Belshazzar's Daughter (10 page)

‘The crying and shouting being almost always connected to his violent past?’

The Rabbi sighed. ‘Yes. It seemed to haunt him and

sometimes when he was very drunk, I think he might have fancied himself back there, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes.’

Addressing both policemen, the Rabbi continued, ‘Whatever one’s stance may be with regard to divine retribution, I really do not believe that anyone can feel ultimately happy about taking the life of another. Had Leonid felt all right about it he would have stayed in Russia, wouldn’t he? I mean, just after the Revolution things got better than they had ever been for Jews there - for a little while.’

‘Yes.’ ikmen glanced quickly at Suleyman and then

turned back to the Rabbi once again. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, sir?’

‘No, not really. Leonid, with the exception of that one event, didn’t tend to talk about himself much. It was all mainly trivia: grumbling about the price of things, his neighbours’ noisy children, his aches and pains, things like that. As I’ve said, he never spoke about his money, so I’m afraid that I can’t tell you where he got it from.’

He looked down at his desk and lowered his voice. ‘The people are very frightened, you know, Inspector.’

“I can imagine.’

‘At the risk of causing offence, I don’t think that you can.’

He put his hand up to his face and scratched his beard.

‘Most of the people around here have never experienced real anti-Semitism. It is a credit to your people that they haven’t, but …’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Both my parents were in Dachau. How they survived I cannot imagine. But through them and their experiences and the experiences of my own sad little flock of Ashkenazim here, I do have an awareness of what anti-Semitism can be like if it is allowed to run out of control. Most of the poor little Sephardis here are frightened but unaware. I look at what is happening, rearing up in other parts of Europe, and I don’t honestly know what to do for the best. Part of the reason why the Germans could do to us what they did was because we were too trusting, we were not prepared.’ He looked ikmen straight in the eye.

‘To your knowledge, Inspector, is this a growing problem here? Please be frank.’

ikmen lit another cigarette and rolled a second across to the Rabbi. ‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘What can I say? There are, and always have been, elements who discriminate against others for no good reason. I would be doing the Jews of Balat a disservice if I told you not to be vigilant. As you’ve probably noticed, we’ve increased the frequency of our patrols in this area. But my honest opinion?’ His face became very grave. “I think one person killed Leonid Meyer.

A very deeply disturbed individual with some kind of crazy reason of his own.’

‘Well, the swastika—’

‘Oh, yes, I grant you that whoever it was doesn’t care for Jews, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. The method used to kill him was very specific, it had to be him and it had to be that way. Personally I think there was a definite motive. This was a personal act against Mr Meyer himself.

I may yet be proved wrong, but—’

‘So you’re saying you don’t think there’s any movement or organisation behind this?’

‘I can’t be absolutely certain, but I don’t think so. I will, nevertheless, be talking to this Smits man in the near future. I’ve received no information to suggest a sudden upsurge in anti-Semitism in this city. Such an eventuality is, however, being taken very seriously at a level much higher than myself. The intelligence-gathering agencies are on full alert. Looking at it from a purely selfish point of view, you must remember that Israel is one of our allies in this region.’

‘Of course.’

ikmen stood up. ‘Well, we’d better not take up any more of your time, Rabbi.’

SJmon rose to his feet and offered his hand to ikmen.

‘No trouble. It’s very good of you to take the time to be so reassuring.’

The two men shook hands. Suleyman put his notebook

and pen away and joined his boss. ‘Goodbye, Rabbi

§imon.’

‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’

He led the two policemen into the hall and unlocked the door for them.

‘I’ll keep you informed,’ said ikmen as he walked through the doorway.

‘Thank you.’

Suleyman stepped out into the sunlight, taking his sunglasses out of his pocket as he went. The Rabbi was just

about to go back inside when ikmen stopped him.

‘Rabbi?’ His face was quizzical, but shocked somehow, as if a frightening thought had just crossed his mind.

‘Yes?’ The Rabbi’s voice showed concern. The little Inspector looked suddenly almost ill.

It wasn’t an easy question for ikmen to ask but he asked it. ‘How do you feel when you look at a swastika?’

The Rabbi’s face went pale and he sighed. ‘Oh.’ He tried to think of a way of describing his feelings that was logical and not too tainted by emotion. He wanted the Inspector to understand him, but nice, passionless words just wouldn’t come. ‘Haunted, Inspector. And trapped. It’s like I’m in a cage with a ghost and I know I can never be free.’

The two men looked at each other and to the Rabbi’s surprise he realised that the Inspector had understood him.

How, he couldn’t say, but he was glad. He was always glad when someone else, someone Gentile, finally understood.

Every time it happened it meant that number 17564 receded that little bit further into the past.

‘What are you planning to cook for our visitor tonight?’

Anya Gulcu looked up from her book. A tall, bearded

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man had entered the drawing room and was making his way towards the chaise upon which she reclined. Despite his advanced age, he walked with great purpose, his bearing straight-backed and proud. She could not help but

notice that by comparison the years had not been nearly so kind to her. Thin, wasted, her hair chewed, straggly and grey, Anya had long since given up the struggle with her decaying appearance. She frowned as he approached and put her book down on the small occasional table in front of her.

‘What would you recommend, Nicholas?’ she said stiffly.

He sat down in a battered wing chair at the head of the chaise and crossed his hands in his lap. ‘He’s an Englishman, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ She smoothed the long skirt of her crisp lace dress with her hand. Her mouth moved nervously as she waited for him to speak again.

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult, then. Have you consulted Mama?’

Her voice quavered. ‘Er, no. She is not going to attend, and in view of … circumstances, I thought it better not to bother her.’

Nicholas sighed. His face suddenly looked tired and resigned. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. By the way, you know that letter she received today? You don’t know what—’

‘No! No!’ Anya swung her legs down on to the floor and perched nervously on the edge of the chaise. Her tiny hands fluttered shakily up to her face. ‘What are we going to do, Nicky?’

He leant forward. He looked at her sternly, but not without kindness. Taking both her hands in his, he pressed them gently away from her face. It was obvious that her nervousness irritated him, but he tried to hide it. He loved her.

‘We are going to be calm, Anya. We are going to think clearly and carry on just like we always have. Talking of which …’ He looked down at his elaborate cherry-red and gold tunic and frowned. “I don’t think these clothes are going to be very suitable for tonight, do you?’

‘Why not?’

He pursed his lips. This time he let his impatience show. Why did she have to have everything explained to her! ‘Think, Anya, think! Mr Robert, whatever he is, is a stranger. He won’t understand. We don’t want to alarm him, do we? What goes on in this house when he is not here is not his concern, is it?’ He looked away from her, towards the door and the stairs beyond. ‘There’s no reason to worry him with trivial details.’

‘Yes, of course, you’re right. I’m sorry, Nicky.’

He got up from the chair and strode across to the

large bay window. He looked out into the street, strong, yellow sunlight illuminating his features. He couldn’t bear to look at her when she was apologetic and mousy. Even when they were children this particular mood of hers had irritated him. She always did it when she was frightened, when she wanted someone else to take the responsibility, do her thinking for her.

“I will buy some lamb, potatoes and rice,’ he said firmly.

‘You can roast the meat and potatoes, English people like that sort of thing.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Do you have some salad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do that with it then.’ He paused. Her eyes were downcast, miserable. ‘You can do that, I presume, Anya?’ He

hadn’t meant that to sound nasty, but he knew that it had.

He chastised himself almost immediately.

‘Yes.’ She looked up suddenly, panicking. ‘Nicky, I honestly don’t know how I’m going to do this!’ Her lips trembled; she was on the very edge of tears.

He closed his eyes and threw his arms outwards in a gesture of despair. ‘You just have to, Anya. It’s for Natalia, remember? Your daughter?’

‘But …’

His impatience with her finally got the better of him. ‘For the love of God, Anya! You know what you’re supposed to do, don’t you! Didn’t we go over it enough times for you?

The man is a visitor, no one in particular, that’s all! Nothing can possibly go wrong!’

She moved her head slightly, as if agreeing, but her eyes wept and her hands clutched nervously at her bodice.

It was midday; outside the sun was at its zenith, hot, strong, debilitating. But inside it was dark. Thick, purple curtains were drawn tight across every window; the unnatural light from a single oil lamp glowed sickly in the heavy darkness.

The apartment was richly furnished in purple, gold and the deep midnight black of mahogany. Heavy furniture, seasoned by long years of usage.

In the middle of the room, and dominating it, was a bed.

Its foot was long, tapered and shaped like the prow of a ship.

Carved and gilded waves, captured in mid-roll, sprang from both the prow and the headboard. Reaching nearly to the ceiling, this headboard provided an anchor for the metres of lilac net curtaining that hung stiff and brittle with age down on to the pillows and across the floor. As generously wide as it was long, the bed itself was covered by a purple brocade counterpane, its edges dangling close to the floor, frayed and soiled by mice.

On top of this cover, lying on its side, rested the body of a woman. A full-length lilac gown engulfed her skinny body, and a veil of thick, grey hair covered her shoulders and the upper part of her face. Though at rest, her breath did not come easily. She wheezed, her lungs rattling and creaking with mucus every time she breathed out. Crepy, age-spotted hands clutched at the cover beneath her, tightening and relaxing with the rhythm of her breath.

Outside, in the city beyond the purple curtains, a thousand muezzins called the Muslim faithful to midday prayer. ‘There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet …’

The woman on the bed stirred. For a second her breathing stopped, held prisoner in her throat. Her face strained as she tried to remember what should have been reflex. She folded back the corner of life and looked at its alternative.

She made a gagging sound in the back of her throat. Then her muscles relaxed and the breath flowed out of her. Her hands clutched and then released the bedclothes one more time, and she opened her eyes.

Through a lattice of dry hair, Maria Gulcu surveyed her domain. Sideboard, table, washstand, pictures on the wall - nothing had changed. Even corners of the room she could not see were unaltered. She didn’t have to look, she knew.

Ikon screen top left-hand corner, two gold brocade chairs over by the window, the photograph album sitting on the card table next to the door. Everything in its place, as it should be. Well, nearly everything. What was wrong?

There was something at the back of her mind. An

anxiety, a dread. What was it? It was recent; that was its problem. The closer she was to an event, the quicker it faded from her mind. Ten years ago, twenty, seventy ah, yes, seventy, or rather seventy-four was easy. She kept count. A breath away.

Every second recorded, marked, stowed safely and for ever. Faces: some brutal, some loved beyond understanding. And a girl. A girl with deep blue eyes and long chestnut hair, tiptoeing on the rim of womanhood. Like the others - but not like the others. She could see the girl, could call her up at will. Getting close to the others was becoming easier with the passing years too. Maria knew why and she welcomed it. Time was gathering pace. Brutal. Hated time.

There was too much. Now when she didn’t need it there was too much. Then …

But what about yesterday?

She turned slowly on to her back and stared at the ceiling.

Her eyesight had deteriorated considerably over the last few years. There was a pattern on the ceiling, she remembered it well, but all she could see was a blur. She pushed the unwanted memory of the ceiling paper out of her mind and turned back on to her side once again. What was it?

And it was then that she saw the letter. Thick, stubby writing on perfumed pink paper. So very typical. Ah, yes. Ah, yes. It was someone that was out of place, not something. There was a gap in the cast-list of her life.

Her eyes filled with tears. Slowly connections formed in her mind as the recent nightmare returned. She pushed her hair out of her face and reached for a handkerchief in the pocket of her gown. Tears, caught and held static in the folds and creases of her face, bitter with salt, stung her skin.

How could she have forgotten? She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the handkerchief and patted away the moisture that had gathered on her flaccid cheeks. She had turned away for a second and now he had gone.

The two men walked in silence as they made their way back to their respective cars. Although the suspicious, almost hostile nature of the stares they were attracting from the local inhabitants was partly at the root of this phenomenon, there was another reason too. Uncharacteristically, it was Suleyman who first articulated this latter,