Spotted Cats (29 page)

“Threatened?”

“She threatened to have me taken to court. For harassing her. It didn’t matter. Her threats only served to intensify my obsession.” He had been talking in a monotone, staring straight ahead. Now he swiveled on his stool and faced me. “I behaved without pride, Mr. Coyne. She was very young, very beautiful, very American. I could not believe that this young woman could be attracted to me. I was teaching an introductory international relations course at Tufts, a large lecture class, and one day this young woman came to my office, and—”

I waved my hand quickly. “Spare me,” I said. “I don’t care about this.”

He blinked at me, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. “In any case, when—when her attraction died, I could not bear it. You see, my wife and I—our marriage was arranged by our parents. I had never known love. Having never known it, I did not miss it. But when I had it, after Mary Ellen Ames seduced me, and then I lost her love, I was very depressed. I did not know how to behave. It took me many years, sir.”

“She seduced you, huh?”

“I see that you do not believe me.” He shrugged. “It does not matter. That is how it was.”

I sipped my drink. “You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I behaved badly,” he said.

I shrugged.

“I left long messages on her answering machine. I sat in my automobile in front of her building, waiting to see her come and go. I watched the place where she worked. I did this for several years after she left me.”

“Where did she live?”

“She was living in Cambridge.”

“Was?”

“As I told you, it has been many years now. She moved. I could not find her again. It was a relief. After a while I stopped trying.”

“You have neither seen nor spoken with her recently, then?”

“No. Many years.”

“How many?”

He scratched at his beard. “Seven or eight.”

“And you don’t know where she’s living?”

“No, sir. The last time I tried to reach her, she had moved, no forwarding address, no phone number listed.”

“What was she doing, the last time you were in touch with her?”

He chuckled softly. “She was a salesperson in a bookstore.”

“Why is that funny?”

“Because Mary Ellen has great wealth. She has no need to work.”

“Where is the store?”

“On Massachusetts Avenue between Harvard and Central Square. It specializes in literature of the counterculture. It is called Head Start Books. She no longer works there.” He shrugged.

“What about friends? Do you know any of her friends?”

He shook his head. “No. I never knew her friends.”

“And since she moved…?”

“I have not seen her. Seven or eight years. I have returned to my family. Mary Ellen Ames is no longer a part of my life.”

“There must be something else,” I said.

“No, sir. That is all. I have told you everything. I hope you will leave us alone now. I can help you no more.”

“I may need to get back to you.”

“Sir,” he said, “if you must do that, please call me at the school. I promise you I will return your call. Do not call my home.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Now I must leave,” he said.

And leave he did, without shaking my hand. I watched him go, a small, dark, slumped figure. From behind, Professor Sherif Rahmanan was a hunched old man.

I turned back to the bar and picked up my drink. The professor had not touched his glass of soda water.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1991 by William G. Tapply

Cover design by Kathleen Lynch

978-1-4804-2738-9

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