“Yes, he asked them many questions.”
“And David too?”
“Yes, David too. From time to time you would tell them some things difficult to follow, as if they could understand. And then it was explained to us what you were saying.”
“Gringo?” asked Abahn.
“Yes.”
She is trying to remember.
“He said, ‘Liberty.’”
“And how did Gringo explain it?”
“Money.”
“He said, ‘Underneath the truth.’”
“And how did Gringo explain that?”
“Crime.”
“He said, ‘Live into the future.’”
“And how did Gringo explain that?”
“Proof.”
She thinks. She asks the Jew:
“What did you say?”
“Don’t believe anything anymore,” says the Jew.
“Nothing. No one,” says Abahn.
“Not even you?” asks Sabana.
“Not me, not him, no one.”
“Not him?”
“Not him. How would Gringo put it?”
“Don’t listen to Gringo anymore.”
They fall silent. Sabana considers what the Jew said.
“He said, ‘You should be happy no matter what.’”
“How would Gringo put it?”
“He didn’t explain.”
Sabana, her eyes on the ground, in a dream, for a long moment. Then she speaks without shifting her gaze.
“Where would he go if they let him go?”
No one answers her.
“And if someone grabbed David’s gun?” she says. “I’ve never left Staadt. I don’t know anything about what’s beyond.”
“Are you thinking about the Jew?” asks Abahn.
“I’m thinking. Where would he go?”
“Beyond here,” says Abahn, “more Staadt, other Jews. And beyond that more, an unending chain all the way to the border.”
“Until when?”
“The sea. And then along the bottom of the sea.”
She is dreaming.
“It’s fully occupied?”
“Fully.”
Silence.
She looks away at the invisible distant border. The Jew, unmoving, watches.
“Other Jews,” she says.
“Yes, and other Gringos,” says the Jew.
“Merchants or no,” says Abahn, “other Jews, other Gringos, all the same.”
She is still looking off into the distance.
“It wouldn’t do any good to run away then,” she says.
“No,” says the Jew.
Again sounds the muted barking of the dogs, their growls rising, in the direction Sabana looks.
She says:
“Those are the dogs of the killing fields.”
Silence.
Abahn asks:
“Are there many dead?”
Sabana seems uncertain.
“They say twenty million in all. I don’t know about the dead.”
Sabana’s gaze returns to them. The Jew still watches.
•
The cold deepens still. And the night. The sky is nearly gone. The park completely in shadow.
“It’s the ice,” says Sabana. “Outside you walk on the road—you slip, it’ll kill you.”
“We are locked in then,” says Abahn.
“Together,” says the Jew.
Silence.
The dogs howl, those belonging to the Jew, close by, in the park.
Like every other time, David briefly rouses.
Abahn stands, slowly turns around the room, then walks toward David, stops in front of him. Sabana watches him.
“How old is he?” asks Abahn.
“Twenty-five,” says Sabana. “Married to Jeanne.”
“Neither Jew nor dog, ever?”
“No.”
He gestures at David’s calloused hands. “A laborer?”
“He’s not qualified for it, he works on the Portuguese crew.”
He comes closer to David. Sabana does not move.
“And whose gun is it?”
“It’s Gringo’s.”
“Taken just for tonight?”
“Yes.”
“To execute the Jew?”
Sabana turns toward the Jew. He does not look like he is listening.
“No. Just to keep him here.”
“So it’s Gringo who’s in charge of the Jew’s execution?”
“Yes. Gringo.”
“You’re sure? Gringo?”
Her eyes widen suddenly with fear. She gestures toward David.
“Look, do you think he’s too young?”
“No. He’s already got a gun on him, hasn’t he?” says Abahn.
She turns back to the Jew. Eyes still wide.
“You said something?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Who will kill you?”
The Jew doesn’t answer.
“David?” asks Abahn.
She doesn’t think, just answers:
“Why would David kill the Jew?”
The Jew’s voice comes so softly, one could hardly understand what he said.
She is not looking at him anymore. She repeats:
“Why?”
They do not answer her. She answers herself.
“So that Gringo won’t?”
They still do not answer. She says:
“If it was David who killed the Jew, then who would you say killed the Jew?”
“David,” says the Jew.
She looks at Abahn.
“You heard what he said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, answer him.”
“I say if Gringo kills the Jew, only then would it be Gringo who would