Jacob Atabet by Michael Murphy Page B

Atabet.”
    Carlos Echeverria was standing by the gate. “He’s inside,” he muttered. “There’s another friend with him.”
    “What happened?” I was gasping for breath. “Is it serious?”
    “He’s bleeding. On his clothes. On his face.” He raised a trembling hand. “We should get a doctor, but he says no. Maybe you persuade him.” For a moment I stood there. It seemed so strange that I, a stranger, would be called upon like this. “Do you know why he wants me?” I asked.
    “You his friend? He’s sick, that’s why.”
    Suddenly I felt sad. That he didn’t have anyone else to call on . . . but as I moved toward the door I could hear a woman’s voice. “Someone’s here,” she was calling. “I’ll go out and see.” A rich melodious voice, then she came to the door.
    “Are you Darwin?” she asked.
    She was dressed in jeans and a stiff-collared shirt, and light brown hair fell over her shoulders. “Come in,” she smiled. “He’s inside resting.”
    I stood there uncertainly. “He’s all right,” she said. “Everything’s under control.” As I went in past her, she closed the door. “He’s lying down in the bedroom, and there’s someone coming who knows what to do. My name’s Corinne Wilde. And you’re Darwin Fall?”
    I nodded. There was something about her that was vaguely familiar. “Jacob and I are old friends,” she said. “I’m sorry about Carlos. It must seem pretty strange, having him call you like this.”
    In spite of her calm self-possession, I felt myself shaking. “Well, yes,” I said. “He sounded alarmed. And I think he still is. He thinks you haven’t called a doctor.”
    “I think I’d better fill you in on things. I know that you and Jacob just met. You know he leads a very private life here, so each new friend is a major event.”
    “But what happened? Carlos said there was blood on his face.”
    “He fell and scratched himself in a couple of places. That’s not serious. But there’s something else, and that’s the part I’ll have to explain.” She paused. “From seeing your book I think you’ll understand . . .” Then through the walls of the kitchen we could hear Atabet’s voice. “Corinne,” he called. “Would you come in here?”
    “He may want to see you,” she said. “But take a seat.” She crossed the studio to his bedroom. From where I was sitting I could see her standing at the foot of his bed. Why did she seem so familiar? I wondered. Had I seen her around North Beach? “Darwin,” she called. “Jacob wants to see you.”
    He was propped against pillows, and held a towel against his naked chest. There was a bandage on his temple. “Sit down,” he whispered. “I’ve been shot.” He raised a hand in feeble greeting, then let it fall on the covers.
    “Is there anything I can do?” I asked with a sinking sensation. “I guess you’ve got a doctor.”
    “Last night,” he whispered. “It started last night. Or maybe that day in the church.” His weakness was alarming. “I want to tell you, but first you’ll meet Kazi Dama.” He nodded toward the deck and I turned to see what was happening. Carlos and Corinne were standing with an Oriental man dressed in a windbreaker jacket and jeans. “Poor Carlos,” he sighed. “What he has to go through. What he has to go through.” He sank down in the pillows. Neither of us spoke while the conversation outside continued. Then the old man threw up his hands and went down the outside stairs.
    Kazi Dama came into the bedroom. Without saying a word he sat down on the bed and picked up the towel. Underneath it was a wound about the size of a silver dollar. He gently touched the skin around it, watching Atabet’s face for response.
    Atabet winced when the hand reached his stomach. “Yes,” he groaned. “It’s about like before.” Kazi Dama put the towel on the bed and turned to me. “Would you mind waiting in the kitchen?” he asked with a bright and high-pitched voice.