The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) by Amnon Jackont Page A
Authors: Amnon Jackont
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hair. With her teeth she tore the wrapping off a military bandage. I picked the ripped paper up: "MADE IN IRAQ." Which of the armies passing through here had lost it?
She sprayed some disinfectant on my wound and pressed the bandage onto it. I turned the bottle round in my fingers. The contents were not printed on the label.
"We're short of some medicines..." I tried cautiously.
She took back the bottle with a swift movement and put it in the dresser drawer, bent over my bandaged leg and tightened the knot once more. I blurted out an impersonal, "Thanks," and watched the light of the torch, which she carried to the mantelpiece, near the photos of the doctor.
"I'm dealing with that matter," I remembered to say.
A flicker of interest lit her eyes, modifying their gravity slightly. I added immediately: "After we met I sent a telegram."
"Well..." she said at length.
"There was something unclear about his name. They haven't yet found..." If only I had something to tell her... Outside the line of shadow cast by the half-open door breathed the loneliness of the night. "I'll know everything by tomorrow."
She stood by the door, waiting for me to leave.
"Do you want me to come and tell you?"
The expression on her face was one of an animal toying with the bait in a trap.
Suddenly I had an idea. "There's a house on the mountain, I'll be there..." It had better be after dark, but not too late, "…at eight."
The torch illuminated the outside. I could not see her face any more. The dogs stood facing us, waiting, a guard of honor - or a punishment squad - at her command.
"At eight," I repeated and began walking between the wet, sniffing noses. The beam of light accompanied me. "I'll be seeing you," I cast back from the shadow of the radish bed. The light disappeared. The door banged.
I was no longer afraid of the road, of the dark, or an assailant. A routine had been born. I thought, limping home keeps repeating itself like a cartoon. The wicked cat gets hurt each time he goads the clever mice...
***
"You know," Scheckler said the next day, sorting out a pile of telegrams, "I envy you a bit. When I was a kid I read lots of spy books. When I was mobilized I asked to be posted to Intelligence, but they laughed at me and sent me to Maintenance."
"You didn't miss much, just lots of sleepless nights, meetings you half hope no one will come to, rooms in third-rate hotels and five or six aliases to swap around."
"That alias business sounds alright. You could open a few bank accounts..."
"You're very quick..."
"Quicker than you think. I eat quickly, think quickly, even fuck quickly, before the woman under me can change her mind..." - I laughed - "...and I understand quickly too."
If there was some hidden meaning it evaporated when the duty officer knocked at the door and placed a fresh pile of mail on the desk. Scheckler began sorting that out too.
"Another one for you." For a moment his hand lingered on the folded page, which had been stapled together, then gave up. He could look at the copies in the communications room later anyway.
I spread the page out on the desk. This time the tone was abrupt and final. "KAMIS, HAMIS, KOMIS, KHOMIS; ANTIN, ANATOLE, ANTOINE; TURA, DORA, DAURA - NO RECORD."
With a heavy heart I took a form and wrote: "KHAMIS, ANTON, DOCTOR,
She sprayed some disinfectant on my wound and pressed the bandage onto it. I turned the bottle round in my fingers. The contents were not printed on the label.
"We're short of some medicines..." I tried cautiously.
She took back the bottle with a swift movement and put it in the dresser drawer, bent over my bandaged leg and tightened the knot once more. I blurted out an impersonal, "Thanks," and watched the light of the torch, which she carried to the mantelpiece, near the photos of the doctor.
"I'm dealing with that matter," I remembered to say.
A flicker of interest lit her eyes, modifying their gravity slightly. I added immediately: "After we met I sent a telegram."
"Well..." she said at length.
"There was something unclear about his name. They haven't yet found..." If only I had something to tell her... Outside the line of shadow cast by the half-open door breathed the loneliness of the night. "I'll know everything by tomorrow."
She stood by the door, waiting for me to leave.
"Do you want me to come and tell you?"
The expression on her face was one of an animal toying with the bait in a trap.
Suddenly I had an idea. "There's a house on the mountain, I'll be there..." It had better be after dark, but not too late, "…at eight."
The torch illuminated the outside. I could not see her face any more. The dogs stood facing us, waiting, a guard of honor - or a punishment squad - at her command.
"At eight," I repeated and began walking between the wet, sniffing noses. The beam of light accompanied me. "I'll be seeing you," I cast back from the shadow of the radish bed. The light disappeared. The door banged.
I was no longer afraid of the road, of the dark, or an assailant. A routine had been born. I thought, limping home keeps repeating itself like a cartoon. The wicked cat gets hurt each time he goads the clever mice...
***
"You know," Scheckler said the next day, sorting out a pile of telegrams, "I envy you a bit. When I was a kid I read lots of spy books. When I was mobilized I asked to be posted to Intelligence, but they laughed at me and sent me to Maintenance."
"You didn't miss much, just lots of sleepless nights, meetings you half hope no one will come to, rooms in third-rate hotels and five or six aliases to swap around."
"That alias business sounds alright. You could open a few bank accounts..."
"You're very quick..."
"Quicker than you think. I eat quickly, think quickly, even fuck quickly, before the woman under me can change her mind..." - I laughed - "...and I understand quickly too."
If there was some hidden meaning it evaporated when the duty officer knocked at the door and placed a fresh pile of mail on the desk. Scheckler began sorting that out too.
"Another one for you." For a moment his hand lingered on the folded page, which had been stapled together, then gave up. He could look at the copies in the communications room later anyway.
I spread the page out on the desk. This time the tone was abrupt and final. "KAMIS, HAMIS, KOMIS, KHOMIS; ANTIN, ANATOLE, ANTOINE; TURA, DORA, DAURA - NO RECORD."
With a heavy heart I took a form and wrote: "KHAMIS, ANTON, DOCTOR,
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