?' he asked, 'that in any hole, anywhere in the world, we can produce matter as full of life as this from lowly and readily- available materials?'

  The process soon ended. The material became solid napalm, of a pale green hue, which cooled slowly, along with my satisfaction. I would now have to think about a detonator. An electrical process was out of the question in a place so wild and crawling with rodents which would chew through wires, and rivulets which could appear overnight and cause a short circuit. What was needed was a controlled and protected chemical process. Something which would generate tremendous and concentrated heat and slowly ignite the tin of napalm, taking a relatively long period of time, so that I could get away.

  I went to the office, sat down on my chair and rocked back and forth, listening to the outpouring of guttural cursing which came from a quarrel in the refugee camp. In the middle of my desk lay a folded sheet of paper, another telegram which had come during the day. Absently, I began to read it: "IN REPLY TO YOUR CABLE 90087: KHAMIS, ANTON, DOCTOR, DURA: NOT ON OUR LISTS."

  How could that be?

  I wrote in pencil on a new form: "PLEASE CHECK SPELLING: KAMIS, HAMIS, KOMIS, KHOMIS; ANTIN, ANATOLE, ANTOINE." I could not find any words similar to Doctor. As for the name of the village, I decided to bet on "TURA, DORA, DAURA."

  I folded up the form with a new sense of concern. Of the thousands of people arrested by the army since the start of the war, it was in registering my prisoner that there had been some slip-up. I wondered if Scheckler had kept his promise to contact the detention camp and demand the form which proved that he had brought the doctor there. After that I chided myself for not having kept the doctor's letter as evidence. I took the copy I had made out of the drawer. The time that had passed gave the hints and convoluted phrases a romantic air. Only the sentence about his fear of "the moment when the blind open their eyes" radiated a certain gravity, like someone suddenly becoming serious while telling a joke.

  And then, in that circuitous way in which the unraveled ends of thoughts come together, I saw in my mind's eye the detonator I needed. It consisted of three bottles tied together and sealed with wax. The material inside them was clear, scented and easily transported, but splendidly inflammable upon contact with the air. I saw the nature of the material, the level of heat it generated, the way it would be connected to the tin of napalm I had made and, primarily, the source from which I would obtain it: the medicine cabinet in the clinic.

  Butyllithium. The impersonal, somewhat complicated name rapidly settled itself within me, soon becoming a need which could be satisfied with just one bottle of simple antibiotic. I glanced at my watch. Twenty past nine. Did anyone sleep at the clinic at night? I tore the telegram form off the block, put the letter in my pocket and switched the desk lamp off.

  The usual duty officer was in the communications room. I shoved the telegram in front of him, waited until he had finished typing the list of words and went outside. Everything was as usual: the drivers were throwing the backgammon pieces onto the faded board, an engine was revving up in the garage and night insects were circling the lamps in the courtyard. Beyond the guard post lay the road, dark and inviting. Possessed by a kind of enchantment, I jumped over the chain to the expected, inevitable course: the church, the market square and the road up the mountain. I walked quickly, exposed and unarmed, thinking about the way I would heat up the antibiotics to a temperature at which the various elements would separate by means of a drill I would have to steal from the repair-shop and turn into a mixer which would combine the Butyllithium with something oily and free of neutralizers, maybe hair oil which I could get from Scheckler. More than anything else, this almost obsessive march was the true essence of my life: a perpetual, frantic advance, lined with plans and contrivances, towards the chasm between everything and nothing, between sudden, glorious death by explosion and Hannah, the dreariness of home and the bursts of mild affection I could obtain from Jonathan.

  I descended into the wadi. Darkness enfolded me in cool, alien wafts. The anxiety of a lone man exposed in a huge expanse mingled with an intoxicating fluttering of my senses. The other side of the wadi flowed down toward me, as steep and bare as a dyke. Solitary seedlings had emerged in the row of radishes. The three buildings were dark. The dogs were quiet.

  The clinic was the building to the east. I tried to chart my course on the basis of a vague recollection of that afternoon encounter. I felt my way across a slippery slope and jumped lightly over the irrigation channel. Then I sank silently into some muddy ground and turned towards a shiny white wall and the dark window in the middle of it.

  Then the dogs discovered me.

/>   They bounded forward with the soft padding of a great many paws. Their hoarse barking preceded them, surrounding me with a chain of harsh sounds. A light came on in the window of the house next door. I heard a whistle. The beam of a torch drew circles in the air. The dogs' eyes returned a yellowish glitter, burning around me in a close, vaporous circle. There was no way out. Another whistle. The beam focused. I hid my face with my arm. Mercifully, the light went out.

  A soft, gentle voice spoke to the dogs. Some of them turned in their tracks and vanished. Others lost interest and turned to lick themselves, dig themselves in or drowse.

  "You can go now. They won't bother you."

  I remained where I was.

  "Everything's all right." The half-open window creaked as she leaned against it. "Nothing will happen to you now."

  The dogs, still surrounding me, lay down in the mud, growling. I turned round. For a moment I imagined a fleeting whiff of body heat from the window. The jar of antibiotics I had intended to take was in a collection of unattainable objects, and I was ready to forego them all. But one of the dogs, a small one, suddenly darted forward and sank his fangs deep into my calf.

  Stunned, I sat down on the soft earth. There was a buzzing in my ears. The dog struggled frantically, his jaws embedded in my flesh.

  The torch shone again, this time from very close. A brown hand with long fingers pressed a spot at the base of the dog's skull. His jaw opened with a snap, as if it was a mechanical toy. I put out my hand to turn the torch upwards. How many faces did this woman have? In the light that came from below, her cheeks were furrowed by dark grooves and the hollows in the areas of devastation beneath her eyes were emphasized. Her lips were puffed out in that expression of vexation she had worn when she placed the wooden plank at my feet as a way of escape from the radish bed. As my fingers touched the torch I felt her pulse pound and her anxious thought: 'That's all I need. A moonstruck Israeli bleeding in my vegetable garden...' I tried to stand.

  "The wound will have to be dressed," she said reluctantly.

  With the relief of acceptance, of submitting to ignominy, I sank back on my behind into the warm mud. Inside I exulted: instead of stealing into the clinic I would go in as a casualty. She stretched out her hand. I tried to get up, to steady myself, to walk. Quite naturally she found her place beneath my armpit, supporting me. I leaned on her, embracing a solid, perfectly-curved shoulder, treading deliberately on the bitten leg - checking once more to feel it really hurt.

  But she led me toward the house and not the clinic. At the entrance she allowed me in first to hobble to a heavy chair, one of four around a dining table as big as an airfield. I was left on my own in a room in which the smell of spicy food still lingered. She did not turn on the light but left her lit torch on the table so that it cast a ring of brightness onto the ceiling. In the glow which it sent back a fireplace of red bricks smiled at me. Some photographs in metal frames were lined up along the mantelpiece. They were all of the doctor. In one photo he was smiling, in another he was waving, or riding a horse, holding aloft a large Palestinian flag, looking serious in a photographer's studio. Where was the bookcase I had seen through the window? In the room on my right, or perhaps in the room behind me?

  The sound of water came from somewhere in the house. And then she came back carrying a china jug and washbowl. Her hair fell forward and covered her face, which was both beautiful and ugly. Her backbone protruded beneath her blouse as she bent forward and rolled up my torn trouser leg. I was ashamed of the paleness of my exposed skin and the pathetic clumps of hair along it. Her hand was cool against my flesh. The water was warm.

  "The dog. I hope it isn't infected."

  Her lips were compressed. I could see an island of gray spreading from the parting in her hair. With her teeth she tore the wrapping off a military bandage. I picked the ripped paper up: "MADE IN IRAQ." Which of the armies passing through here had lost it?

  She sprayed some disinfectant on my wound and pressed the bandage onto it. I turned the bottle round in my fingers. The contents were not printed on the label.

  "We're short of some medicines..." I tried cautiously.

  She took back the bottle with a swift movement and put it in the dresser drawer, bent over my bandaged leg and tightened the knot once more. I blurted out an impersonal, "Thanks," and watched the light of the torch, which she carried to the mantelpiece, near the photos of the doctor.

  "I'm dealing with that matter," I remembered to say.

  A flicker of interest lit her eyes, modifying their gravity slightly. I added immediately: "After we met I sent a telegram."

  "Well..." she said at length.

  "There was something unclear about his name. They haven't yet found..." If only I had something to tell her... Outside the line of shadow cast by the half-open door breathed the loneliness of the night. "I'll know everything by tomorrow."

  She stood by the door, waiting for me to leave.

  "Do you want me to come and tell you?"

  The expression on her face was one of an animal toying with the bait in a trap.

  Suddenly I had an idea. "There's a house on the mountain, I'll be there..." It had better be after dark, but not too late, "…at eight."

  The torch illuminated the outside. I could not see her face any more. The dogs stood facing us, waiting, a guard of honor - or a punishment squad - at her command.

  "At eight," I repeated and began walking between the wet, sniffing noses. The beam of light accompanied me. "I'll be seeing you," I cast back from the shadow of the radish bed. The light disappeared. The door banged.

  I was no longer afraid of the road, of the dark, or an assailant. A routine had been born. I thought, limping home keeps repeating itself like a cartoon. The wicked cat gets hurt each time he goads the clever mice...

  ***

  "You know," Scheckler said the next day, sorting out a pile of telegrams, "I envy you a bit. When I was a kid I read lots of spy books. When I was mobilized I asked to be posted to Intelligence, but they laughed at me and sent me to Maintenance."

  "You didn't miss much, just lots of sleepless nights, meetings you half hope no one will come to, rooms in third-rate hotels and five or six aliases to swap around."

  "That alias business sounds alright. You could open a few bank accounts..."

  "You're very quick..."

  "Quicker than you think. I eat quickly, think quickly, even fuck quickly, before the woman under me can change her mind..." - I laughed - "...and I understand quickly too."

  If there was some hidden meaning it evaporated when the duty officer knocked at the door and placed a fresh pile of mail on the desk. Scheckler began sorting that out too.

  "Another one for you." For a moment his hand lingered on the folded page, which had been stapled together, then gave up. He could look at the copies in the communications room later anyway.

  I spread the page out on the desk. This time the tone was abrupt and final. "KAMIS, HAMIS, KOMIS, KHOMIS; ANTIN, ANATOLE, ANTOINE; TURA, DORA, DAURA - NO RECORD."

  With a heavy heart I took a form and wrote: "KHAMIS, ANTON, DOCTOR, ARRESTED ON 1 AUGUST, TRANSFERRED TO DETENTION CAMP..."

  Scheckler watched me with narrowed eyes. "I can help you. I've got a few ideas about that arrest..."

  "I don't want to deal with it too much," I concentrated deliberately on what I was writing: "DETAILS REQUIRED FOR IMPORTANT INTELLIGENCE WORK."

  "So why are you sending telegrams?"

  I remembered the oil can in my cupboard. How long would it take before he found that too? A ray of sunlight came straight through the window, emphasizing his scraggy figure and mean look as he crossed the distance between our desks with three steps and touched the edge of the form I was holding.

  "I can deal with your telegram too..."

  "I can still do that myself," I said with annoyance.

  "I'm going down to HQ in Nabatiya..."

  The temptation was irresistible. A direct letter to HQ, bypassing the man who
was sending me those terse, laconic telegrams. I gave him the form.

  "I need a reply today. Can you contact me from there?"

  "Trust Scheckler!"

  Despite my feelings about him, there was something encouraging in his intervention. But before I let myself feel good I remembered the detonator I had not yet begun to make. For a moment I wondered if he might be able to steal past the dogs to the clinic and pick out a phial from the medicine cabinet. Next, as if to cover the insult I was beginning to feel, I thought of at least three products containing Butyllithium which I could buy even here, in Dura.

  "If there's anything else I can arrange for you..." Scheckler rattled on.

  "No," I murmured. "No." I gathered my things from the desk and put them in the drawer, which I locked, then hurried outside. Even before I reached the end of the corridor I could hear the jingling of his keys as he made for my desk.

  ***

  There were no cars in the petrol station at the top of the road. A bony donkey stubbornly tugged remnants of grass from between the cracks in the asphalt. On top of the petrol pumps the mountain breeze spun rusty notices around. The garage attendant was poking around in the entrails of an old car. I greeted him and he replied by nodding his head. I reviewed the shelves behind him: lubricants, gear-oil, coolants, batteries. He watched me as he continued to screw something deep inside the engine. On the floor, beneath the shelf of oils, was a roll of tar paper.

  "One meter," I requested, putting my hand into my pocket to feel the folded bills. "Actually, two meters."

  "Ahlan wasahlan, welcome," he said and smiled, revealing two large white teeth. He continued turning the screwdriver. I waited politely for him to finish, but he merely bent over and transferred the screwdriver to another screw.