The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) by Amnon Jackont
Authors: Amnon Jackont
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dogs' eyes returned a yellowish glitter, burning around me in a close, vaporous circle. There was no way out. Another whistle. The beam focused. I hid my face with my arm. Mercifully, the light went out.
A soft, gentle voice spoke to the dogs. Some of them turned in their tracks and vanished. Others lost interest and turned to lick themselves, dig themselves in or drowse.
"You can go now. They won't bother you."
I remained where I was.
"Everything's all right." The half-open window creaked as she leaned against it. "Nothing will happen to you now."
The dogs, still surrounding me, lay down in the mud, growling. I turned round. For a moment I imagined a fleeting whiff of body heat from the window. The jar of antibiotics I had intended to take was in a collection of unattainable objects, and I was ready to forego them all. But one of the dogs, a small one, suddenly darted forward and sank his fangs deep into my calf.
Stunned, I sat down on the soft earth. There was a buzzing in my ears. The dog struggled frantically, his jaws embedded in my flesh.
The torch shone again, this time from very close. A brown hand with long fingers pressed a spot at the base of the dog's skull. His jaw opened with a snap, as if it was a mechanical toy. I put out my hand to turn the torch upwards. How many faces did this woman have? In the light that came from below, her cheeks were furrowed by dark grooves and the hollows in the areas of devastation beneath her eyes were emphasized. Her lips were puffed out in that expression of vexation she had worn when she placed the wooden plank at my feet as a way of escape from the radish bed. As my fingers touched the torch I felt her pulse pound and her anxious thought: 'That's all I need. A moonstruck Israeli bleeding in my vegetable garden...' I tried to stand.
"The wound will have to be dressed," she said reluctantly.
With the relief of acceptance, of submitting to ignominy, I sank back on my behind into the warm mud. Inside I exulted: instead of stealing into the clinic I would go in as a casualty. She stretched out her hand. I tried to get up, to steady myself, to walk. Quite naturally she found her place beneath my armpit, supporting me. I leaned on her, embracing a solid, perfectly-curved shoulder, treading deliberately on the bitten leg - checking once more to feel it really hurt.
But she led me toward the house and not the clinic. At the entrance she allowed me in first to hobble to a heavy chair, one of four around a dining table as big as an airfield. I was left on my own in a room in which the smell of spicy food still lingered. She did not turn on the light but left her lit torch on the table so that it cast a ring of brightness onto the ceiling. In the glow which it sent back a fireplace of red bricks smiled at me. Some photographs in metal frames were lined up along the mantelpiece. They were all of the doctor. In one photo he was smiling, in another he was waving, or riding a horse, holding aloft a large Palestinian flag, looking serious in a photographer's studio. Where was the bookcase I had seen through the window? In the room on my right, or perhaps in the room behind me?
The sound of water came from somewhere in the house. And then she came back carrying a china jug and washbowl. Her hair fell forward and covered her face, which was both beautiful and ugly. Her backbone protruded beneath her blouse as she bent forward and rolled up my torn trouser leg. I was ashamed of the paleness of my exposed skin and the pathetic clumps of hair along it. Her hand was cool against my flesh. The water was warm.
"The dog. I hope it isn't infected."
Her lips were compressed. I could see an island of gray spreading from the parting in her
A soft, gentle voice spoke to the dogs. Some of them turned in their tracks and vanished. Others lost interest and turned to lick themselves, dig themselves in or drowse.
"You can go now. They won't bother you."
I remained where I was.
"Everything's all right." The half-open window creaked as she leaned against it. "Nothing will happen to you now."
The dogs, still surrounding me, lay down in the mud, growling. I turned round. For a moment I imagined a fleeting whiff of body heat from the window. The jar of antibiotics I had intended to take was in a collection of unattainable objects, and I was ready to forego them all. But one of the dogs, a small one, suddenly darted forward and sank his fangs deep into my calf.
Stunned, I sat down on the soft earth. There was a buzzing in my ears. The dog struggled frantically, his jaws embedded in my flesh.
The torch shone again, this time from very close. A brown hand with long fingers pressed a spot at the base of the dog's skull. His jaw opened with a snap, as if it was a mechanical toy. I put out my hand to turn the torch upwards. How many faces did this woman have? In the light that came from below, her cheeks were furrowed by dark grooves and the hollows in the areas of devastation beneath her eyes were emphasized. Her lips were puffed out in that expression of vexation she had worn when she placed the wooden plank at my feet as a way of escape from the radish bed. As my fingers touched the torch I felt her pulse pound and her anxious thought: 'That's all I need. A moonstruck Israeli bleeding in my vegetable garden...' I tried to stand.
"The wound will have to be dressed," she said reluctantly.
With the relief of acceptance, of submitting to ignominy, I sank back on my behind into the warm mud. Inside I exulted: instead of stealing into the clinic I would go in as a casualty. She stretched out her hand. I tried to get up, to steady myself, to walk. Quite naturally she found her place beneath my armpit, supporting me. I leaned on her, embracing a solid, perfectly-curved shoulder, treading deliberately on the bitten leg - checking once more to feel it really hurt.
But she led me toward the house and not the clinic. At the entrance she allowed me in first to hobble to a heavy chair, one of four around a dining table as big as an airfield. I was left on my own in a room in which the smell of spicy food still lingered. She did not turn on the light but left her lit torch on the table so that it cast a ring of brightness onto the ceiling. In the glow which it sent back a fireplace of red bricks smiled at me. Some photographs in metal frames were lined up along the mantelpiece. They were all of the doctor. In one photo he was smiling, in another he was waving, or riding a horse, holding aloft a large Palestinian flag, looking serious in a photographer's studio. Where was the bookcase I had seen through the window? In the room on my right, or perhaps in the room behind me?
The sound of water came from somewhere in the house. And then she came back carrying a china jug and washbowl. Her hair fell forward and covered her face, which was both beautiful and ugly. Her backbone protruded beneath her blouse as she bent forward and rolled up my torn trouser leg. I was ashamed of the paleness of my exposed skin and the pathetic clumps of hair along it. Her hand was cool against my flesh. The water was warm.
"The dog. I hope it isn't infected."
Her lips were compressed. I could see an island of gray spreading from the parting in her
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