Читать книгу To Die in Spring - Sylvia Maultash Warsh - Страница 13

Tuesday, April 3, 1979

Toronto was not Buenos Aires, thought Goldie as she watched the news at eleven o’ clock. It was a staid, humourless place where streets were laid out in unimaginative lines like a giant grid. A bookkeeper’s city. You might not get lost in Toronto, but the trip would be tedious. Buenos Aires, now there was a city! As exciting as Paris, with its furtive alleyways, its wide sweeping boulevards lined with plane-trees, the women dressed like models strolling past the outdoor cafes. After nearly two years in Toronto, Goldie still missed the European feel of Buenos Aires. The city was not to blame for the nightmare of what had happened to her.

It was such a long time ago. It was just yesterday. How much older she felt now. A hundred years older, sitting in flannel pyjamas in her living-room watching the late news. At eleven-thirty Buenos Aires was just waking up. What did she care if Pierre Trudeau was heading to Calgary this week? Or that his pretty young wife was showing off their three sons to the press? He was an old goat who had found a brood mare to propagate his line. Well, why not? Why shouldn’t he have sons? Maybe he would be luckier than she had been and his sons would live past their twenty-sixth birthday.

She changed the station with the remote. Another clip of that tedious Star Wars movie. Too loud. They were trying to whet people’s appetite for the next one coming out. Something about a sinister Empire. She wished she could escape into fantasies like other people. She flicked to another channel. Maybe she could find an old movie.

That was when she thought she heard it. She flicked the mute button and strained to listen. A soft knocking came from her door. She jumped in her seat. Her heart dropped as she remembered that other knock in Argentina. “¡Abra la puerta! ¡Abra la puerta!”

She sat rigid while the man knocked softly, softly on her door (she was sure it was a man). Go away, thought Goldie, I’m not ready yet. She had told Dr. Temple today — she knew it would be him. This one was clever, tapping so quietly. The others had not been quiet. They had knocked and knocked. “¡Abra la puerta! ¡Abra la puerta!”

Soon he would kick the door down. She had seen this moment coming since the basement in Buenos Aires during that other nightmare. First the blindfold, then without preamble, the machine. People said they couldn’t remember pain. Well, maybe one forgot the pain, but never the terror of it, never the racing heart in the night. Where’s your son, you Jewish whore?

What was the point of surviving your children? The man at the door in Toronto was carrying the tail end of the plague that had come after her family in Poland in 1939.

For nearly two years in Canada now she had waited for the executioner. Every time she went on the street, someone was watching her. People scoffed when she told them. They didn’t understand. How could they? They hadn’t been tortured. Even the bakery where she worked, men came in looking for her. Oh, not openly, no. They were good actors; nobody believed her. But she knew. And she waited. Every place she had settled in had betrayed her. And now here he was at her door. Toronto was the last place that would betray her.

Safe Toronto. Safe for everyone else. Not for her. She knew he would come. She knew she could not stop him coming. And though she did not always recognize him, she knew him. By heart. How many years had she waited for him to reveal himself? Her body trembled now as he called through the door. She struggled to hear the words.

“I just want to talk,” he said. “You wouldn’t let me explain this afternoon. That’s all I want, just to explain.”

This afternoon. Yes, the confrontation this afternoon. And now he was going to kill her. He had just waited for the dark. She sat, stunned, on the French Provincial sofa, worn in the spot where she sat enjoying hours of old movies; never again.

“Let me in, please. I won’t hurt you.”

Lies, she knew. He would say anything for her to open the door. She would not answer, but it didn’t matter. She would count the seconds she had left, standing helpless inside her own living-room. She peered for the last time at the photo of Enrique on the mantel. How had it been for him at the end? She was glad she would never know. Maybe she would meet him beyond.

Pounding on the door. Pounding as if he had a right to her life. She thought of running to turn off all the lights, but there was no time. It was too late.

She jumped as the glass shattered. The pane in the front door. He was no longer pretending. He had no more reason for lies. He was inside.

“Help!” she cried, terror building in her chest. “Help me, someone!”

It was no use. Who would hear her? Mrs. Shane from upstairs was still in Florida. Bathurst Street outside was too noisy with cars.

“Help!” she shrieked. “Help!” Adrenaline pushed the sound from her throat despite logic.

The phone, she thought. Get to the phone. She jumped across the living-room toward the hall. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She felt him behind her, a large breathing presence, as she reached the kitchen. She dared not turn but grabbed for the phone on the wall. The bear of a man lunged at her, knocking the phone from her hand. A growl of anger came from his chest as he pulled the phone cord out of the wall.

Regaining her balance, she fled back toward the front door, screaming. Someone would hear; someone would help. She just had to get outside. She was not even close when he grabbed her arm and swung her into the living-room like a rag doll.

“Help!” she yelled into the spring night. You cannot kill me while the blossoms are swelling on apple trees, she wanted to shout. But the sound that passed her lips became one long howl devoid of words.

Enraged, he stalked toward her, cap pulled down over his hair, eyes in shadow. Hiding his unfamiliar familiar face. His hands gestured wildly in the air, trying to quiet her down, his own voice raised. But she couldn’t hear him; she was making too much noise.

Panic numbed her brain but instinctively she turned toward the living-room window. If she could break the glass, if only she could get someone’s attention. She just had to reach the window. It was a mistake to turn her back on him. She realized this in a second but it was too late. She gasped as her head snapped back, forced by the cord around her neck. He was so strong he was lifting her off the ground by her neck. She scraped at the cord with her fingers, she tore at it, scratching her own skin as the breath escaped from her body. She flailed at the air with her arms, her feet, she could no longer make a sound, her mouth open to no avail as the room fogged up, began to disappear as if she and it were going in different directions. He was so strong, he was squeezing the breath from her into the fog of the living-room, her body a vessel spilling air, convulsing, leaking air like a dying balloon, until she was empty and the living-room was full.