The letter ended with an invitation for Kaplon to come to Jerusalem and visit Abramo. "It has been too long since we saw each other, my friend," Abramo wrote. "I would love for you to finally meet Magda and my son. Do come soon. You can spend the Sabbath with us. It is very peaceful and quiet here. Write to me and let me know."
What was apparent from the letter was that the two men were familiar and friendly. They had corresponded with each other for a while. The letter made reference to a previous one, which was sent by Kaplon to Abramo. Where were the previous letters that Abramo had sent Kaplon? Had Kaplon thrown them away? Or did he keep them someplace hidden that I missed in my search? And if so, why?
I put the letter back into its envelope and shoved it in my pocket. Greta brought me a bowl of chicken soup with chopped carrots and potatoes floating in it. It was salty, just like she always made it. But I liked it, just like I always did.
I checked my watch, saw that I had a bit of time, and set up the chessboard. I always played against myself. It attracted weird looks from other patrons in the café, and the occasional offer to act as an opponent, but I didn't mind. I just ignored the looks and declined the offers. The first decision came before the first move—which side to play? Black or white? Greta had once hypothesized that I made that choice based on my mood. I didn't think that was the case, but I couldn't say for sure.
I chose black. I set up the thirty-two pieces on the board and studied them for a moment. War was never as fair and equitable as chess. In war the two sides never started out with the same number of men. And their formations differed and were kept secret. And the goals of each army or nation in a war were different. One side might aim for the complete annihilation of its opponent. The other side might simply desire to repel a foreign invasion and hope that war would be a prelude to peace. In chess the goals of each side were the same.
I gave a little shake of my head, snapping off my aimless thinking. I made the first move and immediately responded with the white. This I continued to do—quick moves, back and forth, as little time given to thinking as possible. A lightning game was the only way to play against oneself. Otherwise, there was no surprise, all your tactics were exposed and predictable. Your conscious mind was shut off in a lightning game. You played purely by instinct. You didn't think. And I liked having time in which I didn't think.
Black handily won the first match and squeaked out a hard-fought victory in the second. I checked my watch. Time to call Reuben.
A grocery store at a nearby corner had a phone. I called the police station. Reuben came on the line.
"Did you talk to Benny Regev?" I asked.
"Yes. He'll meet you tonight at Café Tavor. It's on Hayarkon Street."
"I know where it is. What time?"
"Eight thirty." He paused for a second. "Why do you need to see him, Adam?"
"I want to ask him about Yosef Kaplon," I said.
"Yes. I know that. But why? I've been thinking about it ever since you called earlier. You're searching for the reason this guy killed himself. Reading the report is a logical step—you want to read the suicide note, get a little background for your client. But talking to Regev seems overkill. I can't see how he can contribute to your investigation."
"You know me. Just want to be thorough."
"I don't have to start worrying about you?"
"Worrying?"
Another pause. "This guy. I know he was there in the same camp as you were. I don't know, I thought maybe his death has gotten to you somehow."
"It's true that he was there, but you've got nothing to worry about," I said.
"Okay. If you say so."
We talked for about a minute more. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was two weeks away, and Reuben invited me to have dinner with his family. He always did that, and I always told him that I was busy and would come next time. He didn't give up on me and never reminded me of my earlier promises.
Reuben had a very nice family. Gila, his wife, was lovely, and so were his children. He also had a slew of brothers and sisters, and his parents were warm and gracious people. A lovely family. The problem was that it reminded me of my own.
Benny Regev was easy to spot. He was in his early twenties, six foot two or three, wide across the shoulders, with big hands, neither of which he offered for me to shake. He had wide facial features: lantern jaw, blocky chin, big nose with flaring nostrils. He could be intimidating, but there was an incipient softness about him, evident in the slightly swollen jowls and the few extra pounds around his abdomen that his shirt failed to adequately conceal.
His arms were red with sunburns, his cheeks with alcohol. He had a beer before him, and I got the feeling it wasn't his first of the evening, nor his second. He had fair hair cut short, watery blue eyes, and a small mole above his right eyebrow. His eyebrows were naturally arched, giving him an arrogant look. The contemptuous curve of his lips added to the effect. I got the feeling he was looking down his nose at me, even from his seated position.
"I understand you used to be a policeman," he said after I had introduced myself.
"That's right."
"Tzanani didn't say where."
"In Budapest. In Hungary."
"Not here, then?"
"No," I said.
"Why not?" he asked, and there was an undercurrent to his words. Can't cut it here, he was thinking. I almost laughed in his face. He was such an inexperienced fool that he thought they had it bad in Tel Aviv. He didn't know how bad or widespread criminal activity could become.
I shrugged for an answer and ordered a beer for myself. This was going to be unpleasant, and my conversation with Mrs. Greenberg was enough unpleasantness for any one day. But it was necessary. Benny Regev was the reporting officer. As long as I was pursuing this case as I would any criminal investigation, talking to him was unavoidable.
"I want to talk to you about the police report you wrote regarding Yosef Kaplon's suicide," I said.
"The little Yemenite gave it to you, huh? You're not supposed to see any of our reports, you know. Tzanani could get in a lot of trouble."
I ignored the veiled threat. It was probably a tactic to get a bit more money for whatever information he had to share. "I want to get your impression on a few things, maybe fill in some gaps in what I know."
"What's it to you?"
"I knew the man," I said. "Was surprised that he killed himself. Just want to know why he did it."
"Good," he said, chuckling like an idiot. "You know, when I came here, I was half expecting you to give me some wild theory about why this was, in fact, a murder and not a suicide at all. I'm glad to see you're not crazy."
Yes, I thought, and we're all crazy, aren't we?
I banished the unhelpful thought and said, "I'm glad to know you're absolutely certain it was suicide."
"Of course it was. I found the guy with the bloody razor right there in his apartment. Well, the old hag found him, the one who owns the building. One of those old rich ladies who pinch their pennies so hard they scream for mercy—" he smiled in appreciation of his own cleverness "—but I was the first officer there."