I closed my eyes, drew the thin blanket to my chin, and made myself ready for the assault of my dreams.
15
When I woke up, I was groggy and had a bad taste in my mouth. My tongue felt swollen. I must have been grinding my teeth since my jaw ached. My body throbbed all over and my muscles felt tight. I could not recall my dreams, but they had not allowed my body any relaxation during the night.
I threw open the window. Below a car horn honked and a woman shouted at her husband that he'd forgotten the keys to his office. A kid was running on the opposite sidewalk, his schoolbag bouncing on his back. The murmur of a radio anchor wafted to my window from a neighboring apartment. Exhaust fumes were coming up from an idling car below, probably the same one whose horn had blared. A moment later I heard a car door slam and its engine rev as it drove away.
I stood at the window, breathing in the morning air, fumes and all, while my head slowly cleared itself of the shadowy remnants of my dreams. Some people forgot their dreams entirely within minutes of waking up. My dreams tended to linger in my mind, especially the bad ones.
Once my mind was clear, I put on some coffee and toasted a few pieces of bread in a pan. I smeared cheese on the toast. The cheese was also rationed. The guy I used to buy extra from had recently announced that he was getting out of the black market business, so I had but a small supply left and I spread it thin on the bread. It was an okay breakfast. I had had much worse and, on many occasions, had none at all.
After breakfast I sat at my table and read a bit from my book. The hero of the story was a gunfighter who had joined up with a poor farmer whose land was coveted by a big-time rancher of dubious morals and deficient conscience. The story was nothing special—some gunfights, a lot of horseback riding, long and detailed descriptions of scenery, but it was still an enjoyable read. I read for a little over an hour, then marked my place, slipped the book in my pocket, and headed out.
I went to Levinson Drugstore and asked if I had any messages. There was one from Reuben, asking me to call him back. I did, but he wasn't at his desk. I left a message saying I'd try him later. I headed to Greta's and passed the time till noon playing chess and alternately reading the newspaper and the Western I'd started earlier.
Somewhere around two o'clock, just as the hero of the story had entered a saloon full of wicked men who worked for his adversary, a policeman entered Greta's Café. His eyes went about the room and settled on me. He didn't ask if he could join me or wait for me to invite him to sit, but dropped into a chair and gazed at me across the table.
He was of average height, narrow waisted and broad shouldered, and handsome in a rigid, masculine sort of way. Mid-thirties, with deep gray eyes and a fair complexion. An air of neatness and order about him. Reddish-brown hair, parted neatly along one side. Sideburns as precise and straight as if he had trimmed them that morning with a ruler. He had a wide, square-jawed face dominated by a prominent Roman nose. Between said nose and his thin-lipped mouth, a thick mustache stretched. The mustache was of a darker hue than his hair and looked as meticulously maintained as his hair and sideburns.
I had watched him as he approached. He walked with his shoulders back and his chest pushed out. It was the walk of a soldier, not one marching to battle, but one on parade. His shoes were polished to a bright, glaring shine. His pants were pressed and the crease along their middle was sharp and straight. His shirt was new and had also been ironed, and he had rolled his sleeves evenly along both arms. A number of pins and badges decorated his uniform, and on his shoulders he bore the insignia of an inspector.
"Adam Lapid," he said, "I was told I might find you here. I'm Inspector Rosen, Tel Aviv Police. We need to have a word."
I had guessed who he was—there weren't that many police inspectors around who would have an interest in speaking with me—and I wondered how he'd learned I'd been sniffing around the Maryam Jamalka case. Was it the fat hotel manager, or had someone learned of my Holon meeting with Yossi Talmon? For now, it was best to feign ignorance of who Rosen was. I kept my face blank and took a slow sip of my coffee. Then I said, "What about?"
"I understand you've been asking questions about a certain young woman who was found dead a month ago in Tel Aviv," he said.
I nodded. "Maryam Jamalka."
His eyebrows twitched. He had expected me to deny conducting an investigation, not come right out and admit it.
"What's your interest in her?" he asked.
"I was hired to look into her murder."
"Hired by whom?"
"I'd rather not say."
He narrowed his eyes. "I'd rather you did. I might insist on it."
"Is that an official insistence?" I asked.
His eyes flashed in annoyance. "Whoever hired you to look into things is not important. I want you to stop investigating this case."
"Why?"
"I don't need to give you a reason. This is an open case, a police matter. Interfering with police work may lead to prosecution."
"I doubt I could interfere with anything. It's been over a month since the body was discovered, and, as I understand it, you guys don't even have a suspect in mind."
"Who told you that?" he demanded.
"Word gets around."
"Was it Yossi Talmon? Did he tell you that? He's in serious trouble if he did."
"Talmon?" I shook my head and snorted. "The man wouldn't even speak to me."
"Or maybe it was Reuben Tzanani. I understand you guys are close."
I could deny it, but I thought that would be a mistake. Rosen knew of my relationship with Reuben. He would never believe I hadn't asked Reuben for help with the case.
"I asked Reuben if he could connect me to the detective in charge of the investigation," I said. "He talked to Talmon, who refused to talk to me."
Rosen eyed me, trying to catch me at a lie. Policemen became quite adept at recognizing the telltale signs of liars. But I also knew those signs and kept my face clear of them.
"I don't need anyone in the investigation to tell me it's going nowhere," I said. "It's been a month. Most murders get solved within a few days or not at all. There have been no arrests so far, so I can assume that you guys have no suspects."
He didn't bother denying it. He was smarter than that. He took a breath, steadied himself, and tried another approach.
"Adam," he said, "may I call you Adam?"
I shrugged.
He said, "I've been told you were a policeman, Adam. In Europe somewhere."
I shrugged again.
"So you know that police work is not done in a vacuum. There are many factors to consider besides the crime itself."
"I don't follow you," I said.
"The police don't just solve crimes, they serve the public and its interests at large."
"Still not following you."
He crossed his arms. My eyes scrutinized his forearms. No number. "This case is a delicate one," he said. "The victim is the daughter of an important man, an Arab who has become a friend to Israel. I know you fought in the war. Got wounded even. Some say you were a hero."
There was a mocking edge to the way he pronounced the word hero, as if he was doubting I really could have been one or that, in his opinion, the respect given to heroes was exaggerated.
"I did my duty," I said.
His hands uncrossed and he pointed at me like a cartoon in a recruiting poster. "Well, now it's time for you to do your duty again."