The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) (31 page)

              The loss he had borne and his desolation made my sympathy outweigh my suspicions.

             
“But why that way," I asked, "such a complicated way?  You could have left quietly, maybe fabricated some evidence of your death..."

"...And leave behind a woman and a boy abandoned by the man who had looked after them?"  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose noisily.  "I had to think of them, leave them a future as the family of a hero..."  A piece of paper slipped out of the folds of the handkerchief and fell to the ground.  A visiting card.  I held it out to him, print downwards.  He turned it over.  "Montreal.  In another two days I'll be there.  Not something big.  A pharmacy.  Far away from people who might identify me, from the memories..."

Once more I thought about the copy of the letter I had given Michel.  In a sense that was the real charge I had detonated in Dura.  If I told the doctor now would I disrupt the uneasy balance he had begun to construct within himself or, alternatively, would I be helping him to prepare for what might come when Michel deciphered the connection between the letter in his possession, the priest's personality and the hundreds of underlined letters in the books left behind by the man he had insisted on calling father. 

"Why," I asked, "why is it so important for you to protect them?  Maybe it would be better if they knew the truth, if they understood in what they were living, why you were so remote and detached.  That way, they won't waste time mourning and searching..."

"...And the pain that will be inflicted on them, the humiliation, the reactions in the village?"

For a moment I felt a wave of pain of the kind which only Hannah, with her preaching, could arouse.  "Who appointed you to be the painkiller of the world?"

"How can I explain it?" he hesitated.  "When you don't have a name and you're not allowed to talk about the past, the future is unclear and the present you're living in is also a lie - how can you assess yourself, your volume, if not by the happiness you cause others?"

The stone cherubs above his head suddenly seemed ludicrous. 

"Next thing you'll be telling me that all the good deeds you did there, in Dura, were not part of the game played by a clever spy, investments in order to acquire trust and influence, but..."

              He nodded.  "Something small to offset the lies, the harm I must have caused...  You've got to understand, after all, you've done that work too..."

"I did that work," I agreed angrily, "and I also lied at every opportunity.  But I never tried to argue with reality, amend it or ask for concessions, and I certainly never aspired to give the people I made miserable a substitute happiness.  Most of those who live around me are angry with me, but we all have a chance...  You, with your desire to create good in the core of evil, lost the real thing for which there is no substitute...  If you had been less concerned with protecting the happiness of others, with atonement and regrets, you might be here now, all of you together..."

He stood up and gave me a long look.  The shade of a suspicion rose to his face and was immediately erased by his good-natured expression. 

"What do you know..." he said, "after all, you couldn't get to know them, there..."  He turned round and started to leave.

"Wait," I held the book out to him.  "This is yours."

"I don't want a memento..."

But he took it reluctantly and hurried down the path.  I followed him slowly.  When I reached the steps I found the book on top of a flower pot.  I went back to the grave and laid it open on the lap of one of the cherubs.  Through the trees I saw the doctor push open the gate and go out into the street.  How long would it be before he showed up at a station somewhere in the world to beg to be Anton Khamis again?  For a moment I felt an advantage nourished by the things I knew and he did not, as yet.  Then I remembered Yvonne and I knew that the advantage, in this case, did not give me anything real, but only accentuated what I had missed.  As I went down the stone steps I wondered if I would ever get another chance.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amnon Jackont was born in 1948 and grew up in Ramat Gan, Israel. He was a well-mannered boy from a family with a European lifestyle.  He slowly learned that in order to survive among Israeli children, he would have to use his fists. Since he was large and very strong, he also quickly learned self-control, so he wouldn’t cause any harm. He took up boxing as a hobby, and during his summer vacations he worked in construction. Before he was inducted into the IDF he worked for an oil company, where his job was to open and close the huge valves that allowed crude oil to flow from tankers.

He joined the IDF and was wounded while serving in unknown places, which continue to provide him with material for his books. His first injury occurred when an anti-personnel  mine caused a flat tire to the truck he was riding in. The truck overturned and he awoke with a fridge on his back. Four years later he was wounded again, this time in a hostile country, where he was rescued from after quite some time.

Jackont was involved in business for many years (mainly in insurance, securities and real estate), along with his diverse literary activities. He has written eight novels, a collection of short stories, a financial-documentary book, and the biography of a Mossad leader. All of his works were best sellers and some were translated into foreign languages, including Chinese and Japanese. In addition, he has edited approximately 200 books of various kinds - from thrillers, to history and philosophy books.