Once I had acquired my rations, I crossed the street and hiked north a few blocks until I arrived at a hardware store. The inside was a touch gloomy, and the air smelled faintly of old dust. Hammers and pliers and screwdrivers, not to mention nails and screws and bolts of all sizes, crowded the shelves. But I was in the market for none of these.
The owner, a man by the name of Dostrovsky, ran a lucrative sideline. An unknown source supplied him with hard cheeses from the Netherlands. Dostrovsky kept them in the back room of his store. The price was high, but so was the quality. Without hesitation, I parted with a small portion of the money Dahlia had given me the day before, and emerged from Dostrovsky's store hefting a small bag, which emitted a pungent yet mouthwatering scent.
At my apartment on Hamaccabi Street, I stashed my purchases in the icebox and kitchen cupboards. I sliced an apple into a bowl and peeled off a few strips of Gouda to go along with it. I carried the bowl into my apartment's single room, the one that served a triple role as my bedroom, dining room, and living room.
I sat on the bed and gazed at the opposite wall. Two pictures hung on it, the only ornamentation in the entire apartment. They hung on nails that had been hammered in by a previous tenant. Those nails had stood barren for a long time, the majority of my residency. Both pictures were recent acquisitions.
The first was a landscape that had been painted by a man named Tadeusz, whom I had met on a case a few months ago. The painting was rich and elaborate and intricate. The sort of painting that reveals something new every time you stare at it, that stirs something deep inside you.
The other painting had been in my possession for only a month. I'd bought it on impulse from an old man who had been hawking his art on the street. His talent did not come close to that of Tadeusz, and, objectively, the painting I'd bought from him was not very good. But when my eye had alighted on it, I had stopped mid-stride, entranced.
The painting showed three figures, all with their backs to the viewer, walking down an old European street. The figure in the middle was the only adult, and by her dress and hair, it was clear she was a female. On either side of her were two smaller figures, both girls, their dark hair plaited and hanging down their small backs.
By their clothes, it was winter. By the violet sky above them, it was dusk. By the way the woman held each girl by the hand, they were a mother and her two daughters. The girls were both very young—the oldest about six, the youngest no more than four. Their mood could not be discerned. Neither could their destination. Nor did I know the name of the street in which they walked, or what city it was in.
I might have learned all this from the old man who had sold me the painting, but I decided not to ask. By his accent, I could tell he was Polish. In all likelihood, he had painted a city he himself had trod, somewhere in Poland. But as long as I didn't ask, I could pretend it was a street in another country.
Hungary.
For something in the stance and posture of these three figures—the mother and her two daughters—brought to my mind another mother and her two daughters. My wife, Deborah, and the two girls we had birthed together.
All three were dead now. Not a stitch of their clothing remained for me to hold. Not a single photograph of them survived for me to gaze at. All that was left were my memories, and these were dangerous things. They were often trailed by dark imaginings. Whenever I called forth a happy moment of our life together, it was usually followed by an image of horror and death. I couldn't help but picture their last moments, the terror they must have felt, the despair, the convulsions of their bodies as the gas invaded their lungs. I imagined my girls had cried out for me, and I had failed to save them. Little in this world could hurt more than that.
So even the good memories were tainted. Even they caused immeasurable pain. For a long time, I did my best to avoid them entirely. Which was why I did not fully comprehend why I had bought that picture, why I'd hung it where I could not avoid seeing it every day.
But once I did, I never felt inclined to remove it from its nail.
For a very long time, the bare walls of my room had suited me just fine, as had my spare, utilitarian furniture. My apartment was a place to lay my head, to store my food, to take shelter. Nothing more. Now, as I gazed at these two paintings, I realized that their addition had made the place feel a little bit like a home. The first I'd had in some years.
I ate my apple and cheese, then lay down in bed and read a Western called The Feud at Single Shot by Luke Short. I read for the next two hours, then left my apartment and headed downtown to see if Reuben Tzanani had come through for me.
8
I found him in his office on the second floor of the police station on Yehuda Halevi Street. On his desk was a mountain range of papers, some in brown folders, others in uneven piles. He lifted his head when I knocked on the doorjamb and gave me a smile so wide and innocent that it made him look more like a teenager than a father of five.
"Adam, come in, come in."
I stepped inside and took up the chair before his desk.
"Give me a minute, okay? I have to put this file in order."
I watched him as his nimble fingers ordered a stack of papers. His skin was very dark and smooth, his hair black and short and tightly curled. His features were delicate, giving the impression of a weak, flimsy man. This was as wrong as one could get. Reuben Tzanani was one of the toughest men I had ever met. He did not pack as powerful a punch as some, but when it came to stamina, resilience, and perseverance, you'd be hard pressed to find his equal. He was also brave and loyal as few men were. I had seen it firsthand in numerous battles during the War of Independence and was alive that day because of it. On that fateful day when I was shot twice, it was Reuben who had carried me on his back to the rear lines, where I got the medical treatment that saved my life.
Finished with his stack of papers, Reuben set it aside, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. "The powers that be have decided that the petty crime files could do with some tidying up. Guess who they chose for the task."
He did not sound bitter. Most cops would grumble at such an assignment, but not Reuben. He was proud of his job, of being a police officer, and he always seemed content. I often wondered how he would fare in an investigative role, but he had never been given the opportunity.
"It's quite incredible, the range and type of crimes people commit in this city," he said. "They steal bicycles, snatch clothing off lines, sneak into cinemas. Yesterday, I read a report about a teenager who raided his neighbor's flowerpots, making off with a dozen of her best roses. When asked about his motive, he said the flowers were a gift for a girl in his class. He didn't have the money to buy a proper bouquet. Now, he could have gone to a field somewhere, picked wildflowers, but no. Nothing less than roses would do for the girl of this young man's dreams." He smiled. "The neighbor, upon hearing this, withdrew the complaint. It's nice that people believe in love, isn't it?"
I grunted something that could be interpreted as agreement.
"But you're not interested in this petty stuff, are you, Adam? I got the file you wanted right here." He pulled open a squeaking drawer and brought out a folder about two inches thick. He rose from his chair, rounded his desk, and made for the door, motioning me to follow him.
Across the hall was a closed door. It was unlocked. Reuben ushered me into the office beyond it. It was even smaller than his. On the metal desk stood a picture of a brawny cop with sergeant stripes, a woman at his side, his arm on the shoulder of a boy of nine.
Gesturing at the photo, Reuben said, "Sergeant Binnenfeld is on vacation, so you can use his office. When you're done with the file, bring it back to me, okay?"