“Cold water then,” she said doubtfully. Greening went to get it. “Get his clothes off. And fresh bedding.”
She stood back while Levy and Leiberwitz took off Azziz’s stinking clothing. The boy put up a feeble resistance and they left him with his underpants. They rolled him back and forth to clear the bed-covering and replaced it with some linen from the bottom of the wardrobe. The man who brought the water came with a towel and Karen attempted to dry Azziz’s perspiration, trying to prevent her fingers actually coming into contact with the boy’s skin, but at the same time making sure no one else noticed her squeamishness. She discarded one towel and demanded another, using it to wipe Azziz after she had sponged him with cold water. When she was wiping his face their eyes held briefly, and the boy managed a half-smile. The perspiration broke out afresh the moment she cleaned him.
“I think he should be covered,” she said uncertainly. “Sweat it out.”
Greening returned almost at once with more blankets; as soon as they were put on him, Azziz attempted to thrust them away.
“And water,” Karen said. “He should have a lot of liquid.” She was grateful it was Greening who lifted Azziz’s head and held the cup to the boy’s mouth.
Karen pulled back from the bed, wanting to get away as soon as possible.
“Thank you,” said Levy.
“I still think he should see a doctor.”
“No.”
“What happens if he dies?”
“He won’t die. It’s a chill, nothing else.”
“A little while ago you thought it was flu.” She looked around the room. “I want a bath,” she said.
Levy led her to the bathroom and entered ahead of her, taking the key from inside the lock; there was still a pushbolt, which secured it from the inside.
“I shall be right outside the door,” he said. “If I hear the bolt go across, I’ll break it down.”
She noticed that the small window was unbarred, even lifted, to let in about three inches of early morning light. The drop to the ground would be about twelve feet, she guessed, maybe a little more. She said nothing, staring at Levy and waiting for him to go back into the corridor.
“Right outside,” he said, as if fearing she hadn’t understood.
Karen needed to use the toilet but didn’t want Levy to hear. She started to run the bath, turning the taps full so that the water splashed loudly into it. The heating worked by an ancient mechanism that operated the gas jets automatically when the hot-water tap was turned. It exploded into life, frightening her. Everything was loud and echoing and she was sure Levy wouldn’t hear a thing. Afterwards she crouched at the window, not opening it farther in case he heard the sash creak; it was like looking through a letter box.
The window overlooked the front of the house and the lane beyond. Their exercise area was to the left; dew still whitened the grass and hung in droplets from the summer spiders’ webs which skeined the bisecting hedge. By straining, she could pick out the fields and the sloping hill beyond where she had seen the labourers working. Already it was touched by the first warm fingers of sun and pockets of mist were forming, like uncertain smoke. Fairy fires, she thought; that’s how she would describe it to her babies when they grew old enough to want stories. She often thought of phrases and simple little plots. When the time came she wanted them to be her stories, not somebody else’s.
Beyond the bordering hedge the lane ran straight and black, still shadowed by the clustered hills. She strained again, in the other direction this time, trying to see some neighbouring houses or farms; there were a lot of thickhaired trees and, as she watched, a clock bell struck, unexpectedly counting off a quarter-hour. She couldn’t see the tower but it hadn’t sounded far away.
“You all right?” Levy’s voice made her jump.
“Fine,” she said.
She undressed and got into the bath, consciously making plenty of noise. She stood to soap herself completely, welcoming the feel of the water after so many days. It was not until she sat down that she looked sideways and saw the empty keyhole practically level with the edge of the bath. He wouldn’t, she thought at once. And immediately questioned her certainty. Why not? What justification did she have for investing him with any sort of decent feeling? But she still didn’t think he would have looked. She was careful to dry herself standing to the side, where she would not be visible through the tiny opening, regretting that she had no perfume or cologne. Until that moment she hadn’t realized something else that had been taken from her, the right to be feminine.
She released the water and cleaned the bath and at the door paused for a moment, reluctant to leave. Briefly, for a few minutes at least, she had been able to do whatever she liked; it was something approaching a moment of freedom.
Levy was waiting immediately outside.
“Your face is all shiny and pink,” he said.
The remark disconcerted her, confused her. “I enjoyed the bath,” she said. “Thank you.”
“The boy’s sleeping. The fever’s still the same, but he’s sleeping.”
“Good.”
Neither appeared to know what to do.
“We might as well have breakfast,” he said.
“All right.”
Initially they ate without speaking, Levy attentive to her needs and passing the coffee pot and the basket of croissants towards her without being asked. Once, as he offered her some butter, their hands touched and he smiled apologetically.
“This seems to be going on forever,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not terrorists, are you?” said Karen in sudden challenge.
“We know what we’re doing,” said Levy defensively.
Karen shook her head. “I was reading politics in London, at the School of Economics, when my mother died. I went to South Africa for the funeral and never bothered to go back and complete the course because I’d met Richard. He was a friend of the family and already involved in politics-radical politics, for South Africa. He appeared in court for a lot of people, not just there but elsewhere. So I met plenty…” She stopped, knowing that she had made her point clumsily. “You’re not like them at all-none of you.”
“We’re not trying to be like anyone.”
“So what are you?”
“Jews. Doing what Jews have always done. Fighting to survive.”
Karen knew a sudden surge of pity. She had encountered terrorists; too many, because although she thought she shared many of their views, she had rarely liked or trusted the people who expressed them. She was also familiar with the men who confronted them: riot police, armoured units, and elite, trained squads, with dogs and gas, and plastic and rubber bullets, and water cannon. This gentle-eyed, crinkle-haired man who worried about breakfast civilities wouldn’t stand a chance. He had slapped her, certainly, knocked her down, although that had been more of an accidental trip. And beaten the boy. But that hadn’t been the ruthless unthinking cruelty she had known other people capable of; that had been sudden, flaring anger. And nerves. She corrected the thought. More nerves than anger, far more. Poor bugger, she thought.
“What time is it?” said Karen.
“Eight.”
She set and wound her watch. “Forgot,” she said. She wouldn’t let it happen again-it was important to keep track of the time. Though exactly why, she wasn’t quite sure.
“We could walk in the garden if you like.”
“All right.”
He stood back to allow her to go through the door ahead of him. She hadn’t been expecting the courtesy and half collided with him. They both smiled, embarrassed.
“You’re not going to run away, are you?” he said.
“No,” she said. Why give him that assurance so readily?
The faraway field was being worked again, bowed men following a machine that appeared to be ploughing a slow, unwavering line. She thought the field was pretty, neatly patterned as if they were knitting the design into the
