"What?" I said.
She leaned toward me, and in a voice scarcely above a whisper, she said, "I'm much more important to the theater than any of the actors. I'll never say it to their faces, and they would never believe it if I did, but it's true. Without my costumes, they would look ridiculous, even if they said every line just right. I'm indispensable."
I smiled back at her. "I just bet you are."
She straightened in her chair, and her expression turned serious. "Anna and I weren't close, so I don't know all that much about her. But what I do know, what was clear just by watching her, was that she loved acting. She loved the audience, loved being looked at. It's almost as if she was nourished by all the attention."
"Was she a good actress?"
"Yes."
"As good as Dahlia Rotner?"
"Very few actresses are as good as Dahlia."
"Is that a no?"
She tilted her head an inch to the left, considering me with those clever eyes. "You never saw Dahlia perform, did you?"
I had, but not in the way Varda meant. "I know her reputation. Heard she was very good."
"Not very good. Exceptional."
"And Anna wasn't?"
"Anna was talented, but Dahlia is gifted. You understand the difference?"
I wasn't sure that I did, and said so.
"How shall I explain it?" Varda said, tapping her upper lip with a forefinger. "Some actors have a unique presence on stage. They seem bigger than they really are, and it's as though they're surrounded by energy. The audience can't take their eyes off them. It's a special quality, very rare, and I don't think you can learn it. You can't train yourself to have it, no matter how hard you try. People that have it act on a higher plane. They soar over the merely skilled or talented. They shine on stage like a blazing fire, like the sun. Dahlia Rotner was such an actress. She was the star of the theater. She played all the leading female roles. Her accident was a terrible blow. In many ways, we haven't recovered from it."
The image of Dahlia, with her neck brace and perfect posture and indomitable dignity, rose in my mind. No wonder she had made me think of a queen. For that was precisely what she was. A queen of the stage who had been dethroned by fate and misfortune.
But who had inherited her position? The same woman who was to play Antigone had she not been killed?
I asked Varda the first of these two questions, and she confirmed it. After Dahlia was injured, it was Anna who became Shoresh Theater's leading lady. No doubt, this only aggravated Dahlia's suffering. It's one thing to be toppled from a high pedestal; it's quite another to see a woman you think so little of elevated in your place.
"So Anna was now the star of the theater?" I asked.
"Oh no," Varda said, with a note of surprise.
"Then who?" I asked, and the answer came to my lips before she had a chance to respond. "Isser Rotner?"
Varda nodded. "He was, and is, our best actor."
I took a moment to digest this. I remembered the hallway in the Rotners' apartment, how those picture-laden walls—one of the master of the house, the other of its mistress—seemed to compete for my attention and admiration.
Was this a reflection of a real-life rivalry? Had Rotner felt eclipsed by his wife's talent and position as the theater's best performer? Was he, on some level, content that now his star was allowed to shine brightest? And was this one of the reasons Dahlia now resented him? An additional reason for hiring me to bring about his downfall?
"Tell me, Varda," I said, "is Isser Rotner talented or gifted?"
Varda smiled a tiny smile. "Somewhere in between."
Dahlia would have swelled with pleasure to hear that. Even I felt a burst of satisfaction. Perhaps this was why Rotner cheated on his wife. As a form of revenge for her superior talent.
"Did Anna and Isser get along?" I asked.
"Very well. He liked her acting style. He was the one who picked Anna to take over Dahlia's roles."
"Was their relationship merely professional?"
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I never saw or heard anything to suggest otherwise. Why do you ask?" She sounded completely sincere, as though this was the first time the possibility of a romantic involvement between Anna and Isser Rotner had crossed her mind.
"Just curious," I said, and quickly changed the subject. "Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Anna?"
"No, no one."
"How about one of the other actors?"
Varda looked appalled at the mere suggestion. "Why would any of them wish to kill Anna?"
"I don't know. Maybe she had a fight with someone. Maybe someone thought she was getting too many lines or too much praise from the critics."
Her tone was resolute. "I know all the actors, Adam, and I can't believe any of them would be capable of such a thing."
I was on the verge of asking her specifically about Ofra Wexler, but something tight in Varda's expression told me she would not appreciate such an inquiry. It would offend her sense of loyalty to the theater.
She said, a touch softer now, "I know it's your job to be suspicious of everyone, Adam, but I know these people. None of them is a killer."
There was no arguing with her earnestness, or her naivete. She did not know how well killers could disguise their true selves. Better than most actors could assume the identity of a character. I took a breath and got to my feet.
"All right, Varda. Thank you. I think that's everything."
14
In a drugstore on Sheinkin Street, I placed two telephone calls. The first was to Reuben Tzanani. He had good news for me.
"I got through to Meltzer," he said. "Told him what case you were working on. He's agreed to talk to you. You can meet him in Netanya today. He's free around noon."
Just in time for lunch, I thought.
"He'll be at the police station. Know where it is?"
I told him I didn't, and he read me the address. I thanked him and hung up.
The second call was to Dahlia Rotner. I reported to her that I had just met her husband.
"And?" she said. "Do you think he did it?"
"I don't know, but I can tell you he was none too happy to talk to me."
"That's because he's guilty. Just like I told you."
"Maybe," I said. "I asked him for his alibi, and he told me you'd vouch for him. He'll expect me to come by to see you. Why don't you tell him that I dropped by around noon, and that you told me the same story you fed the cops at the time?"
"It would be my pleasure," she said, clearly relishing the prospect of lying to her husband instead of for him.
I checked my watch and decided that Trumpeldor Cemetery would have to wait until I got back from Netanya. It was only about thirty kilometers north of Tel Aviv, but bus service in Israel was spotty, with timetables that were notoriously undependable. I did not want to be late for my noon appointment with Meltzer.
A half hour later, I was at the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, and thirty-five minutes after that, I was sitting on the bus to Netanya.
A couple of rows ahead of me, two men were engaged in a muted discussion in Yiddish; while directly behind me, a solitary woman was humming a Hungarian lullaby. I recognized the tune; my mother used to sing it to me when I was little. I closed my eyes, shutting out all other sound, and my mother's voice rose from the ashes of my memories, soft and warm and comforting. Weariness crept over me, insistent and strangely sweet, like it does in childhood. I propped my head against the window and let the gentle melody lull me to sleep.