do not answer. They remain near the door.
They do not look at him.
The man approaches.
“We know each other,” he says.
They do not answer, do not move.
The man is close enough now to see them clearly. He notices that they will not meet his eye.
She speaks again. “We’re looking for Abahn. This is David. We’re from Staadt.”
She fixes her large eyes on the man. David’s gaze, behind his heavy lids, is inscrutable.
“I am Abahn.”
She does not move. She asks:
“The one they call the Jew?”
“Yes.”
“The one who came to Staadt six months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes. You’re not mistaken.”
She looks around. There are three rooms.
The walls are bare. The house is as bare inside as it is outside. One side abuts the road, white with frost, the other borders the depths of a darkened park.
Her gaze returns to the Jew.
“This is the house of the Jew?”
“Yes.”
In the park, dogs bark and howl.
David turns his head, looks toward the park.
The howling dies down.
It’s quiet again. David turns away from the park, back to the others.
“You were sent by Gringo?”
She answers:
“Yes. He said that he would come later.”
They are silent then, the three of them standing there. The Jew approaches David.
“Do you recognize me?”
David looks down at the floor. She answers:
“He recognizes you.”
“You’re David, the stonemason.”
She replies, “Yes, that’s him.”
“I recognize him,” says the Jew.
David’s eyes are fixed on the floor.
“He’s gone blind,” says the Jew.
They do not answer.
“He’s become deaf.”
They do not answer.
The Jew approaches David.
“What are you afraid of?”
David looks up at the Jew and then back at the floor.
“What are you afraid of, David?” the Jew asks again.
The gentleness of his voice elicits a shudder from behind those heavy-lidded eyes. She answers:
“Nothing. He’s a member of Gringo’s Party.”
The Jew is silent. She asks:
“Do you know what that means?”
“Not for David,” says the Jew.
For the first time, Sabana looks right at him. He is looking at David.
“But for everyone else, you do?”
“Yes.”
A sudden exhaustion sweeps over the Jew.
“You were waiting for us?”
“Yes.”
He takes a step toward David. David doesn’t flinch. He comes closer. He lifts a hand. Gently touches David’s half-lidded eyes. He says:
“You’ve become blind.”
David jumps back. He cries out:
“Don’t touch me!”
David raises his hands, made swollen and cracked by working with stone, and says:
“Don’t do that again!”
She looks from one to the other without moving. She says nothing.
The Jew backs away. He returns to the chair he was occupying when they first came into the house, the one near the table.
“You’re not scared,” he says, “You have nothing at stake. Take off your coats. Sit. You’re not going anywhere.”
They remain as they are, erect, alert, near the door.
Calmly, she speaks.
“You don’t understand. We’ve come to watch you.”
“Watch me.”
“Don’t try to run away.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s not worth the trouble.”
David is silent. Sabana points out the Jew to David. She repeats what she said to the Jew.
“He knows it’s futile to try.”
“I do know,” says the Jew.
It’s Sabana who takes off her coat first. She puts it down near the door. She helps David with his coat.
Tucked into David’s belt is a gun.
They sit. Sabana pushes an armchair toward David. She sits in another chair.
The Jew is silent.
She sits up straight, looks around. She looks out at the road, the park, the cold. Everything is bathed in the same intense light, inside, outside. Nothing else is lit up. She looks over at the one sitting next to the table.
“We wait for daybreak,” he says.
Sabana’s eyes are blue—dark and blue.
“You’re Sabana.”
“Yes.”
The
