Sergeant Rapfogel had a scratchy voice and a local accent. He sounded very friendly. He asked if I was in the city. When I said that I was and added that now would be a good time for me to get the file, he apologized.
"I'm swamped, have to work late. Why don't we meet this evening, say eight thirty?"
The meeting place he proposed was a restaurant called Fink's on Ha-Histadrut Street, not too far from where I was now. It surprised me that Rapfogel wanted to meet outside his police station, but it saved me the trouble of suggesting it myself. I wanted to steer clear of Jerusalem police installations. I had no desire to run into Inspector Kulaski.
I returned to Amos Street to do some more canvassing. In the apartment that shared the second floor with the Shukruns' lived a family of six. The father was at work, the kids at school. The mother said that Moria had visited her children several times when they were sick with fever.
"She had a way with children," she told me. "They'd see her and their little faces would light up. I felt terrible the day she died. As long as I live, I won't forget the moment they took her body down the stairs. She was all covered up, but I could imagine how she looked under the sheet. I don't mind telling you it brought me to tears. I had no idea she'd been so sad."
When I left the apartment, Lillian Shukrun opened her door and peeked out. She saw me and smiled. "I thought I heard voices."
I smiled back, thinking of what the downstairs neighbor had told me about Lillian's nosiness. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I left.
I spent three hours knocking on doors in the neighboring buildings. Asked the same questions: Had they known Moria? How well had they known her? Had they seen her with other people? Did they have a clue why she killed herself? The first twenty conversations yielded plenty of speculation but nothing concrete. But then I talked to a fifty-something woman who remembered seeing Moria arguing with a man about a week before her death.
"What did they argue about?"
"I couldn't hear them properly. My hearing's not what it used to be, and they weren't talking loudly, and I was on the other sidewalk, and I wasn't trying to listen, you know? He wasn't hurting her, so I minded my own business." She sounded ashamed when she said this, but I understood. Why get involved in someone else's mess when you don't have to?
"But you're sure they were arguing?"
"Sure I'm sure. I could tell by their faces and how they were moving their arms. Especially her. She was the angry one, far as I could tell. Then I saw her start to walk away. The man started coming after her, but she held up a hand and yelled at him to leave her alone. 'Stay away from me, Arye!' That part I heard loud and clear."
"Arye? Are you sure that was the name?"
"Sure I'm sure. Wouldn't have said so if I wasn't."
I sat very still. I had met a man called Arye recently and had promptly put him out of my mind. But was it the same man?
"Do you remember what this Arye looked like?"
She screwed up her face in concentration. "What I remember best is he was well dressed. I'm a seamstress, so I have an eye for such things. His clothes cost a lot of money. Other than that, let's see... he was thin and had dark hair. I don't remember his face."
"How tall was he?"
She puckered her lips and shifted her head side to side as she estimated in her mind. "He was taller than her. Five ten, five eleven, maybe even six feet."
It fitted. As did the thin build and dark hair and expensive attire. The man was called Arye Harpaz. I had met him on the way out of Baruch Gafni's factory.
Harpaz had met Moria, had fought with her outside her building. He was a handsome guy, and he fit Lillian Shukrun's description of the man she'd seen leaving Moria's apartment.
Her lover. I finally knew who he was.
22
Having time to kill and nothing to kill it with, and with my feet aching from all the walking and stair climbing I'd done, I went back to my hotel. I lay on the narrow bed and closed my eyes, but sleep eluded me. I was restless, my brain a jumble of careening thoughts, and I felt every lump and depression in the old mattress. My mind was going places I didn't want it to go, and the small room felt stifling and close, so I pushed myself up, more tired than I'd been before I lay down, put on my shoes, and hurried out.
Needing a distraction, I returned to the bookstore. I bought a slim paperback Western and read the first fifty pages sitting on a street bench with the din of the city in my ears. The day was clear and bright and warmer than at any time since I'd arrived in Jerusalem.
The sidewalks were awash with people. I heard Arabic and German and French and Hebrew accented in all of the above and a slew of other tongues. I saw bearded Orthodox Jews in black suits and diminutive nuns in black habits. I saw Jews from Europe and North Africa and the Arab countries to the east. I saw a line of people curling out of a grocery store advertising the sale of chicken. I saw children gaping into shop displays or chasing each other around, their laughter high and tinkling. Some of them had on clothes that were darned and patched to within an inch of their life or wore comically mis-sized hand-me-downs. Would the money Germany give Israel improve these children's lot? Would it allow parents to put more food on their plates? Would it help Israel provide proper housing to its new immigrants, many of whom still lived in tents or makeshift shacks in haphazard immigrant camps?
I had a late lunch at a café with a German name that had pictures of German landmarks on the walls. Someone was homesick for a home that didn't exist anymore.
All that German scenery made me curious as to what the proprietor thought about Israel entering into direct negotiations with his former homeland, but I held my tongue. I didn't want to ruin my appetite.
I stretched out the meal and lingered over multiple cups of coffee, reading eighty more pages. The proprietor didn't mind; the place wasn't full.
It was after six by the time I finally paid my bill and left. It was dark now, the air chillier, but the sky still clear.
I finished the book by the light of a candle in another café, where I also ate a small dinner. The bad guys were dead; the good cowboy was wounded, but he'd live. No need for compromises or deals with the devil. I left the book on the table and went out.
I got to Fink's a couple of minutes late and scanned the patrons. Not a uniform among them. I figured Sergeant Rapfogel was running even later than I was, but then a guy wearing civilian clothes motioned me over from the back.
He'd taken the rearmost table, and Reuben must have given him my description because he hadn't hesitated before calling me over. He was medium height and stocky, with cropped black hair and a mustache that obscured much of his upper lip. Light-brown eyes, a cleft chin, round face, pale skin. He flashed a broad smile and offered me his hand.
"Adam, right? I'm Mordechai Rapfogel."
He hadn't ordered yet. I guessed he'd waited for me and my wallet. It was to be expected: he was doing me a favor; I was supposed to respond in kind.
I sat down. The place smelled of good food, good wine, and good cigarettes. This was going to cost me.
Rapfogel said, "You hungry? They have terrific food here."
"I just ate."
This news didn't faze him. "Mind if I have something? I missed both lunch and dinner. There's too much to do and not enough officers to handle it all."
"Go ahead. It's on me, okay? I'm grateful that you're taking the time to help me out."
He told me it was no trouble and finger-summoned the waiter. He ordered appetizers, a main course, and wine, which explained why he'd come in civilian clothes. It wouldn't do for a cop to be seen drinking alcohol in uniform.