The first week of September broke another heat record across Europe. By one o’clock in the afternoon, radiant heat shimmering off buildings and sidewalks pushed the air conditioner in the kitchen to its capacity. He knew he could go to a hotel for relief. A five-minute cab ride is all it would be. When Nan called, he would tell her that’s what he would do. He didn’t want her to worry.
Legs splayed, body sluggish, he sat on the couch. He’d overworked the freezer, and now it barely functioned. Beside him on a small table, he sipped on tepid water. He thought about filling the tub with cold water—anything to relieve the discomfort of intractable heat—but he decided he would not have the strength to lift himself out.
Instead, he pointed his face toward the two standing fans and the temperate mass of air emanating from them. The constant blowing made him sleepy. Outside, a bike bell rang, the sound taking him back to his childhood. He saw the blue ice cream truck coming down the street lined with triple-decker houses in his old Boston neighborhood. He sat on the front stoop, the whole family and neighborhood waiting for a breeze from the harbor a mile away. His uncle and aunt lived on the second floor. When the truck came, the grown-ups pooled their change and purchased pints of vanilla ice cream for everyone to share. He could feel the wooden spoon splintering on his tongue, a clean scratchy taste after he licked it dry.
On summer nights, hot as this day, he and his older sister would take turns sleeping on his uncle’s upstairs porch. The sounds of the city faded with each passing hour, and every so often an actual breeze slithered in from Boston Harbor and found its way to his little cot in the corner. Time was slow then. Slow as it was now. The morning after, he’d wake up with tattoos of bug bites, yet he loved sleeping there, exposed to the summer air, to every element. Never had he felt so safe as on that porch. Sweet moments of forgetting who he was, where he was. If that was a peek into eternity or death where time didn’t exist, he was ready.
Half-asleep, he heard a faint ringing, like something caught in the fan blade. There it was again. The phone. The damn phone.
“Yes. Yes. All right.”
He pushed himself up with a violent motion that propelled him toward the door. Staggering, he grabbed at air, lurching to get his hands on something to prevent a fall—but his hip hit the floor, and he ended up on his back looking at a water stain on the ceiling.
“Christ.”
The ringing stopped, then started again.
“Give me a moment,” he yelled, out of breath. That he was lying on the cooler wooden floor surprised but didn’t scare him. He wiggled his hands, his toes, neck. Amazing. God having another laugh. Everything still seemed to work.
Dumb luck. Like that time in France. Caught in the cross fire in Strasbourg. Trapped in a courtyard. His squad, part of the big drive in 1944; that blond kid from Kansas, sharing smokes, next second flying across mounds of rubble, leg and arms, blood everywhere—not his blood, the kid’s. One more lunge across the yard.
God!
Only time he called out for God.
Only time.
On the floor, he rolled onto his side and made an effort to lift himself. The skirmish stopped, a lucky moment, one in a billion of lucky moments. Dumb luck. When you’re in a war, every day, hour, second that you’re alive is dumb luck.
He clicked on his cell phone. “Yes?”
“Mr. Weiss? Are you all right?”
He pulled himself along the floor to the wall.
“Mr. Weiss?”
He leaned into the wall near the kitchen, heaving.
“Annie. What can I do for you?” His lungs seized on another breath.
“What happened? You sound terrible.”
He brushed his shoulder. “I fell. It’s not the first time.” He didn’t want her pity. “You called. What is it?”
“We met him again. Are you hurt?”
“What? No.”
“Today. Stephen Házy. Van. He’s the same man. I’m sure of it.”
“I told you his name is Van.”
“He calls himself Stephen. Stephen Házy. It’s the same person in your photo. It’s him, only his hair is shorter.”
“A liar is a liar. Where is he?”
Her voice changed. “He said he grew up in New Jersey. Didn’t you tell me that?”
His heart turned over. “Yes. I did.” Reflexively, he touched his shoulder. It hurt.
“Mr. Weiss? Are you there? Will’s with him now. They’re at a business meeting.”
“Where does he live? Did he tell you?”
“He bought a place by the river. He owns it. He even invited us over. I don’t know the address. Not yet. I know I can get it. I’ll get it for you.”
“When was this?”
“Today. This morning. A few hours ago. We had breakfast. At the Hilton.”
He listened. Leaning into the wall, he felt the air conditioner vibrating. “How did this come about? Where are you?”
“Will’s old boss. Will’s associate. Stephen is a translator for American businesses. It’s a small community. I’m worried. What if he’s been following us? I’m walking back from the embassy now. I registered. I’m with Leo.”
“Tell me the truth. What did you think of him?”
She answered with her breath.
“Annie? You liked him. You don’t believe me.”
“I liked him. Yes. He’s pleasant. Exactly like you said. I can’t put it together. He changed his name. What are we going to do?” she asked.
“You’re not going to do anything. Understand? Don’t come here. Like I told you. Call me when you get his address. Nothing more. Give me your word.” Sweat dripped down his sides. He listened but he didn’t hear anything. She was breathing hard into the phone.
“Annie. Your word.”
“Okay.”
“Good.” He slumped, the effort tired him. His shoulder ached, his body shuddered.
“When you get his address, call me. I’m here.”
This was his second chance. He could prove that his daughter died of an overdose from her own prescription pills. He could smell the truth. He was getting close.
“Mr. Weiss? Are you there?”
“Annie. I’m tired. I’m going to hang up now, but I want to thank you. Thank you very much.”
He ended the phone call. It would come to pass, he knew this even as he listened to his old thoughts winding back. How many times had he second-guessed himself? Exaggerating. Making things up. You never trust anyone, Sylvia had said. Maybe Sylvia was right. No. No more. Van made it seem as if Deborah, his Deborah, had unintentionally killed herself, an accident, an understandable, honest mistake. The insurance company implied the same thing. Both of them— insurance and Van—robbers, killers. Canceled his own insurance after that. He let the phone slide from his hand onto the couch.
And if Howard wanted to kill him, too?
He rubbed his shoulder again, raising his arm to check. He fought the insurance company, but in the end, the money went to the bastard. Bastards, all of them. They said he was her husband. Her rightful beneficiary. The coroner’s opinion trumped all. A thick sweat worked like glue on his shirt and shorts as he let himself thump onto the hard sofa cushion.
He heard his voice speak out loud.
“Find the truth.”