The Take(54)

Dinner arrived punctually. He ate quickly, putting aside the sardines for later. Afterward, he rested for an hour, dozing fitfully. He woke at nine and showered. Toweling dry, he regarded himself in the mirror. The scar on his hip from the policeman’s bullet had hardened to a weal the size of a bottle cap. The bullet that had struck his shoulder had done more damage, shattering the clavicle and tearing the deltoid muscles, requiring two bouts on the operating table.

The result was an eight-inch incision that after all the years had gone white as bone. He had other scars, but these were from prison: a few puncture wounds in the abdomen, a nasty zigzag on his ribs courtesy of a serrated shank, and a patch on his thigh where he’d been scalded by boiling water. All these he viewed with bemusement. The other guy had gotten worse on every occasion.

Which brought him to the unsightly memento on his scalp.

He leaned closer to the mirror, running a finger along the jagged mark. Until a few years ago, his hairline had covered it entirely. But Father Time owed him no favors, nor did he expect any. He’d cheated death once too often. The scar on his forehead was a reminder that each day was a gift.

He closed his eyes, remembering the day long ago. He saw himself coming out of the shower, naked, unarmed, and wholly unawares. “Ledoux,” shouted someone behind him. He turned and stepped into the blow, delivered with an enemy’s worst intentions. The weapon was an iron bar fashioned from the leg of a prison cot, its leading edge sharpened like a hatchet. There had been no pain—not then, at least. There had been only a sickening crunch that exploded in the space between his ears and the leering face of the man who wanted him dead. He would forget neither as long as he lived.

Simon opened his eyes.

He still owed the other guy for that one.

Weak people avenge. Strong people forgive. Intelligent people ignore.

Another of the monsignor’s gems.

The jury was still out as to which of these Simon was.



Life in a box.

The cell measured ten paces by six.

Concrete walls that bled with damp.

A steel cot. No mattress. No blanket.

A hole in the floor.

A spigot.

A weak incandescent bulb protected by a sturdy cage that burned all day and all night.

Two meals a day.

Breakfast: bread, coffee. Dinner: boiled potato, egg, and, once a week, a square of dark chocolate.

No books.

No music.

No television.

No clocks.

Each day an endless journey to the boundary of his sanity.

Who betrayed you?



Every Sunday he was taken from his cell, escorted up the long stairway and into a small yard, confined on all sides by a twenty-foot-high wall. He knew it was Sunday because of the church bells. On the other side of the wall, cars drove past, mothers walked with their children, groups of men shouted on their way to the football match. Life went on.

Summer ended.

Fall.

The brief Marseille winter.

Spring.

A year passed.

Who betrayed you?



Another Sunday.

Finally, one hour outside. Sun on his face. The smell of grass. Of exhaust. Of the world in which he’d once lived.

A man was standing in the yard. A prisoner. Pale as chalk. Wild hair going gray, falling past his shoulders. Once a strong man. Broad beamed. Rangy. A face carved from stone. A man who refused to yield his dignity.

“My name is Paul.”

“Simon.”

They looked at each other and Simon could see by his expression that they shared a wretched condition.

“How are you, my son?” said Paul.

“Better now,” said Simon. And for a reason he did not know, nor could later explain, he approached the old man and hugged him, holding him close until his muscles weakened and he could hold him no longer. “Better,” Simon repeated.

“Me, too,” said Paul. “I thank you.”

The men walked to a corner of the yard, as far from the guard as they could get.

“How long?” asked Paul.

“A year,” said Simon. “I think. What month is it?”

“September.” Paul smiled. “I think.”

“And you? How long?”

Paul didn’t answer. He merely shook his head. Too long.

The guard appeared and ordered Paul inside. “Listen for me,” he said as he was led away.

That afternoon, as Simon lay on his cot, hands behind his head, staring at a monstrous centipede that had emerged from a crack in the ceiling, asking himself if he were hungry enough to eat it, he heard a tap, tap, tap coming from the wall. It was a new sound, divorced from the pinging of the generator and the buzzing of the light bulb and the stomping of the guards’ feet as they walked up and down the stairs.

Tap, tap, tap.

Simon rolled off his cot and grabbed his spoon. He tapped it against the wall, but it was fashioned of such flimsy metal, it made little sound.

The tapping stopped.

A week passed. And another. Two precious Sundays and no other man in the yard. And then, one more week later, Paul was there again. A miracle.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Simon did. A life story delivered in one hour—less, even—a blitz of emotion, of hope, and of regret. Last, he told about his crime, about the day he was betrayed.

“What is his name?” asked Paul.