So I told myself to be ready, to take it without shaming myself, that there would be a day of reckoning, of revenge. There had to be. I wasn't about to die in the street like a dog, not after all I'd survived. But another voice, a nasty voice I barely recognized as my own, whispered that I knew full well that people die anywhere, anytime. Even good people. That death has no order or reason. It simply takes what it wants when it wants.
I caught a glint of something slicing through the veil of darkness in my eyes—a knife?—then came the sound of running footfalls, and Davidson turned and muttered, "What the—" and he let go of my head so it dropped to the pavement, sending a new stab of pain through my skull.
Now came the sounds of thuds and smacks and grunts. Heavy breathing. Shuffling feet. A metallic clattering sound and then a deep smack closely followed by a groan of pain. Fighting. Someone was getting hurt and it wasn't me. I tried to make my eyes see, to scatter the film of blackness that had descended across my vision like a theater screen. Instead I felt myself drowning in a pool of unawareness as consciousness slipped away.
The sensation of something cool and wet on my head coaxed me back from unconsciousness. My eyes cracked open to slits, and I tried to orient myself. I was slumped in a chair and someone was working a wet cloth over the spot where Davidson had first hit me.
It was Greta, her face inches from mine, one of her hands cupping my chin, the other holding a large white cloth. On the table was a bowl filled with water. The water held a reddish tinge. Greta dipped the cloth in the water and used it to clean the wound behind my ear. Then she set the cloth aside and uncapped a small bottle filled with a purplish liquid. A stringent medicinal scent wafted from the bottle. Greta moistened a dry corner of the cloth with the liquid and dabbed my wound with it. It stung quite a bit. Then she dropped the cloth on the table, capped the bottle, and proceeded to put two large plasters across the gash. We were in the café, at my table. The same ceiling light that she'd kept on during our conversation earlier that night shone on her face. She looked more worried than I'd ever seen her.
My mouth was dry and my tongue felt like a woolen sock. I worked my mouth around, trying to induce some saliva, and managed to croak, "What happened?"
Greta's eyes, which had been focused on her ministrations, flicked to mine, and she let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. You're awake. How are you feeling? Are you all right?"
I considered her question and answered truthfully. "I ache in more places than I have any desire to count, and my head feels like it's been bounced around some, but I think I'll be fine. How did I make it back here?"
She gestured toward the southern wall. "He brought you."
My eyes turned to where she'd pointed, and there he was, leaning nonchalantly against the southern wall of the café, about three meters away. He wore a thin brown jacket over a dark shirt and pants, and his head was covered by a black flat cap, which he'd pulled low over his forehead. He gazed at me calmly with his brown eyes, his expression blank.
"Michael?" I said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"I was passing by on my way to work when I saw him drag you into the shadows," Michael Shamir said. "The son of a bitch was about to cut you up."
He pushed himself off the wall, came forward, and laid a folding knife on the table. It was a crude instrument, not as finely crafted as mine. Crude or not, press it against skin and it would slice through easily. I realized that the click I'd heard when I was on the ground at Davidson's feet was him opening the blade, locking it into place, readying it for use.
I raised my eyes from the table to Michael. His face bore no bruises or cuts. If he had sustained any injuries during his fight with Davidson, they were hidden by his clothes. Before we first met, I had felt a strange jealousy toward him, born out of Mira's obvious admiration of him. During our meeting, that jealousy was supplanted by a sense of affinity. I saw something of myself in this man, this former soldier and widower, this quiet, orderly loner. But now he had saved me from serious harm, perhaps even death, and, apart from gratitude, I found myself filled with that same emotion Mira and Moshe Klinger felt toward him—admiration.
"Thank you," I told Michael. "I'm lucky you showed up when you did."
He shrugged again. "Don't mention it." Then he gave me a small smile. "I sort of enjoyed it."
"This man said not to call a doctor or get a taxi to take you to the hospital," Greta said, her tone making it clear that she doubted the wisdom of this decision.
I took quick stock of myself. "Michael is right. I'm banged up, but I think I'm okay. If I start to feel worse, I'll get myself looked at."
"He also said this is the brute who assaulted you, but to leave it to you to decide whether to call the police."
