And it appeared to be working. Each evening, I would head over to Balfour Street and see the crowds milling about Ohel Shem. Every seat would be taken that night. The money would flow to the theater's depleted coffers. And Isser Rotner would be lauded.
Watching the people streaming into Ohel Shem, into Rotner's domain, I wondered for the thousandth time: If Rotner hadn't killed Anna, why did he fake his alibi? And what caused his nightmares that night?
I had no contact with Dahlia in the days following our telephone conversation. Her period of mourning was not yet over. But I found myself thinking of her often, picturing her sitting in her apartment with her broken body and shattered spirit and dashed dreams. And while I didn't pity her—knowing full well how she would detest that—I did feel a measure of sympathy for her.
It's a terrible thing, to have what you love most be taken from you. And it's even worse to see a person you despise gain it in your place.
Three days after Ofra's death, I visited the hospital to have my arm looked at. It was healing nicely, but there would be a scar. One more for the collection, I thought.
I chatted for a while with my doctor and then with another, and finally with a nurse who had made aliyah from Hungary in the 1930s. She asked if I had met any of her family during the war in Europe. Her face fell when I told her I hadn't.
Out in the hospital courtyard, I sat on a bench under the bright summer sun and pondered all that had transpired in the Anna Hartman case. I hoped that soon I'd be able to let the case go entirely.
But there was one small bit of unfinished business. One thing left to deal with.
37
That bit of unfinished business was Meir Gadot. He had disappeared.
I had tried contacting him the day after I'd killed his cousin, with no success. I had a telephone number where I could reach him. A Bulgarian restaurant downtown he frequented just about every day. It was where I'd called to let him know I'd discovered who had been stealing his merchandise. I'd telephoned the restaurant a number of times after Ofra's suicide, but the proprietor told me Meir hadn't been by, and that he didn't know where he was.
After three days, I began to worry in earnest. As I sat on that bench outside the hospital, I pictured Meir's body floating in the Yarkon River with a bullet hole in his head, courtesy of his cousin. Or with his throat cut on a dune somewhere, being pecked at by vultures.
So after I left the hospital, I called city hall, pretending to be a police detective, and got the clerk to give me Meir's address. I went to his apartment, but no one answered his door. A neighbor told me Meir hadn't been home for a few days. "No lights on at night," he said. "And he likes to listen to music on the radio; I can hear it through the thin walls. But these past few days—nothing."
Fearing the worst, I asked the landlord to let me in Meir's apartment. He refused, saying he didn't know me.
"I think he might be dead in there," I said. "How about this? How about you go in there and check it out, okay?"
Either my tone or the prospect of finding a putrefying corpse changed his mind. He unlocked Meir's door and waited in the hall with an anxious expression while I stepped inside. Not that I needed to in order to know there was no body there. My nose told me that. Still, I went around the place, finding a half-empty drawer of socks and underwear, a vacant shelf in the closet, and a few barren hangers. It looked like Meir had made a quick getaway.
But who was he running from? Surely not his cousin. By now, he would have read about his death, or someone would have told him. I thought I knew the answer and did not like it one bit.
My next stop was the restaurant. A dim-lighted place in Jaffa, in the ground floor of a two-story building whose upper floor had a partially collapsed roof. An unrepaired casualty of the War of Independence. Inside, a dozen small wooden tables hosted about twenty people. The place smelled of cheap cigarettes, cheap food, and the sweat of people who had to work hard and make do with little. Some were nursing watered beers, while others were bent over bowls of Bulgarian stew or munching on a pastry called banitsa, folds of dough filled with spinach and pumpkin and cheese—but, given the times, not much of any of the three.
A waiter was attending to a table by the door. I waited while he explained to a hungry couple that, alas, the restaurant wasn't serving almodrote this week, and recommended an alternative. He pointed toward a table by the kitchen when I asked to speak to Mr. Moshonov, the proprietor.
Moshonov was a blocky man with an unsmiling square face, thick eyebrows, and short thinning hair the color of wet concrete. When I told him my name and asked if Meir had made an appearance since we last spoke, he flicked his blue eyes at me and gave a quick shake of his head. "Haven't seen him for days now. Could have told you this on the phone. Didn't need to come over." Then he returned his gaze to the room.
"I understand he's a regular customer," I said.
"You could say that."
"Aren't you worried that he hasn't been around?"
"Why should I be worried? Meir's a grown man."
"I've been by his apartment. He hasn't been there for days. It looked like he packed in a hurry."
"Maybe he's taking a trip," Moshonov said, still not looking at me. "I don't keep track of my customers."
I studied his face. Either there was something he was hiding from me, or he just didn't like anyone asking questions about his patrons. Either way, I would get nothing from him.
Outside, I lit a cigarette and began walking away. I was thirty paces from the restaurant when I heard a voice at my back.
"Mister. Hey, mister."
I turned and saw a man. Thin, short, and very pale. Sandy hair, bony arms, and a bulging Adam's apple in a scrawny neck. Clothes that had been mended a good number of times and didn't fit him all that well. He shifted from one foot to the other and back again.
"I heard you're looking for Meir," he said.
I recognized him from the restaurant. He'd been sitting a table away from the proprietor. He must have overheard our conversation. I cast a quick glance over his shoulder. No one else had come out of the restaurant. We were alone in the street.
"You know where he is?" I asked.
He shifted his feet. "I know how you can find him."
I took another drag and nodded slowly as the smoke curled over my head and vanished into the night sky. "All right. How?"
A tentative, yet decidedly greedy smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, pulling it half open, like a zipper.
"I was thinking it might be worth something to you," he said.
I nodded again, then took a final pull on my cigarette, let it drop, and snuffed it out under my shoe. I took a step forward. He tensed, tried to appear tough, but I could tell he was ready to bolt at the slightest hint of trouble.
I sighed. I could threaten the information out of him, but I didn't think it would be wise. Instead, I reached into my pocket, took out my wallet, and counted out three one-lira notes, holding them up in a fan shape. At the sight of the cash, he bit on his lip and shifted his feet again.