“Yes, of course. Lorraine Patricks. I told you before. She lives in the apartment in the front, on the ground floor.”
Medved said nothing.
“If only those die whom I came into contact with, then the others who are wounded will live.”
“We don’t know. There’s a badly burnt woman there whose Significant Name is Flomirra.” Medved, giving up on the tea, put down the mug.
“Can you tell me what all this means?” asked Gavein.
“If you don’t know, then no one does. It’s pure coincidence then.”
“And how in the blazes am I supposed to know?” Gavein said, raising his voice.
Medved nodded, agreeing. It was even possible that he believed Gavein.
37
Two days later, Gavein took Ra Mahleiné home from the hospital. Dr. Nott’s face was stern. Her jowls hung more, her shoulders seemed even bonier. The news wasn’t good. Ra Mahleiné, after her many beatings by the guards, had internal scarring—adhesions—and most likely was sterile. In addition, she needed an operation: there was a growth that might or might not be malignant. They didn’t know, because Ra Mahleiné wouldn’t agree to a biopsy, afraid that the knife would spread the tumor. Dr. Nott decided they should remove it and examine it afterward.
Zef brought Gavein an article clipped from an afternoon tabloid, the Central Davabel Courier. The headline was “Death Is in the Masculine Gender, and His Name Is Dave.” The article began:
(DDP) According to a high-placed, confidential source in the Division of Hierarchy and Classification, the mortality rate is soaring. The deaths have taken place exclusively in Central Davabel, and the victims are all reported to have come into contact, before their demise, with a certain David, B, who recently arrived here from Lavath. The police have ruled out direct involvement on the part of this person, in every case, and yet without exception the deceased met their end only after meeting him. Those who are acquainted with him die, as well as those who merely exchange a few words with him. No explanation has yet been offered for this phenomenon, but a study has been initiated. It has been determined that in every instance death came in accordance with the victim’s Significant Name.
We can only advise our readers to give a wide berth to any individual named David who recently came from Lavath, as one of them may be this David Death. And in the event that you have actually met him, or know him… well, all we can say is, do your best to stay on his good side. It may improve your chances.
“I cut it out so my mother wouldn’t see it. I don’t believe a word of this crap, of course,” said Zef, “but my mother goes into hysterics, and she’s already filled the ear of one idiot policeman.”
On television they were showing the victims of the airport explosion. In isolated units, beds were draped with IVs and colored wires. Then a close-up: a tightly bandaged face, a tube coming from a nose, narrow slits for the eyes, swollen lips.
“Irma Rahm, G,” said the commentator, “seriously burned in the accident. She was standing at the end of the line of passengers who had just arrived from Lavath. Yesterday afternoon she regained consciousness. One can communicate with her.”
The camera cut to another bed in the ward, a man encased in plaster.
“Walter Ravitzer, B. Besides burns, has a broken back. He was pulled from the rubble. He too was a passenger from Lavath waiting to go through customs. He is conscious and has sensation in both legs. The other survivors are in satisfactory condition.”
“At times I find myself almost believing Medved,” Gavein said. “This catastrophe, it might make a good dissertation for you. Local anomaly in the probability curve of human events in sector N.”
“You think?” Zef mused. “Doesn’t sound bad.”
“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” Ra Mahleiné began counting loops out loud. That meant she had something to say but didn’t want to lose her place in the row. There were new glasses on her nose, with pretty blue frames.
“That jackass should have some sense beaten into him,” she finally stated. “With a two-by-four. A whack for every jackass idea.”
The phone clattered. Gavein picked up the receiver. It was Medved again.
“Lewis died of a heart attack. He’s the cop who came with Tobiany and took Haifan Tonescu away. The one who put the handcuffs on Haifan. He was also at your place when the gas exploded and Gwenda and the Hougassian girl died.”
He stopped for Gavein to say something, but Gavein didn’t.
Then Medved added, “There have been no other deaths in Davabel.”
38
In the evening news it was reported that Irma Rahm died of blood poisoning. And Walter Ravitzer’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. At dinner Edda announced that she had found someone who was interested in the apartment vacated by Helga.
At the bookstore the next day, the main topic of conversation was the enigmatic David Death. Both assistants, of course, had read the article in the Courier. Bette was of the opinion that David Death must be gorgeous, “to die for.” Agatha joked that he must be Gavein, and she should become his wife to protect herself from fatal accidents. Gavein’s gruff reply was that he already had a wife. Wilcox was too engrossed in his book to join in the banter. Gavein dreaded the next phone call from Medved.
It came toward the end of the day. Medved’s voice was different.
“Finally we have a death that doesn’t fit the pattern,” he said. “One should not take pleasure in the passing of any person, but it does seem as if this cursed run has been broken. Lola Low, the film actress, died yesterday, in a car crash. She was speeding; there was alcohol in her blood. She died this morning, not regaining consciousness.”
“Not that long ago,” Gavein said, lowering his voice so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I saw her in one or two movies, with Maslynnaya.”
“Hold on. Maslynnaya?… Maslynnaya stopped filming on the coast so she could attend Lola Low’s funeral. I may have time to make it.” Medved hung up.
That evening they met the new tenant. It turned out to be Anabel. There was an awkward silence as Ra Mahleiné, led in by Gavein, sat opposite her at the table.
Anabel was the first to speak. “Hello, Dave,” she said, and added, for the others, “We know each other.” Only then did she look at Ra Mahleiné. Gavein felt his wife tense, as if preparing to spring, to go for Anabel’s throat. Although taller, Ra Mahleiné was weak and would have had no chance in a fight with the veteran guard. And Anabel’s rank could cause problems, if it came to blows between the women.
Zef stepped in. “You were Magdalena’s guard, is that true?” he began and went on before she could answer: “In thirteen years I move to Ayrrah, where blacks have a zero on their passport and reds a three. Could it happen that I would be a guard in your quarantine?”
“Not likely.” Anabel was angry at being interrupted, and in addition this insolent red was putting her on the defensive before she could get properly acquainted with her fellow tenants. “Women have women guards. And guards are all reds. I am not a guard. I supervise a section.”
Zef smiled too widely. “Ah… Then it must have been a vicious lie.”
“I still have not recovered, from her supervising,” said Ra Mahleiné. To some degree she could speak freely, having been written into Gavein’s passport as a wife.
“I regret what happened,” said Anabel. “It was procedure, a part of my job.”