Silent

by David Mellon

  She pushed the silently protesting girl out of the shop. Adi stood outside the door, her cheeks burning with frustration.

  • • •

  A few blocks to the west, George, having made it into town, was leaning his aching head against a cobbler’s window, watching the little man inside doing something to the sole of a boot.

  “Now that would be a good way to make a living,” George said to himself. “Sit in that chair all day and make shoes. People would drop in. You could talk about stitching or grommets or something. End of the day you could point and say ‘this is what I made today.’ And there would be a pair of shoes.”

  Turning back to the street, he looked around at the buildings and tried to get his bearings.

  “. . . pretty sure it was by the . . .” He started in one direction, then changed his mind and headed in another.

  “Damn it, Augustin. You couldn’t have gone home tomorrow?”

  As he crossed the street he avoided the truck, but nearly collided with a bicyclist.

  “Sorry, my fault,” he said after.

  • • •

  Adi stood outside the back door of a little red brick church. She had been politely but firmly escorted out by a no doubt well-meaning, but confused, choir director.

  She sat down on the steps and leaned her head in her hand. The watch dangled before her on its chain.

  Though Adi knew it was worse than pointless, she was about to break down and go back to her former place of employment when someone cleared their throat nearby.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said a nicely dressed man, tipping his bowler. “Might I be of some assistance.”

  She could hardly believe her ears.

  Fumbling open the watch, she held it up for the man, pointing out the image of the boys. He stepped closer into the alley and looked at it with keen interest.

  “Why, yes!” he said. “I think I have seen these boys!”

  Adi looked up at him brightly, but then noticed his shirt collar was soiled.

  “Let me get a closer look at that,” he said, attempting to take the watch from her hand.

  Adi pulled back, perceiving suddenly that his suit was garish and worn. She tried to push past him.

  “Give us the watch,” he hissed.

  In a second he had it, shoving Adi to the pavement.

  She scrambled to her feet; the thief was already turning the corner at the end of the street.

  Half a block away, George turned a corner only to come upon an alley stacked with wooden pallets and trash. Above him there was a huge, faded perfume advertisement on the side of the building. He looked at the woman’s face as if she might tell him which way to go.

  He heard the sound of running. He turned. A seedy-looking chap in a bowler was rushing toward him. Farther back was a young lady, coming fast through the traffic in his direction.

  With surprising agility, considering his condition, George stuck his leg out as the man passed. Down went the thief, dropping the watch onto the pavement. His hat rolled into the gutter. Cursing at George, he scrambled to his feet and ran away up the block.

  George leaned over and picked up the watch.

  Adi pushed past pedestrians, and seeing only a man holding her watch, launched herself at him, knocking him down onto the sidewalk. She dropped right on top of George and cocked her fist back in the way someone might if they’d never used their fists.

  She caught sight of the thief running away up the street. She looked down in astonishment at the young man holding up her watch.

  “—believe this is what you’re looking for,” mumbled George.

  Adi opened her mouth to apologize and then slapped her hands over her lips. George looked even more confused.

  She stood up, and with both hands helped the young man to his feet. George handed her the watch.

  Adi attempted, through a series of remarkably inadequate pantomimes, to explain herself. The expression on the young man’s face told her she wasn’t having much success. Though upon closer examination she noticed that he appeared, perhaps, to be unwell.

  Still catching his breath, George rubbed his head and said, “Don’t mean to be uncooperative, miss. It’s just that, it’s early and—”

  It suddenly occurred to Adi that the young man had been drinking! There was grass in his hair. And his fine clothes—she now could see clearly—had been slept in. For heaven’s sake! Were there only thieves and drunkards in this city?

  Close to tears, she put the watch chain around her neck, and with a wave of her hand she turned to leave. Another disappointment had taken what little wind she had in her sails.

  “I know you,” said George.

  Adi stopped and looked back at the young man, surprised.

  “You were at the . . . Perséphone Reine . . . at the restaurant, yesterday. Was it yesterday?”

  She remembered! Him and his dreadful friend. Sailing down the Amazon! There was the yellow liqueur stain on his shirt.

  She stumbled and sat down upon a step, her head spinning.

  George, brushing his coat off, looked at the young woman.

  “Are you all right?”

  Staring down at her feet, she studied the scratches and dirt. She began to laugh a little, which turned helplessly to tears.

  George rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Good work, George,” he muttered. Thinking about it for a second, he sat down on the step next to the girl. She flinched and tried to get up, but settled for moving over a few inches.

  They sat. Adi wiped at her face with her sleeve, looking thoroughly miserable. George went through his pockets, found a rumpled bill and several coins.

  “I’ve got no idea,” George said, “what’s going on with you and your—” He gestured at the watch. “And I seem to have misplaced my wallet. But I think”—holding out the coins in his hand—“I’ve got enough to get us some coffee and bread. And then maybe you could explain how a young woman who can’t talk could be so terrible at charades.”

  Adi, her arms folded, leaned upon her legs and weighed her alternatives.

  When she was growing up her father would say, “Use what you have.” What did she have? A drunk who slept in his clothes and not a thing else.

  She looked over at the young man in his damp suit.

  George pushed the glasses up his nose, brushed the hair from his eyes, and climbed to his feet. He held out a hand.

  “My name is George.”

  He didn’t volunteer a last name. Adi was hardly in a position to complain.

  She reached out a delicate hand, a bit darker than his. He took it and pulled her to her feet. He looked around and spotted a cafe down the block.

  “After you,” he said. They started walking. The sun was finally burning through the morning mist.

  Chapter 7

  June 28, 1914

  In the city of Sarajevo, thirteen hundred kilometers to the southeast (as the crow flies), one bomb had already been thrown at the automobile that morning. Deflected by the archduke’s arm, the grenade bounced off the folded top, and ended up under the car following behind. Several dignitaries were wounded in the explosion. But not the archduke, nor his wife. They were very fortunate. The archduke gave a short speech at city hall, and then changing his plans, headed to the hospital to visit the men who’d been wounded.

  • • •

  The open car carrying the royal couple backed up in order to turn around, stalling briefly in the process. The crowd scurried out of the way.

  “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” said the driver. “I should have turned back at the—”

  “Damned idiot,” mumbled the archduke. “Doesn’t even know the way around his own damned city.”

  The archduke’s wife patted him on the arm and continued to wave at the people lining the city street.

  “Stop fretting, dear,” she said, not minding this at all. Not sufficiently royal for her husband’s family, she was rarely allowed to appear at his side for public events. She was also feel
ing elated because of the child she was carrying.

  She stopped waving when she saw the little man with the feverish eyes pull the pistol from his coat. He stepped up to the car that had so conveniently stalled where he stood.

  He fired two shots. One struck the archduke’s wife in the abdomen, the other sliced through the archduke’s jugular vein.

  “It’s nothing,” murmured the archduke, as they died.

  • • •

  In the days to come when Coal pored, obsessively, over the newspaper stories, he wondered that not one of the reporters had made mention of a man standing across the street, leaning against one of the big windows of Moritz Schiller’s Delicatessen, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  Well, thought Coal, why should they? That’s the whole point. Job done. And no more broken bottles of cognac to cry over.

  Chapter 8

  The waiter in the cafe was reluctant to seat a young woman with no shoes and a young man who had clearly slept in his clothes. But it was the morning rush; there was no time to argue. He hid them behind a column.

  • • •

  Perched on the edge of her chair at the little table, Adi practically inhaled her breakfast. Surely, she’d never tasted anything so wonderful in her life as this bread and coffee.

  Across the table, George, bleary-eyed, stirred cream into his coffee as he examined the watch. Adi slathered butter on her bread and studied George.

  She pointed to her name inscribed on the top of the watch.

  “ ‘Adi,’ ” he said. She nodded. He bowed his head. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He sat back and took another sip from his cup and looked at her anew—now that she had a name.

  Opening up the watch, he looked at the portrait of the boys with the names below. “And who are these? Xander and Xavier.” He glanced up at the girl. “Your eyes. Same tapered chin. Your brothers? Half brothers?”

  She nodded.

  George signaled to the waiter. When he came over George whispered, “Do you have a little brandy or something you could—?”

  Adi almost concealed her look of disapproval.

  “Maybe not,” George said. “Can I borrow your pen?” The waiter surrendered it, reluctantly.

  “As we’ve established that pantomime isn’t your strong suit,” said George, “why don’t you simply—”

  Adi looked at the pen with an expression close to horror and shook her head in distress—which turned to a humiliated blush when she realized the effect she was making. He thinks I can’t write!

  George withdrew the pen. “Well, lots of people can’t, umm . . .”

  Adi’s jaw tightened. George fiddled with his spoon.

  “I guess we’ve whittled it down to Twenty Questions then.” George opened the watch up to the boys’ pictures.

  “All right. We’ll start here. Your brothers.”

  Adi took a breath and nodded.

  “Something has happened to them? Your brothers—ran away?”

  Adi shook her head.

  “Somebody—took your brothers?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “What?” he said. “What do you mean, like, kidnapped?”

  She nodded again.

  “Really? I mean, are you sure they didn’t just run off somewhere? When I was kid, it was a weekly occurance.”

  Adi looked as if she found this entirely credible.

  “Okay,” he said. “Do you know who kidnapped them? It wasn’t that fellow you were chasing?”

  No, no. Adi waved her hand dismissively. Pantomimed snatching the watch.

  “A thief,” said George. “This is . . . quite a morning you’re having. But do you know the man who did take them?” She shook her head. “I’m assuming it was a man? One man?”

  Adi nodded.

  “You’ve seen him? But you don’t know him?”

  Yes.

  “And this happened when? Today? Yesterday? Day before?”

  Adi indicated yesterday.

  “And they could be, where? Anywhere?”

  She nodded.

  “But where are your parents in all this?”

  Adi shook her head.

  “No parents. You . . . have no parents?” Adi hesitated, unsure how to respond. She waved her hand, indicating, far, far away.

  “Relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”

  Adi shook her head.

  “Good Lord. Take some of mine. I’ve got more than enough.” He spread some jam on his bread.

  “And where is this, far away? Not hearing you speak, it could be any number of places. You might be Italian. Though I wouldn’t call Italy far away. From the look of you, I’d guess Indian? Half British, maybe?”

  Adi nodded. At least he’d not thrown in Spanish or American Indian. Or Hawaiian. She’d heard all of these since she’d arrived.

  “So has this man asked for some kind of . . . ransom?”

  Frustrated, Adi chewed on a piece of bread, trying to think of some way to explain.

  She couldn’t believe it herself. A madman followed them home, took her brothers and burned down their house, then presented her with something that very well might be one of their fingers. And if she speaks a word—more pieces of them will be brought to her, in little boxes!

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this! This was not the plan! She was going to deliver the boys to Tillie. Thank you very much. She’d catch her breath, make her apologies. And then make her break. To London. To Paris. She’d be a writer. A painter! And she would live a fabulous life, ecstatically alone—for the rest of her life! Far from this heartbreaking, tragic family of hers and these damned damned boys! But here . . . here she was, sitting across the table from this man, his hair full of leaves, holding this accursed contraption in his hand.

  Adi, stop.

  She put her hands over her mouth as if she’d been shouting out loud. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. What was she doing? Did she have anyone to turn to but this young man?

  George sat, watching the storm rage in the girl’s eyes.

  “Why?” said George. “Why has this man picked you and your brothers?”

  She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. Why? thought Adi. Because I broke his bottle of cognac?

  She smiled sadly and shook her head.

  “Are they . . . do you know whether or not they might be in immediate danger?”

  She shook her head again.

  “No—you don’t know? Or no—you don’t think they’re in immediate danger?

  Adi bit her lip, thinking about it. She shook her head again. She just didn’t know.

  “All right,” he said. “Anything else to work with?”

  She debated whether or not to flip the face around and show him the countdown clock. It made her head hurt to think about trying to explain that.

  Instead she clicked the stem four times. The portrait popped open, revealing the riddles. She handed it to him.

  George read one to himself, “ ‘Were there a hundred sons of Alcmene, each one wielding an olive tree—”

  “Oh,” he said, “riddles!”

  Adi pointed out the three others. He flipped through, read one out loud.

  Adi listened. It made no more sense than it had before.

  “That’s the thing about riddles,” George said. “Gibberish till you . . . figure it out.” A troubled look crossed his face.

  “But what is all this about?” he said. “What is this doing in your—” George stopped suddenly, struck by a preposterous notion. “Did the—did the kidnapper give you this watch?”

  Adi stared unblinking into his eyes and nodded. Yes.

  George blinked.

  “This is”—sounding much more sober—“getting a little complicated for yes or no questions, isn’t it?”

  He sat back in his chair, studying the young woman.

  The bells from the clock tower began to ring. George clicked the riddles shut and looked at the clock. “Oh, hell! Is that what time it is?”
<
br />   He got to his feet and took the bill and the coins from his pocket and dumped them on the table. Looking uncomfortable, he pulled on his earlobe. “I—I need to be somewhere, so—”

  She stared up at the young man. What did she expect? He barely had enough money for coffee, and he seemed to be some kind of drunkard. He didn’t even remember her speaking in the restaurant yesterday.

  “I’m getting the impression,” he said, “that you don’t have any place to stay.”

  Adi stared. Shook her head.

  “Well, under the circumstances”—he glanced at the young woman’s bare feet—“I think we might have to disregard some formalities here. I’m not as disreputable as I look.” He brushed grass out of his hair. “And,” he said with a distracted look, “I do, actually, have an automobile around here somewhere. We don’t have to walk.”

  Adi looked a little skeptical.

  A bit impatient, George said, “Mademoiselle. I hate to be rational so early in the morning, but what were you planning here? You think this man’s going to drop your brothers down on someone’s front stoop for you to stumble across?”

  The look on the girl’s face told him this thought had occurred to her.

  “All you’re going to do is get yourself killed, or worse. Particularly seeing as how you’re at something of a disadvantage as far as communication skills are concerned.”

  Adi looked around, as if some other more suitable alternative might present itself. But there was only this young man.

  She reached out her hand. George pulled her to her feet.

  Chapter 9

  The girl hadn’t spent much time in a motorcar. Even operating the door handle had mystified her.

  On the other hand, despite how frightened she had seemed when they first got up to speed (they were traveling at over thirty miles per hour) it had taken her no time at all to fall asleep in her seat. Quite a feat considering the wind and noise produced by the open-top vehicle, George’s beautiful silver and blue 1913 Vauxhall Prince Henry.

  Well, he didn’t suppose she got a lot of sleep lately, with all these goings on.

  Assuming there was any truth to this crazy story of hers. George adjusted his driving goggles and glanced over at the girl.