Her voice was softer now and Remo detected a break, the quiver of emotion stronger than one expects, a memo that remains forever too fresh.
"This good man," Remo said, "had he lost a hand?"
"Yes," said Deborah.
"And was his name Conn MacCleary?"
"Yes," said Deborah, and she shut the door she had opened. "You knew him then?"
"Yes," said Remo. "I knew him."
"You were in the American intelligence then?"
"No, no," Remo said. "I knew him. I knew him once."
"Do you know how he died?"
"Yes."
"They said it was in a hospital."
"It was. It was. In a hospital."
And Deborah's face became a smile and warmth and tenderness, a delicate joy that people who can understand beautiful things bestow upon their surroundings.
"It is funny, and since you remember Conn, so typical she said, taking the chair facing Remo. "When he came to our village, it was just before independence when the five Arab armies attacked, and we had, I think, one rifle for five men in our village, or something like that. I was very young."
"Of course," Remo said.
"Of course," Deborah laughed. "Well, he had volunteered to give special training to people, I am not at liberty to disclose what, and we were all waiting for him. Anxious. Everybody was anxious. My uncle would say: 'When the American arrives here, he will show you all what technology is. Wait and see. American organization.' So it is supposed to be a big secret and so naturally everybody knows about it and is waiting for his arrival. Like a welcoming committee for his secret entrance into our village. Well, he is driven up in the back of a car, and I do not know if you know how valuable a car was to us then, but you can imagine, and Conn is in the back seat and you will never guess...."
"He was drunk," Remo supplied matter-of-factly.
Deborah guffawed and slapped Remo's knee. Tears began to form in her eyes and she struggled to talk through the laughter.
Remo added quickly: "Sure. I told you I knew Conn MacCleary."
And his casual way of saying this threw Deborah into an hysterical reach for the table to steady herself. "Drunk," she finally said. "He was passed out drunk. You should have seen the look on Uncle David's face. He kept asking the driver if this was the right man and the driver kept nodding. We found out later he had been drinking since Tokyo where he had been mustered out, I think it was a month before. Drunk? He reeked. I mean when they carried him out everyone stepped back he smelled so badly."
"Conn MacCleary," Remo said.
"He was one of a kind. It took him three days to realize where he was."
"There must have been a lot of pressure then."
"Well, not really so much for us. Our training thing was for something else. I think we all believed that we would win. Although it was frightening and I was, at the time...."
"After all, a young girl."
"Of course. Otherwise I would be an old woman instead of the incredibly attractive, beautiful young woman that I am now."
"Of course. You know you are beautiful."
"Come. Stop that. I gave you a MacCleary story. Now you give me one."
"Well, the first time I saw Conn," Remo said, conveniently planning to leave out details, "was.... No, let me see. The first time."
"No. The second time," Deborah said. "The first you won't tell me and that's all right. So tell me the second tune."
Okay. So she believed he was with the CIA or the FBI. So what? That was to be expected from the kind of work they were doing here anyway. He had used CIA as a cover before anyhow.
"Okay," Remo said. "I was coming to in a hospital bed and he was wheeling in this great dinner with lobster and booze."
"For someone in a hospital bed?"
"This is Conn MacCleary we're talking about."
"Yes," Deborah agreed with a nod.
"And he lays out this beautiful spread, abuses the doctor and nurse, tells me to eat up. And he drinks all the booze."
"Conn MacCleary," Deborah said in punctuation.
"But that's not the half of it. I never knew the man to be away from a bottle for long. It's a wonder he lived past twenty-one."
"The Egyptians are making a push up through the Negev. We're near there."
"Where?"
"Never mind. Will you let me finish? Besides, none of that stuff about wheres. Read my official biography if you want to know wheres."
"I bet they're the wrong wheres."
"Stop that shit, Remo. Just stop and listen. Because if you want to play question and answer with me, I can go to Dr. Brewster and complain about nasty interference from you agents-kind-of-people, and he'll beat you within an inch of your life. Hah."
"Okay. No more shit."
"Okay. We are near the action and Conn is desperately gathering copper tubing. Uncle David says, 'Hah. You see. Secret weapon. I told you. Technology. American technology.' And Conn is being very secretive. No one can go near where he is preparing his technology. One day I followed him. And there behind some rocks, sandbagged... let me tell you, sandbagged... we should have that kind of defence on the Suez Canal today... it looks like he has emptied the Sinai into burlap. He had all the children stripping the entire village of sandbags for this. And my Uncle David was leading it. Sandbags for the secret weapon of our village. Well, since it is so top secret no one is allowed to look. But I look. I knew he would not punish me. I was his favourite, but he loved all the children."
"Con love children?"
"Oh yes. That was his big love, I believe. And I believe because he never had children was why he drank. He would tell us stories at night. We all loved him."
"Conn? Children?"
"Shut up. Let me finish. I crawl over the sandbags and I peek. There he is with a cup underneath this copper tubing which is all twisted and connected to a small boiler. He had made a still and I can't describe him waiting for the drip, drip, drip with the cup. This grown man, bending over in this incredible heat made hotter by the sandbags, the defence of our village by the way, just waiting for the drip, drip, drip."
Remo shook his head. "Yeah, that's Conn. But I can't imagine his stripping a village's defence for it."
"Well, the sandbags were not really that important, and he knew that within a half hour for every bag he got, it would be replaced. We were not short of sand."
"Tell me though. What happened there to make him hate the Arabs so?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, once I heard him call the Arabs vicious mean animals. For Conn, 'bastard' usually sufficed."
"I don't understand."
"Well, he must have seen some Arab atrocity that really rankled. You know he had been around."
Deborah searched the past and her face was a jewel of concentration. "No, no. Not near our village. As you know we were in the South and the only danger was from Egyptian regulars. And they were all right. No. Conn never dealt with anyone but the Arabs in our village. And they are fine people. Some, I am sorry to say, left at the time."
"Sorry?"
"Certainly. We wanted to build a country, not create a refugee problem. As you know we had 2,000 years as refugees. Some left because they thought we would lose and they did not want to be there when we did. Others thought they could return and get back their own homes plus ours. And some were frightened of us. But we never drove them out. Never. Especially our village. And of course some stayed. Like the vice president of the Knesset. He is an Arab. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"Remo, that tells me something about you."
"What does it tell you?"
"Some of the things you're not."
Remo accepted the statement and made no comment on it. Deborah switched the subject. "I can't think of any atrocity he would have seen."