"I told you when you hired me, Mrs. Rotner, that I would hunt for the killer, whoever he or she turned out to be."
"I remember. I am disappointed with the outcome, not with you."
"Aren't you glad the person responsible for the murder of three of your colleagues has finally met justice? It would not have happened without you."
She took a moment to answer, and when she did, her tone was thoughtful. "I suppose I should feel that way, but I don't. Does this shock you?"
"Not at all," I said truthfully.
"Hmmm. This does say something about what you think of me, doesn't it? I must say that I am surprised tiny Ofra had it in her. She always struck me as the sort of woman people do things to, not a woman who does things to other people."
"I suppose she was a better actress than you thought."
“So it would seem. Then again, maybe this shouldn't surprise me. I spent years being wrong about my husband, so why wouldn't I be wrong about Ofra? It makes me wonder who else I'm wrong about."
"Life isn't a play, Mrs. Rotner. We can't read everyone's thoughts or see into their heart."
"You're right, we can't." She paused to clear her throat and I feared another of her coughing fits was about to commence, but then she resumed speaking. "One thing bothers me, Mr. Lapid."
I waited, sure that I knew what it was.
"Isser's behavior that night, his tossing and turning and mumbling in his sleep. If he hadn't killed Anna, what brought about his night terrors?"
"I don't know."
"Does this bother you at all?"
"A little. But the case is over, Mrs. Rotner. The killer is dead."
"I know. I was not about to suggest you look into it. I don't suppose you'd be able to find out."
"The only way we'll ever know is if your husband decides to tell us."
"So I guess I'll have to live with not knowing."
"I guess we both will. By the way, I did not tell the police your identity. Your reputation is secure."
"I suppose that's more than nothing," she said, and that brought the conversation to a momentary standstill. The only sound was the whisper of her breathing.
After a moment, and without knowing I was about to utter the words until they spilled from my lips, I said, "I'm sorry things turned out this way, Mrs. Rotner."
A few seconds of silence passed. When she spoke, her tone was detached, and it was as though she hadn't heard my last sentence. "You've earned yourself a bonus, I think, Mr. Lapid. Despite the outcome, you have done your job admirably."
"That's not necessary."
"I'll decide what is necessary, if you don't mind." And softer: "It is my wish, Mr. Lapid. You wouldn't want to deny me it, would you?"
"I'm not in the habit of turning down free money," I said.
This time her laughter was both warm and unabbreviated. "You may come collect your bonus whenever you wish, Mr. Lapid." She paused and now sounded more serious, even gloomy. "But not for the following week. I prefer to be as alone as possible in the next few days. You understand, don't you?"
I did. For she'd had a dream, a dream of seeing her husband in chains and on trial and humiliated, and now that dream was dead. And just like we sit shiva to grieve over the death of those closest to us, so do our dreams require a period of mourning.
"But don't take too long, Mr. Lapid," she said. "I wish to put this whole affair behind me."
"No, Mrs. Rotner, I assure you I won't."
36
The papers carried the story prominently over the next few days. It was one of Birnbaum's finest hours. Not only was he the one who broke the story, he also possessed a reservoir of titillating details that other reporters were ignorant of. For instance, he was the one who informed the public about Eliezer Dattner's Arab lover, and he also wrote that several dozen poems of a distinctly malevolent nature were found on Ofra Wexler's desk. Just the fodder readers' imaginations needed in order to run wild.
Most people assumed Birnbaum had a source in the police, and this was likely true, but all of the details he dished out in his column had been supplied by me.
Birnbaum was as good as his word. Not once did he mention my name, nor did he hint at my existence. It was three days before I grew confident that no other reporter would do so.
By that time, the story had sunk to the inner pages of the newspaper. Regular news reconquered the front page. The ceiling fan at Greta's Café seemed to celebrate the story's decline by resuming its rattle. This led to disgruntled murmurs among the regulars and despaired looks heavenward, or at least ceiling-ward, from Greta.
One day earlier, two days after Ofra's suicide, I arrived at the café and learned there'd been a call for me.
"A Mr. Haggai Geller," Greta said. "He asked me to tell you he'll be in his office all day and to come right over. He sounded eager to talk to you."
I didn't go. There was no reason to. Nor did I feel the need to return Geller's call. He'd soon forget about me, just as I would hopefully soon forget about him and the rest of this case.
But he didn't forget. He called again that afternoon and twice more the following day. I ignored those calls as well.
One call I didn't ignore was from Reuben. He wanted to let me know that the rest of the files I'd requested had arrived.
"I put them aside in a drawer for you," he said. "Just in case you still want to take a look."
I didn't see the point. They wouldn't tell me anything useful. Not now.
"I don't think I'll need them, Reuben. You can send them back. And thank you."
With the general election drawing ever nearer, the atmosphere at Greta's Café became decidedly more fractious. Heated arguments broke out among the patrons, whose political leanings ranged from the far left to the other extreme. On occasion, voices were raised and insults hurled, the sort that would have made my mother rush to cover the ears of whichever of my sisters happened to stand closest to her. Usually a stern word or a forbidding look from Greta was enough to pacify the unruly debaters, to remind them that, their differences notwithstanding, they had only one country and one favorite café.
On one occasion, though, a supporter of the quasi-communist party Mapam got into a squabble with a member of Maki, the Communist Party of Israel, over which of the two parties better represented the working class. The squabble quickly devolved from an unregulated trading of insults to a rather confused free-market exchange of blows—though luckily, these were largely ineffectual.
Greta, upon seeing this, charged from behind her counter, armed with a rolling pin raised threateningly over her head—an act that brought the scuffle to an abrupt end. The two skirmishers were then ordered out of the café and given permission to return no sooner than the next morning, provided they swore to behave like civilized men.
The supporter of Mapam exited the café in a huff and turned left. Not to be outdone, the member of Maki hastened in the same direction, quickly overtaking his counterpart, but on the opposite side of the street. Both were back and on their best behavior the following day.
As Birnbaum had predicted, the murders provided Shoresh Theater with a sizable dose of free publicity. One paper featured an article that reviewed the theater's history—from the day of its founding to the recent, shocking revelations. Another dedicated a few inches to each of the victims—and this, naturally, included mention of their place of employment.
A third newspaper conducted a lengthy interview with Isser Rotner—whom the paper dubbed as "the leader of the beleaguered, mournful troupe"—in which Rotner was portrayed as a man of fortitude, resilience, and artistic vision.
The interview was a testament to Rotner's skills, as the image he conveyed was as fake as any character he had ever played. He appeared somber, wise, and grieving—all in a carefully balanced masculine manner, in which he hinted at personal emotional turmoil, but didn't let it truly show. Most of his feigned concern was for his fellow actors—"my brothers and sisters in arms," he called them—and the future of the theater. He talked of that future at length, and then, if you knew his true nature, you could see through the smokescreen. You could see his ambition, his insatiable hunger for success, and his desire to seize this moment, which fate had bestowed upon him, and make himself great in the process.