"That's good," said Daniel, producing snapshots of his own. "Having your own mind."
"Yeah, I suppose so, long as the mind's in the right place." Gene looked at the pictures of the Sharavi children. "Very cute-husky little guys. Aha, now she's a beauty-looks like you, except for the hair."
"My wife is blond."
Gene gave the pictures back. "Very nice. You got a nice family." The smile continued to linger, then faded. "Raising kids is no picnic, Daniel. The whole time my girls were growing up I was watching for danger signs, probably drove them a little crazy. Too many temptations, they see stuff on TV and want it without having to wait for it. Instant highs, which is why they get onto dope-you've got that, too, don't you, being close to the poppy fields?"
"Not like in America, but more than we ever had before. It's a problem."
"There are two ways to solve it," said Gene. "One, make all of it legal so there's no incentive to deal, and forget all about morality. Or two, execute all the dealers and the users." He made a gun with his fingers. "Bang, you're dead, every one of them. Anything short of that doesn't stand a chance."
Daniel smiled noncommittally, not knowing what to say.
"Think I'm joking?" asked Gene, calling for the check. "I'm not. Twenty-four years on the force and I've seen too many kacked-out junkies and dope-related crimes to think there's any other way."
"We don't have capital punishment in Israel."
"You hung that German-Eichmann."
"We make an exception for Nazis."
"Then start thinking of dope scum as Nazis-they'll kill you the same way." Gene lowered his voice. "Don't let what's happened here happen over there-my wife would be very disillusioned. She's a serious Baptist, teaches in a Baptist school, been talking about seeing the Holy Land for years. Like it's some kind of Garden of Eden. Be terrible for her to learn any different."
Luanne was back on the subject of churches. The Holy Sepulchre, in particular. Daniel knew the history of the place, the infighting for control that went on constantly between the different Christian groups-the Greeks battling the Armenians, who battled the Roman Catholics, who battled the Syrians. The Copts and the Ethiopians banished to tiny chapels on the roof.
And the orgies that had taken place during the Ottoman era-Christian pilgrims fornicating in the main chapel because they believed a child conceived near Christ's burial place would be destined for greatness.
It didn't shock him. All it proved was that Christians were humans, too, but he knew Luanne would be appalled.
She was an impressive woman, so wholehearted in her faith. One of those people who seem to know where they're going, make those around them feel secure. He and Laura listened attentively as she talked about the feelings that came from standing in the presence of the Holy Spirit. How much she'd grown after three days in the Holy Land. He didn't share her beliefs, but he related to her fervor.
He promised himself to give her a special tour, Jewish and Christian places, as many as time would allow. An insider's visit to Bethlehem, to the Greek Patriarchate and the Ethiopian chapel. A look at the Saint Saviour's library-he'd call Father Bernardo in the morning.
The waitress-this one was Galia, he was almost certain-served Turkish coffee, melon, and a plate of pastries: Bavarian creams, napoleons, rum-soaked Savannas. They all sipped coffee and Gene went to work on a napoleon.
Afterward, logy from food and wine, they walked down Keren Hayesod, hand in hand like double-daters, enjoying the freshness of the night, the silence of the boulevard.
"Umm," said Luanne, "smells like out in the country."
"Jerusalem pines," said Laura. "They set their roots in three feet of soil. Beneath that, everything is solid rock."
"A strong foundation," said Luanne. "Has to be."
The next day was Friday and Daniel stayed home. He allowed the children to skip school and spent the morning with them, in Liberty Bell Park, Kicking a soccer ball around with the boys, watching Shoshi skate around the roller rink, buying them blue ices and eating a chocolate cassata himself.
Just after noon an Arab on a camel came riding through the parking lot adjacent to the park. Pulling the animal to a halt just outside the south gate of the park, he dismounted and rang a brass bell hanging around its neck. Children queued up for rides and Daniel allowed the boys to have turns each.
"How about you?" he asked Shoshi as she untied her skates.
She stood, put her hands on her lips, and let him know the question was ridiculous.
"I'm no baby, Abba! And besides, it smells."
"Rather drive a car, eh?"
"Rather ride while my husband drives."
"Husband? Do you have someone in mind?"
"Not yet," she said, leaning against him and putting her arm around him. "But I'll know him when I meet him."
After the rides were over, the Arab helped Benny off the camel and handed him to Daniel, kicking and giggling. Daniel said, "Sack of potatoes," and slung the little boy over his shoulder.
"Me too! Me too!" demanded Mikey, pulling at Daniel's trousers until he relented and hoisted him up on the other shoulder. Carrying both of them, his back aching, he began the walk home, past the Train Theater, through the field that separated the park from their apartment building.
A man was walking toward them, and when he got close enough Daniel saw that it was Nahum Shmeltzer. He shouted a greeting and Shmeltzer gave a small wave. As he approached, Daniel saw the look on his face. He put the boys down, told the three of them to run up ahead.
"Time us, Abba!"
"Okay." He looked at his watch. "On your mark, get set, go."
When the children were gone he said, "What is it, Nahum?"
Shmeltzer righted his eyeglasses. "We've got another body, in the forest near Ein Qerem. A repeat of the Rashmawi girl, so close it could be a photocopy."
BOOK TWO
As a small child, the Grinning Man had been a poor sleeper. Fidgety during the day and afraid of the dark, he went as rigid as hardwood during slumber, easily startled by the faintest night sound. The type of youngster who could have benefited from warm milk and bedtime stories, consistency and calm. Instead, he was yanked awake regularly by a raging of voices: the bad-machine sound of his parents tearing each other apart.
It was always the same, always terrible. He'd find himself sitting upright in bed, cold and wet from pee, toes curled so tightly that his feet hurt, waiting with a burnt-rubber taste in his mouth until the ugliness came into focus.
Once in a while, in the beginning, they did it upstairs- either of their bedrooms could serve as a killing ground-and when this happened, he'd climb out of bed and tiptoe from the Child's Wing across the landing, make a stumble-sneak to the Steinway grand, then slide under the giant instrument and settle there. Sucking his thumb, letting his fingertips brush against the cold metal of the foot pedals, the undercarriage of the piano looming above like some dark, voluptuous canopy.