‘Nothing but rascally pranks,’ said Arthur. And he didn’t believe the reassuring words himself.
‘Possible. Except that we are living in a time when the rascals are in charge.’
‘Not in Switzerland.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Désirée.
To Arthur’s luck, at precisely that moment the phone rang, and kept him from having to admit that he was very far from sure.
He had expected one of his patients, and was surprised to hear Rachel’s voice. ‘You’ve got to come to the factory straight away,’ she said with the over-distinct articulation of someone struggling to control their panic.
‘There’s been a murder.’
Désirée insisted on coming.
The Fiat’s headlights crept along the dark façades of the houses like curious fingers. Every time they took in a late passer-by, it was as if they had caught him, a whole city full of twilight figures, all on their way to do something forbidden. Arthur was nervous, he kept forgetting to double-declutch, making the gears clash so that one might have thought the car was resisting the journey it was being asked to take so late at night.
‘Do you know if the police are there?’ Désirée asked.
‘I don’t think so. Something must have happened that they don’t want to make a great song and dance about.’
‘I still can’t imagine it. A murder in Zalman’s factory?’ Désirée spoke the unfamiliar word as if wearing gloves, the way one picks up things that seem strange very carefully.
‘Rachel said: there’s been a murder.’
‘Does she know the difference?’
Even though it wasn’t really appropriate, or perhaps precisely because it wasn’t appropriate, Arthur couldn’t help laughing at the question, out of nerves, of course, but also because Désirée had caught Rachel Kamionker’s character so precisely. ‘Does she know the difference?’ The years when men had swarmed around Rachel, and received even her most casual remark with applause, were long gone, but even today her behaviour was defined by her certainty, which had come into being back then, that people would always agree with what she said even if she didn’t give it much thought.
When they charged into the factory, Arthur clutching his medical case, there was a cordon of people waiting for them, a whole row of employees with concerned expressions, who all wanted to show them the way to the big sewing room, and hoped to use the opportunity to get a glimpse of the dramatic events from which they had been excluded.
Just as Arthur was about to reach for the door handle, it sprang open, and a young woman in a state of complete distress dashed towards them. She was very pretty, Arthur could see that straight away, and he felt guilty for noticing that first and only then the big bloodstain on her dress. She clutched his sleeve and stammered, ‘Thank God, Doctor! You’ve got to save him! Otherwise he’s going to die on me, he’s going to die!’ She wouldn’t let go, and Désirée actually had to tear her away from him. Only now did he see that the young woman’s hands were smeared with blood, and the inappropriate thought darted through his head: would the stains ever come out of his coat?
The sewing room glowed in an unnaturally white, bright light. It must have been those new-fangled neon lamps that Zalman had talked about with such pride. In two neat rows, like the desks in a classroom, stood the sewing machines. At the front a figure lay motionless on the floor. Around it, Zalman, Rachel and a man that Arthur didn’t know. None of them looked up when Arthur came in.
Someone had tried to cover up the body they were guarding, and even though they would have had all kinds of other materials to choose from here, had reached for a gently shimmering white fabric, too impractical for a sheet and too valuable for a shroud. Around the man’s head the fabric was covered with blood, but he still seemed to be breathing and…
It wasn’t just a man.
It was Joni Leibowitz.
His Joni.
Arthur knelt down next to him, he knelt next to Joni as he had once, a thousand years ago, knelt beside that body, in a gym on that occasion, he could still smell the moment, sweat and dust, he knelt next to him, and in that face, puffy now, he sought the familiar features, in the stale cigarette smoke the scent he had often inhaled, so similar to his own, he knelt on the floor and for a long moment he had forgotten everything a doctor has to be able to do, he just waited helplessly for Joni to open his eyes, waited for the private smile that wasn’t given to everybody, waited for a visit from the past, to say, ‘Oh please, Doctor, when can I have another appointment with you?’
But the only voice was that of the woman who went on wailing outside the door. ‘He’s dying on me,’ she howled, ‘he’s dying on me, no one can save him.’
Then the moment was over, it had really been just a moment, he was a doctor again, as he had been a hundred times in emergencies, and his hands did everything that needed to be done all by themselves. The bones of the skull, whose lines he knew so well, were undamaged, there was just a laceration, a tear in the skin that could be stitched up without much difficulty. Of course Joni had lost a lot of blood, but a head like that bleeds easily, and it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s anything dramatic. It would have been smarter to bandage the wound rather than just covering it up, but perhaps no one had dared to do that, or else the hysterical woman hadn’t let them. She must have rested his head in her lap, hence the blood on her dress, she must have stroked him, which was both senseless and unhygienic.
Arthur envied her that.
At last Joni opened his eyes. He didn’t seem to recognise Arthur, which might have been because of the injury, looked at him as if he were a stranger, without a smile, private or public. Ran his tongue over his lips as if to check that his mouth was still there and working, and then said with quiet fury, ‘I’m going to sue that meshuganeh.’
Outside the woman screamed, ‘He’s dying on me!’ Joni tried to turn his head, pulled a painful face and whispered, ‘Please could someone get that Blandine to shut up?’
He should really have been taken to hospital for observation, he had had a bump on the head and been unconscious. Concussion couldn’t be ruled out, in such cases it could lead to complications, to vestibular disorders or even worse. But Zalman was concerned about the good reputation of the company, and Joni’s condition seemed to be improving from one minute to the next. So the decision was made that he would be taken to Arthur’s surgery to have the wound stitched, but Arthur’s car was too small for that — not for nothing was the car called Topolino, the little mouse — and a taxi had to be called from Welti-Furrer, the removals firm. Until it arrived, a bed was organised for Joni in the cutters’ room, and the woman who was so concerned about him, Blandine Flückiger — the house model, Arthur learned — was given the task of putting damp, cool cloths on his forehead.
What had happened? Zalman wanted to tell him, but Rachel wouldn’t let her father get a word in. After all, she had been there when it happened, she said, while Zalman had been sitting in his office and was therefore unable to provide any reliable information.
Today the company had received another hasty commission, one of those impatient orders that landed at the Kamionker Clothes Company because it was well known that they needed the work and would sometimes work through one night or two. Zalman didn’t like that overtime, but what was one to do? As things stood, the customers had the upper hand.
So they didn’t stop work as usual at half past six, gave the apprentice, who had to go to the post office with the daily parcels anyway, the task of buying bread and cheese for everyone and prepared for a long night. At about nine o’clock they took a break and ate something. On these occasions there was always an atmosphere a bit like a picnic outing, they were all tired and excited at the same time, they walked around a little to stretch their legs and talked about everything imaginable.