Tongues of Fire by Peter Abrahams Page A

realized what she must see, his wet hair over his forehead, his cheap nylon jacket, his trousers wet to the thigh. The woman nodded. The trooper turned and came back to the gate.
    â€œOkay,” he said, pulling it open. “But first I need ID.” Rehv handed him the plastic card he had been given at Immigration. The trooper copied from it into his notebook. Rehv turned to go. “Not so fast. I’ve got to search you.” Rehv raised his arms to shoulder level. The trooper took off his leather gloves, stuck them between his teeth, and patted his hands up and down Rehv’s limbs and over his body. “Looking to catch pneumonia, pal?” he asked, his words muffled by the gloves. “You’re turning blue.”
    Rehv walked to the front door. “My name’s Isaac Rehv,” he said to the woman in Hebrew. “I want to see the prime minister, please.”
    â€œWhat about?” she replied in English.
    Chinese Gordon, Rehv thought. “It’s confidential,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel right telling anyone else. That’s for him to decide.”
    For a moment she looked at him without saying anything. She had large brown eyes and thick hair of the same shade. It needed washing. Wrinkled indigo depressions were stamped under both eyes, like brands of fatigue or worry. She motioned him inside. “You should get out of those clothes, Mr. Rehv.”
    â€œI’m all right.”
    Inside the front hall it was cold and dark and quiet. A long corridor stretched away into the shadows. He saw several doors, all closed. He thought of kibbutzim as noisy and busy, but there were no sounds of children playing or work being done. Maybe it was because of the winter.
    Somewhere nearby a man was talking on the telephone: “In that case put me on to his assistant,” he said with irritation in his voice. There was a pause. Then he spoke again, more angrily: “But I’ve been leaving messages for a week.” Another pause, slightly longer. “No, I have not been out when he calls. I’m never out.” Rehv heard plastic strike plastic. On one side a door opened. A man stood in the doorway. His face seemed familiar. Rehv remembered seeing it from time to time in Israeli newspapers.
    â€œI can’t even get through to the assistant to the assistant undersecretary,” he said to the woman. His tone was very bitter. Rehv thought he heard a certain pleasure in it too, the pleasure of self-hatred being fed. The woman opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. “I can’t even get past the goddamned secretary,” the man said, his voice rising with every syllable. He banged the palm of his hand hard against the door-jamb. Rehv felt a light vibration in the walls.
    â€œDon’t,” the woman said gently, and with some fear.
    He rounded on her. “Don’t. Sure. Don’t.” He was gritting his teeth so hard Rehv thought they would crack.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said.
    The man noticed him for the first time. “Who are you?”
    â€œMy name is Isaac Rehv. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time. I want to see the prime minister.”
    â€œIt’s a splendid time,” the man said sarcastically. “What makes you think we have bad times around here?”
    â€œMr. Rehv was a professor at the Hebrew University,” the woman said quickly.
    â€œMazel tov.” The man and the woman exchanged a look. Something in it made him inhale deeply and try to assert some control over himself. He turned to Rhev. “What do you want to see him about?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Rehv said quietly, afraid he might knock the man’s temper loose again. “I don’t want to tell anyone but him. After, if he permits, I’ll be happy to tell you.”
    The man smiled a cold smile. Rehv did not understand its meaning at all. “I’m not sure you see the situation,” the man said.