"Nothing like that. May I pull the curtains?"
"If you must. But no more than one."
I chose the one that covered the largest window. I swept it aside, and sunlight splashed in. Dahlia recoiled, shielding her eyes.
Seeing her in the light was almost as big a shock as hearing her spiritless voice. She seemed to have aged a decade at least since I last saw her. The lines by her eyes had deepened, her complexion was hoary, the skin on her face looked slack, and the gray streaks in her hair had multiplied.
But it was her posture that had deteriorated the most. Gone was the erect, regal bearing. The woman before me was slump-shouldered, her upper back bowed, and she clasped the head of her cane with both hands, as though she would topple forward without it.
A ghostly smile played on her lips. "You would have made a poor actor, Mr. Lapid. You're utterly unable to mask your thoughts and emotions."
"Are you feeling well, Mrs. Rotner?"
Her mouth tightened. "Don't waste time asking questions with obvious answers. Why are you here?"
There it was. That steely imperiousness. It wasn't all gone yet. But her irises were leaden, as though there were curtains drawn along the insides of them, too.
"Why are you sitting here in the dark like this?" I asked.
"Because it suits me. I don't know why."
I did. A desire to shun all light is a symptom of depression and mourning. And I knew what Dahlia was grieving for. Only now I wasn't all that sure that grief was warranted. At least, not yet.
All of a sudden, the room felt suffocating. Hurriedly, I pushed open the window and let some air in. The buzz of the city felt like a tonic, revitalizing.
Dahlia watched me from the sofa. Curious, but detached. Yet even that faint interest made her seem more vibrant and alive.
"Why are you here, Mr. Lapid?" she asked again.
I stepped away from the window and sat in the chair facing the sofa. "I want to ask you something about your accident."
"I don't wish to discuss it."
"I understand that, but it's important."
She narrowed her eyes. "All right. What about it?"
"I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
"Why?"
I hesitated, wondering if I was making her relive a painful moment for no reason. But no. I had to ask these questions. I had to know for sure.
"Just humor me, Mrs. Rotner. Just tell me."
She drew in a breath, tapping her fingers on the horse's mane topping her cane.
"It happened just outside this building. I stepped out onto the street and began walking south. All of a sudden there was the sound of an engine revving, of wheels spinning. I managed to half turn and saw a car bearing down on me. It hit me very hard, threw me against the building. I hit the wall with my head and immediately passed out. From what I was told, I was quite a sight. A woman who saw me fainted on the spot. I came to in the hospital, bandaged and braced, awash with pain. Anything else you wish to know?"
"What happened to the driver?"
"The son of a bitch was never caught. The police found the car near an orange grove. It had been abandoned."
"What about the owner?"
"The car was stolen the morning of the accident. The owner was a lawyer by the name of Baruch Ehrlich. He was in court when the accident happened. The police said there was no way to discover the identity of the driver."
"Did you see the driver's face, Mrs. Rotner? Could you identify him?"
"I'm afraid not. It all happened very fast, Mr. Lapid."
"You said you half turned before the car struck you. Maybe you managed to catch a glimpse of his face?"
"All I know is that it was a man, and that he was dark-haired."
"How do you know that?"
"Because the driver had a beard. A dark beard."
I shut my eyes. Just like that, the awful suspicion that had gnawed at my stomach had morphed into a terrible near-certainty.
"Why are you asking me all this, Mr. Lapid?"
I opened my eyes and kneaded my hands. My palms had started to sweat, but I could not dispel the notion that the wetness was due to there being blood on my hands. Ofra Wexler's blood. There was one final question to ask. I was almost sure of the answer, but I needed confirmation from her.
"When did the accident happen? What was the date?"
"January 3, 1946. Are you going to tell me where all this is leading?"
It was what I'd expected. When I first met Dahlia, she told me that she was already back home from the hospital when Anna was killed. Given the type and extent of her injuries, she must have spent weeks, if not months, in the hospital. Amiram Gadot had been in prison between April '41 and April '46. His exact date of release was April 21, 1946. A month and one week before Anna was killed. All this had flashed through my mind when Varda told me that Dahlia had been run over.
Because in that instant, I had been struck by the realization that this had not been a random accident, but the work of the same person who had killed Anna, Eliezer Dattner, Nahum Ornstein, and, perhaps, Emil Polisar as well. Knowing that the driver was bearded only reinforced that realization.
That person could not have been Amiram Gadot because he was incarcerated at the time of Dahlia's accident. And I did not for one second entertain the notion that Ofra Wexler had been behind the wheel of that car. Not when she could have waited a few months for Amiram to be released from prison and have him do the deed for her. Ofra was innocent. Ofra was a victim. Her death was a murder disguised as a suicide.
"Well?" Dahlia said, clearly impatient.
I watched her closely as I explained it to her and saw her transform with each word. Muscles twitched and rippled in her face, drawing the skin tauter. Color suffused her cheeks. Her eyes dilated and contracted as shock and incredulity coursed through her. The curtains fell from her irises, and behind them blazed a fire. And gradually, vertebra by vertebra, her back straightened, her shoulders drew back, her body regained its majestic alignment, and she looked like a queen once more. A queen engulfed by royal fury.
Then it happened. All in a split second. Before, she had been like a fortified dam, bravely holding back the roiling waves that crashed upon her. After, it was as though the dam had given way all at once—not cracking, but splintering into a million pieces, so that all her rage erupted in a single, violent gush.
"That dirty, cheating, murderous bastard," she screamed, and, in one furious motion, she swung her cane sideways like a broadsword, sweeping the coffee table clear of teapot, cup, and saucer.
They all crashed on the floor in an explosion of china and spraying liquid. Tiny shards flew in all directions. Tea spattered my shoes, leaving dark stains shaped like teardrops on the cuffs of my trousers.
Thrown off balance by her outburst, Dahlia half-lay, half-reclined on the sofa, her body twisted, leaning sideways on her forearm, breathing hard and whimpering in pain. And, I was shocked to note, there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Something told me those tears would be hot to the touch. The lady of steel, weeping molten metal.
I helped to straighten her up and gave her a napkin to dry her tears. Then I went in search of a broom and a mop. I swept the broken china into the trash can in the kitchen. I mopped the floor. All that time, she sat without uttering a sound, staring into the middle distance or the middle past—or maybe into the middle future, which was probably the worst of the three.
When I was done cleaning, I put everything away and returned to my seat.
I said, "We don't know for sure that it's him, Mrs. Rotner."
She glared at me. Her eyes had regained their power. And when she spoke, it was with her old, glorious voice. "Don't talk nonsense. Of course it's Isser. He's even more diabolical than I thought."
I thought so too, but I'd been wrong about Ofra. I couldn't allow myself to make a similar mistake again.