He said, "But it does cloud your mind when you need it clouded." He sighed. "This…this business with Yosef. It doesn't sit right with me. I knew the man. He played here once or twice a week for nearly a year. It doesn't sit right."
I sipped my coffee, waiting for him to continue.
"I imagine that this kind of thing always comes as a shock to people. And to be honest, I was not too close to Yosef. I liked him, and I enjoyed having him play here, and it gave me pleasure to see how well he was received. But I did not see him much outside of the café, and if you'd ask me how he spent his days, I would have no answer. So perhaps my shock at his suicide is misplaced. And yet, I feel that I should have known something, sensed that something was about to happen. Am I wrong in feeling this way, Adam?"
I said, "You feel what you feel. There is no wrong or right about it. I would say, Milosh, that people are good at hiding their troubles. If you feel any blame for what happened, don't. It isn't your fault."
He sipped some more brandy and wiped his mustache dry. "It isn't that. Or not exactly that. I know that I had no responsibility to prevent him from taking his own life. It's just that I feel the need to know. I don't think I'll know peace until I do."
"Know what?"
"What drove him to it, what his life was like. Anything that can explain this." He gave me a level stare. "Can you do it, Adam? Can you find out?"
"I can try," I said.
3
The three-story structure at 6 Yehuda Halevi Street was one of the most impressive buildings in Tel Aviv. With its columned balconies, sculpted facade, adorned windows, murals, and heavy steel gate, it should have been the residence of a duke or a count; instead, it served as a police station. The rooms within could have been stately, with their high ceilings and tall windows; but all elegance was stripped when they were partitioned into small offices and furnished with cheap metal desks, gray filing cabinets, and rickety wooden chairs. The halls were busy with policemen and clerks going about their business, and the acrid smells of bad coffee and cheap cigarettes permeated every corner of the building.
I found Reuben Tzanani in his second-floor office. It was a small office equipped with three chest-high filing cabinets, two chairs, one on each side of a small desk, and a coatrack, which stood naked this hot August afternoon. A photograph of President Chaim Weizmann hung on one wall, a small flag of Israel on another. An open window let in an abundance of light and a modicum of breeze. As always, Reuben's uniform was crisp and pressed. I wasn't sure how he did it, but when we fought in the war together, he'd always looked clean and neat, even when the rest of us looked like we'd been through a sandstorm. At the moment, he was cupping a pita bread in his palm, swiping it across a bowl of tehina with a circular motion of his wrist, gathering as much as he could in the crook of the folded bread. He tucked it into his mouth without spilling a drop.
His desk was cluttered with papers, and a few pencils in varying degrees of consumption were strewn atop them. On one stack of paper, a cup of mud-black coffee was steaming, issuing a bitter, acidic scent. Reuben loved his coffee. He used to make it every morning and noon without fail during the war. I had tasted it then. And wished I hadn't.
"Hello, Ant," I said.
Reuben lifted his eyes from the food and grinned at me. His smile was wide enough to display all of his white, even teeth. Fine lines appeared at the corners of his playful black eyes. He got the nickname Ant during the war. It was partly due to his stature—he was five foot four in army boots, and only if he stood erect—and partly due to his uncanny ability to carry more than his bodyweight on his back for long distances. I had personally benefited from this particular gift, as Reuben had carried me away from the battlefield the day I got shot twice. I had always thought that he should have been the one to have his picture in the paper and not me.
"Adam," he said, putting down the remnants of his pita, leaning back in his chair.
He had unblemished dark skin, rounded cheeks that bunched up under his eyes when he smiled, and short coal-colored curls. I wondered whether Milosh would have taken Reuben to be a policeman had he come into his café, as he had me. Probably not. Reuben was short, slight, and gave off an air of pure innocence. But his lean limbs were powerful, his mind sharp, his loyalty and courage unsurpassed. I had seen proof of this in battle, and more than once.
Reuben gestured toward a wooden chair with a square back. I took it. He sipped his coffee.
"Like a cup?"
"No," I said. "And wipe that smile off your face, will you?"
"Sorry, sorry. I just couldn't help remembering the time I got you to try this. Your face—for a moment I thought you might go into convulsions."
"I was expecting coffee, not that swill you're drinking."
"Ah. But this here is real coffee. You should try it again. It might grow on you."
"No, thanks. That coffee should be a military secret. If the Egyptians had bombarded us with it instead of artillery, we would have lost the war."
He laughed. "We sturdy Yemenites would have drank the stuff as it rained from the sky and it would have only made us fiercer." He sipped some more. "Okay, so you're not here to expand your culinary horizons. What are you here for?"
"I'm working on something and I need some information."
"I see. You know, the easiest way for you to get access to all the juicy information the department collects would be to join up. We could use a man like you."
This was said good-naturedly, since we'd had this discussion before. I shook my head. "Maybe someday."
Reuben nodded once and said, "So what is this case you're working on?"
I gave him Yosef Kaplon's name and the date of his death.
"You're going to get me in trouble one of these days. I'm not supposed to give access to homicide cases to civilians."
"It was a suicide. I doubt that there's much of a case there, and it would be closed by now."
Reuben drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. "The file doesn't leave this office, Adam."
He went out. The sounds of our conversation were replaced by the sounds of Yehuda Halevi Street, which passed two stories below his open window. A car horn blared. Some peddler was hawking watermelons. A horse—probably belonging to the watermelon vendor—squealed.
Fifteen minutes later Reuben returned, carrying a slim file. He perused the contents for a moment and gave me a contemplative look.
"Why are you looking into this case? There's no mystery here. The guy left a note, killed himself. Open, shut."
"A man who knew him wants me to find out what led him to kill himself."
"That is indeed outside the scope of police work. We only care about the motive when a crime has been committed. Is the client family? The file says that no next of kin has been found yet. We don't know who to give his belongings to."
"Not family. The client used to work with the deceased. They were on friendly terms. That's all."
He looked at me. "This doesn't sound like your sort of case. I hope he's paying well."
I smiled. "He's paying less than my going rate. Let's just say I have an interest in the case myself. I knew the guy way back in Europe."
Reuben closed the file and set it on his desk. "I see. Well, if you ever do find out, let me know."
He drained his coffee. Smoothing absent wrinkles from his ironed uniform, he said, "I'm going to get some watermelon. I'll take my time eating. Read quickly."
At the door he stopped. "Get you any?"
I told him no and he left, closing the door behind him.