"No. That won't be necessary. I'll call them if anything's missing from my room. Let's go."
Each step proved a challenge. I was lightheaded, unsteady, and I hurt. Rona gave me her arm, and together we covered the short distance to the doctor's office in what must have been five times what it normally took.
The doctor looked up from his desk. He took in my appearance. "Are you sure about this, Mr. Lapid?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
He sighed. "So be it. I'm sorry about your clothes. We assumed someone would bring you fresh ones."
The state of my clothes corresponded with my own. Wrinkled, torn, streaked with dirt from the street where I was beaten, both they and I looked ready for the trash heap.
"They'll do until I get home," I said.
The doctor nodded. He scribbled something on a piece of paper, then shrugged into his coat and picked up his briefcase. "Ready?"
"Yes."
The doctor looked at me for two more seconds, then shook his head and said, "All right. Let's go."
We bid Rona goodbye and headed out. It was slow and hard going. To his credit, Dr. Aboulker did not try to use my debility to persuade me to change my mind.
He had a small mud-green Fiat. The front seat would have been difficult to squeeze into under normal circumstances. I had to clench my teeth to keep from crying out as I maneuvered my battered body inside.
He drove with calm assurance and stopped outside the hotel. He peered out the window and grimaced. "This is where you're staying?"
I nodded. "First class all the way."
He chuckled. "Which floor is your room?"
"Third. Listen, Doctor, I appreciate you doing this for me, but if you'd rather not wait while I get my things, I'll manage from here."
"What do you mean, wait? Shape you're in, you want to climb three floors? I'll hop inside and get your stuff."
"No. I'll do it."
"Come on, why not let me help you, Mr. Lapid?"
"You're helping plenty, Doctor, but I need to get my stuff by myself."
He gave me a look. He was a smart guy. He probably deduced that there was something in my room, in my things, that I didn't wish him to see. Maybe he thought I had dirty pictures strewn about the bed. Maybe he thought I had illicit drugs lying around. Or maybe he figured I had contraband I'd acquired on Israel's widespread black market. I didn't care what he thought. All I cared about was going into that room and seeing if the gun was still there.
Dr. Aboulker eyed me thoughtfully, seeming to consider his next words. He said, "Are you a criminal, Mr. Lapid?"
The question took me by surprise. He probably wouldn't have asked it if I hadn't been in such a dismal physical state. "No," I said.
"You decided to leave the hospital right after that police inspector talked to you."
"He was there to investigate my assault."
"Is that all he was there to do?"
"If I'm a criminal, why didn't he arrest me?"
"Maybe you're just a suspect at the moment."
"If I was, don't you think he would have warned you and the rest of the staff?"
He pondered this. It had started raining again. Fat drops splattered on the windshield, drummed on the roof.
After a minute, he said, "You don't have a hat or umbrella, and I don't have either to give you. You go out, you'll get wet."
"So would you."
"I'm not running a fever."
"The rain will cool me down, do me good."
"I'll climb those stairs faster than you will."
"Like I said, Doctor, you don't have to wait. You've already done enough."
He kneaded the back of his neck, his jaw tight. "I'll wait, Mr. Lapid. But if you're not back here in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in to see if you're okay."
He'd parked right before the front door. Still, my hair was wet by the time I hobbled into the lobby. The clerk looked up from his magazine. His bulging eyes protruded further when he saw me.
I walked to the counter. "I'm checking out. I'm going upstairs to get my things. But I seem to have misplaced my key."
He raised his chin a tad, and a malicious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "There's a three-lira fine for losing your key."
I wanted to grab his shirtfront, drag him over the counter, and hurl him at the nearest wall, but I was in no condition to. So instead I took three one-lira bills from my wallet and tossed them on the counter. He replaced them with a key, then stepped back as I reached for it, as though afraid of contracting whatever ailed me. I had half a mind to cough deeply in his direction but knew that would cause me agony. So I merely picked up the key and headed for the stairs.
Before beginning to climb, I followed the rise of the dim staircase with my eyes all the way to the second-floor landing. I counted fourteen steps. No big deal. But now it seemed like I was about to scale a sheer mountainside, and I had to get to the top without falling even once.
I gripped the banister, set my right foot on the bottom step, and heaved myself upward. This simple movement, normally done mindlessly, without effort, now felt as though I were stretching my body to its breaking point. A little more pull and I would tear apart like a badly stitched seam.
By the time I cleared five steps, I was gasping for breath. After ten, my body was shaking. Twice, I was dizzy and had to grab the banister with both hands to steady myself.
When I got to the second-floor landing, I stood with my head pressed against the wall until I recovered a bit of strength. I wondered how much time had elapsed. Three minutes? Five? Maybe more?
The thought of Dr. Aboulker barging in at any moment impelled me to move on. I had another flight of stairs to climb.
This one was harder than the first. Each step a jagged shard of torment. When I finally reached the top, my heart was hammering, and an acidic lump of bile was lodged at the bottom of my throat. My legs wobbled. My chest ached. My various bruises throbbed. Each inhalation seemed to contain not merely air, but also a lick of flame that scorched my lungs. I wanted to sit down right there in the hall, but I knew that if I did, it might be a long while before I was able to stand up again.
I staggered to my room instead, unlocked the door, and went inside. I could tell instantly that someone had been there in my absence.
Kulaski and his fellow cop goons.
I swore, surveying the mess. The mattress was crooked. They had looked underneath and hadn't bothered to straighten it. My bag had been overturned. My things lay scattered across the floor. Nothing seemed to be missing, though I couldn't be sure.
My heart went into palpitations when I saw the dresser had been pulled from its place, a cake slice of blackness between its back and the wall. All the drawers were open, each to a different degree, but none had been pulled out entirely, including the bottom one, under which I'd hidden the gun. A good sign, but they might have put it back just to give me false hope. It was just like Kulaski to pull a trick like that.
The next part was difficult. Gingerly, I lowered myself to my knees as though I were made of the thinnest glass and was liable to shatter at the mildest tension. It still hurt. As did my knees and shins when I set my weight on them. My attackers hadn't spared those body parts either.
I pulled the bottom drawer, wincing as I scooched back to get it all the way out. I set the drawer aside and, holding my breath, peered at the space between the floor and where the drawer usually lay. There, right where I'd left them, lay the gun and two magazines. An exhalation of pure relief whooshed out of me. A triumphant smile spread across my face.
"Kulaski, you incompetent moron," I murmured. But maybe that wasn't the reason why Kulaski and his pals hadn't found the gun. Maybe they hadn't tossed my room to find anything, but merely to intimidate me further. To pass on yet another message. To appear stronger and make me feel weak and small in comparison. So maybe they hadn't searched too hard. They'd just made a mess and left.