Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

  “I see,” Jessie said. She felt weak and tired. She pulled herself further onto the bed and lay down. She closed her eyes. Disco’s fringe of long hair went up like sparklers inside her eyelids. Then it was Kate’s hair, dark and frizzy, catching fire.

  “I’ll try to be back tomorrow night,” Zyzmchuk said. “Someone’s coming in the morning to be with you till then.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “No point taking chances,” Zyzmchuk said.

  Time passed. It was quiet in room 19, and cold. Jessie pulled the covers over her. Later she heard Zyzmchuk walking on the carpet. The lights went out. She heard his body sink into the chair.

  “Are you going to stay here all night?” she asked.

  “Just to be on the safe side.”

  A car buzzed through the night like a giant insect. Then quiet returned, a muffling quiet, Jessie thought, as though she were buried under pillows of snow. She heard nothing except her own breathing and felt nothing but cold and the ache in her head. She needed sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she set her daughter on fire.

  Jessie scanned the darkness. In it loomed darker shapes—the TV, the open door to the bathroom, the closed curtains, the closed front door, Zyzmchuk in the easy chair, like a hillock.

  “Ivan,” she said, one day ago a strange name, exotic and unreal.

  “Yes?” A deep sound, but soft.

  “Come here.”

  Silence. No sound but her own breathing. And then footsteps on the carpet. Slow, hesitant footsteps. He brushed against the bed, started to sit down on it.

  “No,” said Jessie, lifting the covers. “Inside.”

  Silence. Then he was beside her, and she heard his breathing and felt his warmth. She reached for him.

  “Maybe I’ve forgotten how,” he said.

  But he hadn’t.

  It was perfect.

  And after, he still held her tight. His eyes, inches from her own, were open wide.

  33

  Jessie opened her eyes. He was watching her.

  “Where were you August fifteenth, nineteen sixty-nine?” he said.

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “Yes.”

  “What am I charged with?”

  “Having a past I know nothing about.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “Unforgivable.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” Jessie said. “August fifteenth, nineteen sixty-nine. The summer before my freshman year. I was probably at the beach. Where were you?”

  The gray eyes looked far away. Then Ivan Zyzmchuk smiled. “Hunting ibex.”

  “Ibex?”

  He nodded. “With the Shah.” He raised his head an inch or two off the pillow. “What’s that look on your face?” he said.

  “Horror. That’s my look for horror.”

  He seemed about to laugh, but he didn’t. Then he said, “Let’s not talk.”

  He put his arms around her and drew her body against his.

  “You’ll make me an addict,” Jessie said.

  He said nothing.

  Soon she was sleeping a dreamless sleep. When she awoke, her headache was gone, and so was he. But she wasn’t alone. Another man sat in the easy chair.

  Jessie sat up, holding the covers over her breasts.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” the man said. He had a reedy voice, but his accent reminded her of the Gabor sisters. “I’m a friend of Ivan.”

  Although his chin jutted forward in a state of permanent aggression, the man didn’t look like a bodyguard. The rest of him, small and shrunken, made Jessie think of an old banty rooster.

  “My name is Bela.”

  “I’m Jessie.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  “When did Ivan leave?”

  Bela studied his watch. “Not so long ago,” he said. “He’ll be back tonight. Meanwhile we stay here. In the room.”

  “I’d like to get up.”

  Bela’s chin jutted forward a little more. “Up, okay. But not out.”

  He sat in the chair, chin jutting out. Jessie remained in the bed, the covers held over her breasts. Then he realized the problem. A faint pink blush rose to the surface of his waxy cheeks. “I’ll be right outside,” he muttered, getting up and going out the door.

  Jessie showered and dressed. “All clear,” she called.

  Bela came in. He stopped, looked her up and down. “You’re how old?”

  Jessie told him.

  “Ivan’s fifty-six,” he said sharply. “He’ll be fifty-seven in two months.”

  “I know.”

  “Peh. You know.”

  He sat down in the chair, took a book from his pocket and started reading. The title was in a language Jessie didn’t recognize. Bela’s eyes flickered back and forth, back and forth; then he licked his forefinger with the tip of his tongue, a very white tongue, and turned the page. His eyes flickered back and forth. Jessie wondered if he was a bit mad.

  “Do you work with Ivan?”

  He looked up, forefinger marking his place on the middle of a page. “So what am I doing now?”

  “I meant at his office.”

  “I’m too old to work in this land of opportunity,” he said. He raised his forefinger, jabbed it at her. “And so is Ivan. They’re getting rid of him.”

  “Who?”

  “‘Who?’ she says. You don’t know anything about him. He doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. He’s going to have to find a job. At his age.” Bela’s eyes returned to the book. They flickered back and forth, back and forth; the white tongue licked the fingertip; the page turned.

  “What are you reading?” Jessie asked after a while.

  “The life of Verdi,” he replied, in the kind of tone that suggested she couldn’t possibly be interested.

  “What language is it in?”

  “My language,” Bela said. “Hungarian.”

  He snapped the book shut, returned it to his pocket. His hand emerged with something else: a silver-framed photograph. He rose and placed it on the mantel. Then he went to the window, parted the curtains and looked out.

  Jessie crossed the room to the mantel. The photograph was in black and white. It showed a woman seated at a small, round table. She was dark and smiling, very pretty and very young.

  “Who is this?” Jessie asked, still regarding the picture.

  She heard Bela turn. “Leni,” he said. “My daughter.” He came closer, like a flower drawn by the sun, until he too stood before the photograph.

  “She looks very nice,” Jessie said.

  She wished she’d chosen a better word, especially when Bela repeated, “Nice.” There was a silence. Now he was looking at her, his chin pointed at her eyes. “Nice. Sure. Nice. I suppose he told you about her.”

  “No.” And then it hit her. “Are they married?”

  “Married?” Bela said with fury.

  Jessie stepped back. She tried to guess what had enraged him. “Divorced?”

  For an instant he seemed to inflate and grow much younger. She thought he was going to hit her. But he didn’t, not physically. “She’s dead. They killed her a month after that picture was taken. So they never got married.” His voice rose. “And they never would have got no divorce. Never.”

  Jessie took another step back. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “Did this happen recently?”

  “Recently? Is nineteen fifty-six recently?”

  Her voice rose too. “I was four years old,” she said, as though he’d accused her of complicity in the death.

  This seemed to shock him. He deflated. “Yes,” he said, quiet now. “You’re young.” His gaze was drawn once more to the photograph. “She was young too. Younger than you, maybe. I don’t know young people’s ages anymore. How old are you?”

  Jessie told him again.

  He nodded. “She was younger. Twenty-two, when that was taken.” His finger r
eached out, but not for jabbing. He gently laid it on the image of Leni’s shoulder. “She was pregnant. Five months pregnant. The whole world was in front of her.” Bela’s voice had fallen into a maudlin tone, but his eyes were completely dry.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a newspaper vendor. Grushin got to his wife.”

  “Colonel Grushin?”

  “That’s right. What about him?”

  “Ivan mentioned him. But I’m not sure who he is, exactly.”

  “The Russian,” Bela said. A long silence followed, so long Jessie thought the explanation complete. Then Bela said, “He wasn’t so high and mighty then. Just another Russian thug. He’s the one who …” Bela abandoned the sentence; his eyes returned to the photograph. “Did he tell you about Leni?”

  “No.”

  “No?” All at once his face seemed very old and drawn. He put a hand on the mantel, as if steadying himself in rough weather.

  Jessie opened her wallet. “I’ve got a picture too,” she said. She took out the photograph of Kate at the beach. “This is my daughter.” Bela didn’t look at it. “The one who’s missing,” she added. “The one Ivan’s helping me find.”

  Bela turned slowly to the photograph of Kate. He studied it for a few moments without speaking, then said, “What’s her name?”

  “Kate.”

  “How old?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten,” he said and exhaled heavily. It might have been a sigh. “She’s missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Grushin have her?”

  “Oh no,” Jessie said. “It’s nothing like that.” But a chill ran down her spine and spread through her body. She wanted to step into that photograph, grab onto Kate and not let go.

  “Nothing like that,” Bela said, waiting at the end of her thought. “Then why is Ivan involved?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what he does, exactly.”

  Bela’s dry eyes regarded her without expression. Then he took Kate’s photograph from her hand and stuck it in the corner of the silver frame. Jessie noticed that Leni had frizzy hair too, not much different from Kate’s, or hers.

  “I hate the fucking Russians,” Bela said.

  He sat down in the easy chair and took out his book. “You like Verdi?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “I don’t know much about him.”

  “I meant his music.”

  Jessie’s mind echoed faintly with the sounds of childhood Sunday mornings, when her father took control of the record player, but she couldn’t sort them out. Bela was waiting for an answer. “I saw the film of La Traviata,” she said. “I liked it very much.”

  “The film of La Traviata?” Bela’s mouth pursed, as though he’d just tasted something bad. “Who was in it?”

  “Placido Domingo and Teresa Stratas.”

  “Peh,” Bela said. “Who sang the father?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Peh.” Bela opened the Verdi book, found his place and started reading. His eyes went back and forth; his wetted finger turned the pages.

  Later, Jessie said, “Are you hungry?”

  Bela didn’t look up. “No.”

  “I am.” It was true. She hadn’t really felt hunger since the day Kate disappeared; all at once she was famished. She didn’t want to look into the reasons too deeply. Sex lay at the bottom of it, and sex meant that life goes on, no matter what. That was the thought she would not accept.

  Bela closed the book. “Okay. What do you want?”

  “Let’s just go across the street.”

  “No. I’ll go. You stay here. You don’t let anyone in. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one in. No one out.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “So. You got it. What do you want?”

  Jessie almost said, “Nothing.” But she was hungry. “Scrambled eggs. Toast. Orange juice. Coffee. Bacon.”

  “Bacon?”

  “And maybe some kind of fish, if they’ve got it. Salmon or trout.”

  “Scrambled eggs,” Bela said, rising. “Toast. Orange juice. Coffee. Bacon. Fish.” He looked up at her; he was an inch or two shorter. “That’s the way Leni ate too. Like a man. But she didn’t get fat.” He gave her a quick inspection. “You’re not fat either.” It was a reluctant concession.

  Jessie took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet. “Here.”

  Bela pushed it away. “I don’t want your money,” he said, going to the door. “Lock it and use the chain.” He went out.

  Jessie locked the door and slid the chain in place. Right away she wished she hadn’t asked for so much food. What was Kate eating for breakfast? What had she eaten for the past twelve days? Jessie’s appetite curdled inside her. She stood motionless in the middle of the room, paralyzed by her thoughts.

  There was a knock at the door. Jessie went to answer it. She had one hand on the knob, the other on the chain, when she realized Bela couldn’t possibly be back yet, unless he’d forgotten something. Like the key. She glanced quickly around the room, but didn’t see it.

  “Bela?” she called.

  Silence. Then a voice, a cultured male voice, spoke. “Ms. Shapiro?”

  Jessie was silent. She didn’t recognize the voice. It certainly wasn’t Mr. Mickey’s or the real estate man’s or the bag lady’s strange high-low voice.

  “Ms. Shapiro?” came the voice again. “I was told I could find you here.”

  Why be silent? Whoever it was had heard her movements through the door. “By whom?” Jessie said.

  “By my wife. Alice Frame.”

  Jessie opened the door, but didn’t unhook the chain. Outside stood a man in a down jacket and heavy tweed pants. “Senator Frame?” Jessie said.

  He smiled. “You can call me Ed.”

  Despite his casual turnout, he didn’t seem like the kind of man she wanted to call Ed. He had well-barbered silver hair, manicured fingernails and a face that would have looked good on Mount Rushmore, or at least a postage stamp; now she recalled it from TV news reports and photographs beside newspaper stories she never read. She didn’t call him anything. She just said, “I didn’t tell your wife where I was staying.”

  He smiled again. “Not exactly. But this is where everyone stays.” Jesse had never understood the phrase “practiced smile.” Now she did. “May I come in?” he said.

  Jessie looked past him, to the restaurant across the road. Through the windows she saw featureless people sitting at tables, moving around; she couldn’t tell which one was Bela.

  “Or would you rather come out?” Senator Frame said. “I only want a few minutes of your time.”

  U.S. senators were polite. They didn’t hit people over the head with gasoline cans or kidnap them on unmarked yachts. Jessie unhooked the chain and opened the door. “Come in,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he replied and having taught her “practiced smile” now demonstrated “courtly bow.” He glanced around the room. “Very nice,” he said. “I stayed here once—I mean in this very room.”

  “When your son was at Morgan?”

  The smile came again; Jessie wondered if it were something like a nervous tic, or perhaps the only facial expression a senator needed, like a pitcher with a good knuckleball. “No,” he said. “We had the cabin by then. This was for my tenth reunion. Nineteen fifty-three, it must have been. The next big one will be the fiftieth. I can hardly believe it.” The senator paused for a moment, as though contemplating the passage of time, and then said, “But I didn’t come to bore you with reminiscence. My wife tells me you’re married to an old acquaintance of my son.”

  “I was. But …”

  Senator Frame raised his eyebrows—prominent overhangs like snowy cliffs—and said, “Go on. I won’t bite.”

  “Your wife said she’d never heard of Pat.”

  He spread his hands in an almost priestly gesture that spoke of compromise and forbearance. “Alice hasn’t bee
n herself lately. The business of the memorial has roused some old demons, I’m afraid.”

  “So she did know Pat?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘know.’ Alice and I met him once or twice—if it’s Pat Rodney we’re speaking of.”

  “We are.”

  Senator Frame reached into his pocket. “I’d like to make sure.” He handed her a passport-sized photograph. Jessie felt his eyes on her as she examined it.

  “That’s Pat,” she said. A teenage Pat, his good looks incipient, his fair hair a few shades lighter then, not quite Sergeant Pepper length.

  Senator Frame took back the picture, put it away. “Where do you and Pat live?”

  “We’re divorced. Both in the Los Angeles area.”

  “Malibu?” he asked.

  “No. I’m in Santa Monica, he’s in Venice.”

  “Ah,” he said. “The colorful names you’ve got out there.” He parted the curtains, looked out the window. The room seemed to make people do that, Jessie thought.

  Senator Frame turned to her. “My wife says you’re in some sort of trouble.”

  “Pat and I have a daughter.” Kate’s picture was still in Bela’s silver frame. Jessie took it out and showed it to him. He barely glanced at it.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “They both disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “Almost two weeks ago.”

  “Wednesday the nineteenth?”

  “Not quite two weeks. It was the Sunday.”

  “And this was in Los Angeles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what brings you here?”

  Jessie didn’t answer right away. The senator made another gesture that reminded her of priests and blessings. “We’d like to help, Ms. Shapiro. Alice and I. Unless you’ve got some other assistance?”

  “Why do you want to help me?”

  The smile came again. “I admire your bluntness, Ms. Shapiro—I see it more and more in young women these days. Perfectly understandable.” The smile faded, very slowly, like an actor prolonging his exit. “We’d like to help for the simple reason that your husband—your ex-husband—was a friend of our dear boy.” He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped and turned up his hands in a hopeless gesture. Dampness rose in the senator’s eyes, not enough to overflow, more like two thin films of dew. He blinked and it was gone. “If you’ll allow us,” he added.