And it was working. I could feel a tingle across my body, not just by looking at her, but also by being looked at by her. I realized I had shifted in my seat under her stare and drew my body straighter. I took a big breath, made myself sit still, and managed to tear my eyes away from her. I let my gaze wander about the room.
It was clean and the walls looked freshly painted. A gramophone sat on a chest of drawers along one wall, and records were stacked by its side. White, lacy curtains were drawn across the doors to the balcony, lightly shifting in the breeze. A large thick rug lay under the long, rectangular coffee table that squatted between the chair where I sat and the sofa on which Sima Vaaknin reclined. There were pictures on the wall, all bright colors and happy themes. Open seas, peasants consuming a feast, birds soaring across an azure sky. My eyes latched on one picture in particular. Three white-dressed children cavorting in a sun-soaked field of bright orange and yellow flowers, a bright-blue stream coursing to the right. And in the distance, a mother watching over them all, her posture that of parental satisfaction.
"You can tell me, if you like," she said, drawing my attention back to her.
"Tell you what?"
"What's troubling you."
She was peering at me, her face unreadable. Or perhaps I detected a trace of curiosity there. But no more than that. Certainly not the concern her invitation suggested she felt.
I wondered how old she really was. Her face had the freshness of a teenager, her body the litheness of adolescence, her smile the guilelessness of youth. But she was obviously no teenager. She had insight born of years and experience.
I considered telling her that she was wrong, that nothing was troubling me, but I didn't bother with the lie. She would see right through it. I imagined that she had seen men lie a good number of times before in her life. Too many times to be fooled.
"But that's not why I came here," I said. "I wish to speak with you about Miryam."
She smiled faintly. "Yes. Miryam."
"Akiva said you introduced her to him."
"Yes. Half a year ago or so. He is a nice man, Akiva. I wanted her to know him and to have a look around his place."
"So she could get clients there?"
"Yes. It's a good place for that." Her face shifted, turning more serious than it had been till now. "Akiva said you were looking for her."
"Yes."
"For Miryam. On behalf of her family."
"Yes."
"You lie."
"Why would you say that?"
"Because then you'd know her real name."
I said nothing for a moment. I had not expected Sima Vaaknin to know Maryam's true identity.
"Her real name is Maryam Jamalka," I said.
Sima nodded her head an inch or so in acknowledgment. "Why the lie?"
"That's the name she gave Akiva and Lydia. I figured it was the name she'd given you. Or was it the name you gave her instead?"
She smiled. "Maryam and Miryam. Almost the same, yet one is Arab, the other Hebrew. If she wanted to work in Tel Aviv, the Hebrew name would serve her much better. I told her she could pretend to be like me—a Moroccan Jew. It explained her accent. Okay, so you know who she really is. But you are still not being truthful. Akiva got the impression that Maryam's family had sent you to find her, to see if she's well. But Maryam's family would not do that. They may try to find her, but not to see how she was doing."
"She told you about her family?"
"She told me everything," Sima said simply, like a woman who was used to hearing secrets. And I could believe that she was. Whether across a pillow or in her living room, like sunshine on flower petals, she could open people up.
"She was frightened of her family?"
"Yes. And with good reason."
"Even her brother Ahmed?"
Sima tilted her head, pursing her lips in a way that made them look fuller, riper, ready to be kissed. "No. Not him. He wouldn't harm her, but he would also not help her. He's the obedient sort. He wants to look good in his father's eyes."
"When was the last time you saw Maryam?"
"Three months ago."
"Why so long ago?"
She waved her hand. "You still haven't told me why you're here. You'd better hurry, our time is short. I work later this evening."
An image of her nude and in lovemaking flashed across my mind. Across from me, her eyes narrowed in amusement. I mentally waved the image aside, shifting in my seat once more, and tried to focus on what I was there to uncover. I had come here planning to keep the fate of Maryam Jamalka a secret, as I had done with Akiva and Lydia. But Sima Vaaknin was reading every expression on my face. I doubted I could hide the truth from her for much longer. Especially if I wanted her to tell me what she knew.
"Maryam is dead," I said.
There was only a slight shift in her face, a twitch of her lips, a flicker in her eyes. Her breath deepened for two inhalations and exhalations. She looked composed, but the amusement was gone. I suddenly realized that at some point in her life, Sima Vaaknin had known a great deal of sorrow. Only people with an experience of deep grief and private coping could handle bad news with such equanimity.
"How did she die?" Sima asked.
"She was murdered."
"How?"
"A knife. Someone stabbed her. A month ago."
She said nothing.
"Did you try to find her during the past three months to see how she was doing?"
"No," she said simply, and did not elaborate or explain. "Why did you lie? Why pretend she is alive?"
"Not a lot of people know she is dead. It would make my job easier if this remains the case. I'm trying to find out who killed her."
"Why? What was she to you?"
"Her brother asked me to. Ahmed."
"Yes. Ahmed. It figures."
Her tone had gone flat, emotionless. She looked distant. Beautiful and desirable, but not fully present.
"How did you know Maryam? How did you two meet?"
"I found her," she said.
"Found her?"
"In the south of the city, close to the bus terminal. I was out shopping for clothes or just enjoying the sun, I don't remember which. It was shortly before noon, I remember that. A gorgeous, sunny day. I love the sun. I was walking and I saw her sitting on a bench, crying. So I stopped by to see what was the matter with her."
"And what did she say?"
"At first she said nothing. She wouldn't even tell me her name. Said she was fine. I could tell she was an Arab. I said something to her in Arabic, and that opened her up. She told me she was waiting for a man, her lover. She said she'd been in Tel Aviv for four days, and each day she came to the bus terminal to wait for her lover, who was supposed to come meet her there. At night she would sleep at some fleabag hotel in Jaffa. And in the morning she would pack up her things into a small backpack and take up her vigil by the bus terminal."
"And the lover didn't show."
"Which was why she was crying. She was alone and gradually coming to terms with the fact that he was not coming. So she cried."
"And what did you do?"
"I told her to get up and come with me. I brought her here."
"To this apartment?"
She nodded. "I have a spare room. I let her sleep here. It was nice. Like having a sister again."
I wondered what had happened to Sima Vaaknin's real sister, but I didn't ask.
"And then she became a call girl, like you."
Sima arched her left eyebrow a bit, as though affronted by the suggestion that any other woman could be like her.
"No," she said. "At least not straight away. Maryam was a romantic, a hopeless one. You see, despite her lover not showing up when he was supposed to, she was still hoping he would come. She told me about him, how handsome he was, how he said he loved her, that they planned to get married despite the objections of her family. I could tell he had been using her. Some women are blind to the lies men tell, but not me. I told her she was waiting in vain, but she wouldn't listen. She was in love. And women who are in love do not become prostitutes."