Эд Макбейн - Love, Dad

“You have been where?” he says.

“Traveling directly here. Through Europe and then Turkey.”

“Where do you go now?”

“Delhi.”

“To return when?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Visa,” the officer says, and extends his hand. Paul gives him the visa they obtained at the Iranian Consulate in Istanbul. He looks at it, nods, says, “Fifteen-day transit.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hands the visa back. “How many cigarettes you have?” he asks.

“I don’t smoke,” Paul says.

“How many cigarettes?”

“None.”

“Whiskey?”

“None.”

“You have narcotics?” the officer asks.

“No, sir.”

“Marijuana?”

“No, sir.”

“Cocaine?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“You are American, and no marijuana?” the officer says, and laughs. “Blondie?” he says, and turns sharply to where Lissie is standing near the cab fender. “You have marijuana?”

“No,” she says. “No, sir.”

“Papers,” he says, and holds out his hand.

She puts her passport and her visa on his outstretched palm. He studies both, checks Lissie’s picture against her face, and then says, “Where do you go now?”

“To Delhi.”

“With boyfriend here?”

“Yes.”

“How many cigarettes you have?”

“None.”

“Whiskey?”

“None.”

“Where is your luggage?”

“In the truck. In the... back of the truck.”

“Open the door again,” he says to Jean-François over his shoulder. He looks at Lissie’s passport. “You were born... what is this?”

“December 19, 1951.”

“So you are how old?”

“Eighteen,” she says.

“Eighteen,” he repeats. “Nice, Blondie. Eighteen. Get your luggage.”

She walks around to the back of the truck, where Jean-François has again unlocked and opened the big doors. She pulls out her duffel and carries it to where the officer is now pacing under the overhead light.

“That is all?” he says.

“Yes.”

“One piece?”

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

She unzips the bag for him. He kneels beside it, pokes at it tentatively, and then reaches into it with both hands, feeling, rummaging. She watches silently as he riffles through her several pairs of blue jeans, her dozen or more bikini panties, her blouses and sweaters, her sandals and shoes. He unzips her cosmetics kit and seems fascinated by the array of lipsticks and eye liners. He studies her plastic container of birth-control pills.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Pills,” she says.

“Narcotics?”

“No, no. Birth control.”

“What is that, birth control?”

“You take them so you won’t have babies.”

“This?”

“One every day,” she says, and nods.

He looks at her skeptically, and then studies the manufacturer’s name on the circular container, and then the numbers for the days of the month, and then pops one of the pills out and studies the manufacturer’s colophon stamped onto the face of the pill itself. She thinks, He’s going to fuck up my cycle, the dope. The night air is chill. She shivers again, and zips up the front of her leather fighter-pilot’s jacket. He is trying now to put the pill back into the hole from which he popped it. He gives up, and drops the container and the loose pill back into the cosmetics kit. He zips it closed. He stands up.

“Inside,” he says.

“What for?” she says.

“Search,” he says. “Inside.”

“Search? For what?”

“Narcotics.”

“I have no narcotics.”

“We shall see. Inside.”

“Paul,” she says, turning to him.

“Listen,” Paul says, “she’s not carrying any dope, there’s no sense...”

“Shut up,” the man says. “Inside,” he says to Lissie.

“I’m an American citizen,” she says, immediately thinking she has said exactly the wrong thing. The man’s eyebrows arch. A smile crosses his face.

“Ah,” he says, “American citizen.”

“Yes,” she says. She is trembling now. She wishes she could stop trembling.

“Does America not have customs?”

“What?”

“La douane,” Jean-François says.

“What?” Lissie says.

“Do they not search?” the man asks.

“You... you already looked through my bag.”

“Inside,” he says.

“What for?”

“A more complete search. Inside.”

“No,” she says.

A more complete search means a body search. She’ll be damned if she’ll allow this officious little bastard to probe her cavities with his germy little fingers.

The unlikeliest hero steps forward. Fat little Jean-François Bertaut, his peaked woolen cap covering his bald head, his shaggy mustache bristling, his jacket open over his sweatered potbelly, says calmly and with only the faintest trace of a French accent, “I will be her witness.”

“What?” the officer says.

“À Teheran, je vais raconter aux officiers tout ce que est passé ici. ”

“I do not speak French,” the officer says.

“I will say all what I see and hear. To les officiers in Teheran.” The officer turns away from him. “Inside,” he says to Lissie.

“Pas sans moi,” Jean-François says, moving into his path. “I will stay with the young girl.”

The officer hesitates. Hands on his hips, he stares at Jean-François, their eyes locked in silent combat. Lissie, terrified now, watches them. Is the officer wondering how the officials in Teheran will react to his demand for a body search when nothing in her bag seems to warrant one? Who are these officials in Teheran, anyway? Does Jean-François even know if there is anyone in that city to whom he can report unseemly conduct at the border? He has traveled this road many times before, so maybe he knows what he’s talking about. But what if he doesn’t? The officer keeps staring at him. Paul, standing by, says nothing. She will remember later that he did nothing, said nothing.

“Alors,” Jean-François says, “allons,” and takes Lissie’s arm, and jerks her toward the cab of the truck.

“The search will be made,” the officer says, and then to Jean-François, almost under his breath, “You may attend.”

She cannot at first comprehend how a body search in the presence of a courageous little Frenchman will differ in any way from one conducted in private. Reluctantly, she follows them both into the hut. Jean-François insists that the second officer go outside. His superior says something in Persian, and the man goes out to stand by the fender of the truck. He is lighting a cigarette when the senior officer closes the door.

The search, much to her surprise, is circumspect in every way. She realizes, as the officer delicately, gingerly, and cautiously pats her clothing and then looks through the shoes he has asked her to remove, that he is going through the search now only as a matter of face-saving routine. Whatever he had earlier planned or expected has been headed off by Jean-François’s intervention and his threats of reporting the entire incident to some nameless officials in the capital. The search takes no longer than three minutes. She remembers having looked up at the clock on the wall when she sat down to take off her loafers; she looks up at it again when the officer says, “That is all, you may go.” He turns to Jean-François then, and — with the faintest trace of a smile on his mouth — says, “Do you see, then, there was nothing to fear.”

Jean-François returns the smile. “Merci, mon capitain,” he says, “vous êtes très gentil.”

“I am not a captain,” the man replies, suddenly understanding French, and then abruptly turns away to light a cigarette. Dragging on it, he pulls open the door and calls something in Persian to his colleague. The other man immediately raises the striped border. They are both still standing outside the hut as Jean-François eases the big truck away from the border station. The senior officer has his hands on his hips, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. It is a quarter past five, and the sky in the east is already becoming light.