I think I may have thought about this moment more than Ruchaleh, and I was sure that when the time came, after months of nightly planning, I would get things done on autopilot, briskly moving from chore to chore. But on the way back from the hotel I felt myself start to lose my train of thought and everything that had seemed so clear started to blur.
When I got home I called the real estate agency that Ruchaleh had decided to work with. Upon hearing that there was a private house in Beit Hakerem going on the market, they insisted on sending someone that same day. I had to be very firm with the real estate agent and tell him that the earliest I could see him was Sunday, though I reassured him that I would not speak with other agencies in the meantime.
Ruchaleh had said I could stay at the house as long as there was no buyer but I knew I would never be able to sleep there alone, not even for one night, without her and without Yonatan. Sterilization—that was my code word for the initial first step. No trace, I said to myself as I started emptying the attic drawers and dumping the contents into garbage bags.
I tried not to look at the contents of the desk drawers, which I knew so well, but rather to pull each one out, dump everything into a bag, and move on without pause. There was no time for contemplation. Diaries, pictures, report cards, drawings from kindergarten, letters. I still wasn’t sure if these things should be shredded or burned.
Having finished the desk I moved on to the closet. I pulled the two gym bags my mother had bought me off the top shelf and stuffed my old clothes inside. After five years of neglect the clothes looked pathetic. They’re not mine, I tried convincing myself, and I shivered. They’re not mine. I brought the blue sweater to my face and sniffed it; that is not my scent, I said to myself, and I used the sweater to wipe away the tears, scratching them off my face, and then I shoved it into the bag.
The plan was to lay the old clothes outside next to the garbage cans, as all of the neighbors did, donations to the Arab garbagemen. These bags, though, I thought, might look suspicious to the neighbors. They usually left their belongings in see-through bags and not in old canvas gym bags that could look suspicious. I unzipped the bags, dumped their contents into the garbage, and then folded the bags and tossed them in, too.
I packed my new wardrobe in a suitcase that I had bought earlier in the week and, since I had promised Ruchaleh that I would leave the attic empty, I took all the things I didn’t want, threw them into garbage bags, and put them out on the curb. The eggshell mattress, the wheelchair, the ventilator, and all the rest of the medical supplies were to be picked up the following day by the Yad Sarah organization. They were delighted to hear that I was interested in donating all of the furniture in the room, too.
Noa was in class when I arrived at her house but she had left me a key, just as she’d promised, right under the mat. Despite Noa’s love of music, all she had was a little compact stereo with poor sound so I brought her Yonatan’s stereo and his electric guitar, presents for allowing me to stay with her until I found a place of my own.
After dropping everything off at Noa’s, I went back to the house to pack up the CDs and the books. The bag with the stuff from Yonatan’s drawers, I decided, should be thrown out somewhere else, far away.
TWO-HUNDRED SHEKEL NOTES
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” the lawyer told Samah, who was holding the phone in one hand and sending the graphologist a fax with the other. On the way down the stairs he bumped into Tarik.
“So?” the lawyer asked.
“Good news! In the end the prosecution were the ones who were reprimanded.”
“You didn’t have to ask for a continuance?”
“No, the police never even managed to bring in the accused.”
“Great,” the lawyer said, smiling a genuine smile. “All right, I’m headed out for five minutes. Your coffee’s waiting for you, probably already cold.”
The lawyer was happy he hadn’t had to ask the court to reschedule the hearing. He took it as a sign. Maybe everyone was not against him and maybe the luck he had always had had not run out. Just one tiny little inquiry and then it’s over, the lawyer promised himself. One more thing and then I’m putting this entire thing behind me. I don’t care if this Amir is alive or dead; if his mother spoke to him or not. Enough. After I look into one more thing I will go back to believing in my wife’s version of events.
“Oh, good morning,” the lawyer said to Meirav when he saw her behind the counter of the used bookstore reading the paper.
“Good morning,” she said. “What’s up? What are you doing here on a Sunday, in the morning no less?”
The lawyer laughed and hoped he sounded credible. “You’re right,” he said, looking around for Yonatan’s boxes, “something is up.”
“What?” Meirav asked.
“On Thursday I came in and bought The Kreutzer Sonata, you remember?” He showed her the book.
“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”
“It’s a great book. I just wanted to ask if you knew who sold it to you?”
“Sure,” she answered. “I was the one who was working when all the stuff came in on Thursday. Why?”
“Do you think you could give me, I don’t know, the person’s number or e-mail or something?”
“No, sorry. We’re not allowed to give out the numbers of sellers or buyers. If it’s something important and you really need his info, you better talk to the owner.”
“I understand,” the lawyer said. “It’s kind of like attorney-client privilege or something, right?”
“The owner’s pretty strict about it,” Meirav said. “He’s worried people are going to steal his clients or, even worse, his sellers.”
“Okay, fine,” the lawyer said, opening the book. “The thing is, Meirav, that while I was reading I found these between the pages of the book.” He produced a pair of two-hundred shekel notes.
“Oh,” Meirav said, looking confused.
“I think these might be Yonatan’s,” the lawyer said, watching her face for a reaction.
“Yeah, they must be.” She typed something into the computer. “I’ll call him and tell him to come pick it up.”
“Hi, is this Yonatan?” Meirav said into the phone. “Hi, I hope I’m not disturbing you. My name’s Meirav and I’m calling from the used bookstore. We met on Thursday when you brought the books in, remember? No, no, everything’s fine, it’s just that someone found two two-hundred shekel bills in one of the books. Yeah. So I was thinking, I don’t know, maybe we could send it over to you or you could come by and get it.” Meirav was silent, she nodded her head and looked at the lawyer. Then she said, “I don’t see why not, it’s your money.”
The lawyer gestured to Meirav that he would like the phone. She said, “Just a second, the customer who found the money wants to talk to you. Just a second,” and she handed him the phone.
The lawyer took a deep breath.
“Hello, Yonatan?” he said, his voice rising at the end to form a question.
“Hello,” said the voice on the other end of the line. The lawyer could hear noise all around him.
“I bought The Kreutzer Sonata a little while ago and. .” the lawyer’s voice wavered.
“I know, it’s okay,” the other man said. “It’s fine. I don’t want the money. Do whatever you want with it. Give it away, take it, give it to the store, I don’t care.”