Peter Linton sat back in the wooden desk chair. Short stacks of books balanced on the old desk and on the floor next to his chair. A few titles caught his eye. Frazier’s The Golden Bough, Burton’s The Source of the Nile, Montaigne’s Selected Essays, the Donald Frame translation.
Loudly, 3 sharp raps on the front door. He chuckled. How curious, the door
was not locked, would never be locked. He pushed back from the desk.
“Come in, not locked you know.” Peter stood facing the
door.
“Dr. Linton, it is Captain Thibaut of the French security
force.”
“Yes, yes. Come in, Captain, come in.
The door opened and in stepped a younger man, arrayed in
full dress uniform. “Dr. Linton.” He stood stiffly.
Peter took a step toward Thibaut. “So, Captain, you are
my host for my extended stay?”
“I am in charge of the security detail, guards, the
security equipment, and we will oversee your day-to-day life here.”
“Ah. Do you play chess, Captain?”
“Monsieur? No, no I do not play.”
“Well, perhaps a friendly game of gin now and again. What
can I do for you today?”
“If you would, Dr. Linton, please pass along requests for
visitations a week in advance so your government may approve. Also, for phone
conversations. You will see on the kitchen counter requisition forms for food
and drink. I would advise you fill one out within the next two hours so we may
attend to your needs.”
“How do I get requests to you?”
“A guard is posted at the far end of the garden just
outside the main building. Hand all communications to him. The post is manned
24 hours a day. If you have a medical emergency pull the fire alarm here next to
the front door. Questions?”
“Do you have children, Captain?”
The officer looked at him without blinking. “No.”
“Have you guarded a prisoner here before?”
“No.”
“I am the first? Such an honor. Well, Captain, you shall
find me an easy keeper. Despite what my government has decided.”
“Monsieur.”
“Okay, okay, my taciturn jailer. I will pass along my
grocery list within the hour.”
“Very good, Dr. Linton.” The captain closed the door,
snapping shut loudly enough for Peter to flinch.
Peter returned to the chair and set a small box of framed
photos on his lap. The first one he pulled out and set on the desk was small,
5x7, the face of a 2-year-old with long yellow hair, his granddaughter
Veronica. The eyes were bright green, the smile wide.
The next picture, larger, was of Veronica at 7. The hair
a little less yellow, the eyes a little darker, the smile as wide. And the next
picture from 3 months ago also Veronica, 12, mouth closed—braces—but the eyes
still green and captivating. Perfectly formed eyelashes. The cheekbones, the dimples,
pretty like her mother.
Wouldn’t Mellice laugh, more like sneer, to see him now
the doting grandfather. To hell with her. Gone now for 6 years. Six? Maybe 7. Still
in Haifa with her brother’s family? Mattered not a stinking bit.
Wouldn’t Mellice laugh her fool head off to hear he was
now a prisoner of the state. What did she say when one of his fiercest editorials
appeared—“You’re no damn good as a hero. You idiot. What about my needs? What
about your family? Why do you hate us so much?”
Peter reached back in the box and pulled out a plastic
freezer bag filled with pens, and paperclips, and a few pencils, an eraser, and
a small paperweight shaped like a turtle shell, head and legs withdrawn inward.
The turtle, a birthday gift from Veronica.
He set the turtle in front of the row of photos. Of
course, he would file an appeal immediately to allow Veronica to visit him at
the consulate. Ten years without contact? Impossible.
“No” he said out loud. No, he thought, I loved—love my family.
Peter shook his head and stood and stretched, arms toward
the ceiling.
No comments:
Post a Comment