by Shlomo Kalo
His request was sincere. I thought it over briefly, and I reckoned I’d found a way out:
“It has to do with the Arab-Israeli conflict. As you know, Arabs are very quick to take offence, and when they’re out for revenge they never give up.”
“You impugned the honour of one of their top people?” – the officer clutched the straw that I held out to him.
I nodded in an unequivocal fashion. He hastily jotted down, in broad handwriting, clearly legible to the one sitting opposite him: “Arab-Israeli conflict. Revenge.” We both breathed sighs of relief. He stood up and held out to me his broad and heavy hand, and parted from me with an endless series of felicitations, for a good day, a happy year and a nice life. And there was yet to be a further meeting between us. I was summoned urgently to the police station, the day after that interview.
“Help me to help you. You have to understand, your life is in danger” he pulled out a drawer, taking out a photograph of me standing at the window of my hotel room, shot with a telescopic lens. “You have to understand,” continued the investigating officer, becoming more friendly by the moment – “these people are clever. This photo was found in Mr Rahman’s pocket. People are watching you, there’s no doubt about that. Give me details about yourself and I’ll find them, keep tabs on them. And you will be protected as befits you, as befits every guest in the state of Switzerland, with its long tradition of neutrality.”
My refusal was disappointing and absolute.
“In any case,” he continued in an affable tone, intended to inspire confidence, “I’ll put one of my people in the hotel. He’ll keep an eye on you, and you won’t know he’s there. This is being done for your benefit.” We parted with a hearty handshake – Swiss style. A handshake that isn’t obligatory, isn’t warm and yet at the same time – radiates friendship.
The next day I noticed a young man, very young in fact, a little on the plump side, in a shirt, trousers and jacket of standard police colours, without any identifying marks or insignia of rank. He followed me into the dining-room, and went out with me, until I disappeared into the lift. On the third day, my “escort” started eating with gusto in the dining-room, flirting with the waitresses and the chambermaids. I didn’t mention it to my wife, hoping she wouldn’t notice for herself, a hope that was quickly dashed.
“What kind of a cop is that?” she commented – indicating the plumpish figure who was sitting at a table not far from ours, wolfing down sausage, bacon and eggs and drinking coffee, following every shapely female tourist with a hungry look, and constantly trying out clumsy chat-up lines on the waitress who served his coffee, winking at her just as clumsily.
“It’s no business of ours,” I answered my wife.
She took this in, digested it and commented in a whisper: “Anyone can tell he’s a plain-clothes cop.”
“Perhaps that’s intentional,” I replied equably, and the subject was dropped from the agenda. For a week the undercover cop ate and drank in the hotel, and socialised with the hotel staff of the feminine gender, and then he disappeared as if he had never been.
The budget of the Zurich municipality, it seemed, was not unlimited.
Chapter Seventeen
Sunday came. One of those Sundays abroad, redolent of good will, relaxation and calm, upholding the ancient imperatives of the primeval act, the Sabbath Day, when God “rested”, in other words – the act of creation came to the stage of completion and required a backward look, to enjoy what had been finished, the beauty and innocence and harmony and restrained power of the primeval world. Below the hotel the great lake sparkled; two boats made steady progress along it, moving in opposite directions. The heavens spoke blessings, the earth spoke peace, such that it seemed the hand of man could do nothing to impair it. We sprang from our beds, showered, went down to the dining-room and helped ourselves to a lavish breakfast, and without further discussion we dressed in clothing appropriate for a Sunday. My wife wore an olive-coloured sweater, and I, the waistcoat which we had bought not long before, its colour complementing the luxuriance of my wife’s sweater, which spoke of activity and willingness to give. In the lift, my wife took a long look at our reflections in the full-length mirror installed there, and commented:
“Look at the harmony of colours. And all quite unplanned.”
“External harmony reflects the internal,” was my trite response, which nevertheless earned me a kiss. We went out to the wood that we knew so well, climbing the slope to the clearing at the top and moving further on, filling our quasi-desiccated Israeli lungs with great gulps of the invigorating, oxygen-rich air of abroad. The desire to sing was not repressed. We sang. Not at full volume, but without restraint. My wife didn’t unleash the full power of the God-given gift residing in her throat – those vocal cords that it seemed incredible any mortal could be endowed with, perhaps with the intention of sparing me feelings of inferiority or perhaps the opposite – sparing me the temptation to swell with vicarious pride – or for a combination of both motives together, something not uncommon for complex types like us. I sang, or rather I joined in or accompanied her, keeping as low a profile as possible. And the song went on. At the first turning, a chamois stood facing us, looking perplexed. Not that he can have been much of a connoisseur of music; after all the whole business of vocal articulation must seem crazy to the race of the chamois. They aren’t used to such phenomena, especially not the Swiss chamois. In fact this one recoiled from us, shying away and clearing our path.
“That’s a good sign,” my wife commented, referring to the appearance of the enchanting creature. “To be released from all the tension, if only for a moment!”
This if only for a moment was sincere and came from deep down.
“No need to exaggerate,” I declared with typical cheeriness. She was offended.
“What exaggeration are you talking about?” she protested and added: “Someone’s shooting at my husband, his life’s in danger, and all our happiness, it seems, is hanging by a thread – and you’re talking about exaggeration!”
“My mistake!” – I hurriedly grasped the reliable pillar of blessed domestic harmony and changed the subject: “Look how peaceful it is all around. We should breathe it deep into our lungs, our hearts, our whole being – while we can. For a year at least none of this is going to be available to us.”
“So it seems,” my wife was quick to respond. “Still, all the same, there is something in the air!..”
“The air is balmy, energising, spreading encouragement and happiness!”
“Now you’re exaggerating!” she declared.
“It seems to me you caught it from me,” I protested.
“Caught what?” she demanded to know.
“What you call ‘Bulgarian pessimism’.”
“Not at this moment!” she insisted.
“How is it possible that in this quiet, festal atmosphere of a Sunday, in the wood, where nothing is wrong, where a chamois comes to greet us, and he’s the emissary of something sublime, unearthly, not of flesh and blood, and every tree is singing and we are singing along too – how can you find any reason to say Still, all the same?”
My wife recovered her composure: “You’re right, I take it back,” and there and then she launched into “Tipperary”, an optimistic song in which all our affection was invested. We crossed a woodland clearing carpeted with dense, natural grass, trimmed not by the hand of man and smelling pungent. I sang at maximum volume, or rather, I meant to sing so loudly that the trees would shake on their foundations, but I didn’t get the chance. At that moment, a strident, unsteady voice was heard, commanding:
“Halt!”
I turned round. A tall, thin man was pointing a heavy pistol at me from a range of less than five paces. He was clutching the shiny weapon in both hands, which shook and made the pistol shake. It was obvious there was no empathy between him and the gun. The two of us, the man holding the pistol and aiming it at me, and I, stood face to face, perplexed by the unnatural
situation, supposedly forced upon both of us to the same catastrophic extent, which caused the one holding the gun to shake more erratically than ever. Perhaps a second passed, perhaps a minute. The gunman fired, I heard the whistle of the bullet (it wasn’t the wind). A fraction of a second later, a burst of automatic fire was heard, and before I knew what was going on, I found myself lying on the fragrant grass, which seemed to smell poisonous to me, and I’d have preferred some other grassy pillow, enclosed, artificial, in a small but quiet garden, even a plastic lawn. What propelled me to the ground, was a strong and decisive hand, full of unexpected and irresistible strength, despite its diminutive, almost childlike size – the hand of my wife, who fell together with me on that pungent carpet, repellent in its luxuriance.
“What are you doing!” I protested, trying to give a human dimension to the picture.
“Putting into practice what I’ve read in the thrillers and seen in the mafia movies that you hate so much!”
I almost laughed aloud – how lucky I was to have this woman! – I told myself. A few more sporadic shots heralded the end of the show.
I seemed to hear the high-pitched whine emerging from the blank screen, telling me – We’ve entertained you long enough, so please change the channel or turn off the set and go to sleep.
Someone approached us with stealthy tread.
Without moving a limb, I took a sidelong glance. It was the investigating officer. He saw me looking at him and declared in his hideously accented English:
“You’re still causing problems, to yourselves and to us. Go home, for everyone’s sake and yours in particular. Or you’ll go home in coffins. You can get up now!”
The last sentence sounded like an order. I got up slowly, held out a hand to my wife and pulled her to her feet. Her festive sweater, my waistcoat, were covered with tiny leaves, grains of dust and all kinds of mites. I brushed off quickly, as much as could be brushed off quickly, from my wife’s sweater, before she could realise the state she was in – with consequent change of mood. I forgot, she takes her mood from the state of my clothing too.
We accompanied the young police officer, whose name turned out to be Heinrich Zimmerman. About five metres from the place that we fell, lay a tall, thin man, looking out of place in the Swiss landscape. Heinrich pointed at him with his angular chin, jutting forward like the prow of a ship in a storm:
“Olaf Olsen, holding a Norwegian passport, of mixed Norwegian-Swedish parentage.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his tight trousers, picked up the pistol which lay impotently beside the corpse of Olaf Olsen, and I saw at close quarters the heavy “Zig Zauer” which a few moments before had been aimed at me. Later, I was told this is one of the best handguns in the world.
“Bought in a shop, I suppose,” I commented in a mildly ironical tone, aimed at diffusing some of the tension.
“Hans!” Heinrich cried and from among the trees a broad-shouldered Swiss appeared, heavily built but unexpectedly agile and light on his feet. He took the pistol, wrapped in the handkerchief.
“Yes, in a shop,” Heinrich confirmed, and it was obvious he was bursting with repressed feelings and feeling an irresistible need to pour everything out and tell all he knew. I encouraged him, as I was no less interested than he was in hearing what he had to say. And this was his story:
The Norwegian-Swedish gentleman arrived in Switzerland not long ago. He runs a toy-shop in Oslo… the shop is only a cover, and I must surely understand what he means. I understood but didn’t respond. He continued his story as we walked, at a sedate and casual Swiss-style pace along the path leading back to the hotel. “The man was a sleeper,” Heinrich felt the need to explain to us. People interested in shedding my blood, and they might just have a point – after Rahman went to a better world, they obviously weren’t going to give up and they sent Olaf Olsen to Switzerland on a specific assignment, with the photograph of me and all the rest. The first thing Mr Olaf Olsen did was go to a gun-shop in Zurich. He asked for a handgun and before being asked what he wanted it for, told the salesman he wanted to produce a toy pistol modelled on the Zig Zauer, which had become world-famous; children were clamouring for such a toy. The explanation sounded plausible, and Mr Olaf was the kind who inspired confidence. He presented, as required, a valid Norwegian passport, and the salesman recorded the details. Olaf paid the full price for the weapon, to the delight of the salesman, who in spite of everything did his duty as a Swiss patriot and notified the police. Heinrich immediately realised (with emphasis on the words “immediately” and “realised”) that this man was the piece missing from the jigsaw, he drafted in detectives, all the trained manpower he could muster, and set out in pursuit. Mr Olaf arrived at the hotel and ate a lavish Swiss breakfast, doing everything very calmly – and in the Scandinavian way he ate a lot of meat. This isn’t in fact such common Scandinavian practice these days. The Vikings on the other hand always ate meat and nothing else – Heinrich displayed his extensive knowledge of history.
Heinrich glanced sidelong at me, to check that I was following the interesting story. He wanted so much to share it with someone and in me he had found the ideal audience, the man naturally more interested in this than in all the other stories in the world, the one most deeply involved in it, the one who enraged him with his frivolous attitude, who was risking his own life and the life of his beloved wife, for no logical reason at all. His scrutiny satisfied him.
Mr Olaf sat at the table overlooking the hotel entrance, saw me and my wife going out, and followed us, leaving a fifty franc note on the table, with the heavy Zig Zauer stuck in his belt, in such a way as not to draw suspicion, while making the weapon easy to draw. Heinrich, who was on the scene and personally shadowing Olaf, signalled to his men and the whole gang set out for the woods in our tracks.
Here I saw fit to interject: “And we, my wife and I, didn’t notice anything.”
“Appalling carelessness!” he asserted and irrelevantly he added: “You’re to leave Switzerland within three days, otherwise, we shall expel you!” – a threat serving as an outlet for his seething anger.
Here my wife came forward, having followed close behind us, not missing a word of Heinrich’s story, and announced:
“We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“The words I longed to hear!” Heinrich exclaimed with relief and hurriedly returned to discharging his burden:
“We covered a lot of ground. When you were close to the clearing, Mr Olsen drew the Zig Zauer, stopped and took aim. You could tell he wasn’t born to it, or even properly trained” – he gave a professional opinion and returned to his story:
“I had to think about it for a moment, a long moment. Shooting a man – well, it’s easy enough in the movies.”
I couldn’t agree with him more.
“However,” Heinrich continued, “there are situations where there’s no other option but to shoot, before the damage is done.” It was clear this was the argument which Heinrich meant to raise in reporting to his superiors.
“I drew and I fired,” he exclaimed with a light sigh, and added at once, by way of justification: “I’m good at that. Trained. And the thing proved itself. That bastard, Mr Olaf Olsen, fired a hopeless shot, even an amateur could have done better than him, and I scored a bull’s-eye from twice the range he shot at you from, and he went down like a shot bird, that’s the part that interests you and you’re entitled to know it. I’d suggest you don’t publicise this or broadcast it. The important thing is that the two of you have survived. I say the two of you,” he added, jabbing an accusing finger at me, “because with your irresponsibility you have put your delightful wife in danger too, some intellectual you are!” I expressed my full agreement with a prolonged hmmm…
In the meantime, vehicles were moving into the wood, police vehicles, off-roaders. We returned to our hotel.
My wife burst into tears, I embraced her in a fatherly sort of way and she soon regained her composure. Then she went to the phone and began talk
ing to nameless people in fluent English. I went into the bathroom, feeling the need for a shower, although it was my waistcoat and trousers that were soiled. Leaving the bathroom, I felt much refreshed and began urging my wife to follow my example and freshen up in the shower.
“There’s no time for that,” she objected.
“Why do you say that?”
“We’re going home tomorrow!” she announced.
“What do you mean, we’re going home?” I asked with affected innocence and added: “We’ve got the flight to sort out and all that.”
“It’s all arranged,” she assured me. “Now, you’re to phone Shmulik,” she demanded.
Without further discussion I picked up the receiver, with Shmulik’s visiting-card in front of me.
Somewhere or other, his wife woke him up. He sounded tense. “We’re coming home tomorrow!” I told him and saw fit to add that there had been another attempt on my life. For a moment he was silent and then he responded:
“Maybe it’s time after all to sort out that nasty friend of yours!”
“That wouldn’t solve anything,” I declared with some heat, although I knew I was in the right – “If I were to meet him, that could be infinitely more profitable!” I concluded.
“See you tomorrow!” cried Shmulik, and he hung up.
On the plane there was a party. Champagne was distributed, and a rabbi sitting two rows in front of us, on his way to Israel to spend the holidays there, raised his glass, said a prayer and pronounced a blessing: “Blessed be He who has given us life and has brought us to this time!” I was astonished. I asked my wife: “What is all this? Who ordered the champagne?”
The reply was unequivocal and succinct: “You did!”
We embraced. My wife whispered in my ear: “I sent some to Heinrich and his team too.”
