3
The second Tova Wasserman opened her door, I could tell that something was wrong.
“Come in, Mr. Lapid,” she ordered in her crisp, heavily accented Hebrew.
She had been born in Poland sixty-five, maybe seventy years ago, and every single day of her life showed on her prune of a face. She stood five foot three and was as thin as a walking stick. That day, as usual, she had on a floor-length dark dress made of thick wool. A gold necklace with a tear-shaped amber pendant hung against her scrawny chest. A gray shawl was draped over her shoulders.
The reason I knew something was wrong was that this was the first time she hadn’t commanded me to wipe my feet before crossing her threshold.
She led the way down a narrow hall festooned with pictures of her relatives—both the living and the dead—and into her living room. Neither hall nor living room sported a speck of dust.
“Sit,” she ordered, gesturing toward a large, thickly padded three-seater that had been new when the Ottomans still ruled the Land of Israel. The rest of the furniture was of a similar vintage and style—the kind that was built to last the ages, but would never be mistaken for beautiful.
On a low table before the sofa rested a plate stacked with cookies. Mrs. Wasserman lifted it in her bony hand and extended it to me.
“Take one,” she said. “I made them yesterday.”
Declining was not an option. I selected one of the smaller cookies, set its edge carefully between two molars, and bit down slowly. The cookie, almost vacant of taste and as hard as gravel, crunched under the pressure of my teeth. The first time I had tried one of Mrs. Wasserman’s cookies, I nearly chipped an incisor. This time went smoother. I couldn’t say why her cookies came out so hard and had never dared to ask.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wasserman,” I said, taking another careful bite. “It’s very good.”
My praise elicited a slight tip of her head but no smile. This wasn’t surprising. The only evidence I had that Mrs. Wasserman was capable of smiling was some of the pictures on the walls in her hall, and those had been taken many years ago. She had a narrow, severe face with sunken cheeks, a sharp nose, and a small pinched mouth with lined lips that moved very little when she spoke. Two metallic blue eyes gazed upon the world from beneath a pair of thin arched eyebrows. They were hard, shrewd eyes and the years had narrowed them so only part of her irises showed. Today the eyes were even narrower than usual, wary.
She did not speak until I had finished my cookie. Outside, a January wind wailed down Ben Yehuda Street, rattling the windowpanes. Mrs. Wasserman pulled her shawl tighter around her. Her fingers were long and arthritic, and on her ring finger she still wore her engagement and wedding rings, even though her husband had been dead for at least ten years.
Once the cookie was done and I had carefully rubbed the crumbs off my fingers over the plate, Mrs. Wasserman said, “You wish to make an exchange?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching into the inside pocket of my jacket and withdrawing a slim wad of green banknotes. One hundred American dollars in tens and fives. I handed them over to her.
Mrs. Wasserman licked her forefinger and counted the money. Then she set all of the bills but one on the coffee table and began carefully examining the remaining note. She felt it between her fingers, peered at it through squinting eyes, and held it up to the light, seemingly poring over every inch of it. I watched her repeat this process with each of the banknotes with mounting curiosity. On our previous transactions, she had confined herself to a cursory inspection. This was something new.
When she concluded her examination, she gave a small nod to herself. Then she turned her eyes to me and named an exchange rate. It was far lower than the official exchange rate set by the government, but that was to be expected. Black-market transactions tended to benefit the seller, who could demand exorbitant prices. In this case, Mrs. Wasserman was selling me Israeli currency, and she was making a tidy profit.
“That’s fine,” I said.
Mrs. Wasserman instructed me to wait, rose from her chair, and shuffled out of the living room. She returned a minute later, a sheaf of Israeli currency in her right hand. “Here. Count it.”
I did, though I did not for a moment suspect that she would stiff me. It turned out that she had given me thirty liras more than what we agreed on.
“You gave me too much,” I said.
“It’s for a job I want you to do for me.”
“What job?”
She slid a hand into a side pocket, brought out two American banknotes, and laid them on the table. She pointed to the one on the left. “This is one of the notes you gave me. And this—” she shifted her finger to the other bill “—I received two weeks ago. Take a good look at them. See if you can spot the differences.”
I did as she instructed, but after a minute’s worth of scrutiny could not tell the two banknotes apart. She told me where to look, and it was then that I saw the small imperfections in the second bill. A slight variation in color here, a tiny excess of ink there, an almost undetectable smudge around the intelligent eyes of the man at the center of the bill.
“It’s good work,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. Her pinched mouth crimped even more. “Very good work.”
“I take it there is more than this one bill.”
“Eight hundred dollars.”
I stared at her. While the sum was no fortune, it was more than what many Israelis had to their name. Mrs. Wasserman met my gaze without a change of expression, but in her eyes I could see the burning anger she felt.
I said, “When did you notice the money was fake?”
“I didn’t. A person I do business with spotted the irregularities. He has seen forged money before. He said the forgery was of high quality, though unlikely to fool anyone who had experience in such matters. I got the bad news three days ago.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“A young man called Nathan Frankel. He said he got the money from a wealthy uncle in America.”
“Was this the first time you’ve done business with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know him beforehand?”
“I did not.”
I refrained from asking whether she felt it had been imprudent on her part to carry out such a large transaction with a man she did not know. Aside from satisfying my curiosity, it would have served no purpose other than to make her feel bad. What was done was done.
“How did he know to come to you with the dollars? Who gave him your name?”
“He said he got it from Zalman Alphon. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“He runs a stationery store on Daniel Street. But aside from pencils and sharpeners and erasers, he also dabbles in the black market. The sugar in these cookies came from him.”
I had not detected a trace of sugar in the cookie I’d eaten, but decided not to share this with her.
“Alphon vouched for him?” I asked.
Mrs. Wasserman shifted in her seat. When she spoke next, her eyes were averted.
“I did not check with Alphon prior to making the exchange. I should have, considering the sum involved, but the young man—Frankel—he made a good impression. Clean cut, well-spoken, educated, honest. A nice Polish boy. He seemed trustworthy. I did not for a moment suspect that he would cheat me.”
“And what exactly do you want me to do?”
She fixed her hard eyes on mine, and I noticed that her thin fingers had coiled into fists in her lap. “I want you to find Nathan Frankel and get my money back.”
I nodded. I’d expected as much, but I needed to hear her say the words. If a client is unable to say what she wants, it means she has not made up her mind yet. But Tova Wasserman had never struck me as a woman prone to indecision, and it was clear she had no doubt in her mind as to what she wanted me to do.