Maybe Naomi Hecht had never intended to come. Maybe she had made this date just to get me out of her hair. Or maybe Paula had had a word with her, convinced her to steer clear of me.
I lit another cigarette, telling myself that when it was done, I'd leave. I checked my watch again. Twenty-five minutes late. At the next table over, two men in sharp clothes were talking about the United Nations. Something to do with a resolution the Arabs were about to introduce against Israel. At another table, a man pulled out a chair for a smartly dressed woman who'd just walked in. One less delusional man in the world.
When the cigarette was down to its filter, I snuffed it out in the ashtray as though it had offended me, crushing it flat. I'd go back to the hospital, I decided, make a nuisance of myself, get Naomi Hecht's address one way or another, go pound on her door and make her talk to me. I was angry enough to do it.
Swearing softly, I rose from my chair and was digging in my pocket for my wallet when I heard a deep female voice say, "Leaving already, Mr. Lapid?"
Raising my eyes, I saw Naomi Hecht standing on the other side of the table.
Her nurse's uniform was gone. In its place she wore a knee-length dark-blue dress over black wool stockings, a brown coat that was beginning to show its age, a gray scarf she was unwinding from around her neck, and a furled umbrella hooked on a forearm. No hat, no makeup, and no smile, despite the suggested humor of her question. Without her nurse's cap and the bobby pins she'd worn at the hospital, her short black hair had more volume and body. Her skin was pale apart from under her eyes, where inadequate sleep had tinged it purple, the bruises of fatigue. I estimated her age at twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a few years older than Moria had been.
"I thought you weren't going to show," I said, pulling my hand out of my pocket and sitting back down.
"An emergency at the hospital," she said, taking the chair opposite mine. That was the extent of it. She'd given me an explanation. No apology was warranted. I studied her face, wondering if the emergency had been real. I decided it had been, or else why had she come at all?
The waiter approached. I asked Naomi Hecht what she'd like. She ignored me and proceeded to order coffee and a small pastry directly from the waiter. I signaled to him to double the order. He took her umbrella and coat and deposited them by the door, where there was a coat rack and an umbrella stand.
"You don't like me, do you?" I asked when the waiter had gone.
"You're very perceptive."
"Care to tell me why?"
"You're the detective, don't you know?"
"I think it's because of Moria's father. Am I right?"
She didn't answer. She smoothed a napkin on the table, not taking her eyes off me. Out of the hospital, in regular clothes with her hair freer, she looked less severe, but there was still something intimidating about her, something that suggested getting too close might get you burned or bitten. Her eyes, despite the natural warmth of their hazel color, had the texture of hard wood.
"Do you know why Moria hated his guts?" I asked.
"What makes you think she did?"
"He told me they didn't get along. Of course, that could mean just that and nothing more. But he also said they had barely any contact for years, which suggests a more powerful aversion on her part. But what really tells me Moria hated her father is a photo album I found when I visited her apartment this morning. She'd cut her father's image out of all the pictures. You only do that to someone you detest through and through."
The waiter served our coffee and food. The pastry was rolled like a snail's shell, with frail lines of cinnamon snaking through it. It smelled and looked delicious, but I bet that in past years, before rationing, the cinnamon lines had been thicker, the sugar and butter more plentiful. Were they serving better pastries these days in Munich and Hamburg and Bonn? Were they richer, sweeter, bigger?
Naomi Hecht stared at the food, then away at the window looking out on Ben Yehuda Street. "I didn't know about that," she said thoughtfully.
"What do you know, Mrs. Hecht?"
She looked at me. "About what?"
"You know what. Moria and her father. Do you know why she hated him?"
"Why not ask your client?"
"He won't tell me."
"I suppose he has his reasons."
"I'm sure he does."
"Why do you need to know? What does that have to do with Moria's suicide?"
"Maybe nothing. I don't know. That's the point. I hardly know anything about her life. I won't know why she decided to end it until I do."
"Why does your client care? What difference would it make?"
I hesitated. I was pretty sure Gafni did not want me to share his fear of guilt with anyone.
"Moria was his daughter," I said. "Isn't that reason enough?"
Naomi Hecht tilted her head, assessing me with her intense eyes. Here, in the subtle lighting of Café Atara, I noticed that along with the hazel, there were also golden, honey hues. She tore a piece of her pastry, put it between her lips, and chewed on it with small movements of her mouth. She swallowed, rubbed an errant crumb off her lip, and said, "You're not telling me the whole truth now, are you, Mr. Lapid?"
Involuntarily, I found myself averting my eyes from the directness of her gaze. Like a novice criminal in his inaugural interrogation. I hid my embarrassment behind my coffee cup, taking a long sip. I doubted that it worked.
Setting the cup back on the table, I said, "That's all the reason I can give."
She nodded, tearing off another piece of her pastry and eating it. I followed her example, not realizing how hungry I was until the first bit of food touched my tongue.
We ate and drank in silence for a couple of minutes, until only crumbs remained on our plates. My coffee cup was empty; hers still held a measure of brew.
The pastry had not subdued my hunger. "Want another one?" I asked, gesturing at our empty plates.
Something ignited in her eyes. "Trying to buy your way into my good graces, Mr. Lapid?"
"As if that would work," I said.
