I let out a shaky breath. I had thought he might be Sima's next client, and I had wanted to…what? Not to confront him, surely? What was there to confront him about?
I didn't know what I had planned on doing, and I didn't want to find out. I walked quickly in the opposite direction with my head down and caught the first bus that came along.
I got off on the northern tip of King George Street and dropped onto a bench at Masaryk Square. I smoked another cigarette, letting the smoke pass into me and the time pass on by me. I thought about my dead wife, Deborah, seeing her face vividly in my mind. I saw her laughing and thought I could hear a faint echo of her laughter. Then I heard her weeping, and that sound was as clear as the report of a gun. I felt guilty, as if I had betrayed her.
When my cigarette was done, I began walking south, taking a left to Zamenhof Street, and continued onward to Dizengoff Square. The square was the center of the heart of Tel Aviv and teemed with people. There were those who passed through on their way home from work, and others who stopped by for a coffee or a chat with friends. I wended my way through the crowds and got off the square to Pinsker Street. I took a right to Trumpeldor Street, passing the cemetery to my right. Through the open gate, I caught a glimpse of the mismatched headstones of the early residents of Tel Aviv, some ornate and imposing, others simple and of modest girth and height. I pondered the death of Maryam Jamalka. How had she been memorialized? What did her burial place look like? Did anyone visit it apart from her brother, Ahmed, or was it considered best avoided and forgotten, a taboo like what she had become?
I entered Hovevei Tsiyon Street and stopped before the three-story structure where Maryam Jamalka had lived. The building was square and narrow, with clean straight lines and medium-sized balconies. The front yard sported a number of carefully maintained shrubs and short trees, and the flagstone walkway to the front door had been recently swept clean. Maryam's apartment was on the third floor and faced the street. I looked at her window from below, and there was no sign of movement within. The entrance hall was clean and cool. I checked the mailboxes and couldn't find Miryam Cohen, the name Maryam Jamalka went by. The mailbox for her apartment was labeled Roy and Yafa Altbauer.
I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door marked Altbauer. The sound reverberated in the stairwell and small landing before being swallowed by the emptiness of her apartment. I put my nose to the door but could detect no bad odor, or any other scent, wafting from within.
A door opened to my left, and a young pear-shaped woman with auburn hair stood in the doorway.
"Oh," she said, "I thought you were Miryam."
She was wearing a loose white shirt with its hem tucked into the waistline of a plaid skirt. The skirt went to her knees, and below them her legs were encased in brown stockings. She had an open face with a prominent nose and kind brown eyes. An engagement ring glinted on her left hand.
"Sorry to disappoint," I said, deciding to resume hiding the fact that Maryam was dead. "Were you expecting her?"
"Well, no. In fact, I have no reason to expect her to come back. Mr. Gordon said she'd left, and someone else is living in her apartment now. But she didn't say goodbye, and anytime I hear strange footsteps on the landing, I start hoping—"
"Who is Mr. Gordon?" I asked.
"The landlord."
"Does he live here?"
"Downstairs. Ground floor."
"When did Miryam leave?"
"Has something happened to her? Who are you?"
I realized that I was coming on too strong, asking questions like a policeman interviewing a suspect. If I was going to get answers, I would need to employ a softer approach.
I introduced myself, and she told me her name was Sarit Gruber.
I said, "I'm looking for Miryam. I know that she lived here. When was the last time you saw her?"
"Two and a half months ago. Maybe a bit longer."
"Were you friends?"
She appeared to give this some thought. "I liked her, but I can't say for sure how she felt about me. We were friendly. I invited her to join us a few times when I had friends over, but she only came once and never again."
"Did she say why?"
"No. But when I look back I think it had to do with a friend of my fiancé—he wasn't my fiancé at the time, just my suitor—who took an interest in her. He asked me to talk with her, see if she was available, and she said she wasn't. But I never saw a suitor come calling for her."
I could imagine what happened. Maryam Jamalka, new to living a lie, was approached by a nice Jewish man looking for romance. What could she do? Build another floor or two on the building of lies that was her life? Engage him as a lover? Try to recruit him as a client? Either was risky and likely went against the lessons imparted by Sima Vaaknin. This apartment and her work were to remain separated.
"Do you live here alone?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I live with another girl. I can't afford this place by myself."
"Was your roommate also on friendly terms with Miryam?"
"Daniella never met her. She just moved in here a month ago. My previous roommate got married and moved all the way to Eilat. But she didn't like Miryam very much. I remember her saying that there was something strange about Miryam, but she couldn't pinpoint it."
"Was there something strange about her?" I asked.
She thought for a moment before answering. "She was obviously new to Tel Aviv, and she often stayed out very late at night. My roommate said she was loose. With men, I mean. But I don't know that it's true."
"And what was Miryam's mood like when she lived here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Was she happy?"
"I think so. She always smiled at me when we ran into each other. But I couldn't say for certain. She mostly kept to herself. Was quiet. I never even heard music coming from her place." She grinned. "Me, I had to be told twice by Mr. Gordon to keep the volume down. One of the neighbors below is a bit older, and the noise gets him riled up."
"And the other neighbor?" I asked.
She laughed. "She's also old, but the music doesn't bother her because she's going deaf." She grew serious. "I shouldn't have said that. It wasn't nice. As for Miryam, come to think of it, I know very little about her. She told me she worked as a secretary in some business in the south of the city, but I can't recall the name of the business or what they do. I don't know whether she has any brothers and sisters. I don't know where she came from. I must have asked, but she never told me. It's funny. You live next door to a person for months and you hardly know them."
Like the third floor, the second floor housed two apartments, and I knocked on the doors of both. In one lived a couple in their fifties, the Shalits. When I asked about their neighbor, remembering to call her Miryam Cohen, both knew who I was referring to, but neither could offer any detail that illuminated her life, and certainly not her death.