The Linz Tattoo (35 page)

Herr Leivick sat on the bed beside her, his
hands pressed down against his lap, speaking in a calm, almost
monotonous voice that still somehow managed to communicate a sense
of irresistible urgency. They seemed to have been there together
for hours, but it had been only the four or five minutes since
Itzhak left the room to buy a pack of cigarettes in the hotel
lobby. The cigarettes were for Herr Leivick, who seemed to smoke
them more or less continuously now, but Esther felt reasonably sure
they had only provided the excuse for these few moments of private
conversation.

“How are the two of you getting along?”

“Fine.”

Esther smiled, gasping out one voiceless
syllable of embarrassed laughter. What was she supposed to say? She
and Itzhak were registered here as man and wife. They must somehow
contrive to spend the night together in this room, and yet on the
train ride down from Barcelona they had hardly spoken. It was
necessary that they appear to be lovers, yet how could they?

“It has to be made to work, you know.” Herr
Leivick took off his rimless glasses, which were clouded with
moisture, and wiped the lenses against the lapel of his jacket.
“This is supposed to be a honeymoon you’re on, my dear. Itzhak’s
quite taken with you—play on that.”

“I can’t. I. . .”

“You don’t want to hurt his feelings? Hurt
his feelings. He’s a big boy—you won’t kill him. Esther, this is
more important than Itzhak’s feelings.”

“Does he know that?”

“Yes, he knows it.”

And did Inar? She would have liked to ask
Herr Leivick that as well, but how could he have told her? Inar had
left the train in Barcelona. Inar understood everything that was
expected of her, but he had left the train. She had been a whore
for so long—she wondered when she would be entitled to stop. What,
would Inar say? After this was over? Yes, after this was over.

“I’ll do whatever you tell me.” she said
finally. “It’s not as if I have anything to lose, is it?”

“You’re a good girl, Esther, so don’t talk
like that.”

“Am I?”

He never had a chance to answer, because that
was the moment Itzhak chose to come back with the cigarettes.

“It isn’t Inar’s brand.” Herr Leivick opened
the package and, with a slight ironical nod that meant
with your
permission, madame
, allowed Itzhak to hold a match for him.
“That man is introducing us all to bad habits”

. . . . .

Itzhak stood in front of the dresser, tying
his tie in the mirror. The expression on his face was concentrated,
as if he were prey to uncomfortable thoughts. He always seemed to
look that way when they were alone together.

“Well go down to dinner in about half an
hour,” he said, his reflection peering at her with evident
suspicion. “Mordecai says we should be there by nine, but that
gives us plenty of time. He says we should be seen in the hotel
together, just in case Hagemann sends someone around to check. The
club is only a five-minute walk from here.”

“I wish it could be finished already.”

“What? What did you say?”

He turned around and stared. She could have
been some local curiosity, some odd little animal that had wandered
into their room by mistake, the way he was looking at her.

“I’m frightened, Itzhak—can’t you understand
that? You can’t know how that man frightens me.”

There were tears streaming down her face. It
didn’t matter to her. She was a coward, and she didn’t care whether
anyone knew it or not.

“I just wish you would sit down here and put
your arms around me, Itzhak. Could you do that for me? I won’t tell
anybody.”

And he did sit down and pull her to him. She
had wondered what it would be like, but she didn’t feel anything.
Inar’s body had a warmth she could feel even through his clothes.
Inar made her feel safe, as if it might matter that. . . But this
was just a man holding her in his arms. She could smell the cologne
he used and feel the slight scratch of his beard, but she was just
as alone. There was no comfort.

In that way at least, Itzhak was not so very
different from Hagemann. Very well then, so much the easier.

His head rested on her shoulder. She took it
between her hands and pushed him away. Just enough to let her kiss
him on the face, touching the corner of his mouth with her own.
Herr Leivick had said. . .

He was surprised, of course. She could see
that in his eyes—Itzhak hardly knew what had happened. He was about
to speak when she covered his lips with her fingers.

“It doesn’t matter what you think of me,
Itzhak. It’s better if you don’t like me. I’m the kind of girl men
use, and you have to learn to use me the way the others have.”

“The way Inar does? Does he use you?”

“Forget about Inar—this doesn’t have anything
to do with Inar.”

She wanted to strike him, to make a fist and
hammer his face. She hated him for reminding her, for trying to
make her weak. But instead she took hold of his hands, which were
gripping her shoulders, and brought them down so that the palms
were pressing against her breasts.

“You have to learn to touch me. I’m not like
the nice girls you knew in Tel Aviv, so I won’t pull away. You can
do anything you want to me. You have to learn to treat me the way a
man treats a new wife, a woman with a past—like something you
own.”

He didn’t know—she could read everything in
his face. He was just a little frightened, like the younger men,
hardly more than boys, hardly older than she had been herself, in
the barracks at Waldenburg. They had known she wouldn’t stop them,
that they could beat her if she tried, that they could do anything
they wanted. Still, they had been frightened. Afraid of what she
might think, as if what she thought could possibly matter. For some
of them, probably, it had been the first time.

It was all there in his face—she could see
everything. Of course he was afraid of Inar. He was afraid of her.
But he wanted her, and that was all that mattered.

They were all the same, just the same. The
fear was always there, even in Hagemann. That was why there was no
comfort in them. Only in Inar, who feared nothing, not even
death.

But she didn’t want to think about Inar.

“Go ahead—what are you waiting for? I won’t
tell anyone.”

She couldn’t seem to feel anything. His hands
were there, cupped over her breasts. She had only to glance down to
see. But it was as if she had turned to dough. He could dig his
fingers into her, twist the flesh, press the nipple down to nothing
with his thumb. It didn’t make any difference.

Except that Itzhak was helpless. He simply
sat there, holding her breasts, staring into her face. With a
certain surprised relief she realized that he could go no further
unless. . .

And she wouldn’t. She didn’t have to now.

“You’ll wrinkle the dress,” she said, pushing
his hands away. “Do you want me, or not?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but his eyes
burned with pain.

. . . . .

It doesn’t matter
, she kept telling
herself.
I have nothing to lose, so it doesn’t matter.

The thing had to be made to work. Then Inar
would have his revenge, and it would make him whole again. And
nothing would ever make her whole. This would be all she would ever
be able to give him.

The street was dark and noisy. Lights
flickered yellow and demonic through tiny windows, and people
pushed past one another on the cobblestones. She was wearing
high-heeled shoes, and the uneven path and the darkness made her
feel less than steady, so she held Itzhak’s arm.

He had become a little drunk from the wine at
dinner—just a little, but it made him sullen. He was almost
violently possessive; he would run his hand over her shoulder and
down to her arm, and he would reach across the table to do it. She
closed her mind and let him. This is what she had wanted. This was
what would make Hagemann believe everything.

Itzhak was a nice boy, but he should never
drink because he wasn’t nice then. It wasn’t his fault. He felt she
had cheated him, and he was right.

“Is it always this way with you?” he had
asked, standing by the dresser as they waited for the moment when
they could go downstairs to the dining room. “Are you always
so—businesslike? I would have been all right if you just hadn’t
been. . . Hell, you act as if it were a field exercise or
something.”

“You can’t expect romance, Itzhak. It isn’t
always that important. Don’t you have any whores in Palestine?
Haven’t you ever known any girls who trade it for money?”

“Is that what you’re like?”

“Maybe.” Even as she spoke, she could feel
her throat tightening. “At least I’m not going to die of shame if
some man wants to put his hands on me.”

He stood with his back to her as he adjusted
the knot in his tie, and the hunch of his shoulders revealed how
deeply his vanity had been wounded.

But at least he wasn’t afraid anymore.

“Don’t be mad at me, Itzhak. Try to
understand.” With her left hand she brushed a few wisps of hair
away from her face, feeling once again quite calm. “We have a part
to play, and we have to be ready play it. We can’t go there and sit
at a table and be polite to one another—Hagemann is no fool. Now
you won’t have to act at all. You can treat me just like a whore
you’ve picked up to spend the evening with.”

“Will Hagemann believe that? You’re supposed
to be my wife.

“He’ll believe it.”

“The only whores in Tel Aviv are the Arab
women.”

“Not even you believe that.”

So Itzhak had gotten a little drunk at dinner
and had started pawing her. And as they walked along the narrow,
crowded, treacherous Spanish streets, and he began to grow sober
again, he was finally able to put his arm around her, quite as if
he had forgotten that sort of thing had ever been a problem. They
would do very well together.

The club was smaller than she had expected,
hardly larger than one of the tiny shops, selling everything from
embroidery to newspapers to wine by the glass, that lined both
tides of the street. The outer walls were whitewashed, like those
of every other building in town, and covered with huge, brilliantly
colored posters announcing bicycle races and soccer matches. A
surprising number of small children were standing around, taking
turns opening the club door for patrons and holding out their hands
for tips.

“Give them something,” she whispered. The
sight of them made her throat tighten. “A man on his honeymoon is
expected to be generous. Give them all something.”

“The world is full of begging children—what
difference does it make to you?”

“Never mind. Just give them something.”

He did. He reached into his pocket and took
out a handful of silver coins, dropping them into eager palms that
snapped closed around them like traps, it turned into a kind of
game.

“Come on, Esther. Let’s go inside before they
mob us.”

It was not quite eight-thirty. Somehow the
place seemed larger from the inside, but perhaps that was only
because it was still half empty. In one corner by the stage, which
was itself little more than a long table against one wall, was a
band consisting of a piano player, a drummer, and a boy of about
fifteen with a trumpet polished up so bright it hurt one’s eyes to
look at it. The floor manager, in a tuxedo with a gleaming display
of shirt front, guided them to a table in almost the precise center
of the room. No one would have any trouble seeing them.

Itzhak ordered a bottle of champagne and the
waiter brought it over in a silver bucket, wiping the outsides of
the glasses before positioning them with elaborate ceremony on the
table. Esther tasted hers and then set it back down again. The band
was playing an American dance tune. She couldn’t rid herself of the
idea that everyone was watching her.

“He isn’t here,” Itzhak said, almost as if he
could read her mind. “His table over there in the back is still
empty. It’s early yet.”

“Don’t imagine I’m looking forward to it. I
can wait.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s the devil.”

“I mean, what does he look like?”

She turned her head slightly and let her eyes
rest on him, smiling the way she imagined new brides to smile,
wondering what he could be talking about.

“There aren’t any photographs—at least, none
that we have—and Mordecai hasn’t let me near this place. I just
wondered.”

“He looks quite ordinary. Perhaps he is quite
ordinary. Light brown hair, a little taller than average, nice
looking without actually being handsome. In his late forties by
this time. You could meet him in the street and never notice him.
That is, of course, unless you were at Waldenburg,”

“Drink your champagne. You look as if you’ve
seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps I will, tonight.”

But she did drink the champagne. She drained
the glass, and then Itzhak poured her another. He didn’t touch his
own—he was working now.

At a quarter to nine there was a little drum
flourish and a man in checkered coat and black-and-white saddle
shoes came onto the stage. His whole manner announced that he was
there to be a comedian—he grinned and swayed at the shoulders and
recited a few jokes. At least one assumed from the expectant
silence that followed each of them that they must be jokes. Esther
and Itzhak didn’t laugh because neither of them understood any
Spanish. No one else laughed either. No one seemed even to notice
that he was there. After he was finished, a woman obviously in
middle age but still quite handsome came out and, to the
accompaniment of the piano, sang a sad and beautiful song in a
language that was probably Catalan. When the song was over, she
stood quietly and received the audience’s fierce applause with the
resignation of a martyr. Nothing, it seemed, could induce her to
sing another, and when she left the waiters suddenly became very
busy taking people’s orders. One gathered that the first phase of
the entertainment was over.