The Key to Rebecca (42 page)

“Thank you very much, sir,” said the driver.

There was a small stack of mail on the hall table. The top envelope had no stamp, and was addressed to Vandam in a vaguely familiar hand. It had “Urgent” scribbled in the top left-hand comer. Vandam picked it up.

There was more he should do, he realized. Wolff could well be heading south now. Roadblocks should be set up at all major towns on the route. There should be someone at every stop on the railway line, looking for Wolff. And the river itself... There had to be some way of checking the river, in case Wolff really had gone by boat, as in the daydream. Vandam was finding it hard to concentrate. We could set up riverblocks on the same principle as roadblocks, he thought; why not? None of it would be any good if Wolff had simply gone to ground in Cairo. Suppose he were hiding in the cemeteries? Many Muslims buried their dead in tiny houses, and there were acres of such empty buildings in the city: Vandam would have needed a thousand men to search them all. Perhaps I should do it anyway, he thought. But Wolff might have gone north, toward Alexandria; or east or west into the desert ...

He went into the drawing room, looking for a letter opener. Somehow the search had to be narrowed down. Vandam did not have thousands of men at his disposal—they were all in the desert, fighting. He had to decide what was the best bet. He remembered where all this had started: Assyut. Perhaps he should contact Captain Newman in Assyut. That seemed to be where Wolff had come in from the desert, so maybe he would go out that way. Maybe his cousins were in that vicinity. Vandam looked indecisively at the telephone. Where was that damned letter opener? He went to the door and called: “Gaafar!” He came back into the room, and saw Billy’s school atlas on a chair. It looked mucky. The boy had dropped it in a puddle, or something. He picked it up. It was sticky. Vandam realized there was blood on it. He felt as if he were in a nightmare. What was going on? No letter opener, blood on the atlas, nomads at Assyut ...

Gaafar came in. Vandam said: “What’s this mess?”

Gaafar looked. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know. They were looking at it while Captain Alexander was here—”

“Who’s they? Who’s Captain Alexander?”

“The officer you sent to take Billy to school, sir. His name was—”

“Stop.” A terrible fear cleared Vandam’s brain in an instant. “A British Army captain came here this morning and took Billy away?”

“Yes, sir, he took him to school. He said you sent him—”

“Gaafar,
I sent nobody.”

The servant’s brown face turned gray.

Vandam said: “Didn’t you check that he was genuine?”

“But, sir, Miss Fontana was with him, so it seemed all right.”

“Oh, my God.” Vandam looked at the envelope in his hand. Now he knew why the handwriting was familiar: it was the same as that on the note that Wolff had sent to Elene. He ripped open the envelope. Inside was a message in the same hand:

It was a letter from a madman: the polite salutations, the correct English, the semicolon, the attempt to justify the kidnapping of an innocent child ... Now Vandam knew that, somewhere deep down inside, Wolff was insane.

And he had Billy.

Vandam handed the note to Gaafar, who put on his spectacles with a shaky hand. Wolff had taken Elene with him when he left the houseboat. It would not have been difficult to coerce her into helping him: all he had to do was threaten Billy, and she would have been helpless. But what was the point of the kidnap, really? And where had they gone? And why the blood?

Gaafar was weeping openly. Vandam said: “Who was hurt? Who was bleeding?”

“There was no violence,” Gaafar said. “I think Miss Fontana had cut her hand.”

And she had smeared blood on Billy’s atlas and left it on the chair. It was a sign, a message of some kind. Vandam held the book in his hands and let it fall open. Immediately he saw the map of Egypt with a blotted red arrow roughly drawn. It pointed to Assyut.

Vandam picked up the phone and dialed GHQ. When the switchboard answered he hung up. He thought: If I report this, what will happen? Bogge will order a squad of light infantry to arrest Wolff at Assyut. There will be a fight. Wolff will know he has lost, know he is to be shot for spying, not to mention kidnapping and murder—and what will he do then?

He is insane, Vandam thought; he will kill my son.

He felt paralyzed by fear. Of course that was what Wolff wanted, that was his aim in taking Billy, to paralyze Vandam. That was how kidnapping worked.

If Vandam brought the Army in, there would be a shoot-out. Wolff might kill Billy out of mad spite. So there was only one option.

Vandam had to go after them alone.

“Get me two bottles of water,” he told Gaafar. The servant went off. Vandam went into the hall and put on his motorcycle goggles, then found a scarf and wound it around his mouth and neck. Gaafar came from the kitchen with the bottles of water. Vandam left the house and went to his motorcycle. He put the bottles in the pannier and climbed on the bike. He kicked it into life and revved the engine. The fuel tank was full. Gaafar stood beside him, still weeping. Vandam touched the old man’s shoulder. “I’ll bring them back,” he said. He rocked the bike off its stand, drove into the street and turned south.

MY GOD, THE STATION WAS A SHAMBLES. I SUPPOSE EVERYONE WANTS TO GET out of Cairo in case it gets bombed. No first-class seats on the trains to Palestine—not even standing room. The wives and children of the British are running like rats. Fortunately southbound trains are less in demand. The booking office still claimed there were no seats, but they always say that; a few piasters here and a few more there always gets a seat, or three. I was afraid I might lose Elene and the boy on the platform, among all the hundreds of peasants, barefoot in their dirty galabiyas, carrying boxes tied with string, chickens in crates, sitting on the platform eating their breakfast, a fat mother in black handing out boiled eggs and pita bread and caked rice to her husband and sons, cousins and daughters and in-laws; smart idea of mine, to hold the boy’s hand—if I keep him close by, Elene will follow; smart idea, I have smart ideas, Christ I’m smart, smarter than Vandam, eat your heart out, Major Vandam, I’ve got your son. Somebody had a goat on a lead. Fancy taking a goat on a train ride. I never had to travel economy with the peasants and their goats. What a job, to clean the economy coach at the end of the journey, I wonder who does it, some poor fellah, a different breed, a different race, born slaves, thank God we got first-class seats, I travel first class through life, I hate dirt, God that station was dirty. Vendors on the platform: cigarettes, newspapers, a man with a huge basket of bread on his head. I like the women when they carry baskets on their heads, looking so graceful and proud, makes you want to do it to them there and then, standing up, I like women when they like to do it, when they lose their minds with pleasure, when they scream, Gesundheit! Look at Elene, sitting there beside the boy, so frightened, so beautiful, I want to do it with her again soon, forget Sonja, I’d like to do it with Elene right now, here on the train, in front of all these people, humiliate her, with Vandam’s son watching, terrified, ha! Look at the mud-brick suburbs, houses leaning against one another for support, cows and sheep in the narrow dusty streets, I always wondered what they ate, those city sheep with their fat tails, where do they graze? No plumbing in those dark little houses beside the railway line. Women in the doorways peeling vegetables, sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground. Cats. So graceful, the cats. European cats are different, slower and much fatter; no wonder cats are sacred here, they are so beautiful, a kitten brings luck. The English like dogs. Disgusting animals, dogs: unclean, undignified, slobbering, fawning, sniffing. A cat is superior, and knows it. It is so important to be superior. One is a master or a slave. I hold my head up, like a cat; I walk about, ignoring the hoi polloi, intent on my own mysterious tasks, using people the way a cat uses its owner, giving no thanks and accepting no affection, taking what they offer as a right, not a gift. I’m a master, a German Nazi, an Egyptian Bedouin, a born ruler. How many hours to Assyut, eight, ten? Must move fast. Find Ishmael. He should be at the well, or not far away. Pick up the radio. Broadcast at midnight tonight. Complete British defense, what a coup, they’ll give me medals. Germans in charge in Cairo. Oh, boy, we’ll get the place into shape. What a combination, Germans and Egyptians, efficiency by day and sensuality by night, Teutonic technology and Bedouin savagery, Beethoven and hashish. If I can survive, make it to Assyut, contact Rommel; then Rommel can cross the last bridge, destroy the last line of defense, dash to Cairo, annihilate the British, what a victory that will be. If I can make it. What a triumph! What a triumph! What a triumph!

 

I
will
not be
sick,
I
will
not be sick, I
will
not be
sick.
The train says it for me, rattling on the tracks. I’m too old to throw up on trains now, I used to do that when I was eight. Dad took me to Alexandria, bought me candy and oranges and lemonade, I ate too much, don’t think about it, it makes me ill to think about it, Dad said it wasn’t my fault it was his, but I always used to feel sick even if I didn’t eat, today Elene bought chocolate but I said no, thanks, I’m pretty grown-up to say no to chocolate, kids never say no to chocolate, look, I can see the pyramids, one, two, and the little one makes three, this must be Giza. Where are we going? He was supposed to take me to school. Then he got out the knife. It’s curved. He’ll cut off my head, where’s Dad? I should be in school, we have geography in the first period today, a test on the Norwegian fjords, I learned it all last night, I needn’t have bothered, I’ve missed the test. They’ve already finished it by now, Mr. Johnstone collecting up the papers,
You call that a map, Higgins? Looks more like a drawing of your ear, boy!
Everybody laughs.
Smythe can’t spell Moskenstraumen. Write it fifty times, lad.
Everyone is glad he isn’t Smythe. Old Johnstone opens the textbook.
Next, the Arctic tundra.
I wish I was in school. I wish Elene would put her arm round me. I wish the man would stop looking at me, staring at me like that, so pleased with himself, I think he’s crazy, where’s Dad? If I don’t think about the knife, it will be just as if it wasn’t there. I mustn’t think about the knife. If I concentrate on not thinking about the knife, that’s the same as thinking about the knife. It’s impossible to deliberately not think about something. How does anyone stop thinking of something? Accidentally. Accidental thoughts. All thoughts are accidental. There, I stopped thinking about the knife for a second. If I see a policeman, I’ll rush up to him and yell Save me, save me! I’ll be so quick that he won’t be able to stop me. I can run like the wind, I’m quick. I might see an officer. I might see a general. I’ll shout, Good morning, General! He’ll look at me, surprised, and say Well, young fellow-me-lad, you’re a fine boy! Pardon me, sir, I’ll say, I’m Major Vandam’s son, and this man is taking me away, and my father doesn’t know, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need help. What? says the general. Look here, sir, you can’t do this to the son of a British officer! Not cricket, you know! Just clear off, d‘you hear? Who the devil d’you think you are? And you needn’t flash that little penknife at me, I’ve got a pistol! You’re a brave lad, Billy. I’m a brave lad. All day men get killed in the desert. Bombs fall, Back Home. Ships in the Atlantic get sunk by U-boats, men fall into the icy water and drown. RAF chaps shot down over France. Everybody is brave. Chin up! Damn this war. That’s what they say: Damn this war. Then they climb into the cockpit, hurry down the air-raid shelter, attack the next dune, fire torpedoes at the U-boats, write letters home. I used to think it was exciting. Now I know better. It isn’t exciting at all. It makes you feel sick.

 

Billy is so pale. He looks it. He’s trying to be brave. He shouldn‘t, he should act like a child, he should scream and cry and throw a tantrum, Wolff couldn’t cope with that; but he won’t, of course, for he has been taught to be tough, to bite back the cry, to suppress the tears, to have self-control. He knows how his father would be, what else does a boy do but copy his father? Look at Egypt. A canal alongside the railway line. A grove of date palms. A man crouching in a field, his galabiya hitched up above his long white undershorts, doing something to the crops; an ass grazing, so much healthier than the miserable specimens you see pulling carts in the city; three women sitting beside the canal, washing clothes, pounding them on stones to get them clean; a man on horseback, galloping, must be the local effendi, only the richest peasants have horses; in the distance, the lush green countryside ends abruptly in a range of dusty tan hills. Egypt is only thirty miles wide, really: the rest is desert. What am I going to do? That chill, deep in my chest, every time I look at Wolff. The way he stares at Billy. The gleam in his eye. His restlessness: the way he looks out of the window, then around the carriage, then at Billy, then at me, then at Billy again, always with that gleam in his eye, the look of triumph. I should comfort Billy. I wish I knew more about boys, I had four sisters. What a poor step-mother I should be for Billy. I’d like to touch him, put my arm around him, give him a quick squeeze, or even a cuddle, but I’m not sure that’s what he wants, it might make him feel worse. Perhaps I could take his mind off things by playing a game. What a ridiculous idea. Perhaps not so ridiculous. Here is his school satchel. Here is an exercise book. He looks at me curiously. What game? Noughts and crosses. Four lines for the grid; my cross in the center. The way he looks at me as he takes the pencil, I do believe he’s going along with this crazy idea in order to comfort me! His nought in the corner. Wolff snatches the book, looks at it, shrugs, and gives it back. My cross, Billy’s nought; it will be a drawn game. I should let him win next time. I can play this game without thinking, more’s the pity. Wolff has a spare radio at Assyut. Perhaps I should stay with him, and try to prevent him using the radio. Some hope! I have to get Billy away, then contact Vandam and tell him where I am. I hope Vandam saw, the atlas. Perhaps the servant saw it, and called GHQ. Perhaps it will lie on the chair all day, unnoticed. Perhaps Vandam will not go home today. I have to get Billy away from Wolff, away from that knife. Billy makes a cross in the center of a new grid. I make a nought, then scribble hastily: We
must escape
—be ready. Billy makes another cross, and: OK. My nought. Billy’s cross and
When?
My nought and Next
station.
Billy’s third cross makes a line. He scores through the line of crosses, then smiles up at me jubilantly. He has won. The train slows down.