The Fury of Rachel Monette

by Peter Abrahams

  III

  26

  In Israel, Rachel’s father liked to say, Jews are not only doctors and lawyers, but garbagemen, cops, and bricklayers as well. His eyes filled with pride whenever he made the observation, as if he were boasting of a favorite nephew who was doing well. He visited Israel at least once a year, and always returned with glowing reports. “The first time I went I saw three cars the whole week. Now you can’t find a parking space.” What infuriated him at home—taxes, government, inflation—he didn’t even notice in Israel. They were beside the point. Israel was special.

  To Rachel it had never been much more than just another country. She hoped for it in war, but with a hope not much stronger than her hope for the Red Sox in a pennant drive. In one of his infrequent moments of insight her father had told her that the cause of this lack of feeling was a lack of thinking. He was right. She knew it when the Jewish immigration officer at Lod Airport stamped her passport. If someone had been doing the same job forty years before there would have been no cattle cars, no tattoos, no gas chambers. No well of bones. The thought began to divide Israel from other countries and bring it closer to her, to Adam. It put the Red Sox in perspective.

  In front of the terminal waited a long line of taxis. Most of them, Rachel noticed, were made by Mercedes Benz. She rode in the back of one toward Jerusalem.

  “First visit?” the driver asked her in English after they had gone a few miles.

  “How did you know?”

  He laughed. “By the way you’re looking out the window.” The darkening sky was draining the color out of the old and gentle countryside. The land of milk and honey. It did not seem so fertile as that, but perhaps it was just the light.

  The driver was watching her in the rearview mirror. He had a dark alert face with thick curling hair and a black moustache. Their eyes met. His had a knowing expression, reinforced by his correct guess, she supposed. But it was not just Israel: she always looked that way at things she was seeing for the first time.

  She imagined a conversation with the driver: “All Jews should live in Israel,” he would say. “One day America may not be such a hospitable place for Jews.”

  And she would reply: “If that happens why would I be better off here?” She was prepared for a verbal attack that never came. Although he kept glancing at her in the mirror she could see his interest was not political. It struck her that her interest in the driver was totally political. She wondered what he thought of Simon Calvi, but she didn’t risk asking: Israel was a small place.

  He drove her to a large television and radio store in west Jerusalem and waited while she bought a bulky reel-to-reel tape recorder and a very expensive and very small cassette recorder. Then he took her to a little hotel he recommended on Jaffa Road. After she paid the fare he opened the trunk and removed her suitcase. He filled his brown eyes with sex: “Israelis are very direct. I would like to go to your room with you.”

  “No.” When in Rome, she thought.

  He shrugged. No big investment had been blown. He was probably one of those gamblers who had learned never to wager more than he could afford to lose.

  But she liked his taste in hotels. The one he had chosen for her was decaying gracefully in its middle age, like a face with good bones. The good bones showed in the wrought-iron front doors, the marble floor of the lobby, the high ceilings. The decay was harder to trace: she saw it in the thirsty posture of the potted palms, the sagging furniture, the unshaven face of the desk clerk.

  He gave her a room key and sold her a clothbound guide to the city. The room had shower, toilet, bed, chair. And a bus stop outside the window. She was sick of hotel rooms, sicker when she recalled they were all she had. She found herself thinking of the room behind the bar on the slopes of Luberon. Enough, she told herself. She saw a future in little rooms like that.

  Rachel lay on the bed reading the guidebook. The author, an American, had a breezy flippant style and an ethnocentric outlook: he made the reader want to stay home. He advised Rachel where to stay (her hotel wasn’t mentioned) and where to eat (suggesting the use of the code phrase white steak when ordering pork). He called Jerusalem the holiest chunk of real estate on earth and devoted twenty pages to its best shopping bargains.

  The book contained four sequential pages of color photographs so it could be advertised as the all new, color photoguide to Israel. One of the pictures caught her eye: an exhausted soldier resting his head against the Wailing Wall, cheeks damp with tears that glistened in the night. The editor had added a caption taken from Jeremiah. “Thy children shall come again to their own border.”

  Rachel turned the little screw that opened the twin roofs of her safety razor and took out the blade. She laid the guidebook on the floor and knelt in front of it. Carefully she began cutting a rectangle out of each page, leaving a one-inch margin on all sides. When she finished she unwrapped the cassette recorder, set it in the cavity she had made, and closed the cover. It looked like any other guidebook. Rachel pressed the record button, turned up the volume and reclosed the book. She put it on the bed and stood three feet away.

  “To be or not to be. That is da da dada da da dada.” She rewound and listened. The machine said it back to her in a slightly muffled voice.

  Before she went to bed she checked the telephone directory. Simon Calvi had listed his home and office numbers. The sight of his name excited her, and kept sleep away. She rehearsed her plan, and her fall-back plan.

  After a while the buses stopped running. The street became quiet. Rachel rolled onto her stomach, slipping her hands under the pillow, her favorite sleeping position. Hours later, when sleep still would not come, she allowed herself to think of Adam, and the things they would do when they were together again. But first she would have to tell him that he had no father, no house, no dog. She tried to think how she would do that. The effort left her mind dark and empty. She slept.

  The squeak of brakes woke her. She sat up with a start. Pale silver light entered from the window. Rachel got out of bed and looked down on the street. Two little boys with side curls on their faces were boarding a bus. On the sidewalk a gaunt man struggled under the weight of a large block of ice balanced on his head. Slowly it melted under the rising sun, drenching him in a private rain.

  Rachel watched him until he was out of sight. Then she took a deep breath and picked up the telephone. She dialed Simon Calvi’s home number. It was answered immediately.

  “Shalom,” said a deep male voice.

  Rachel squeezed the telephone in her hand. “May I speak to Simon Calvi?”

  “This is Simon Calvi.” Something in the way he pronounced his vowels suggested he knew English but seldom spoke it.

  “I’m sorry to call so early, Mr. Calvi, but I wanted to reach you before you went out. My name is Rachel Bernstein and I work for a public radio network in the United States. I’m making a documentary on societies where different ethnic groups co-exist in the same state, and I would like to interview you very briefly.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do it on the telephone, Mr. Calvi. The sound quality isn’t good enough. Perhaps I could meet you at your office.”

  “No,” he replied firmly. “I haven’t got time. Call me in a few days.”

  “Oh, dear,” Rachel said. “I have to leave the country tomorrow morning. I promise not to take more than ten minutes of your time.”

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  He was quick and smart. Because I just got here. “Because I hadn’t done enough research,” Rachel said. “But from what I’ve found out in the past few days I know that the documentary will be incomplete without this interview. I think it’s important, Mr. Calvi.” She was talking fast like dogged reporters everywhere. “The documentary will be heard in major cities all over the United States. And quite frankly I should tell you that our outlook will be quite positive when it comes to your movement.”

  “You know that before speaking to me?”
His tone was wry, superior. He was used to handling reporters. She knew she had him.

  “Yes. It doesn’t mean I’m not objective. I told you I’ve done some research. Besides, I’m a member of a minority group myself.”

  “What one is that?”

  “I’m Jewish,” she answered in surprise.

  “So am I,” Calvi said drily.

  “I know. But in America it’s a minority group.”

  He laughed. “You win,” he said. “But you had better do some more research. In Israel the Sephardim are the majority.”

  “If you include the Oriental Jews,” Rachel said before she could stop herself.

  There was a pause. “That is true.” Calvi’s tone was cooler.

  “And of course it makes sense to do so,” Rachel went on quickly. “The two have a lot in common, from what I’ve read. You yourself are a mixture of both, I would guess. As a Moroccan you fall into the Oriental group, but the name Calvi suggests that your ancestors came from Spain, and were thus Sephardic. Am I right?”

  “You are,” he said, in a friendlier voice.

  Rachel had interviewed enough of them to know that politicians everywhere loved a good sucking up. You just had to find the right place to suck, and then keep on sucking until they were dead. “Well, that makes you the ideal leader for your movement, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re very charming,” he said with a chuckle. “I had never thought of it like that before. All right, Miss Bernstein, ten minutes. Come to my house at noon.”

  How about a dark alley? “Thank you very much, Mr. Calvi. But there’s one little problem. For national network documentaries like this we like to have a lot of live sound. Background noises—cars, shoes walking on the pavement, that sort of thing.” And lots of people, she thought. “It gives the listener a sense of the flavor of the place. Anyway, I’ve found a terrific spot.”

  “Where?” Calvi asked, growing annoyed.

  “The square in front of the Wailing Wall. It’s ideal.”

  “Really, Miss Bernstein, I—”

  “Call me Rachel,” she said. “The Wailing Wall is perfect, and I take pride in my work. Naturally I want to take care of any transportation expenses you incur, a taxi or—”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Then I’ll take you to lunch after, if you have time.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Good,” Rachel said. “At noon then?”

  “Noon. Goodbye, Miss Bernstein.”

  “Wait. How will I know you?”

  “From your research, Miss Bernstein.”

  Rachel hung up the telephone. She paced about the small room until her heart stopped racing. It had gone well, better than she had hoped. She wondered what would have happened if she had used her married name.

  27

  Simon Calvi yanked on the drawstring and pulled his bedroom curtains open wide like a man who has nothing to conceal from his neighbors. Outside a small black car, wearing a coat of glistening dew, was parked beneath the carob tree. As he watched, the green Fiat rolled into view and stopped behind the black car. Sergeant Levy got out, stretched, and approached the other car on the driver’s side. He bent forward to speak to the person inside, resting his hands on the roof: the car rocked under his weight. Sergeant Levy talked, listened, shook his head. Calvi heard the high-pitched whirr of the black car’s ignition, and the catching of the engine.

  The car drove away. Sergeant Levy turned and looked up at the villa. Seeing Calvi at the window he smiled with delight as though it were the happiest surprise imaginable, and gave him the thumbs-up sign. Calvi raised his hand in reply and stepped back into the room.

  In robe and slippers he walked along the quiet hall to the bathroom. Moses Cohn lay on his stomach in the bathtub, hands and feet wired together above the small of his back. His hands were bloated and purple with engorged blood, and a trail of dried mucus ran from his nostrils to the adhesive tape which covered his mouth. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Quickly Calvi knelt and ripped away the adhesive. He began untying the knotted wire. Cohn moaned softly. His eyes opened. Slowly he turned his head as far as he could and gazed up at Calvi. He parted his lips and said something, but his voice was so low, so thick and raspy that Calvi could not understand.

  “What is it, Moses?”

  Cohn ran his dry yellow tongue over his lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. He took a breath and tried again. “Water,” he said in a faint voice.

  Calvi turned the tap and cupped his hands under the faucet. He held the water to Cohn’s mouth and felt the lapping of his lips and tongue as he drank. When he had drunk enough he lowered his head to the porcelain, facing away from Calvi. Calvi finished untying him. Cohn’s arms fell to his sides. His legs remained bent as they were. Calvi pushed on the ankles to straighten them but they were cramped rigid. He felt Cohn’s hamstring muscles: hard as fists.

  With an easy motion Calvi lifted him out of the tub and carried him down the hall to the guest bedroom, which faced the garden in the backyard. He laid Cohn on the old four-poster bed. Taking one heel in both hands he pushed with all his strength. Slowly the muscle yielded and he forced Cohn’s foot to the bedspread. As Calvi began on the other leg the straight one suddenly sprang back into the cramped position. Cohn cried out in pain. Furiously Calvi grabbed both feet and jerked them down onto the bed. Then he sat across Cohn’s calves to hold the legs still and beat on the hamstrings with the edges of his hands until they unclenched.

  “Is that better, Moses?” he asked. Cohn said nothing. His eyes were closed, his breathing still very shallow. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  Calvi left him on the bed and went downstairs to the kitchen. He made soft-boiled eggs, toast, and coffee. Through the window he kept his eye on Sergeant Levy, sitting on the Fiat’s bumper and reading a newspaper. He put the food on a tray and carried it up the stairs.

  No one lay on the bed in the guest bedroom. No one was in the room at all. Calvi dropped the tray and ran down the hall. He burst into his bedroom. Cohn was crawling across the floor, toward the window. Calvi pounced on him.

  “Help.” Cohn tried to raise his voice but the sound was no more than a soft croak. Calvi slapped his hand over Cohn’s mouth and looked cautiously over the window sill. Sergeant Levy was still reading the paper.

  With his hand on Cohn’s mouth Calvi lifted him awkwardly and dragged him across the hall to the bathroom. He tore off a long strip of adhesive tape and wrapped it around Cohn’s head several times, covering his face from upper lip to chin. Then he carried Cohn back to the guest bedroom, laid him on his back on the bed and with the electrical wire tied him spreadeagled to the bedposts. He had not intended to wind the wire so tightly around the wrists and ankles this time, but he felt Cohn trying to expand his tendons to give himself more room later on. Perhaps enough room to wriggle free. He bound him as tightly as before.

  “Now you will be sore,” Calvi said. “It’s your own fault.” Cohn’s blue eyes glared at him, and a blue vein throbbed in his temple. Calvi sat on the edge of the bed. The two men watched each other. Outside they heard a mother calling her children. At first her voice was pleasant. When they didn’t come it became angry. After a while she gave up. A door slammed.

  “In a way, Moses, you brought this on yourself,” Calvi began in a thoughtful tone. “I don’t mean being tied up on the bed. I’m talking about this whole situation. If you hadn’t got me interested in politics none of this would have happened.” Calvi sighed. “But I suppose you couldn’t stop yourself, could you? You were an idealist. You still are. And I was the perfect vehicle for your ideals. In that way you used me, Moses. I don’t blame you: I was well suited. I was good at it. I enjoyed it, loved it at times. You weren’t the only one using me, that’s all.” Cohn stared at the ceiling. Almost to himself Calvi added, “I wish to God you had been the only one, Moses, I really do. At least with you I was willing.” Cohn kept his eyes on the ceiling. “I’m a Jew, Moses,
after all.” But the blue gaze stayed where it was. Suddenly Calvi sprang up, grabbed Cohn by the front of his shirt and shouted:

  “I had no choice, God damn you. Can’t you see that?” Their faces were as close as lovers’ faces before a kiss. Cohn closed his eyes. “Listen to me, you bastard.” His voice began to rise out of control. The telephone rang in his bedroom. Now the blue eyes moved to meet his. They seemed to reflect the fear they saw, but it might have been a fear of their own. Calvi ran down the hall and answered it.

  “Hello, Simon,” Sarah said to him coldly. “Would you put Moses on, please.”

  Calvi was on the point of saying that Cohn had gone out for food, for anything, but he remembered that Grunberg almost surely had a tap on the phone and could check anything he said with Sergeant Levy across the street.

  “Simon. Did you hear me?”

  “Of course,” Calvi said. “I was just listening for him. I think he’s in the shower.”

  “Could you check, please?”

  “Very well.” Calvi put down the receiver and walked along the hall. He looked into the guest bedroom. Cohn lay bound on the bed. His eyes searched Calvi’s face. Calvi returned to his bedroom and picked up the telephone.

  “Still in the shower.”

  After a short pause Sarah said, “Have him call me. I’m at home.”

  “Is there a message I can give him?”

  “That is the message,” she said. “Call me at home.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “What do you mean?” He felt the anger she was barely holding back, and something else, too. Suspicion, he thought.

  “Nothing. We’re working very hard, that’s all. And we still have to go out to the university and see that they haven’t messed up the preparations.”

  “If he has time to shower he has time to call his wife.”

  “I’ll give him the message, Sarah. What more can I do? But I’m very surprised by your attitude. Surely you realize how important this speech is?” She was silent. “Don’t you?”