Istanbul Passage (47 page)

“Not the last shot,” Leon said. “That was me.” He lay back. As if it made any difference now. Altan already shaping the way it happened. You couldn’t fight the next war until you’d lied about the last one.

“Yes?” Mihai said, humoring him.

“It was the right thing to do,” Leon said, his voice trailing off, vague.

“Maybe you should rest now. I’ll tell the nurse—”

“No,” Leon said, gripping his hand. “Talk. I want to know. Tell me—”

“What?”

“Durak,”
Leon said, the first thing that came into his mind. “You know Russian? What does
durak
mean?”

“Fool.”

Leon smiled. “Yes. That makes sense. He would think that.”

“Who?”

“Melnikov. He said it before he shot me. And I was. But not then. Before.” He lifted his hand slightly, brushing the air. “Wrong about Tommy. Everything.
Durak
.” He raised his eyes. “I’m glad about the ship. So that’s one thing. That’s why you came back? There’s another? You can get more out?”

“Not from Istanbul. It’s not so easy now. Italy.”

“More typhus?” Leon said.

“No. Getting out of Romania. It’s safer from the west. Through
Vienna, away from the Russians. Istanbul’s finished for us. The office—I don’t know how long.”

“You’re going to Italy?”

“No. Palestine. Home.” He looked up, tentative, his voice casual. “You too. Why not?”

“To do what? Grow oranges?”

“Fight. The British are going to make a mess. The Arabs hate us. Like the Poles. There’ll be—”

“Another war,” Leon finished.

“But this one we don’t lose. You like all this so much.” He waved his hand over Leon’s bandages. “Come to Palestine.”

“With one lung.”

“We’re not so picky. We take anyone who’s with us.” He took a breath. “There are other ways to fight.”

Leon turned. “I’m not with anybody.”

“And that’s why you buy the
Victorei
out. And now who do you see when you die?” A joke to keep a door open, an exit if he needed it.

“I saw Phil too.”

Mihai cocked his head.

“My brother. Who was shot down. I used to think, sometimes, I was doing this for him. Helping. Working for Tommy. But that’s just something you tell yourself. To make it okay.” He turned to face Mihai. “How do you help somebody who’s dead? So who would I be helping this time? Anna?”

Mihai looked away, uncomfortable. “No. Four hundred, still alive. And more coming.” He hesitated. “It could be useful with the British. Not being a Jew.” Another pause. “What’s here for you?”

“I can’t take her there,” Leon said quietly. “Do you want me to leave her? Is that what you’d do?”

Mihai sat back, at a loss, then got up and walked over to the window. “Me? No.” He looked out. “You’d better sleep.” The room confining now.

“I’m awake.”

Mihai started fingering some plants on the windowsill, restless. “So who is this woman. She comes every day.”

“Kay? She was Frank’s—”

“I know who she is. Who is she to you?”

Leon said nothing. We’ll see.

“She knows about Anna?”

Leon nodded.

“Not just a friend, I think.” He held up his hand before Leon could say anything.

“She’s here?”

Mihai looked at his watch. “Soon. Every day.” He made a half smile. “Shifts. Me, then her.” He looked up. “She was afraid she’d miss you. That you wouldn’t wake up. Before she left.”

“Before she—” Seeing her walking across the bridge in her hat, Melnikov’s shield, not stopping this time, leaving. “When?” All he could say.

“I don’t know. She has a priority. They arranged it.”

They. Trying to think, his mind fuzzy, sorting this out.

“So tell me. What’s what.” Mihai looked over. “I don’t judge.”

But what was there to tell? Nothing decided. And then it was.

“When is she here?” Beginning to move, one hand on the sheet.

“Relax,” Mihai said, coming over to stop him. “You’ve got tubes coming and going. You’ll knock this over.” He nodded to the drip. “Let me see. This probably isn’t good for you, you know. The commotion, I mean. Head back. Come on. I don’t leave until I see—okay, better.”

So much better that Leon felt his eyes begin to close, seeing Mihai leave in a narrow strip, like watching someone through a venetian blind.

There was a voice in the back of his head, anxious, then another farther away, a man’s voice, German.

“Only a few minutes, yes? He goes in and out. If you see that, let him go. He needs the sleep.”

“All right.” Kay’s voice, the smell of her perfume.

“He may not know you.”

“Mihai said—”

“Mihai. Now Mossad is giving out medical degrees.”

At the door, heads bent toward each other, but Kay restless, shifting her feet, looking back at the bed. The way she had been that first morning in Tünel, having her cigarette, jumpy, not sure of things.

“Kay,” Leon said, the sound sticking a little in his throat.

“You see,” she said to Obstbaum, hurrying over to the bed. “He does.”

Obstbaum nodded, tapping his wristwatch at her, and left.

“Thank God,” she said to Leon, taking his hand. “I’ve been so worried.”

“You’re leaving,” he said, the scratchiness clearing.

She took her hand away. “Mihai told you. He said. I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Altan’s making you go.”

“Why would he do that?”

“No witnesses. He’s making up some story. Not what happened.”

“Leon,” she said, soothing. “People were there. On the bridge. It was—public.”

“He got you a priority.” Trying to put things one after the other, assemble them. “He wants to get you out of the country. Did you give them a statement?”

She looked at him, disconcerted. “Don’t. Please. You almost died on the bridge. And you’re still—” She stopped. “It was me. I want to go.”

“Why?”

“I can’t stay here,” she said, picking at the sheet. “I had time to
think—while you were out. I never did before. It was always—later, let’s talk about it later. But then I did.” She grazed his hand. “I want to go home.”

“But you can’t—”

“I’ll stay with my sister for a while,” she said, ignoring him. “Until we drive each other crazy. The way we always do. And then—something. Frank’s insurance isn’t going to go very far.” She looked up. “This isn’t what you want to know, is it?”

“No.”

She went over to the night table, busying herself. “I’ve been thinking how to say this and now—” She handed him a glass with a straw. “Here. You’re supposed to keep drinking.”

He took some water, then watched her as she circled the bed. “You’re all dressed.” A suit with an open-neck blouse, a silver pin on the lapel. Lipstick.

“A seat opened up today. I wasn’t going to take it if you were still—”

“Today?” He tried to prop himself up against the pillow.

She adjusted it for him. “I wouldn’t go without saying good-bye,” she said, then stopped fluffing the pillow and sat next to him, running her hand across his forehead. “Oh god, how do I do this?”

“Don’t. Don’t go.”

“No, stay. There’s still so much to see,” she said, using a guide’s vioice, then stopped. “Except I don’t want to see it anymore. I don’t want to worry about drinking the water. And wonder what people are saying. All that screeching over the loudspeakers. How many times a day do people have to pray anyway?”

“Five,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “It’s not any of that. It’s—I woke up. On the bridge. Do you know what that was like for me? Watching you die?”

“Why were you there? What did Melnikov tell you?” Still wanting to know.

“That you asked for me. That you—” She waved her hand. “Oh,
what does it matter? He got me there so you’d go through with it, I guess. I didn’t really
ask
him.” She looked down. “I should have known. You wouldn’t do that—ask for me.” She lifted her head. “And then everything started. The guns. People
killed
.” She looked at him. “They said none of that was supposed to happen, the guns. It was just a trade. Until you—” She hesitated. “Why did you?”

“It wasn’t a trade,” he said, throat still dry.

“But they said—”

“We knew what they were going to do to him. After they were finished with him.” He stopped, the words still far back, pulling them. “That’s not even—standing outside. Inside. Putting them on hooks.”

“Inside?” she said, trying to follow.

He closed his eyes, too weak to unravel any more. “He trusted me,” he said.

She looked at him, a minute’s delay, as if she were translating. “So you helped him. And they shot you too,” she said finally. “I thought you were dead. Everything just—stopped. Stopped. But you were still breathing. Eyes open. And you said something. I thought, maybe it’s the last time. Do you remember? What you said?”

He shook his head, waiting.

“You said her name. You called her. You were looking right at me, eyes open, and you were calling her.”

“Kay.”

“No, it’s all right. It’s just—when I heard it, I knew. Like somebody shaking me awake. She was the love of your life. Is.” She stopped. “Is. I was—something else.” She bit her lip. “I went to see her. Down the hall. I wanted to see what she looked like.” She nodded, answering an unspoken question. “If she was prettier than me. And then I didn’t go in. Get close enough to tell. I didn’t want to know. What if she isn’t? It’s better if I think she is.”

“Don’t.”

She reached over, stroking his forehead again. “I know. It’s just the
way it is. It’s not something you can—” She stopped, moving her hand away. “It’s just, I’d like that too. To have that. So maybe I’ll find him back home. Not so exciting,” she said, twisting her mouth, spreading her hand to take in the city outside. “Maybe somebody who plays golf and takes the train. But still—the love of my life. Like her.”

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Anyway, I have to think there is one.” She looked into his eyes, her face soft. “I hope it wasn’t you. That would be so unfair, wouldn’t it? Only a few days. While you were asleep I was thinking about that, how many there were, and then I thought, don’t count. What if it’s two, three, just a few, and it seems like—” She stopped. “So better not.”

He reached up, putting his hand against her cheek, the IV line dangling, as if it were part of a string he was trying to hold.

“And, you know, maybe it’s enough like this. To have a taste. Stop before—” She looked away. “You don’t see it at the beginning. I don’t know why not. How else would it end? What did I think this was. What did you think it was.”

She moved his hand back to the bed and stood up.

“So. Before that. While we still feel—” She moved to the chair, picking up a hat and purse. “You know at least it makes it easier. You like this.” She nodded to the hospital bed. “With all those things in your arm. So you have to stay there. Otherwise. You know what it would be like. You’d get up and hold me and then how could I go?” Her eyes filling now. “Because I’d think it was you. The one.”

She came back to the bed and leaned down, kissing him on the forehead, a good-bye kiss, then his arms went up around her, pulling her closer, and the kiss became something else, a secret, until he felt moisture in the cracks of his lips, smeared with her.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Later, you’ll think different things about me.” She put her fingers to his mouth before he could say anything. “You will. I just want you to remember. This part was true. Will you remember that?”

He said nothing, afraid she would remove the fingers, actually go.

“Your car’s here.” Obstbaum in the doorway, Kay’s head jerking back.

“Coming,” she said, barely getting it out.

Obstbaum lingered at the door so she just squeezed Leon’s hand, a different good-bye. Still caring about how it must look to him. She cocked her head toward the hall, the quiet room at the end. “I hope she comes back. Think how she’d feel. Knowing you waited for her.”

She turned to go, Leon’s hand resting on the bed but in his mind’s eye stretching out and then, seeing Obstbaum, dropping back. By the time she reached the door, Obstbaum had disappeared, but it was too late to reach her now, and his body was sinking into the sheets, the way it had felt on the bridge, when he thought he was dying.

“But would you do something for me?” Kay said, turning, eyes brimming.

He looked up, not having to nod, knowing she could sense it.

“Don’t tell her. About us.”

He waited.

“She wouldn’t like it. But that’s not it. It’s something for me. I want to be the one you can’t talk about. I want that much.”