Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

forces in the world. And now that you’re involved at Arad’s city hall, you could come in handy accessing private records.” Nickel folded his arms and leaned them on the table. “As for me, I’m not backing off. This is my life, or what’s left of it. It’s what I do.”

“So far, it would seem you’ve failed.”

“True.” The American’s eyes darkened. “Very true. But I can’t go back and change what I’ve done. All I can do is try to change what’s ahead.”

“Let it go. That’s my suggestion. Let someone else step in.”

“Why not you?” Nickel shot back. “Every little contribution helps. And, what? You think if you just ignore that itch of yours that it’ll disappear? Wrong-o.”

The shape of Nickel’s mouth around the last syllable made Benyamin think again of the shofar’s blast. A call to arms. He looked off over the man’s shoulder, afraid that if they locked eyes, he may reveal something of his own affliction. Even now, a needle seemed to be poking from his scar, threatening to puncture his skin.

“What itch? I’m fine,” Benyamin said. “I’m making a fresh start.”

“Sure. Except you won’t get very far on your own. Think of your wife. And your son—he’s turning into quite the little man, isn’t he?”

“What do you know of my family?”

“I know they’re important. The way I see it, you can sit back by your-self and act like everything’s A-OK, or you can join me as part of Those Who Resist. The two of us? I’m telling you, we’d make a potent team.”

Benyamin shoved away from the table, slapped down a bill to cover his drink. “I said it earlier, Nickel. I’m not interested in playing such games.”

He strode from the café into the darkness, his holstered gun thudding against his chest. Statues commemorating martyrs and revolutionaries stood in silent evaluation and marked his escape from Reconcilierii Park.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Two nights later, Dalia stood at the front gate and clutched Dov’s hand in hers. She wore slightly elevated heels and a cornflower-blue dress. Light perfume wafted about the hair she had brushed out, each stroke a massage for a scalp accustomed to austere stylings.

“You look nice, Mama,” her son said in their native Hebrew.

“Todah,” she thanked him. “And you are a fine-looking boy.”

He pulled his hand away. “I’m twelve.”

“Don’t take offense, Dov. In a few months you’ll celebrate your bar mitzvah, and then you will be a man. A ‘son of the law,’ indeed.”

She saw him straighten his shoulders, her little soldier boy. He wanted so much to spend time with his father, even went so far as to put on boots and hike through the house with tent and backpack strapped over his shoulders. She hoped this evening’s dinner date wouldn’t be another in a string of broken promises from her husband. Benyamin and his drinking. He’d strayed from the path early in the marriage—never violent, but rarely present. A poor example for their young son.

A sharp prickling ignited under her arm. She scratched at it.

Had she been bitten by something? That spot had been irritating her for the past day or two.

“There he is,” Dov said. “He came.”

Sure enough, Benyamin was pulling up in the family Peugot. Dalia checked her watch, saw he was only six minutes late, and rewarded him with a curt nod.

The evening began amiably. In the car, her husband gave her a wink and told her how much he liked the perfume.

She thanked him.

“And you’re turning into quite the man,” he said to Dov. “You and I, we need to go camping soon.”

“Really?”

“Just like old times. I’ve been told there’s some places in the foothills, north of Lipova. We could make a weekend trip of it. How would you like that?”

Dov nodded. Dalia smiled.

Dinner was at a Hungarian restaurant on Xenopol Street. The food arrived hot and on time, and the atmosphere included servers in traditional outfits and a trio of folk musicians. Dov was full of nervous excitement, vying for his father’s attention. Which was fine, really, since Dalia and Benyamin had forgotten years ago how to carry on a conversation.

Trouble surfaced at the end of the meal.

An after-dinner liqueur was offered: Hungarian palinka. Benyamin’s eyes perused the menu as he wrestled with the idea. Then, still looking down, he told the waitress, yes, he would like a drink.

“Just one,” he said to his son. “To wash the food down.”

Though Dov hadn’t asked.

With lips pressed together, Dalia watched her husband imbibe. She tried to quell her rising ire. She rubbed a fingernail at the spot beneath her arm and figured Ben’s response was to be expected, considering he walked this life alone, a secular Jew, jettisoning his trust in anyone other than himself and his beloved alcohol.

By the time he’d ordered a third glass, she was furious. She stood from the table, wrapped herself in a coat, and told him she would find her own way home.

She marched outside, past the proud columns of the Cultural Palace, to a path that meandered along the Mures River. Colored lights glittered on the water. She wound through the trees toward Eminescu Park. Named after Romania’s national poet, it was a place she visited for periods of calm. She often sat here on a bench with a book, and while she adored Bet Bailik, father of Hebrew poetry, Romania’s Mihai Eminescu offered his own unique take on the human condition.

She stopped. She heard a female voice. There, beneath a lamp stand, a long-legged woman with brunette hair was reading aloud from a leather-bound collection. Dalia recognized a stanza from Luceafarul, a poetic tale of Lucifer, the Fallen One:

There is nothing and yet there is

a thirst which consumes him,

absorbs him utterly, an abyss like

blind oblivion.

Dalia stepped into the circle of light, drawn to the relevance of these words. They pertained to Benyamin. How had she never seen that?

“Hello?” The reader looked up with almond-shaped eyes that complemented light olive skin. She seemed familiar. Perhaps they’d passed on