-8-
Maud
She locked her back door and started down the outside stairs to the alley, where her neighbor's children were still out playing despite the late hour. As soon as they heard her footsteps in the darkness they came rushing up, laughing and shouting and trying to guess which of her hands held candies for them. And then their mother was leaning out of one of the narrow windows of yellow light on the alley, and Maud had to speak to her before she looked in their open kitchen door to exchange a few more words with the grandfather of the household, who was always proud of a chance to display his meager French.
In the quiet little square at the end of the alley, tucked away behind busier streets, there were other neighbors to greet, working people out for a stroll or simply standing around in small groups chatting and enjoying the evening breezes off the river, so welcome after the fierce heat of the day. The waiter inside the door of the little restaurant on the square was all smiles when he saw her.
No, he said, there'd been no mail for her that afternoon. And yes, his son was doing very well, already a help in the kitchen at the age of ten. Another few months and he was going to begin training the boy to set the tables. . . . The waiter leaned closer, a trace of graveness in his voice, a hint of intensity around his eyes.
You'll be coming to dinner soon? Perhaps this weekend?
If we can manage it, she said, knowing what he meant.
Oh good, good. I'm so glad. . . .
She crossed the cobblestones to the small outdoor café, taking a table at the back. The waiter there was also a friend who had to tell her his news while he wiped the table three or four times, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
We have some special pastries tonight, he added. Shall I put one aside for you?
That would be kind, she said, and the waiter beamed. Since she never ate a sweet when she was alone at the café, he knew she was expecting her friend. Abruptly his manner also became intent, confidential.
Are things going well? He's . . . everything's all right?
Yes, said Maud, smiling.
Oh well, that's just fine then, praise be to God. . . .
The man left to bring her coffee, muttering to himself, and Maud gazed up the little square toward the street where the traffic passed. She never ceased to wonder at the concern people felt for Stern and his well-being, even people who hardly knew him. Yet the suggestion was always there, the suddenly alert tone and the almost anxious question which could have been an everyday pleasantry, but wasn't. . . .
Everything's all right? . . . You'll be coming for dinner soon? . . . Which meant, Is he all right? Will he be coming back soon?
And the smile of relief when she answered yes. And the deeply felt whispers. . . . Oh good, good. . . .
Praise be to God.
She sipped her coffee, happy to be alone in a place where she belonged, enjoying the nighttime sounds and rituals of her neighborhood. Then all at once she heard his voice above the murmur, deeper than the others, and there he was making his way between the tables and greeting the waiter and saying something to a group of old men which made them laugh, causing their cups to rattle. . . . Stern at last. The great dark head and the mysterious smile, the sweeping eyes and the hands that never stopped feeling things, that were always reaching out and touching, touching. . . .
He slipped into the chair beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
. . . I was hoping to get away in time for dinner, but you know how it is these days for a clerk at the office. Nothing but more and more work on the ledgers. Sometimes it seems that contrary to what God says, accountants are going to inherit the earth.
He smiled and drank off the arak the waiter placed before him, still holding her shoulder with his other hand. The waiter seemed reluctant to leave and Stern made a remark in Arabic which made the man laugh, the slang too complicated for Maud to understand. Stern nodded, smiling up at the man.
. . . another? Why not. Now what did I do with my cigarettes?
He let go of her shoulder and felt his pockets.
. . . must have forgotten to pick some up, I'll just step up to the kiosk around the corner. But you're having a sweet, aren't you? Shall I tell him to bring it now? . . . I'll only be a moment.
Stern walked inside and spoke to the waiter, lingering with the man for a moment, neither of them acting out of the ordinary, then turned and left the café and went striding quickly up the square to the street.
Two or three minutes later and he was on his way back, this time resting his hand on hers when he sat down. He always touched her when he was with her, it was a habit he had. His fingers moving ever so slightly, gently. Caressing, feeling. . . . And for some reason, this time, her eyes fell on his disfigured thumb with its cruel scars, made a few years ago when his thumbnail had been ripped away in some foolish accident.
Once he had told her how it had happened . . . trying to fix something and his thumb slipping, catching, the thumbnail tearing away and tearing flesh with it ... she couldn't even remember the details now. In fact she had long since ceased even to notice that thumb with its scars, because it was just another part of Stern now. But all at once she did notice it at that moment, and it almost startled her. The contrast of those brutal scars and the gentle strokes of his thumb on her hand . . . all at once it seemed unbearably poignant.
Stern smiled warmly, happily, his eyes breathing her in.
. . . so good to be with you, he whispered. So right, the way life should be.
While they were talking, he reached up and stroked her hair. There was nothing unusual about the gesture and from a distance no one would have seen anything out of the ordinary, any change in his manner, but Stern was now whispering in an obscure Greek dialect native to the mountains of Crete. He used the dialect only when they were in a public place and he had something private to say. Maud didn't speak it as well as he did, but she understood it easily enough.
. . . I don't want you to worry but I'm not quite alone tonight. I'm being followed.
She felt a twinge inside. How long has it been going on? she asked, and watched him shrug.
. . . a few days.
But who are they, Stern? Is it all right?
. . . oh yes. Just some fellows from the Monastery.
Just that, she thought, aware of his hands ceaselessly moving, stroking her and touching the table and touching his glass, his cigarettes, her ring. Feeling the world around him now more than ever, as if he were afraid of losing it. Not wanting to let it go, touching. . . .
But why, what does it mean, Stern? Do you know?
. . . well I'm due to leave town later tonight and they probably want to make sure I get safely on my way.
He laughed harshly.
. . . you know, in hopes I won't come back.
She frowned at the remark, thinking how his humor had become bitter lately in a way she didn't like, but Stern seemed not to notice her frown. His eyes were moving around the square as he took out the old Morse-code key he always carried and began to turn it over and over, his other hand holding her shoulder.
What is it, Stern?