"Of course," Sima Vaaknin said, "one only has to look into those green eyes of yours, always squinted like you're in pain, to know that. They're really quite beautiful. Has anyone told you that? Probably not, it's the sort of compliment men give to women, not the other way around. A lot of women would kill to have eyes like yours. But the way you keep them narrowed like that—it's no way to show them off."
To punctuate her statement, she fluttered her long eyelashes at me. Her eyes were large and deep and widely spaced. Her nose was pert and upturned, her nostrils naturally flaring. Her mouth was wide and her lips looked soft and inviting. Her face was the sort you wanted to cup in your hands. She might have been joking about my eyes, but Sima Vaaknin knew all about having facial features women would kill for.
She rose from the sofa in one graceful, feline movement. "Coffee?" she asked, already making her way to the kitchen. "I have a special kind from Brazil. Out of this world."
She came back with two steaming mugs, handed me one, and said, "Ooh, nearly forgot." She bounced to the kitchen again and returned with a red heart-shaped box. "Chocolates," she said. "From New York. In America." She had on a big smile and that faraway look a lot of people had when talking about America, as if it were a place of magic, of wealth, of big cars and bright lights and glamorous movie stars, and all the food and clothes you could ever want.
I sipped the coffee, closed my eyes and let it make its smooth way down my throat. It was the best coffee I'd had since before the war. Certainly better than anything you could get in Israel. It far surpassed even Greta's coffee, which I considered to be the best in Tel Aviv.
"Where did you get it?" I asked, my voice husky with the warmth of the brew.
She grinned, white teeth dazzling. "I told you it was good. Try the chocolate."
She flung open the box, tossed the lid to the floor, and handed the box over. Inside, in tiny compartments, were dainty pieces of chocolate, each the size of the face of a wristwatch. The chocolate came in a variety of shapes: heart, star, diamond, square.
I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering above the array of chocolates.
"Go on," Sima prodded. "Try one."
She took a heart-shaped piece, put it between her lips and sat motionless, letting the chocolate melt on her tongue. Her eyes took on a hazy look. She was clearly enjoying the taste and was putting on quite a show of her pleasure for my benefit. I knew I was being manipulated, and a part of me was disgusted at myself for being there, and for getting aroused.
I chose a square and bit into it. It was filled with wine, and the alcohol and chocolate mixed in my mouth. The blend tasted strange, but it was certainly a new experience.
"Where did you get these?" I asked.
She beamed, proud of herself. "I have friends and they like to give me gifts."
These would have to be rich and influential friends, I thought. Though clients was a better word to describe them. They were Sima's clients. And her services were so appreciated that they didn't just give her money but also added gifts. What was their reasoning? Why did they give her these gifts that, in Israel's poor, rationed economy, were true luxuries? Why didn't they save these delicacies for their wives and children and friends?
"I have one other thing to show you," she said, and disappeared into the short hall that led to her bedroom. In a moment she returned holding a small black item in her hands.
It was a revolver. Snub-nosed and sleek looking. It fit perfectly in her hands. She handed it to me and I inspected it. Six shots, no nicks, scratches, or dents. The cylinder whirled smoothly. It appeared to be in good condition. And it was loaded.
"Another gift?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I paid for it. I figured it was important. You told me so."
I nodded. I had met Sima while working on another case, during which she had come close to being assaulted, perhaps even killed. It was the only time I ever saw a crack in the seductress's facade she had perfected. There had been naked fear in her eyes then and her body had seemed to shrink into itself. After the case was all over, I advised her to get a gun, that having one would make her feel safer.
"Have you practiced with it?"
"Took it out to the dunes north of the city. Shot at some bottles. Couldn't hit anything farther than five meters, but closer I did pretty well."
"It's the short barrel," I said. "It makes it less accurate. Still, it should do the job."
She took another sip of her coffee and popped another chocolate into her mouth.
"Finish your coffee," she said. "And let's go to bed."
The guilt hit me as I followed her to the bedroom. My eyes latched on her backside, the way it moved underneath her skirt. My mouth felt dry and I had to clear my throat. She looked over her shoulder and grinned, enjoying my discomfort.
Her bedroom was dominated by her bed, which was larger than what you found in most Tel Aviv apartments. The two pillows were massive. There were red curtains on the windows and unlit candles in elegant saucers on the nightstand and dresser. A bare bulb glared its light from the ceiling. Sima left it on.
"I want to see the scars," she said. "It's been too long."
Her tone was both hurtful and triumphant. In the year since I'd first met her, I had only been to see her four times. She was hurt that I visited her so infrequently. It was unthinkable that I could put up such a resistance to her charms. But I was there now, in her domain, and she was basking in her victory.
She came into my arms, her skin and hair smelling of soap, her breath of chocolate and coffee. She was soft and taut in all the right places. My wife's face flashed through my mind. So different was she from Sima that it was strange to have one ignite a memory of the other. Deborah's beauty had been different, more subtle, and her sexuality was never put on display—she reserved it for the privacy of our bedroom.
It had been six years since my wife was murdered in Auschwitz, carted to the gas chambers with our two daughters in her arms. Still, I felt that I owed her my loyalty. For five years, I had not been with a woman. Then I met Sima and could not resist her. I wanted to have her, but to keep a part of myself away as a way of mitigating my betrayal of my dead wife. When I was with Sima, I tried to take the right amount of pleasure from her body—the right amount, and no more. But it never worked.
Our first time together, she sensed that I was withholding something from her, and she would have none of it. It was a point of professional pride with her, that she decided how much pleasure to give, not I how much to receive. She had made a study of men. In bed, she knew how to make them bared and exposed, eager for her soft skin, her deft hands, her insidious lips. Every alluring inch of her. That was what made her addictive, what brought her clients back to her again and again. This was why I could not stay away for long.
The top of her head was level with my mouth. She rose on tiptoes, tilted her head back, lips parted and moist, and I lowered my head, pulled toward her. We kissed. She let out a throaty moan of pleasure. I wondered whether it was a genuine reaction to our kiss or a trick she had devised to satisfy the vanity of her clients, a professional weapon she now targeted me with. She stepped back and undid the buttons of her shirt. Then she undid mine, sliding it over my shoulders. She ran eager fingers over the bullet-wound scars on my torso, then circled around me. I heard her gasp and felt her gingerly touch the crisscrossed whip scars on my back. They'd been put there by a sadistic guard at Auschwitz.
"These are beautiful," she whispered. "You are beautiful."
She drew me down on the bed and for a long while I was lost in her.