He pauses.
“And,” says the Jew.
“The Portuguese,” Abahn continues, “the Portuguese and others paid the syndicate’s tariffs. They were not given the right to vote. They had no right to strike. The foreigners are 70 percent of the workforce, so the company is immune to strike.”
He stops. Closes his eyes.
The Jew says nothing more.
“The most recent contract provides for 12 percent overtime pay past 40 hours, but it has not been honored.”
Pauses.
“The value of untaxed products has already increased 10 percent. For the non-foreign worker the increase is already resolved.”
He pauses.
Abahn pauses and then begins again. His voice is weak:
“So the single major policy issue is the sliding scale of the minimum wage.”
He stops.
•
Abahn still sits at the table as if he were reading from the charred papers.
The Jew takes some steps and then sits against the door to the darkened park. He stays there, on the ground, his head turned toward Sabana, his eyes closed.
Sabana makes the same effort. She rises. She walks with purpose. She turns toward the Jew. She listens. She stands there, near to him, she studies him. She says:
“Turn on the lights. I can’t see you.”
He does not move. Neither does Abahn.
Sabana turns and switches on the light next to the Jews.
She looks from one to the other in the shadowy light that falls across their faces and closed eyes. Then she sees only the Jew. Says:
“I’m looking. I see you.”
Abahn.
“He isn’t thinking anymore.”
The Jew’s eyes are closed. She says:
“No. That’s not right.”
The Jew opens his eyes.
“You’re afraid,” cries Sabana. “Where were you?”
“Here, in front of you,” Abahn says.
“Not him,” she gestures at the other. “Not him.”
The Jew and Sabana regard each other. A tight smile spreads across the Jew’s face.
“One day I’m going to kill myself,” says the Jew.
Sabana’s intense gaze flares blue and then fades.
“It’s for that reason exactly that they want to kill you.”
“Yes,” says Abahn.
Sabana sits next to the Jew. She stays there, next to him, quiet, her eyes open.
They are silent. Both fallen against the walls, looking at nothing.
“The Jews still cannot escape madness and sorrow,” says Abahn.
He pauses. He speaks with concerted effort:
“Sometimes it’s so difficult for them to live.”
Silence.
“Before, the Jew was so sure,” says Abahn.
“Of what?”
“He was with Gringo’s Party.”
“Communist.”
“No. With Gringo.”
She struggles to speak clearly the same way Abahn had:
“And now? He’s what?”
Abahn does not respond right away.
“If he’s anything, he’s a communist,” she says.
Abahn rises, rests his back against the wall that opens to the park. He feels apart from the others. Sabana hears him from across that distance.
“And now?” she repeats.
The Jew smiles, makes a little gesture.
“Nothing more?” she demands.
“No,” says Abahn. “Something else. But he doesn’t know what.”
“I knew it,” says Sabana.
Abahn slides down the wall and lands once more on the floor. He is still a little apart from Sabana and the Jew but like them he is on the ground, fallen.
Sabana’s hand lifts and brushes across the eyes of the Jew.
“You’ve gone blind.”
“Yes,” says Abahn.
“You’ve become deaf.”
“Yes.”
The hand rests on the closed eyes.
“Like David,” says Sabana.
The hand falls back.
•
She does it. With great difficulty, she gets up and moves away from the Jew.
She stands facing him.
She turns from him toward David, but her eyes stay fixed on the Jew.
Then she turns toward David, pauses there, turned toward him. Finally, her eyes unlatch from the gaze of the Jew.
All falls still.
Sabana’s body seems to tremble between turning to David and turning back to the Jew.
Then, suddenly, she chooses. She moves slowly toward David. Pauses. Moves. Comes close to David, studying him.
His breath is long and even. He sleeps a deep sleep. She watches him.
She does it.
Slowly, she cradles David’s head in her hands and lifts it.
“Wake up, David. The Jews are talking.”
“No,” David mutters in his sleep.
She leans closer and forces a light tone into her voice. “David, the Jews are talking.”
“What?” David asks.
His eyes are still closed.
“What?” he asks.
He opens his eyes. He looks over at the Jews sitting on the floor. He seems to recognize them. And remember them. They do not return his gaze.
For a moment it seems David is resting.
“They are not trying to escape?” he asks.
“No.”
She fixes her attention on him. “You slept well.”
David doesn’t answer.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“Night,” Sabana says.
David glances repeatedly toward the darkened park where the dogs are.
“And Gringo?”
“He passed by,” she says. “He’ll come back later.”
“Their meeting is still going on?”
David is stunned.
“Why so long?”
“I don’t know,” Sabana says.
“He told me at the beginning of the night,” says David.
He looks over at the Jews.
“This whole time there’s only been one Jew,” he says.
“Gringo sent the second while you were asleep.”
David gets up. He stretches his arms, grimaces, looks at his hands, flexes them. He doesn’t feel well. Suddenly he freezes. He has thought of something.
“The second Jew. Are they going to kill him too?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whether they kill him,” David smiles, “or only the first one, it’s all the same to them.”
“Yes,” says Sabana.
The Jews have raised their eyes. They do not look at David, they look toward the darkened park. They are silent.
“Do they know each other?” asks David.
“I don’t think so.”
Abahn smiles at Sabana. David sees the smile.
“Look, they’re smiling,” says David.
She does not respond.
“Why are they smiling?” he asks.
She does not answer.
“At the moment of death,” he adds.
David seems uncertain. He is about to smile as well, but does not. It is as if he is intimidated. He ought to see that she has not responded. He says:
“You woke me up, you told me, ‘the Jew is talking.’”
He points at the Jew and says:
“He’s laughing.”
The Jew’s eyes are closed. His face is expressionless.
“He was talking,” says Sabana. “He was talking about killing himself. That’s why he was laughing.”
David is still frozen in place. He points at the Jew and says again:
“He’s laughing.”
“A person might laugh if he’s some hours from death,” says Sabana.
They look at the Jew. His eyes are fixed on the darkened park and it seems he might be laughing.
“He was laughing,” David says. “I see him laughing.”
David, still frozen, is completely fixated on the Jew.
“Maybe he’s really asleep,” David mumbles.
“No,” says Sabana.
“Maybe he’s afraid,” says David.
“He didn’t try to run away,” Abahn points out.