"What time?"
"How about right now? I'm not going anywhere."
I glanced toward my chessboard. The game was not yet over, but it had served its purpose. It had given me something to do for a spell while taking my mind off everything. But now I had something else with which to occupy my time and thoughts. A job. Or at least the prospect of one.
"I can be there in thirty minutes," I said.
"Good. I'll be expecting you."
After she gave me the exact address, I hung up and asked Greta, "Ever heard the name Dahlia Rotner?"
"Why, yes. She was an actress. A theater actress."
"Was? Why was?"
"I'm not sure. She stopped acting, but I don't know the reason. Was that her on the phone?"
"Yes. Ever seen her perform?"
"A couple of times, but the last must have been at least four, five years ago. She was very good. Very talented. What does she want with you?"
"I don't know. I'm going to find out. See you later."
Out on Allenby Street, a boy was peddling that day's edition of Haboker. He tried to sell me one, but I waved him off. I had gotten my fill of news by being an unwilling audience to the heated discussions of other patrons at Greta's.
Most of the news was dismal, the world near and far in turmoil and instability. Wars and myriad other calamities raged as if to remind us that, though the biggest war in history had ended but six years ago, disasters, man-made and not, were to be our lot in life.
At least the weather was good. It was a sunny June day—warm, but not hot and humid as Israeli summers could be. Birds could be heard chirping and trilling, and on a day such as that, no one begrudged them the occasional bodily discharge they deposited on benches or windshields or the shirt of an unfortunate pedestrian.
People walked with a buoyant step and said "hello" and "good morning" to each other with greater frequency and feeling than usual. They smiled more often, too. It was a day that made it easier to forget about your troubles. Like the bad economy, or the rationing of basic food products, or even the recent tensions along Israel's borders. It was a day that invited optimism, even the sort one suspected was unfounded—and isn't that the most prevalent kind?
I could have taken a bus, but I opted to walk. The sun felt good on my face, warm and tender, and there was just the faintest whisper of breeze to ruffle my hair and keep myself from heating up.
As I walked, Dahlia Rotner's rich voice kept sounding in my ears. I tried to imagine the face that would go along with that voice. I wondered what sort of job she needed done. It was pointless; I would learn the answers soon enough. Yet I did not attempt to expel these frivolous thoughts, nor did I belittle them. They served a noble purpose. They kept my mind free of darker, weightier thoughts and memories, and for that I was grateful.
Chen Boulevard stretched north to south between Malkhei Yisrael Square and Dizengoff Street. Dahlia Rotner's building was a three-story structure close to the corner of Frishman Street. I ascended the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door to apartment 3.
"The door is unlocked, Mr. Lapid. Come in."
The voice sounded a bit far off and muffled by the door, even though it had clearly been raised. I pushed down the handle and found myself at one end of a hallway.
"Last door on your left," the voice came again, from deeper in the apartment.
I hesitated, suddenly feeling like prey being lured to its death by some enticement. I shook off the notion and strode forward.
Framed photographs bedecked both walls of the hallway. They all shared a theme. The theater. Some pictures showed actors engaged in their craft. Others were solitary shots, taken either during a performance or recording the application of makeup. The pictures on the left wall had one element in common: all featured the same woman, whether alone or in the company of her colleagues. Those on the right shared a different subject, a man. I recognized neither of them.
I couldn't say why, but as I walked down that hallway, I felt as though these two picture-laden walls were in competition and that I, or perhaps merely my attention, was the prize.
I passed a kitchen to my left and two closed doors to my right. The next door was on the left and it was open.
Beyond it was a living room. Spacious in comparison to most Tel Aviv apartments. Better appointed, too. Large framed landscapes. A grandfather clock ticking away in one corner. An ornate writing desk. A radio and gramophone, and next to them a few dozen music records standing in a serried line.
A plush armchair stood before a glass-topped coffee table, on the opposite side of which sprawled a brocade sofa big enough to sit three people without them having to touch.
Currently, it was occupied by just one.
She ran her eyes over me, sweeping the length of my body before scrutinizing my face. Whatever her impression of me was, I couldn't say. Her face showed nothing.
"Adam Lapid?"
I nodded.
"You're punctual. I like that."
I didn't need to verify her identity. It was her apartment, after all, and she was expecting me. Besides, it was the same voice I'd heard over the telephone at Greta's. The same unforgettable, unmistakable voice.
The woman it belonged to was in her forties, long-limbed and fair-skinned. Her wavy shoulder-length black hair, infiltrated slightly with gray, framed an oval face with powerful angular features—an aquiline nose, a large mouth, big brown eyes, and a jaw that was wide but still feminine. It wasn't a beautiful face, but it was certainly an arresting one. It was a face that snared your attention and would likely be able to hold it for as long as its owner wished. It was a face that hinted at resolve, determination, pride, and inner strength. It was the face of the woman in the hallway pictures, though this one had more years on it.
It was a face that went well with that voice.
She had on a long turquoise dress that fitted her so well it had to have been made to measure. Her only jewelry was her rings. A gold wedding band and a diamond ring with a quartet of elegant stones that sparkled in different shades of yellow, blue, and green.
"Please sit down, Mr. Lapid," she said. "You're tall enough as it is, and it hurts my neck to look up at you."
The neck in question was ensconced in a white brace that went all the way from the base of her throat to just below her chin. It looked rigid and tight and unpleasant to wear. It made her head look like a marble bust supported by a plinth. I wondered why she had to wear it. Whatever the cause, it must have been serious, as her neck was not the only part of her that was injured.
I took the armchair. It was as comfortable as it looked. Seated though I was, she still had to raise her gaze to meet mine, but not by all that much. I estimated her height at five seven or maybe five eight. Her posture was very good, straight and firm. Just like her braced neck. Combined, her bearing, face, and voice gave her a regal aura. She reminded me of a story I'd read many years before of a medieval queen who had been banished by her husband, the king, to a monastery. I couldn't remember the name of that queen, nor the country in which she had reigned, but if anyone ever wrote a play about her, Dahlia Rotner would be the obvious choice for the part. She exuded a restrained sort of dignity. The kind that was inherent and could not be ripped from her. I supposed that she had played a queen more than once in her career, and I had no doubt that she had done so with excellence.
"There's coffee in that pot over there," she said. "Real coffee. It should still be hot. Help yourself."
The pot was made of silver, as was the tray on which it stood. I poured myself a cup. The aroma wafting from it was wonderful. She had been truthful. This was genuine coffee. The sort that many Israelis were understandably stingy with, having mostly to settle for the rationed chicory alternative that left much to be desired. Judging by this, her diamond ring, and the furniture around me, I deduced that Dahlia Rotner had money. The fact that she had a telephone in her apartment, when the great majority of Israelis did not, was further proof of this.