by Shlomo Kalo
I bolstered my wife’s faltering spirits with reassurances and expressions of confidence, and left the room. I went down in the lift, then along a narrow, dimly-lit corridor to the hotel reception. Behind the desk stood the young duty clerk, and when she saw me she nearly fainted. I looked around. In one of the armchairs sat a man, whose appearance immediately explained the reception clerk’s unconventional behaviour.
The face was long, but not over-long and not narrow – in fact, long, broad and swarthy, scored by two deep grooves, with a crease in the cheek that was scorched by the desert sun. The eyes blazed. This was a Bedou with a lot of self-confidence, as if located in his natural environment – the desert. My quick glance unnerved him for a split-second. The first sentence that sprang into my mind, clear and acute, was: “He’s done this before.” He has already committed murder, and there’s no reason for him to sitting here other than for purposes of murder. And the only logical conclusion to be drawn from this, the simple, numbing and inevitable conclusion, is that he’s here to murder me. In my efforts to keep control of myself, I was alert to every one of my movements. I felt confidence and absence of fear, to a degree that could be considered unnatural. There was logic in this and a kind of assurance, capable of convincing one Abd Rahman, who had just arisen from the depths of Hell.
The situation reminded me of an incident from the distant past. On behalf of the “Combat Groups”, I was given the task, along with Georgi, a rustic lad and former partisan, of following a certain suspect as closely as was possible, and finally, arresting him and taking him in for interrogation at the nearest militia headquarters. So we trailed along behind the “subject” who – so it seemed – paid us no attention, and made no attempt whatsoever to shake us off. The surveillance began at about nine in the evening. At ten-fifteen the “subject” went into a tavern and came out a few moments later. We resumed our pursuit. The “subject” arrived at an isolated house in the outskirts of the town. He knocked on a heavy, rough-hewn door, three knocks carefully spaced out, obviously a pre-arranged signal. The door opened and the “subject” disappeared behind it. The house also had a narrow window, neglected and dirty. Georgi assigned me to watch this while he guarded the door and the plan was, if anything happened, I was to cover him. The cool, late-autumn night began to oppress our over-tired bodies. We stood there from about ten-thirty until two in the morning. Then the door opened with an indignant creak and the “subject” came out. Without a moment’s hesitation, Georgi approached the subject, showed him his ID card and told him to put his hands on the battered peaked-cap that he wore on his head. The “subject” did as he was told. He raised his left hand and laid the palm on his battered cap; his right hand however travelled down the cheaply tailored overcoat as far as the pocket, pulled out a bottle and brandished it in the air, with the obvious intention of bringing it down on Georgi’s head.
At that very moment Georgi drew his pistol. The expression on his face immediately put that same sentence into my mind: “He’s done this before” – he knows what it is to shoot a man at a range of half a metre, or point-blank. Sure enough a gunshot was heard, which later I was to describe as the shot of a marksman. The bullet hit the brandished bottle, smashing it to pieces, and the liquid it contained spilled over the arm of the one who had been waving it, exuding a strong smell of concentrated alcohol. The man was stunned. His first, instinctive and unexpected reaction was to kneel at Georgi’s feet, with an outburst of hysterical weeping, accompanied by belches.
Later we discovered that the man with the bottle wasn’t the sinister envoy of western Anglo-American imperialist reactionaries, intent on subverting the firm foundations of the enlightened socialist regime in Bulgaria, but just someone who kept a mistress in that isolated house. When visiting his mistress, he had not forgotten to stop at that tavern on the way and buy strong liquor, and with typical and depressing Bulgarian thrift, as the bottle hadn’t been emptied, he was taking the remainder for himself. He had come under suspicion after missing three of the obligatory weekly meetings, which all supporters of the regime were supposed to attend, and when he was not found at home, the process was set in motion. It can well be imagined how astounded the man must have been by what awaited him outside, on leaving the house of his mistress.
Mr Rahman, sitting there in the armchair in the hotel lobby, he too had certainly done this before.
I turned to the clerk. And then a shot was heard, ringing in my ears and deafening them completely, all at once and for a long time to come, and seeming to set the hotel reeling, quiet as it was at this hour of the day. Quickly I moved probing hands over my body. I wasn’t injured. I turned to look at Mr Rahman and was struck dumb with amazement. Mr Rahman had fallen from his armchair, hitting his head hard against the parquet floor of the lobby. A spreading bloodstain, surrounding his scalp like a halo, testified that he had been shot in the head.
Without a moment’s delay, the fragile clerk alerted the police, who rapidly appeared on the scene with all the noisy paraphernalia that is inevitable in cases such as these: Hollywood-style sirens of police vehicles and speeding ambulance. The police had to cope with the hotel guests, who had come downstairs on hearing the gunshot which had brought their quiet routine to such an abrupt end. Among them was my wife, who managed to utter an authentically Israeli crisis-call, its content indefinable. She was soon to be relieved and satisfied, seeing me healthy and whole.
The cops were gathering statements and they asked me to come in for questioning, immediately if possible. I reassured my wife and rode with her in the spacious and comfortable police car, no siren blaring this time. The ambulance crew loaded Abd Rahman, or rather his corpse, in their vehicle and whisked him away to the pathology lab.
I sat down facing a young and energetic investigating officer who asked questions that were pertinent, although awfully standard. Country of origin? Was this the first time I had been a guest in the hotel?
“The eleventh time”
“How often?”
“Every year.”
“Enemies – at home or here?”
“None that I know of.”
“Did you see who shot Mr Abd Rahman?”
“No,” I replied with a deep and emphatic sigh of relief and admitted I was curious myself to know this; after all, as the clerk had reported, it was me that Mr Rahman wanted to see.
“That’s what complicates everything,” the young officer declared with obvious unease.
Here I saw fit to diffuse the tense atmosphere by translating the assassin’s name for the officer’s benefit:
“The name Abd Rahman,” I explained, “means servant of God who is full of mercy.” The cop digested this, impressed:
“What weird names these people have,” he commented – to demonstrate his lack of concern, also his appreciation of someone who understands such a complicated language as Arabic and last but not least, to prove himself a man with a sense of humour, something not typical of cops in general and of Swiss ones in particular.
“If,” the officer added, “we knew that someone was tailing Mr Rahman, and got his shot in first, we’d be wiser. We found a heavy revolver in Mr Rahman’s pocket, loaded, of Swiss manufacture,” he saw fit to inform me.
“In other words – he bought the gun in Switzerland?” I asked innocently.
The officer nodded.
“Do we know where from?” – more affected innocence.
“From a shop,” the young man replied with engaging simplicity.
“So anyone who wants, can buy a heavy Swiss revolver – just from a shop?”
“If he pays the price for it,” the cop nodded, “and gives proof of identity and has a good reason for wanting it.”
I didn’t ask any more questions.
“Anyway, the mystery man who tailed Mr Rahman saved your life. Take care, Sir,” he saw fit to warn me, with an earnest expression on his young face – “you won’t always have such an efficient guardian angel on hand!”
“
Many thanks,” – I thanked him and thanked him again, “If you catch the shooter, please pass on my deep and sincere appreciation and the gratitude of my family.”
“I promise we’ll do that,” the young cop smiled, standing and holding out a fleshy, heavy and cold hand. He shook my hand and my wife’s, warmly and sincerely, and added: “You have good reason to celebrate. Champagne would seem to fit the occasion – unless you have some objection to alcohol.”
“To champagne, never! Can we invite you to join us for a glass?”
“Thanks very much. I’m addicted to champagne, but not just now.”
Chapter Thirteen
The young police officer phoned. In his opinion and on the basis of his professional judgment, it was most advisable that I should have a professional bodyguard, at least until the end of my holiday. He recommended to me a young man who was experienced, loyal and conscientious, named Karl. Karl would come to the hotel this afternoon, and he hoped I would appreciate the exceptional efforts he was making to guarantee my safety and security, and not reject his services.
He concluded with all kinds of salutations and promises, waited about half a minute for my response and when none came, wished me a good afternoon and cut the connection, with all the delicacy appropriate to a police officer.
Karl was a youth of about seventeen-eighteen. Thin and wiry, muscular, with an intelligent look about him. He offered his services “pursuant to a conversation with the police commander”, for the same fee that he charged everyone: one hundred francs per day. I hesitated. It didn’t seem to me his services were vital. I felt a certain affection towards him, the affection of a grandfather towards his grandson, but nothing more. Was it worth paying a hundred francs a day for this? I didn’t turn him down out of hand. I said, I would weigh up his offer. At first sight he seemed suitable, but there were other factors to be considered. At this point young Karl tried to meet me halfway:
“I’m not allowed to reduce the fee. What I can promise, is to do a reliable job whichever days I’m guarding you. You can be secure in the knowledge that no one will dare get too close to you.” We parted with a firm handshake. About an hour later, there was a call from the hotel reception. A girl called Irena was looking for me, to discuss something of importance to both of us. I announced that I would be coming down within a quarter of an hour at the most, if Madame Irena was prepared to wait. The immediate answer was: she was prepared.
“Take care you don’t get tangled up in anything,” my wife advised.
I went down to reception. Waiting there was a pretty young Swiss, by which I mean a girl overflowing with youth, energy and health and something more, that could be defined as integrity, since her body was the lithe body of a woman, with nothing wasted about it. Everything was in its place, having the right shape and the precise, classical proportions. Making her acquaintance was easy. We went down to the café. I ordered herbal tea, she – a glass of mineral water.
“Awfully sorry to be bothering you,” Irena began with an apology in English that was colloquial and at the same time, vehement in tone. She went on to explain that she was Karl's girlfreind. “I may as well come straight to the point and tell you, that if you agree to employ him, and this is something that’s very important to him, and in a moment I’ll explain why, I’ll be happy to pay half of the cost. Karl is a very talented lad. His grandfather was the most senior police officer not only in Zurich, but in the whole canton of Zurich. In other words: his grandfather was the Zurich police chief. Highly respected, a man of knowledge and experience, quick on the uptake. He was killed in the line of duty! (The last sentence was spoken with emphatic tribal pride.) Karl’s father was a senior police officer in Zurich too. Karl thought he’d be taken on in the Zurich force and he’d make his career there, more or less automatically. For some reason, up until now he hasn’t been accepted. I don’t want to go too deeply into things, because these are really family matters and it doesn’t seem right to involve strangers in them… Friends and relatives are worried about Karl and from time to time they throw him a little bone and this makes Karl happy, ridiculously happy. Karl,” she went on to say with a bitter kind of smile, “has a personality completely different from the personalities of his ancestors. He’s enthusiastic, impulsive sometimes, with the vision of a poet, not always capable of behaving in a rational manner, and those are the traits in him that I’m madly in love with, but they trip him up all the time. All the same, he’s determined to be a cop and he’s not giving up on it, and I’m sure that you, Sir, will appreciate his unconditional loyalty, his tireless devotion to duty, in all circumstances. Karl’s happiness is so important to me.”
“Why is that?” I asked, and at that moment I seemed to myself to be identifying with the stolidity of outlook that is supposedly typically Germanic.
“Because I love him! I know it’s a cliché, but he’s the one and only love of my heart!”
I was silent for a moment, as was she.
“Tell him he can start from tomorrow.”
“He’ll think that’s suspicious, I’m sure you understand, Sir. I don’t want him to know anything about this meeting we’re having, not even the slightest hint.”
“I’ll tell him myself.”
“You’ve made my day, and my week, maybe more.”
I phoned Karl. Next day, he began trailing around after me, with dedication surpassing the proverbial dedication of Saint Bernard dogs.
My wife sensed, and commented on the fact, that the amiable Swiss boy was shadowing us tirelessly. Next Saturday we visited the flea market. Karl, who was supposed to be seeing but unseen, certainly kept a keen eye on anyone coming close to us, but he was also clearly visible to anyone who wanted to see him. And so it happened, that at about two in the afternoon, there was a commotion behind us. Blows were exchanged, and the police were called. Karl was arrested along with a swarthy individual, a man with a long moustache, who later turned out to be a peace-loving visitor from Qatar, who made the mistake that day of wearing his traditional national costume, thereby arousing the suspicions of Karl, who did not hesitate to knock him to the ground with a few well-aimed punches, and to check out his body with lightning speed, in search of concealed weapons, which weren’t there. We met the next day. He was very sorry about the trouble he had caused, unintentionally. We both realised that the connection between us was at an end. I paid him what I owed him, and later I refused to accept Irena’s contribution. I wished her a brilliant marriage. We were unanimous in believing Karl was a youth of outstanding qualities, and she was lucky to have him. The police officer apologised and promised, without being asked, to find some other way of keeping an eye on us.
Every morning we used to go up to the top floor of the “Co-op” store located in “Saint Annahoff”, to drink decaffeinated cappuccino and plan the day ahead. We found a table under a huge, curtained window; the area covered by the curtain could be widened or reduced by turning handles. We liked this table, especially because of the two-seater bench which we found very comfortable. Like us and not far from us – every morning an older couple used to sit, and almost in the centre of the room was a woman in early middle-age who said she was American, and had apparently been sent to Switzerland for psychiatric treatment. Sometimes we exchanged greetings, sometimes not. The café was pleasant, the cappuccino excellent, to my wife’s taste as well, and the place served as a good starting point for a day of leisure in Zurich, and for the objectives we had set ourselves. And this morning, the American woman took out a camera and aimed it at us. The trauma of Abd Rahman and of the shooting was still very fresh, the wound still open. I had heard of “cameras” that fired bullets at the objects they were aimed at.
“No!” I protested vehemently, remembering the warnings of Shmulik and the young police officer, and the lessons learned from my own experience. She paused for a moment, and then asked my wife:
“Why is he objecting?”
“He has reasons of his own, but” – my wife pointed out,
“it is normal to ask permission before taking someone’s picture.” The lady turned to me:
“May I take a picture of the two of you?” The voice was gentle, thoroughly amiable. I answered in a tone of offended dignity:
“I’d much rather you didn’t.”
The middle-aged couple turned to stare at me with a pair of question-marks, which soured the atmosphere completely.
A more modest question mark was posed by my wife, who lost no time, turned to the American lady and asked in her fluent English:
“Why do you want to take our picture?”
The woman softened:
“I’m going home and I want to preserve some memories. You and your husband are among the more pleasant ones. Does your husband find me intolerable?”
“Heaven forbid!” my wife exclaimed, putting the treatment before the injury. The woman was quick to draw her conclusions:
“Then he likes me?” – her hard features glowed, with something like infinite satisfaction, curing all ills, psychological ones too. My wife suddenly found herself straying into a minefield. A rapid retreat seemed the logical solution in these circumstances.
“Yes, he likes you.”
“So why does he object to me taking his picture and keeping it as a souvenir?”
My wife said the first thing that came into her head, which was in fact what she believed to be the truth:
“He lived for many years under a communist regime and as you know, everyone there suffers to some degree from chronic paranoia.”
Any reaction on the part of the ailing American lady could have been expected, even a violent assault on my wife or on me or on both of us. But it seemed that the Swiss were treating her condition with their typical dedication and expertise.
