Shibumi (42 page)

Hel turned his face away and shook his head slightly. “This must be embarrassing to be you.”

During the silence, Diamond’s fingernails had dug into his palms. He cleared his throat. “Whatever you think of me, I cannot believe that you will sacrifice the years remaining to you for one gesture that would be appreciated by no one but that middle-class dumpling I met at dinner. I think I know what you are going to do, Mr. Hel. You are going to consider this matter at length and realize at last that a handful of sadistic Arabs is not worth this home and life you have made for yourself here; you will realize that you are not honor-bound to the desperate hopes of a sick and drug-befuddled man; and finally you will decide to back off. One of the reasons you will do this is because you would consider it demeaning to make an empty gesture of courage to impress me, a man you despise. Now, I don’t expect you to tell me that you’re backing off right now. That would be too humiliating, too damaging to your precious sense of dignity. But that is what you will do at last. To be truthful, I almost wish you would persist in this matter. It would be a pity to see the punishments I have devised for you go unused. But, fortunately for you, the Chairman of the Mother Company is adamant that the Septembrists go unmolested. We are arranging what will be called the Camp David Peace Talks in the course of which Israel will be pressured into leaving her southern and eastern borders naked. As a by-product of these talks, the PLO will be dealt out of the Middle Eastern game. They have served their irritant purpose. But the Chairman wants to keep the Palestinians mollified until this coup comes off. You see, Mr. Hel, you’re swimming in deep currents, involved with forces just a little beyond shotgun pistols and cute gardens.”

Hel regarded Diamond in silence for a moment. Then he turned toward his garden. “This conversation is over,” he said quietly.

“I see.” Diamond took a card from his pocket’. “I can be contacted at this number. I shall be back at my office within ten hours. When you tell me that you have decided not to interfere in this business, I shall initiate the release of your Swiss funds.”

As Hel no longer seemed to be aware of his presence, Diamond put the card on the table, “There’s nothing more for us to discuss at this time, so I’ll be on my way.”

“What? Oh, yes. I am sure you can find your way out, Diamond. Hana will serve you coffee before sending you and your lackeys back to the village. No doubt Pierre has been fortifying himself with wine for the past few hours and will be in good form to give you a memorable ride.”

“Very well. But first… there was that question I had for you.”

“Well?”

“That rosé I had with dinner. What was it?”

“Tavel, of course.”

“I knew it!”

“No, you didn’t. You almost knew it.”

The arm of the garden extending toward the Japanese building had been designed for listening to rain. Hel worked for weeks each rainy season, barefoot and wearing only sodden shorts, as he tuned the garden. The gutters and downspouts had been drilled and shaped, plants moved and removed, gravel distributed, sounding stones arranged in the stream, until the blend of soprano hissing of rain through gravel, the basso drip onto broad-leaved plants, the reedy resonances of quivering bamboo leaves, the counterpoint of the gurgling stream, all were balanced in volume in such a way that, if one sat precisely in the middle of the
tatami
’d room, no single sound dominated. The concentrating listener could draw one timbre out of the background, or let it merge again, as he shifted the focus of his attention, much as the insomniac can tune in or out the ticking of a clock. The effort required to control the instrument of a well-tuned garden is sufficient to repress quotidian worries and anxieties, but this anodyne property is not the principal goal of the gardener, who must be more devoted to creating a garden than to using it.

Hel sat in the gun room, hearing the rain, but lacking the peace of spirit to listen to it. There was bad
aji
in this affair. It wasn’t of a piece, and it was treacherously… personal. It was Hel’s way to play against the patterns on the board, not against fleshy, inconsistent living opponents. In this business, moves would be made for illogical reasons; there would be human filters between cause and effect. The whole thing stank of passion and sweat.

He released a long sigh in a thin jet of breath. “Well?” he asked. “And what do you make of all this?”

There was no answer. Hel felt her aura take on a leporine palpitation between the urge to flee and fear of movement. He slid back the door panel to the tea room and beckoned with his finger.

Hannah Stern stood in the doorway, her hair wet with rain, and her sodden dress clinging to her body and legs. She was embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, but defiantly unwilling to apologize. In her view, the importance of the matters at hand out-weighed any consideration of good form and rules of polite behavior. Hel might have told her that, in the long run, the “minor” virtues are the only ones that matter. Politeness is more reliable than the moist virtues of compassion, charity, and sincerity; just as fair play is more important than the abstraction of justice. The major virtues tend to disintegrate under the pressures of convenient rationalization. But good form is good form, and it stands immutable in the storm of circumstance.

Hel might have told her this, but he was not interested in her spiritual education, and he had no wish to decorate the unperfectible. At all events, she would probably have understood only the words, and if she were to penetrate to meanings, what use would be the barriers and foundations of good form to a woman whose life would be lived out in some Scarsdale or other?

“Well?” he asked again. “What did you make of all that?”

She shook her head. “I had no idea they were so… organized; so… cold-blooded. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble, haven’t I?”

“I don’t hold you responsible for anything that has happened so far. I have long known that I have a karma debt. Considering the fact that my work has cut across the grain of social organization, a certain amount of bad luck would be expected. I’ve not had that bad luck, and so I’ve built up a karma debt; a weight of antichance against me. You were the vehicle for karma balance, but I don’t consider you the cause. Do you understand any of that?”

She shrugged. “What are you going to do?”

The storm was passing, and the winds behind it blew in from the garden and made Hannah shudder in her wet dress.

“There are padded kimonos in that chest Get out of those clothes.”

“I’m all right”

“Do as I tell you. The tragic heroine with the sniffles is too ludicrous an image.”

It was consonant with the too-brief shorts, the unbuttoned shirt front and the surprise Hannah affected (believed she genuinely felt) when men responded to her as an object that she unzipped and stepped out of the wet dress before she sought out the dry kimono. She had never confessed to herself that she took social advantage of having a desirable body that appeared to be available. If she had thought of it, she would have labeled her automatic exhibitionism a healthy acceptance of her body—an absence of “hangups.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked again, as she wrapped the warm kimono about her.

“The real question is what are you going to do. Do you still intend to press on with this business? To throw yourself off the pier in the hopes that I will have to jump in after you?”

“Would you? Jump in after me?”

“I don’t know.”

Hannah stared out into the dark of the garden and hugged the comforting kimono to herself. “I don’t know… I don’t know. It all seemed so clear just yesterday. I knew what I had to do, what was the only just and right thing to do.”

“And now…?”

She shrugged and shook her head. “You’d rather I went home and forgot all about it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. And that might not be as easy as you think, either. Diamond knows about you. Getting you safely home will take a little doing.”

“And what happens to the Septembrists who murdered our athletes in Munich?”

“Oh, they’ll die. Everyone does, eventually.”

“But… if I just go home, then Avrim’s death and Chaim’s would be pointless!”

“That’s true. They were pointless deaths, and nothing you might do would change that.”

Hannah stepped close to Hel and looked up at him, her face full of confusion and doubt. She wanted to be held, comforted, told that everything would be just fine.

“You’ll have to decide what you intend to do fairly quickly. Let’s go back to the house. You can think things out tonight.”

They found Hana and Le Cagot sitting in the cool of the wet terrace. The gusting wind had followed the storm, and the air was fresh and washed. Hana rose as they approached and took Hannah’s hand in an unconscious gesture of kindness.

Le Cagot was sprawled on a stone bench, his eyes closed, his brandy glass loose in his fingers, and his heavy breathing occasionally rippling in a light snore.

“He dropped off right in the middle of a story,” Hana explained.

“Hana,” Hel said. “Miss Stern won’t be staying with us after tonight. Would you see to having her things packed by morning? I’m going to take her up to the lodge.” He turned to Hannah. “I have a mountain place. You can stay there, out of harm’s way, while I consider how to get you back to your parents safely.”

“I haven’t decided that I
want
to go home.”

Instead of responding, Hel kicked the sole of Le Cagot’s boot. The burly Basque started and smacked his lips several times. “Where was I? Ah… I was telling you of those three nuns in Bayonne. Well, I met them—”

“No, you decided not to tell that one, considering the presence of ladies.”

“Oh? Well, good! You see, little girl, a story like that would inflame your passions. And when you come to me, I want you to do so of your own will, and not driven by blinding lust. What happened to our guests?”

“They’ve gone. Probably back to the United States.”

“I am going to tell you something in all frankness, Niko. I do not like those men. There is cowardice in their eyes; and that makes them dangerous. You must either invite a better class of guests, or risk losing my patronage. Hana, wonderful and desirable woman, do you want to go to bed with me?”

She smiled. “No, thank you, Beñat.”

“I admire your self control. What about you, little girl?”

“She’s tired,” Hana said.

“Ah well, perhaps it’s just as good. It would be a little crowded in my bed, what with the plump Portuguese kitchen maid. So! I hate to leave you without the color and charm of my presence, but the magnificent machine that is my body needs draining, then sleep. Good night, my friends.” He grunted to his feet and started to leave, then he noticed Hannah’s kimono. “What’s this? What happened to your clothes? Oh, Niko, Niko. Greed is a vice. Ah well… good night.”

Hana had gently stroked the tension from his back and shoulders as he lay on his stomach, and now she tugged his hair until he was half asleep. She placed her body over his, fitting her lap to his buttocks, her legs and arms over his, her warm weight protecting him, comforting, forcing him to relax. “This is trouble, isn’t it?” she whispered.

He hummed in affirmation.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “Get the girl away from here first. They may think that her death would cancel my debt to the uncle.”

“You are sure they won’t find her? There’s no such thing as a secret in these valleys.”

“Only the mountain men will know where she is. They’re my people; and they don’t talk to police, by habit and tradition.”

“And what then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“Shall I bring you pleasure?”

“No. I’m too tense. Let me be selfish. Let me bring you pleasure.”

Hel was awake at dawn and put in two hours of work on the garden before he took breakfast with Hana in the
tatami
’d room overlooking the newly raked sea gravel that flowed down to the edge of the stream; “In time, Hana, this will be an acceptable garden. I hope you are here to enjoy it with me.”

“I have been giving that matter consideration, Nikko. The idea is not without its attractions. You were very thorough last night.”

“I was working out some stresses. That’s an advantage.”

“If I were selfish, I would hope for such stresses always.”

He chuckled. “Oh, will you telephone down to the village and arrange for the next flight back to the United States for Miss Stern? It will be Pau to Paris, Paris to New York, New York to Chicago.”

“She is leaving us then?”

“Not just yet. I don’t want her in the open. But the reservations will be stored in the airline’s computer bank, and will be immediately available to Fat Boy. It will throw them off the track.”

“And who is ‘Fat Boy’?”

“A computer. The final enemy. It arms stupid men with information.”

“You sound bitter this morning.”

“I am. Even self-pitying.”

“I had avoided that phrase, but it is the right one. And it’s not becoming in a man like you.”

“I know.” He smiled. “No one in the world would dare correct me like that, Hana. You’re a treasure.”

“It’s my role to be a treasure.”

“True. By the way, where is Le Cagot? I haven’t heard him thundering about.”

“He went off an hour ago with Miss Stern. He’s going to show her some of the deserted villages. I must say she seemed to be in good spirits.”

“The shallow recover quickly. You can’t bruise a pillow. When will they be back?”

“By lunch surely. I promised Beñat a roast of
gigot.
You said you were taking Hannah to the lodge. When will you be leaving?”

“After twilight. I’m being watched.”

“You intend to spend the night there with her?”

“Hm-m. I suppose so. I wouldn’t want to come back down those roads in the dark.”

“I know you don’t like Hannah, but—”

“I don’t like her type, thrill-seeking middle-class muffins tickling themselves with the thrill of terror and revolution. Her existence has already cost me a great deal.”

“Do you intend to punish her while you’re up there?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Don’t be harsh. She’s a good child.”

“She is twenty-four years old. She has no right to be a child at that age. And she is not good. At best, she is ‘cute.’”

Hel knew what Hana meant by “punishing” the girl. He had occasionally avenged himself on young women who had annoyed him by making love to them, using his tactical skills and exotic training to create an experience the woman could never approach again and would seek in vain through affairs and marriages for the rest of her life.

Hana felt no jealousy concerning Hannah; that would have been ridiculous. During the two years they had lived together, both she and Hel had been free to go off on little trips and seek sexual diversion, exercises of physical curiosity that kept their appetites in tone and made more precious, by comparison, what they had. Hana once chided him lightheartedly, complaining that he had the better of the arrangement, for a trained man can accomplish decent levels of exercise with a willing amateur; while even the most gifted and experienced woman has difficulty, with the gauche instrument of a bumbling man, achieving much beyond lust-scratching. Still, she enjoyed the occasional well-muscled young man of Paris or the Côte d’Azure, primarily as objects of physical beauty: toys to cuddle.

They drove along the twisting valley road, already dark with descending evening. The mountains rising sharply to their left were featureless geometric shapes, while those to their right were pink and amber in the horizontal rays of the setting sun. When they started from Etchebar, Hannah had been full of chatter about the robust good time she had had that afternoon with Le Cagot, wandering through deserted villages in the uplands, where she had noticed that each church clock had had its hands removed by the departing peasants. Le Cagot had explained that removing the hands of the clocks was considered necessary, because there would be no one in the churches to keep the clock weights screwed up, and one could not allow God’s clock to be inaccurate. The dour tone of primitive Basque Catholicism was expressed in a
memento mori
inscription on the tower of one deserted church; “Each hour wounds, the last kills.”

She was silent now, awed by the desolate beauty of the mountains rising so abruptly from the narrow valley that they seemed to overhang. Twice, Hel frowned and glanced over at her to find her eyes soft and a calm smile on her lips. He had been attracted and surprised by the alpha saturation in her aura, uncommon and unexpected in a person he had dismissed as a peppy twit. It was the timbre of calm and inner peace. He was going to question her about her decision concerning the Septembrists, when his attention was arrested by the approach of a car from behind driving with only wing lights. It flashed through his mind that Diamond or his French police lackeys might have learned that he was moving her to a safer place, and his hands gripped the wheel as he recalled the features of the road, deciding where he would force the car to pass him, then knock it into the ravine that raced along to their left. He had taken an exhaustive course in offensive driving, in result of which he always drove heavy cars, like his damned Volvo, for just such emergencies as this.

The road was never straight, constantly curving and twisting as it followed the course of the river ravine.

There was no place a safe pass could be made, but that, of course, would not deter a French driver, whose adolescent impulse to pass is legendary. The car behind continued to close the distance until it was only a meter from his back bumper. It flashed its headlights and sounded its horn, then whipped around while they were in a tight blind curve.

Hel relaxed and slowed to let the car pass. The horn and the lights told him that this was not an assassination attempt. No professional would telegraph his move like that. It was just another childish French driver.

He shook his head paternally as the underpowered Peugeot strained its motor in its laboring effort to pass, the young driver’s knuckles white on the steering wheel, his eyes bulging from their sockets in his effort to hold the road.

In his experience, Hel had found that only older North American drivers, with the long distances they habitually travel on good roads with competent machines, have become inured to the automobile as toy and as manhood metaphor. The French driver’s infantile recklessness often annoyed him, but not so much as did the typical Italian driver’s use of the automobile as an extension of his penis, or the British, driver’s use of it as a substitute.

For half an hour after leaving the valley road, they pulled up toward the mountains of Larun, over an unimproved road that writhed like a snake in its final agony. Some of the cutbacks were inside the turning radius of the Volvo, and negotiating them required two cuts and a bit of skidding close to the edge of loose gravel verges. They were never out of low gear, and they rose so steeply that they climbed out of the night that had pooled in the valley and into the zebra twilight of the high mountains: a blinding glare on the windshield when they turned toward the west, then blackness when outcroppings of rock blocked the setting sun.

Even this primitive road petered out, and they continued to ascend along faint ruts pressed into stubbly alpine meadows. The setting sun was now red and huge, its base flattened as it melted into the shimmering horizon. There were snow fields on the peaks above them glowing pink, then soon mauve, then purple against a black sky. The first stars glittered in the darkening east while the sky to the west was still hazy blue around the blood-red rim of the sinking sun.

Hel stopped the car by an outcropping of granite and set the hand brake. “We have to pack in from here. It’s another two and a half kilometers.”

“Up?” Hannah asked.

“Mostly up.”

“God, this lodge of yours is certainly out of the way.”

“That’s its role.” They got out and unloaded her pack from the car, experiencing the characteristic frustration of the Volvo’s diabolic rear latch. They had walked twenty meters before it occurred to him to perform his satisfying ritual. Rather than go back, he picked up a jagged rock and hurled it, a lucky shot that hit a rear window and made a large cobweb of crackled safety glass.

“What was that all about?” Hannah asked.

“Just a gesture. Man against the system. Let’s go. Stay close. I know the trail by feel.”

“How long will I be up here all alone?”

“Until I decide what to do with you.”

“Will you be staying tonight?”

“Yes.”

They walked on for a minute before she said, “I’m glad.”

He maintained a brisk pace because the light was draining fast. She was strong and young, and could stay with him, walking in silence, captured by the rapid but subtle color shifts of a mountain twilight. Again, as before down in the valley, he intercepted a surprising alpha tone in her aura—that rapid, midvolume signal that he associated with meditation and soul peace, and not at all with the characteristic signature timbres of young Westerners.

She stopped suddenly as they were crossing the last alpine meadow before the narrow ravine leading to the lodge.

“What is it?”

“Look. These flowers. I’ve never seen anything like them before.” She bent close to the wiry-stalked bells of dusty gold, just visible in the groundglow.

He nodded. “They’re unique to this meadow and to one other over there.” He gestured westward, toward the Table of the Three Kings, no longer visible in the gloom. “We’re just above twelve hundred here. Both here and over there, they grow only at twelve hundred, Locally they are called the Eye of Autumn, and most people have never seen them, because they bloom for only three or four days.”

“Beautiful. But it’s almost dark, and they’re still open.”

“They never close. Tradition has it that they live so short a time they dare not close.”

“That’s sad.”

He shrugged.

They sat opposite one another at a small table, finishing supper as they looked out through the plate-glass wall that gave onto the steep, narrow gully that was the only access to the lodge. Normally, Hel would be uneasy sitting in front of a glass wall, his form lighted by an oil lamp, while all was dark beyond. But he knew that the double plate glass was bulletproof.

The lodge was built of local stone and was simple of design: one large room with a cantilevered sleeping balcony. When first they arrived, he had acquainted Hannah with its features. The stream that flowed from a permanent snowfield above passed directly under the lodge, so one could get water through a trap door without going outside. The four-hundred-liter oil tank that fueled the stove and space heater was encased in the same stone as the lodge, so that incoming gunfire could not rupture it. There was a boiler-plate shutter that closed over the only door. The larder was cut into the face of granite that constituted one wall of the lodge, and contained thirty days’ supply of food. Set into the bulletproof plate-glass wall was one small pane that could be broken out to permit firing down into the tight ravine up which anyone approaching the lodge would have to pass. The walls of the ravine were smooth, and all covering boulders had been dislodged and rolled to the bottom.

“Lord, you could hold an army off forever!” she exclaimed.

“Not an army, and not forever; but it would be a costly position to take.” He took a semiautomatic rifle with telescopic sights from its rack and gave it to her. “Can you use this weapon?”

“Well… I suppose so.”

“I see. Well, the important thing is that you shoot if you see anyone approaching up the gully who is not carrying a
xahako.
It doesn’t matter if you hit him or not. The sound of your fire will carry in these mountains, and within half an hour help will be here.”

“What’s a… ah…?”

“A
xahako
is a wine skin like this one. The shepherds and smugglers in these hills all know you are here. They’re my friends. And they all carry
xahakos.
An outlander wouldn’t.”

“Am I really in all that much danger?”

“I don’t know.”

“But why would they want to kill me?”

“I’m not sure they do. But it’s a possibility. They might reason that my involvement would be over if you were dead, and there was nothing more I could do to repay my debt to your uncle. That would be stupid thinking, because if they killed you while you were in my protection, I would be forced to make a countergesture. But we are dealing here with merchant and military mentalities, and stupidity is their intellectual idiom. Now let’s see if you can manage everything.”

He rehearsed her in lighting the stove and space heater, in drawing water from the trap door over the stream, and in loading clips into the rifle. “By the way, remember to take one of these mineral tablets each day. The water running under the floor is snowmelt. It has no minerals, and in time it will leech the minerals out of your system.”

“God, how long will I be here?”

“I’m not sure. A week. Maybe two. Once those Septembrists have accomplished their hijack, the pressure will be off you.”

While he made supper from tinned foods in the larder, she had wandered about the lodge, touching things, thinking her own thoughts.

And now they sat across the round table by the glass wall, the candlelight reversing the shadows on her soft young face on which lines of character and experience had not yet developed. She had been silent throughout the meal, and she had drunk more wine than was her habit, and now her eyes were moist and vague. “I should tell you that you don’t have to worry about me anymore. I know what I’m going to do now. Early this morning, I decided to go home and try my best to forget all this anger and… ugliness. It’s not my kind of thing. More than that, I realize now that it’s all—I don’t know—all sort of unimportant.” She played absently with the candle flame, passing her finger through it just quickly enough to avoid being burned. “A strange thing happened to me last night. Weird. But wonderful. I’ve been feeling the effects of it all day long.”