Redemption (9 page)

“Thanks for everything. You’re the only person who never abandoned me, you know.”

After she left the hospital, Danny had stayed with her at her house. She began to see a therapist, but it got worst in the following weeks.

“I tried to call her yesterday evening, but no answer,” said Katie. This morning, she didn’t come to work. It’s not normal. She never misses work without warning. I thought she might be with you, but obviously she isn’t.”

“I was in class and I didn’t see her. She didn’t sleep at my house either,” he said. “She said she was a bit tired that she preferred to stay along at her house. I’m going to her apartment right away and I’ll call you when I figure it out.”

“Thanks, I know something’s not right.”

At her apartment, Danny pounded the door. “Open up, Chandra, it’s me!”

No answer, no noise in the apartment. He pressed his ear against the door and thought he heard the noise of a television. He took his key out of his pocket and put it in the lock. The door opened. He found indeed that the television was on. A music video played.

“Where are you!?” he shouted.

The bathroom door was half-open and steam drifted out. His heart began to beat wildly. He pushed the door open and at that moment a horrific sight. Chandra was lying in the bath full of hot water. She had slit both her wrists with a razor. The water was red with blood and there were several puddles on the floor as well. The blood had splashed a bit everywhere when she’d made the cuts. There was so much blood.

“NO, what did you do!” he cried, lunging toward her.

She wasn’t dead yet. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He took two towels and pressed them against her wrists to stop the bleeding. The blood dripped onto his white shirt when he made a tourniquet at each wrist.

“Oh my god… Chandra, hold on!” he said, dialling his cell.

“911, what is your emergency?” said a female voice at the other end of the line.

“Send an ambulance right away to 1845 Powell, apartment 6410 for a woman who slit her wrists. She’s lost a lot of blood!” he said, panicking.

“Sir, the ambulance is on its way immediately.”

Danny hung up the phone and took her by the shoulders to wake her up, but she wasn’t moving anymore.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me, please, my love,” she murmured inaudibly to Danny’s ears.

“No, you won't die here ! You have no right to leave me like this!” he shouted, taking her in his arms. He was covered in blood and water. The bathroom was inundated with blood.

“Oh god!” he cried, pressing his face to Chandra’s, which was pale as a corpse, continuing to bleed despite the tourniquets at her wrist.

“Forgive me, Danny, forgive me…,” she said, breathless with half closed-eyes.

“You don’t have the right to do this to me! Don’t die, I need you!” He was crying, looking at the ceiling so he wouldn’t see the blood, but he continued to press closer to her. The tears that flowed from his eyes disappeared in the bloody waters that he had all around him. At that moment he felt life leave her. The little resistance she’d had, he felt it dull completely and he heard her give her last breath that she had in his arms, then shut down forever as if she’d never existed.

“NO!” he screamed at the ceiling.

He continued to rock, holding her in his arms and crying. He was stained everywhere with the blood of the woman he had loved. He continued to hold her so he wouldn’t see the colour red around him and hear the rest of the music video that finished deep in the apartment.

PART II – CHAPTER 10

 I dislike
death
, however, there are some things I dislike more than
death
. Therefore, there are times when I will not avoid danger.

― Mencius

One cannot answer for his courage when he has never been in danger.

― La Rochefoucauld

May 2004, Manhattan, USA.

“They don’t pay me enough for what I do,” Namara grumbled, seated in his office on the 44
th
floor on Park Avenue.

The translation bureau for which he worked was one of the most prestigious in New York City and was situated in the heart of America in a few blocks of huge landmarks like the Empire State Building that was a few meters from him, Times Square which was illuminated in its thousand lights, Grand Central at the end of his street, the immense green park called Central Park that was surrounded by penthouse apartments for millionaires and their muses. Danny Namara had worked in that universe for nearly three years and at that day, he rubbed elbows with the richest men in America seeking counsel in linguistic matters, for text translations or live interpretation. His clients were numerous from the biggest ranking institutions in the world to international law firms, securities firms, renowned traders, government agencies or simply people who could afford his linguist fees.

He divided his time between the bureau and his meetings with clients throughout the city, whether to submit a work or to shake a hand in a restaurant over a new contract. Namara’s routine was worthy of that of a good New Yorker, that is, a madcap routine. He began his day generally waking at 5:30 in his miniscule Astoria apartment in Queens. From that moment, he walked to Ditmars Station to take his train that went straight by his workplace. He loved taking the subway and refused to buy a car. Anyway, he wouldn’t have had the money. En route toward his work, he took either a muffin or a New York-style bagel accompanied by a coffee that he gobbled en route. Upon arrival in the concrete jungle, he had been flabbergasted to see how the people behaved. Everyone seemed pressed. He saw the businessmen and businesswomen hurry eating on the train or in the street while reading the newspaper to the tune of their iPods in their ears. There were too many people in too little space. Every street corner for Danny was a show. There were many things to see, funny happenings to observe that he needed more eyes to see everything. He didn’t understand their rhythm of life. He was a stranger in an immense jungle of people, of concrete and cars that moved at a crazy rhythm without stopping in the night as much as the day.

Now, he was a real New Yorker. He was all that he found strange at the beginning. He ate on his feet from the N train that lead to 34
th
Street. There, he walked to his office. Taking the train to work was for him often the only respite he had in his day. He took time to look at the city when the train rolled on the elevated tracks from Queens allowing him to have an unassailable view of the Big Apple. At work, he moved to the glazed conference room for meetings. Once again, the view was unassailable over the city from this room. When one approached the windows, one could see the thousands of cars, the yellow taxis and the pedestrians that circulated like ants in the streets. He could see the spectacle from the height of the 44
th
floor. At the horizon, he had a view of Manhattan Bridge and Brooklyn Bridge. He took in this panorama when he could because his own office didn’t have a window.

“Are you coming to eat with us at noon?” asked one of his colleagues, poking his head into his office.

“No, I can’t. I have to meet a new client on Lex. He imports antiques or I don’t know what. I have a few Spanish texts to submit. It’s not far, I’m walking,” he said, rising to put on his jacket and adjust his tie.

“Heh heh, another day without stopping, Namara?”

“Damn right! You know, Max… when I got here, I didn’t understand why the windows of this building didn’t open… Now I get it. It’s so I won’t launch myself
out
of them.”

Max’s laugh resounded throughout the floor, distracting certain linguists who raised their heads out of curiosity to see what was happening before diving back into their schedule of busy time.

“You’re no doubt right, but every year there are people who find a way to jump all the same. But not you, you’re too in demand. You are the future of this business, that would be a scandal to destroy all that potential,” he said with an amused air.

Namara fixed him with a serious air.

“No, that would be a scandal not because I’m the future of this company, but because all the beauty you see before you would be demolished,” he said in sarcasm, waving his hand over his body with a flourish air.

“I understand completely how you feel, we’re not much in this situation,” he responded.

The two began to laugh, distracting again certain linguists. One in particular threw them an angry look.

“Tell yourself that you’re so busy because they love you, Danny,” said Max.

“If they love me that much, they would pay me more,” he said, glancing with a shoulder clap as he left the office with his shoulder bag.

“It’s surely that they haven’t thought of it, is all. If you share it with them, surely they’ll accept your proposition?” said Max, smiling in sarcasm.

“That’s it, the psychiatrist told me not to rile you up so I won’t say anything… Good day, Max!” he said, before engulfing himself in the elevator.

Max continued to snigger in returning to his office where he didn’t have a window either.

*     *     *

Lexington Avenue was an artery filled with buildings rich in architecture. Namara stopped before an old stylized office building going unnoticed on the street. He entered at the address given over the phone. He climbed two stories and walked through the door. A secretary welcomed him and he told her he had a meeting with an Igor Truofudsk. The woman asked him to sit and wait, and Danny took a leather chair in the vestibule. All the furniture was mahogany and the armchairs were leather. Several paintings were hung on the walls for decoration.
The paintings must have cost several thousands of dollars.

“Hello, Mr. Namara,” said a greying man with a light accent.

“You must be Igor,” he responded, rising from the armchair to shake his hand.

“Yes, in person. May I call you Danny?”

“Of course.”

“Fantastic. If you would follow me to my office, we will be more at ease to talk.”

Igor scanned Namara. He remarked on his athletic stature, his look, his posture, his way of speaking. He found that he had nothing of a linguist about him. He emitted a confidence, an intensity in his look that he noticed from the beginning not knowing why.
Instinct, surely.
It was an instinct that let him detect the good elements, but more often to break an enemy’s cover. After all these years as a former KGB hitman, later recruited by the CIA, he had seen enough. He had found a place in the sun with the American government in exchange for intelligence pertinent in their eyes concerning his former employers. His reflexes and his instinct had been put to the hard test and he had learned to rely on first impressions. Concerning Namara, he found that he had the appearance and look of a warrior, of a person who had seen despite his young age and not that of a bureaucrat. However, maybe he was mistaken.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Danny pulled out the Spanish text and laid it on the desk.

“Drink and cigar?’ he offered, pouring himself a glass.

“Yeah, why not,” he said with a smile.
Igor returned the smile, giving him the glass and a cuban cigar.

“I love it when people appreciate the finer things. I think Cuban cigars are the best, don't you agree?”

“I guess, God bless America. Could I borrow your light?” amused by looking at the illegal Cuban cigar on the American soil.

Igor took the lighter from the table near the bar and tested Namara’s reflexes to see if he was wrong about his subject. He waited for him to take a sip before tossing the lighter with a snap. Danny caught it with no hesitation and without lowering his glass. Igor liked being right.

“You have excellent reflexes. Are all linguists this quick?” he asked with a smile.

“I’m afraid not. I train in my free time,” he said, lighting the cigar.

Igor settled into his armchair and began to read the document Danny had translated.

“I know that most linguists prefer to deal by emails, but I like to know people I work with. Wonderful work, as always. That would be the second time that you’ve done my translations, but the first time that we’ve met. I wish we knew each other better, because I intend to draw up several other contracts with you.”

“No problem. Can I know exactly what your business does?”

“Dex Imports is in fact a business that imports art, in majority from South America to resell to rich Americans, in a nutshell. We serve as intermediaries of a sort to find that which our clients desire in the matter of old objects.” Igor watched Danny’s hands and saw that he joints were oddly prominent, especially his index.

“Ok, well. It’s not like you’re wanting clients in this city, eh?”

“Indeed. Dex Imports is doing very well. You seem to have trained hands… do you practice often?”

Namara looked at Igor and he knew that by his questions, he had a good knowledge of martial arts, more than a simple director of an art firm for rich people would know. He wasn’t naïve. He knew that Igor was scrutinizing everything he did, but this amused him more than anything. However, he didn’t think that his schedule was limited to financial transactions, judging by his questions and the kind of cigars he was smoking.

“Yes, you could say that, indeed. You have a good sense of observation.”

“I try. May I ask what style you practice without being too indiscrete?”

“I do Wing Chun in my spare time, when I have time, I should say, but nothing serious,” he said with amusement so that Igor would change the subject.

“Ahh yes, I know a bit about Chinese martial arts, but… superficially. I don’t practice, but I love martial arts films. I find them very amusing.

Danny smiled, drinking his 20-year-old scotch.

“Would you do other translations if I send them to you?”

“Of course, that's what I'm paid for. You can call me and send me text over email.”

“I’ll contact you and maybe we’ll have a chance to see each other in person another time.”