After the First Death (19 page)

Hope was blossoming now. Time. She was getting
more time. Little Karen was still retching, huge gasps surprising from such a small child.

“One of the children is sick. Let me go to her,” Kate said.

“No more tricks, miss. One more trick and you die. Believe me, this mission is worth more than your life.”

“No more tricks,” Kate promised.

Artkin stepped aside. Kate rushed to the nauseated child, arriving in time for the child to vomit all over the floor of the bus, a pinkish sickening fluid that splashed on Kate’s hands and jeans, causing Kate herself to get sick to her stomach, even while she held the gasping, miserable child close to her and murmured whatever words of consolation she could muster.

“Miro.”

Artkin’s voice was flat, cold, deadly.

Miro hesitated, then stepped past the pool of vomit on his way to the front of the bus. Kate was able to squeeze out a small measure of compassion for him. Miro was about to get a bit of his own hell, and Kate knew she was to blame.

He felt the lash of Artkin’s words. The sting.

He was afraid the girl could hear them, which would cause even greater humiliation and embarrassment.

But although Artkin’s words were harsh, he spoke in whispers, furious whispers, full of anger, but whispers at least. And the children were still fussing, still crying, still seeking the girl’s attention.

Miro was hardly aware of the background noise, however, because Artkin’s words flayed him. He shriveled inside his clothes, his face was flooded with shame inside the mask. He wished he could cover his eyes, to escape Artkin’s anger.

You neglected your duty. You turned your back on the girl.
You did not win her confidence. You almost wrecked this operation.

Miro winced, grimaced, glad that Antibbe and Stroll were in the van and were not witnesses. And yet it was Artkin who mattered, Artkin whom he did not wish to disappoint, Artkin whose praise he’d always sought.

I accept mistakes because humans make mistakes. And the young are expected to make mistakes. But to be careless is different. To be outside the bus with the girl inside, that was more than a mistake.

Artkin had scolded him before. But always with understanding. As a teacher scolds a pupil. But this was worse than a teacher reprimanding a student. Much worse. He was rebuking him as he would rebuke any other fighter, any other soldier. And Miro was plunged into despair. He had gained manhood on this operation. Artkin had confided in him. Treated him as a man. And he had failed Artkin. He had had no time to know pride in his manhood before he had made a mockery of it.

“One thing has saved you,” Artkin said.

Miro did not move, did not breathe, tried in fact to even stop his blood moving in his veins. What? he wondered and dared not ask.

“I myself should have searched the girl. Or asked you to search,” Artkin said. “I, too, was careless. I share the blame.”

A sharing with Artkin? Even of guilt? Could this, too, be a source of pride? Or did it curdle pride?

And then Artkin told him to be on guard, more alert than before. “Learn by your mistakes,” he said, a warning in his voice. “We are entering a crucial stage now. Stay on guard.”

It wasn’t until Artkin had returned to the van that certain words echoed in Miro’s mind. Artkin had said:
One thing has saved you.

And Miro wondered miserably: Saved me from what?

Night penetrated the bus without Kate being aware of it, the mysterious border between dusk and night dissolved by the darkness. Actually, night only deepened the dimness of the bus, and yet it brought with it a kind of weariness that settled on its occupants like a comforting blanket. The air of the bus was stained with smells: urine (maybe my own, Kate thought dismally) and sweat and vomit. But somehow they seemed less pungent in the darkness, a trick of the senses maybe. Because the bus had been so dim throughout the day, Kate’s eyes quickly became accustomed to the night’s darkness. The children, with only one or two exceptions, responded gratefully to the arrival of night, falling into what seemed now to be a more natural slumber, breathing regularly, sleeping comfortably without the fits and starts and sudden harsh awakenings of the drugged sleep. One or two had vomited, gushing into the plastic pail, and some had complained of stomachaches. But Kate had been able to soothe their complaints, promising them that tomorrow things would be better, they’d be back home again with their mothers and fathers. The heat was still oppressive, no place for it to escape with the doors and windows closed. Kate felt she could bear the heat or anything else. The fact that she was alive, had survived the futile attempt to escape without any retaliation by Artkin against her or the children, made her feel that she could withstand anything, heat or cold, hunger or thirst. She realized that she’d hardly eaten all day long, except for small bites from the children’s sandwiches. Her stomach now revolted at the thought of food. As far as thirst was
concerned, she could put up with it, put up with anything.

Delicately, so as not to disturb little Karen who slept beside her, curled up on the seat, Kate raised herself to look out the window through the narrow untaped slit. Across the ravine, the windows of the pavilion were squares of yellow light. A bluish light flickered inside. The woods were quiet, suspended in the dark. No moon, no stars. A stand of birches gleamed like pale bones. She couldn’t understand why nobody had fired when she started to drive the bus from the bridge. Was Artkin telling the truth? Were negotiations really going on? Would this mean their freedom was at hand?

Kate turned from the window. But not my freedom, she thought. She glanced toward Miro, who was sitting at the back of the bus, a black hulk in the night. She had heard Artkin giving him hell, blaming him for Kate’s attempt to escape. She hadn’t been able to understand Artkin’s words, but the sibilant whispers left no doubt in her mind about what Artkin was saying. Later, as he passed by, Miro had looked at her with such malevolence, such hate, that she had clutched the child to her chest.

She sat down again, her limbs aching, all her muscles tight, cramped. At the same time, she felt dull, her head heavy, her eyes raw and itching. If she could only sleep, get some rest, escape from this terrible place for a few moments. Yet she knew that she had to resist sleep. Sleep was like a little death, and death was probably nearer than she knew. She wanted to remain alert and awake—and alive—as long as she could.

Miro brooded in the darkness, watching and waiting. On his guard. Watching for any movement at all.
Watching for whatever the girl might do next. She was bunched up with a child, sleeping perhaps. Perhaps not. Miro was unhappy. And puzzled. Puzzled because this was all new to him, being unhappy. He had never given much thought to his emotions. He was aware that other people were happy or sad. Those were the two emotions he had observed. Happy, unhappy. Like labels on a piece of luggage.

Yet, he himself was unhappy now. He was sitting in this bus with the children and an American girl and he had put a label on himself. He had never required a label before. During all the operations with Artkin, he had not thought about being happy or sad or even being afraid. He had concentrated on the operation and had known a kind of pleasure in doing well. That was all. But now he looked inside himself and knew a feeling he could only call sadness. The girl had asked: Don’t you feel anything?

Confused by the thoughts, Miro stood up to inspect the bus. He did not want to risk another mistake. The girl Kate was more intelligent, craftier than he had suspected. Artkin had said: Never trust your enemies, no matter how docile they appear to be. And he had almost trusted the girl, had let down his guard because he thought she was docile, helpless. Had he diminished his guard against the girl for other reasons? He thought of her unclothed flesh and moved through the darkness to escape the thoughts.

The girl was apparently asleep, her blond hair like a small glow in the dark. She was the source of his trouble. She had been his first target and had eluded him. She had weakened him with her soft talk, her questions, and had made him talk too much and made him become careless. Padding softly to the door, he checked the lock. On his way back, he made certain the tape was still
secure on the windows, the plastic still in place. He was careful not to wake the girl or the children. The children were a constant drain on his nerves.

He sat himself down rigidly on the back seat. He listened to the breathing and the gentle snoring of the children and the girl. Let her sleep. Tomorrow, the operation would end and he would have an opportunity to win back Artkin’s favor. The children would be released and he would hold the gun to the girl’s temple and then they would get away from this place.

He stayed awake through the night, humming to himself a Presley song. Just as he had trained his body to contain itself when there were no bathrooms, so had he trained himself to do without sleep when it was necessary, to remain awake and alert, his body on guard, his mind sharp and aware, his eyes able to penetrate the darkness and pick out any movement that might contain danger.

And that is why the girl’s voice made him leap as it reached him from the darkness, close to his ear. “I’m sorry,” the voice said, like a ghost in the night. He turned to the voice and realized with dismay that he had been betrayed again, this time by his body, which had fallen asleep even as he watched.

“Are you awake?” the voice said.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For the trouble I caused you.”

“It does not matter,” he said, feeling again the humiliation he had known when Artkin rebuked him. Suppose Artkin had seen him leap here in the dark when the girl woke him? He hated her for this, and he had never hated before, not even the enemy. “I made a mistake. We learn by our mistakes.”

“And what did you learn?” she asked, whispering, her voice hanging in the night as if apart from her body.

“To be on guard, always. To trust no one. Not even myself.”

“That’s sad,” she said.

He could see her now, the spill of hair, the gleam of flesh. “Why is it sad? And why should it have meaning for you? We are nothing to each other.” His voice was harsh beside hers, as he meant it to be. Yet he had never heard her speak so gently.

“It’s sad not to trust anyone,” she said. And even as she said the words, she was proving the truth of what he had learned. Because she was still using him, of course.

She had awakened a few moments ago to the stark knowledge that these hours of the night were her final chance. She knew she couldn’t possibly escape tomorrow. Even if they freed the children, they could not afford to let her go. She had read doom in Artkin’s eyes from the beginning. And now the boy hated her. He’d been blamed for her attempted escape and probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill her himself.

Yet, she had reached him earlier. He had watched her the way a thousand boys had watched her. And he was her only hope. The others were animals. Not even animals, but robots. Merciless, heartless, they would not hesitate to kill anyone. Artkin’s hands had moved over her body as if she were a mannequin in a store window. But Miro? That longing in his eyes. Could she make it reappear? Not in any hope that he would help her escape—that was impossible now—but to have him regard her as a human being again, someone whose life was precious, someone who’d stirred him a little, aroused him a bit, so that he might just hesitate, think twice, when a showdown came. She didn’t have the key anymore and she didn’t have Raymond, although
Raymond had been only a fragile hope. But she had herself. And trying was better than sitting here in the dark, doing nothing.

So she’d crept stealthily down the aisle, crouched and on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb the children. When she spoke to Miro, not planning what she was going to say, he answered immediately, his body jumping slightly. His voice was cold, hate made vocal, as cold and as flat as Artkin’s voice could be when he was angry. It might have been the same voice, in fact; they might have been brothers or father and son. And when she told him that it was sad not to trust anyone in the world, she felt cheap and soiled and treacherous, knowing she was using the words to awaken him to her, using them the way she imagined a prostitute used her body to arouse a man.

“Haven’t you ever trusted anyone in your life, Miro?” she asked. Had she ever used his name before?

“My name is not Miro,” he said, the words a surprise to him.

“What is your name?” she asked, quickly, sensing that she had slipped through his guard again.

“I cannot tell you,” he said, angry at himself for another betrayal. “Why should it mean anything to you? Why do you come to me like this in the night?”

“Because we’re both human. We’re both human beings caught in this terrible thing.”

“I am not caught,” he said. “It’s my wish to be here. This is my work, my duty. There is no other place in the world for me to be at this moment but here.”

She said nothing for a moment. She was really sad for him, the way it’s possible to feel for something you do not understand. He was still a monster, of course. But who had made him a monster? This world, his world. Who was guilty, then: the monster or the world that created it?

“All I wanted to do,” Kate said, “was say that I’m sorry I got you into trouble. You’ve been kind to the children and me.”

She reached out her hand and touched his arm, hoping that her touch would convey the message she intended.

Her fingers on his arm startled him, her hand like a pale flower in the dark, her touch rippling his flesh like the breeze that moves the surface of a pond, his flesh now shivering in the same way. No one had ever touched him so intimately before. He held himself still, letting the quiver of her touch echo through his body.

And then she was gone, moving into the night and away from him.

Miro
heard someone fumbling with the lock and came instantly awake. He blinked his eyes to see clearer, into far corners. Night and darkness still clutched the interior of the bus but the shapes of things were familiar to him. The unfamiliar would be a danger.