The Cairo Affair (4 page)

She was still trying to decide when the restaurant was filled with a woman’s scream. It came from the table behind her. She began to turn to get a look at the woman, but instead saw what the scream had been about. It was at their table, where their waiter should have been standing, a large man—bald, sweating, in a long, cheap overcoat. Upon looking at him, she understood why their neighbor had screamed, for she had the same impulse herself. He was all muscle—not tall but wide—with muddy blue prison tattoos creeping out from under his collar. A man of absolute violence, like those tracksuited Balkan mafiosi she occasionally saw in overpriced bars. He wasn’t looking at her, though, but at Emmett, and he was holding a pistol in his hairy hand.

It was the first time she’d ever seen a gun in a restaurant. She’d seen hunting rifles disassembled in her childhood living room, then put to use outdoors when her father went hunting for red stag deer in West Virginia. She once saw a pistol hanging from inside a jacket in their Cairo kitchen when an agent of one of the security services had come to have a talk with Emmett. In Yugoslavia, they had been on soldiers and militiamen and in one grimy kitchen that still sometimes appeared in her dreams, but she had never seen one in a restaurant. Now she had, and the pistol—a modern-looking one, slide-action—was pointed directly at her husband.

“Emmett Kohl,” the man said with a strong accent, but it wasn’t a Hungarian accent. It was something Sophie couldn’t place.

Emmett just stared at him, hands flat on either side of his plate. She couldn’t tell if he recognized the man, so before she had a chance to think through the stupidity of her actions she said, “Who are you?”

The man turned to her, though his pistol remained on Emmett. He frowned, as if she were an unexpected variable in an equation he’d spent weeks calculating. Then he turned back to Emmett and said, “I here for you.”

Mute, Emmett shook his head.

Behind the man, the restaurant was clearing out. It was surprising how quietly so many people could retreat, the only sound a low
rhubarb-rhubarb
rumbling through the place. Men were snatching phones from their tables and holding women by the elbows, heading toward the door. They crouched as they walked. She hoped that at least one of them was calling the police. A waitress stood by the wall, tray against her hip, confused.

Sophie said, “Why are you here?”

Again, the look, and this time she could read irritation in his features. Instead of answering, he glanced at the gold wristwatch on his free hand and muttered something in a language she didn’t recognize. Something sharp, like a curse. He looked back at Emmett and, his arm stiffening, pulled the trigger.

Later, she would hate herself for staring at the gunman rather than at her husband. She should have been looking at Emmett, giving him a final moment of commiseration, of tenderness, of love. But she hadn’t been, because she hadn’t expected this. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, she hadn’t actually expected the man to shoot Emmett twice, once in the chest and, after a step forward, once through the nose, the explosion of each shot cracking her ears. She supposed it was because she was still dealing with the shock of Zora Balašević, of Stan, and the novelty of a gun in a restaurant. It was so much to deal with that she couldn’t have expected more novelty to come so quickly. Not that night.

Yet there it was. She turned to see Emmett leaned back against the wall, his hazel, bloodshot eyes open but unfocused, sliding out of his chair, his face unrecognizable, blood and organic matter splashed across the wall and a sepia city scene. Screams made the restaurant noisy again, but she didn’t look around. She just stared at Emmett as his body slid down, disappearing gradually behind the table and his plate of half-eaten steak. She didn’t even notice that the gunman had jogged out of the restaurant, pushing past the remaining witnesses—this was something she would be told later.

For the moment, it was just Sophie, the table with their wine and blood-spattered food, and Emmett slipping away. His chest disappeared, then his shoulders, his chin pressed down against the knot of his tie, then his face. The gory face that was missing the short, almost pug nose that, more than his hair or his clothes, always defined her husband’s look. The table rocked as he fell off the chair, leaving a mess on the wall. She didn’t hear him hit because her ears were ringing from the gunshots, and she felt as if she were going to vomit. There was more screaming and the distant sound of weeping, but she soon learned that all of it was coming from herself.

3

She had never imagined that it would be like this. Not that she’d ever imagined
this,
but whenever she’d imagined something terrible happening before her eyes, her imagination would take in the event itself, that first taste of horror, and then …
cut
: to the next day, or the next week. Her brain worked like a film editor, even dicing up actual memories, jump-cutting over hours, balking at the grimy minutes and hours that stretched between the initial shock and the final passing out, when a night’s sleep would come along to wash away a little of the metallic taste of disaster.

Yet it became abundantly clear that this in-between time
was
the event. The adrenaline and the endless replay of her husband’s pink bits splattering across the wallpaper, the contradictory calm voice of some restaurant customer, an American who thought she could relate to Sophie, the barely intelligible grunts of Hungarian policemen who seemed, more than anything else, baffled by what their role was supposed to be, and then the trained, cool, faux-comforting voice of a skinny, pink-cheeked young man from the embassy who arrived with a doctor and introduced himself as Gerry Davis. Gerry Davis told her that the doctor was going to take a look at her—nothing to worry about—and maybe give her a little something to take the edge off. They brought her to an empty table in another room so she wouldn’t have to see her husband anymore. Someone gave her a real silk handkerchief that smelled faintly of vinegar. She focused for a long time on a cigarette burn in the tablecloth. This was
all
the event.

Gerry Davis said, “Do you have a phone?”

“Excuse me?”

“A cell phone. If you do, you might want to turn it off.”

She took out her iPhone and stared at it, unsure of what to do. Gerry Davis took it from her, powered it down, and handed it back. “It’s better that way. For the moment, at least.”

When Gerry Davis explained that he was going to take her back to her apartment, where there would be someone else from the embassy to stay the night with her, she realized that he was smart, this Gerry Davis. Though he knew her future had just evaporated, he was giving her precise, manageable plans to carry her forward. Until the next day, at least.

Later, she would ask herself how she could make such judgments—that Gerry Davis was smart, that the policemen didn’t know what to do with themselves, and that she’d misjudged the parameters of a tragic event. After what she’d been through, she shouldn’t have been able to see past her own fingertips, but she could see clearly to the end of the room where Daniel himself, in a smeared apron, was giving a statement to a uniformed cop. Why were her eyes so clear and her senses still acute?

One of the policemen, an older Hungarian in civilian clothes, introduced himself as Andras Something and squatted in front of her chair. In a heavy accent, he asked a few questions: Did she recognize the killer? Had he said anything that might explain why he had come tonight? She tried to give him useful answers, but in the midst of her words she began to spill too much information; she couldn’t help herself. “Beforehand, we were talking, Emmett and me. About the affair I had. He was hurt, really hurt. I don’t know—maybe this had something to do with it … do you think? I mean, it lasted so long, right under his nose. Do you think that maybe—”

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Gerry Davis said, “I think that’s enough for now.”

Andras Something climbed to his feet, knees cracking like a log fire, and thanked her for her help. Then Gerry Davis drove her home, across the Chain Bridge, away from the clotted cityscape of Pest into the greener Buda hills, keeping his Ford full of chatter about what to expect, what the name of her babysitter would be, and who she should expect to hear from tomorrow. Anything and everything to keep from touching on an hour ago. As he spoke, though, she heard the killer’s voice:
I here for you.

Fiona Vale was already in the apartment when they arrived. She was in her fifties, from Nebraska, and told Sophie that she knew Emmett well. She knew better than to start offering assessments of her husband—no “a lovely man” or “he will be missed.” Just the fact that she knew him, brief condolences, and a plate of chicken breast, potatoes, and grilled asparagus that she had picked up on her way over. Sophie was famished, but she didn’t touch the food at first. She headed toward the liquor cabinet. Predicting everything, Fiona cut her off and asked what she wanted to drink. “Take a load off. I’ve got this.”

Gerry Davis had left by then, and soon they were settled in the quiet living room with glasses of Emmett’s Jim Beam. Before they could speak again, the kitchen phone rang, and Fiona went to get it. She reappeared after a moment. “It’s Glenda Bennett—you up to talking?”

Sophie heard:
Rhubarb-rhubarb
.

“Sure,” she told Fiona Vale.

She heard:
Bang!
Then:
Bang!
A wet sound.

“Oh my God, Sophie. Oh my God. Ray just told me.”

She soon found herself trying to calm Glenda; her friend was hysterical.

“I’m coming over, Sophie. I’m calling the taxi right now.”

“No, Glen. Don’t. I’ve got someone looking after me, and I just want to sleep now. Really.”

“But it’s not right. I just.
Sophie.
”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll come over and spend a couple hours listening to me, okay? Right now, I’m exhausted.”

“Well, let me do
something,
” Glenda said, and from the background came her husband’s voice.

“Let me get to sleep.”

“Okay,” she said, then: “Just a sec. Ray wants the phone.”

Raymond Bennett, consul general, came on. “Sophie, I know you want to get some rest. I only want you to know how shocked we are by this, and that we’re here for you. Anything you need.”

“Thank you, Ray.”

“This is being investigated from the top. We’re going to have answers soon. Who’s there with you?”

“Fiona Vale.”

“Fee’s great. Ask her for anything you need, and if there’s something she can’t take care of don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thanks, Ray. I should probably just go to sleep.”

“Absolutely. Good night, then.”

But even after the whisky, a few bites of the chicken and vegetables, another whisky with Fiona, and a hot shower followed by Fiona tucking her into bed at one in the morning—even after all that, she lay in the darkness, staring. She saw it again, the endless loop of
I here for you, rhubarb-rhubarb,
and
bang!
She also heard every early morning noise: cars passing on the street, a dog in pain somewhere, people laughing on their way home from bars, and the fan of Emmett’s laptop on his side of her now-enormous bed—that last sound was the worst.

She got up and closed the computer, waiting the extra minute until the fan shut off, then heard more street noises—but they were in her head. They were Cairo voices, the jumble of melodic arguments and the muezzins’ calls to prayer that she remembered from that dusty hotel room in Dokki where she and Stan, after their groping, lay sweaty and exhausted. She, outlining her plans for the rest of the day. He, listening with odd satisfaction to the unimaginative details of her life, for she never shared the imaginative ones.

Then it came. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still took her off guard, the cold shiver running from head to heel, the twist in her stomach, and then the weeping. It leapt upon her, loud and wet and very messy. It was real, and for a moment she believed it was the most real thing she had done in her life.

She would never see him again. She would never sit across from him at dinner, never touch him or worry over his inability to match his own clothes. She would never listen to his soft snores, and she would never feel the length and weight of his body on hers. They had tapered off over the last years, sex coming along rarely, but she’d always thought that they were going through a phase from which they would inevitably emerge, just as they had emerged from Cairo intact—or mostly intact. There would be no more phases, no more of the rhythms of living with a man who, for twenty years, had been the central figure in her life.

There was a hole in her stomach and an empty space in her skull that nothing and no one, certainly not Stan, would ever be able to fill. And guilt. So much damned guilt.

She wasn’t sure how long this went on. As she gradually recovered she realized that her pillow was soaking wet, so she took Emmett’s pillow, and that brought on fresh tears. Eventually, she went to the bathroom for tissues and stared into the mirror, wiping at her splotchy face. She hardly even saw herself, but the reflection helped. The tears began to dry. She took a breath.

He’s dead.

It’s your fault.

It’s Stan’s fault.

In that moment this seemed reasonable—that her yearlong affair had pulled that trigger—though she knew it wasn’t true. Her affair only ensured that Emmett’s final moments would be miserable.

Stan had called Emmett. Actually called him, months afterward, to announce his love for her. Stan had always been old-fashioned, but Jesus.

She returned to the bedroom, flipped on the bedside lamp, and took out her phone. She turned it on, watching the start-up screen until it lit up with messages: six missed calls, two from Glenda, one from Ray, and one each from other friends, Mary, Tracey, and Anita. She ignored the voice mails and went through her contacts until she found Stan. Two rings and, as always, he was a man who answered with identification, even at three in the morning: “Stan Bertolli.” Voice achingly familiar.