Hard Rain (37 page)

Zyzmchuk drew a calendar on a sheet of paper. “Woodstock,” he wrote across boxes fifteen to seventeen. In box twenty-nine, the last Friday in the month, two weeks after the beginning of the festival, he wrote, “Corvette.”

“What are you getting at?” Jessie said.

“I don't know yet,” Zyzmchuk replied. “On August fifteenth, Pat Rodney, Hartley Frame, and some others went to Woodstock. Two weeks later, Hartley bought a car that was put in Pat's name.”

“Does that mean Hartley bought Pat a car?”

“That's the simplest explanation.”

Jessie remembered her first conversation with Disco. He'd told her the festival had been the end of the commune at Spacious Skies.
Everyone went away
. Had it marked the end of the commune or caused it? Had something gone wrong at the festival?
What have you heard about Woodstock?
All she knew was that the band had jammed in the woods with Jimi Hendrix and that Hendrix had given Hartley his guitar: the guitar that had hung on the wall in the music room in Pat's house in Venice and had disappeared, she suddenly realized, along with Pat and Kate. Jessie remembered too the tape of Joni Mitchell singing “Woodstock” in Pat's cassette machine.

“Hartley may have given Pat something else around that time,” she said.

“What?”

She told him about Jimi Hendrix's guitar, adding, “but Pat always said he bought it at an auction. Why would he lie?”

Zyzmchuk didn't say anything.

“And why would he take the guitar with him when he went west to California, but leave the Corvette in the barn?”

Zyzmchuk had no answer for that either.

They left the library. Jessie had lost her desire for Spanish brandy. They drove back to the motel. Jessie went into room 19, with fireplace, Zyzmchuk into room 20, without.

In front of the bathroom mirror, Jessie unwound her turban of bandages. She couldn't see the part of her head where the hair had been shaved, but she could feel it and feel the line of stitches, like bridges over a dried-up river.

She heard a knock on the door; holding the bandages, she went to it and called, “Yes?”

“It's me,” said Zyzmchuk.

Jessie raised the bandages with the idea of quickly rewrapping them, then decided not to bother. She opened the door.

“Let's see,” Zyzmchuk said, moving behind her. She felt his breath on the bare patch of skin. “Not bad,” he said. “You're a quick healer.”

He sat on the chair, Jessie on the edge of the bed.

“Hungry?” he said.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

She shook her head.

“I had a phone message,” he said. “I have to go back in the morning.”

“Home?”

“Home?” he said. “No. The office. I have to give a report. And there are one or two things I might be able to do while I'm there.”

“Like what?”

“Examine Hartley Frame's army records, for one.”

“To find out what?”

“I'm not sure.”

She started to say something, stopped herself.

“Go ahead.”

“You said four people had died. You didn't mention the fifth.”

“The fifth?”

“Hartley Frame.”

Zyzmchuk smiled. “No. I didn't.”

“You think he might not have died in Viet Nam, don't you?” Jessie said. “And that he's come back now, using Gerald Brenner's passport.”

“Maybe. It's no use speculating until I see the records.”

“Why? We already know there was no body.”
What sort of funeral do you have for a dog tag and a telegram?

“All right, then,” Zyzmchuk said. “Where's he been all this time?”

“A prisoner over there. Now he's escaped. And shaved his head to look more like Gerald Brenner.”

“There's no evidence of any Americans held against their will in Vietnam.”

“But it's possible.”

“Maybe. Or maybe, just assuming he didn't die, he remained voluntarily.”

“And?”

“And was sent back.”

“Why?”

Zyzmchuk shrugged. “That's why it's too early to speculate. We'd have to know more about Jerry Brenner for starters. And his passport. Did his killer take it? Or was it found on the street? Or by the police? Was it sold on the black market? Who bought it?”

“I see,” Jessie said. She felt weak and tired. She pulled herself further onto the bed and lay down. She closed her eyes. Disco's fringe of long hair went up like sparklers inside her eyelids. Then it was Kate's hair, dark and frizzy, catching fire.

“I'll try to be back tomorrow night,” Zyzmchuk said. “Someone's coming in the morning to be with you till then.”

“Who?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Is it necessary?”

“No point taking chances,” Zyzmchuk said.

Time passed. It was quiet in room 19, and cold. Jessie pulled the covers over her. Later she heard Zyzmchuk walking on the carpet. The lights went out. She heard his body sink into the chair.

“Are you going to stay here all night?” she asked.

“Just to be on the safe side.”

A car buzzed through the night like a giant insect. Then quiet returned, a muffling quiet, Jessie thought, as though she were buried under pillows of snow. She heard nothing except her own breathing and felt nothing but cold and the ache in her head. She needed sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she set her daughter on fire.

Jessie scanned the darkness. In it loomed darker shapes—the TV, the open door to the bathroom, the closed curtains, the closed front door, Zyzmchuk in the easy chair, like a hillock.

“Ivan,” she said, one day ago a strange name, exotic and unreal.

“Yes?” A deep sound, but soft.

“Come here.”

Silence. No sound but her own breathing. And then footsteps on the carpet. Slow, hesitant footsteps. He brushed against the bed, started to sit down on it.

“No,” said Jessie, lifting the covers. “Inside.”

Silence. Then he was beside her, and she heard his breathing and felt his warmth. She reached for him.

“Maybe I've forgotten how,” he said.

But he hadn't.

It was perfect.

And after, he still held her tight. His eyes, inches from her own, were open wide.

33

Jessie opened her eyes. He was watching her.

“Where were you August fifteenth, nineteen sixty-nine?” he said.

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes.”

“What am I charged with?”

“Having a past I know nothing about.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Unforgivable.”

“I've got nothing to hide,” Jessie said. “August fifteenth, nineteen sixty-nine. The summer before my freshman year. I was probably at the beach. Where were you?”

The gray eyes looked far away. Then Ivan Zyzmchuk smiled. “Hunting ibex.”

“Ibex?”

He nodded. “With the Shah.” He raised his head an inch or two off the pillow. “What's that look on your face?” he said.

“Horror. That's my look for horror.”

He seemed about to laugh, but he didn't. Then he said, “Let's not talk.”

He put his arms around her and drew her body against his.

“You'll make me an addict,” Jessie said.

He said nothing.

Soon she was sleeping a dreamless sleep. When she awoke, her headache was gone, and so was he. But she wasn't alone. Another man sat in the easy chair.

Jessie sat up, holding the covers over her breasts.

“Don't be alarmed,” the man said. He had a reedy voice, but his accent reminded her of the Gabor sisters. “I'm a friend of Ivan.”

Although his chin jutted forward in a state of permanent aggression, the man didn't look like a bodyguard. The rest of him, small and shrunken, made Jessie think of an old banty rooster.

“My name is Bela.”

“I'm Jessie.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

“When did Ivan leave?”

Bela studied his watch. “Not so long ago,” he said. “He'll be back tonight. Meanwhile we stay here. In the room.”

“I'd like to get up.”

Bela's chin jutted forward a little more. “Up, okay. But not out.”

He sat in the chair, chin jutting out. Jessie remained in the bed, the covers held over her breasts. Then he realized the problem. A faint pink blush rose to the surface of his waxy cheeks. “I'll be right outside,” he muttered, getting up and going out the door.

Jessie showered and dressed. “All clear,” she called.

Bela came in. He stopped, looked her up and down. “You're how old?”

Jessie told him.

“Ivan's fifty-six,” he said sharply. “He'll be fifty-seven in two months.”

“I know.”

“Peh. You know.”

He sat down in the chair, took a book from his pocket and started reading. The title was in a language Jessie didn't recognize. Bela's eyes flickered back and forth, back and forth; then he licked his forefinger with the tip of his tongue, a very white tongue, and turned the page. His eyes flickered back and forth. Jessie wondered if he was a bit mad.

“Do you work with Ivan?”

He looked up, forefinger marking his place on the middle of a page. “So what am I doing now?”

“I meant at his office.”

“I'm too old to work in this land of opportunity,” he said. He raised his forefinger, jabbed it at her. “And so is Ivan. They're getting rid of him.”

“Who?”

“‘Who?' she says. You don't know anything about him. He doesn't have two nickels to rub together. He's going to have to find a job. At his age.” Bela's eyes returned to the book. They flickered back and forth, back and forth; the white tongue licked the fingertip; the page turned.

“What are you reading?” Jessie asked after a while.

“The life of Verdi,” he replied, in the kind of tone that suggested she couldn't possibly be interested.

“What language is it in?”

“My language,” Bela said. “Hungarian.”

He snapped the book shut, returned it to his pocket. His hand emerged with something else: a silver-framed photograph. He rose and placed it on the mantel. Then he went to the window, parted the curtains and looked out.

Jessie crossed the room to the mantel. The photograph was in black and white. It showed a woman seated at a small, round table. She was dark and smiling, very pretty and very young.

“Who is this?” Jessie asked, still regarding the picture.

She heard Bela turn. “Leni,” he said. “My daughter.” He came closer, like a flower drawn by the sun, until he too stood before the photograph.

“She looks very nice,” Jessie said.

She wished she'd chosen a better word, especially when Bela repeated, “Nice.” There was a silence. Now he was looking at her, his chin pointed at her eyes. “Nice. Sure. Nice. I suppose he told you about her.”

“No.” And then it hit her. “Are they married?”

“Married?” Bela said with fury.

Jessie stepped back. She tried to guess what had enraged him. “Divorced?”

For an instant he seemed to inflate and grow much younger. She thought he was going to hit her. But he didn't, not physically. “She's dead. They killed her a month after that picture was taken. So they never got married.” His voice rose. “And they never would have got no divorce. Never.”

Jessie took another step back. “I'm not sure I understand,” she said. “Did this happen recently?”

“Recently? Is nineteen fifty-six recently?”

Her voice rose too. “I was four years old,” she said, as though he'd accused her of complicity in the death.

This seemed to shock him. He deflated. “Yes,” he said, quiet now. “You're young.” His gaze was drawn once more to the photograph. “She was young too. Younger than you, maybe. I don't know young people's ages anymore. How old are you?”

Jessie told him again.

He nodded. “She was younger. Twenty-two, when that was taken.” His finger reached out, but not for jabbing. He gently laid it on the image of Leni's shoulder. “She was pregnant. Five months pregnant. The whole world was in front of her.” Bela's voice had fallen into a maudlin tone, but his eyes were completely dry.

“What happened?”

“There was a newspaper vendor. Grushin got to his wife.”

“Colonel Grushin?”

“That's right. What about him?”

“Ivan mentioned him. But I'm not sure who he is, exactly.”

“The Russian,” Bela said. A long silence followed, so long Jessie thought the explanation complete. Then Bela said, “He wasn't so high and mighty then. Just another Russian thug. He's the one who …” Bela abandoned the sentence; his eyes returned to the photograph. “Did he tell you about Leni?”

“No.”

“No?” All at once his face seemed very old and drawn. He put a hand on the mantel, as if steadying himself in rough weather.

Jessie opened her wallet. “I've got a picture too,” she said. She took out the photograph of Kate at the beach. “This is my daughter.” Bela didn't look at it. “The one who's missing,” she added. “The one Ivan's helping me find.”

Bela turned slowly to the photograph of Kate. He studied it for a few moments without speaking, then said, “What's her name?”

“Kate.”

“How old?”

“Ten.”

“Ten,” he said and exhaled heavily. It might have been a sigh. “She's missing?”

“Yes.”

“Does Grushin have her?”

“Oh no,” Jessie said. “It's nothing like that.” But a chill ran down her spine and spread through her body. She wanted to step into that photograph, grab onto Kate and not let go.

“Nothing like that,” Bela said, waiting at the end of her thought. “Then why is Ivan involved?”

“I don't know. I don't even know what he does, exactly.”