"Arye," Gafni said, with a deep frown. "I didn't think we had anything more to discuss." His jaw was clenched. His eyes flicked from the man to me and back again.
"I forgot a copy of my proposal in your office. I thought I'd drop by and get it," the man said, then paused, waiting for an introduction that Gafni failed to deliver.
He was forty-four or five. A handsome man in an expensive suit and coat, just under six feet and on the thin side, with a full head of black hair, a solid jaw, a high forehead, and clear blue eyes that might have been more at home on a child's face. Those same eyes were now probing me with evident curiosity, taking in my weary face and dirty clothes.
A few more seconds passed; then he flashed me a suave smile and reached out a hand. "Arye Harpaz."
"Adam Lapid," I said.
He pumped my hand, giving it a good, solid squeeze. Assertive, yet not overbearing. His handshake seemed to say, "A lesser man might have tried to crush your hand, but I'm confident enough to not need to."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "What line of work—"
"Come, Arye, let's go to my office," Gafni interrupted. "Mr. Lapid was just leaving." It was another command in camouflage, this time posing as a fact, and I felt the urge again, a vibration in my fingers. I tamped it down, muttered a quick goodbye, and ducked out of the building.
Out on the sidewalk, I let out a shaky breath, then swore in Hungarian. That was close. Much too close. I needed to keep my head. I couldn't allow myself to lose control. Not if I wanted to stay out of jail.
I marched away, hands in pockets to ward off the afternoon chill. The sky was an ominous pewter, the cloud cover low and thick. The air carried the sharp smell of both recent and imminent rain.
As I walked, I tried to squash my anger, but the memory of Gafni's amoral selfishness was like gasoline poured over a righteous fire. I told myself it didn't matter, that Gafni's position on the question of reparations meant nothing. He was a client. I didn't have to like him. In fact, it was probably better that I didn't.
I turned north at the nearest corner and found a kiosk. I bought a pack of cigarettes, tore it open, and put fire to one of its inhabitants. I sucked in the smoke as though it were oxygen, staring blankly at the buildings across the road, seeing little past my black thoughts.
When the first cigarette was down to its filter, I used it to light a second before tossing the remnant into a gutter. The smoke had dulled the edge of my fury, but I was still simmering. I hated the thought of working for a man like Gafni, someone who was willing to sell out his people's honor for private gain. I'd had unscrupulous, even criminal clients before and had managed to give them service and take their money without it bothering my conscience all that much, but doing the same for Gafni made my skin crawl.
I told myself I was overreacting, but it didn't seem to do much good. Maybe I'd become impervious to logic and good sense. Birnbaum would likely have said so.
I blew out a mouthful of smoke and watched it dissipate. That made me think of another smoke, thicker and blacker and smelling like death, smoke from tall brick chimneys under a Polish sky, and I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head, wondering if I was going crazy.
Then something occurred to me, and I plunged a hand into my pocket, grabbed my wallet, and from it took out the photograph Gafni had given me. I stared at Moria's smiling face, frozen at sixteen when her world was brighter and more optimistic, when the possibility of self-annihilation was unthinkable.
Looking at the photograph, I tried to do the impossible, to read into the girl's future, into the years that had passed since this picture was taken, to uncover what had led Moria to decide to swallow those pills and end her life.
Of course, the answer was not there, but something nearly as important was. A lifeline. A way to reconcile my distaste for Gafni with the necessity of pursuing this case. For as I gazed at Moria's girlish face, I decided I was working for her, not her father. It was her truth I was chasing. If there was justice to be had, it would be for her.
Nodding to myself, I took a deep breath and let it leak out of me in a single even flow, growing calmer and at greater peace with myself. After one final glance at the photo, I returned it to my wallet and put the wallet back in my pocket.
Then I got out my notebook, flipped to the page on which I had copied Moria's suicide note, and by the dim winter light and the red glow of my cigarette, I read her final message again.
I hate you for how you made me feel. I hate you for what you did to me. I hate you for what you made me do.
I could have done with a shower and a change of clothes, but I had eaten nothing since the measly breakfast the Jerusalem jail had provided, and my apartment offered little but the prospect of bare cupboard shelves and an empty icebox. I had neglected my shopping over the past week as the day of voting in the Knesset neared, and I'd found myself increasingly preoccupied, or perhaps dominated, by the larger issue at hand.
I was hungry, and I knew just the place where I could get something good to eat. Besides, Birnbaum had said Greta was worried about me, and I wanted to set her mind at ease.
By the time I got to Allenby Street, a fine, delicate rain had begun falling. I paused before a bulletin board rife with posters growing soggy and dark with the rain. Most of the posters decried the government's desire to negotiate with Germany. Some announced various protest events: an assembly of partisans, a march of communists, a gathering of Herut supporters. I wondered if the latter would be allowed to take place.
Half of the tables at Greta's Café were taken. Greta herself was seated behind the serving counter. Her eyes widened when she saw me, first with relief, then with concern. She rose to her feet. "Adam, what happened?"
She was wearing a thick woolen dress that loosely draped over her wide frame. Greta was a big woman, with a heavy bosom, thick arms, and a large head of salt-and-pepper curls. Her face was wide and lined, her hands wrinkled by years of washing dishes and preparing food. Her café was aptly named, for she was the heart and soul of her establishment. It was her character that made the café a sanctuary in the heart of Tel Aviv. My favorite place to be. I despised myself for causing her worry.
"I'm all right, Greta. Just a few bumps and scrapes."
"Were you at the Knesset yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Was it as bad as they say?"
I rubbed the side of my jaw. "Can I get something to eat first? And some coffee?"
She nodded, and I withdrew to my table at the rear, but not before I looped an arm over the counter to grab the chessboard and box of pieces Greta kept there for me.
At my table, I set up the board—white pieces on my side, black on the opposite—a matter of convention, nothing more, for I played both colors. This was a habit I'd picked up after the Second World War, though its origin lay squarely in it.
I wasn't a good player, but that wasn't the reason I chose myself as an opponent. It wasn't victory I craved, but a few minutes of idle mental time, and a bout of lightning chess against myself was the best way I knew to achieve that.
Two dozen or so moves into the game, Greta appeared with the coffee and a plate bearing a large sandwich and a scattering of vegetables.
"Is that blood on your collar?" she asked, setting down the dishes.
"Yes." I nudged the chessboard aside and tugged the plate closer.
"Yours?"
"Probably. At least part of it."
She clucked her tongue, then smiled indulgently like a mother at a reckless child who'd skirted disaster for the umpteenth time. "Enjoy your meal, Adam." She left me with the food. Glorious Greta, she was curious as hell, but she would give me all the time I needed.
