I paused and glanced at her. Her expression was hard to read, but it was clear that she did not understand the whole story. She did not understand what the camp was like. This was why I didn't like to talk about Auschwitz with those who hadn't been there. It was like talking to a creature from another planet. There was no basis for understanding.
But there was also no pity in her eyes, no sadness, only blank curiosity. There was a wall within Sima Vaaknin, I realized, a place behind which part of her emotions were safely stored away where they couldn't hurt. And those emotions were not brought out for anyone. Not for her, and not for me.
"And it hurt a lot?" she asked.
"Yes. It hurt a whole lot. Not just when the whip sliced into my skin, but for a long time after. It hurt worse than the bullet wounds."
She rose without a word and went to the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and water running into the sink. She returned and sat by me on the bed. She looked me straight in the eye and laid a hand on my thigh. There was a question in her eyes. Do you still want me? she seemed to ask. Now that I have told you all the disgusting details of my past. Do you still want me?
She shouldn't have worried. I still did.
Our third time was slower, less frantic than the first and second. And equally wordless. But before it was because there was no breath for words. Now the silence was due to us having no more words left. At least for a while.
I did not put up as much resistance to her as I had before. It would have been pointless. In Sima Vaaknin's bed I was powerless, and I felt pleasure and guilt mix freely in my body and mind as we tangled and twined deeper into each other.
I dozed for a while, and when I woke, she was asleep, curled into herself. I got out of bed and began pulling on my clothes. I must have made a noise, because I heard her voice.
"Leaving?"
She was lying on her back, half covered by the sheets, her skin an appealing contrast to the white of the linen. In the bedroom window, the faint light of the dawning sun was warming the red curtains, casting crimson light about the room.
"Yes. I have work to do today, and I want to get some sleep."
She didn't ask why I couldn't sleep some more in her bed. Perhaps the thought did not cross her mind. I doubted that her clients saw the morning still in her bed, and I wondered what it said about me that I had.
I rummaged in my pocket for money, pulled out what I had, and realized I had not asked her for her price. I looked at her questioningly.
"Whatever you got there," she said, "it doesn't look like enough."
I wasn't sure what to say to that. Finding myself in the position to pay for her favors was awkward enough without feeling like a pauper.
"Leave half of what you're holding, Adam. Consider the rest of my fee paid for by the two broken ribs you gave Maryam's pimp."
I laid the money on her dresser and started buttoning my shirt.
"You will come back again," she said.
I paused, then my fingers started working again. I shook my head. "No. I don't plan to."
"Because you're in love?" she asked, and she didn't ask with whom.
How could I explain to her what it was like, the mixture of love for a dead woman and the guilt that came with feeling you betrayed her? Sima had never felt a love beyond that of a child to his parents and siblings. She had not loved as an adult. And she had not had herself for a lover—desirable beyond resistance, uncompromising between the sheets, all encompassing. Even now my body yearned for her.
And also my mind.
Those few hours with Sima Vaaknin had calmed my mind and erased the aftertaste of my chats with Inspector Rosen and Charlie Buzaglo. But they had left a sediment of guilt and self-loathing in their place. Guilt for Deborah, and self-loathing that I had been weak enough to succumb to Sima Vaaknin's charms so completely.
"Yes," I answered. "Because I'm in love."
A strange light went over her face, or perhaps a strange play of emotion. She appeared contemplative for a fraction of a second and then a grin bloomed on her lips.
"You will come back again," she said. "Your body will not allow you to stay away."
I finished buttoning my shirt, got my shoes on, and slipped on my jacket. I didn't answer her challenge. I simply said goodbye and left.
The streets were bathed in that tentative yellow light of dawn when the sun is making its initial steps toward domination of the sky. It was a time of light traffic, of most people still sleeping, but there were some who had already started their day. Mostly men hurrying to their shops or to catch an early bus for the factory.
When I got to my apartment, I shucked off my clothes and started the water running in the shower. Before stepping under the spray, I paused when I caught the scent of Sima Vaaknin on my skin. Then I got under the water and scrubbed my skin till it was gone.
I went to bed, and in my dreams I saw my wife as she had been, and also as I imagined her last moments must have been. I slept poorly and late and finally got out of bed after three o'clock with the taste of ashes in my mouth. I ate a late lunch and went down to the corner to call Reuben and ask him if he had anything for me regarding Maryam Jamalka's arrest. He told me he had nothing to report. I told him I'd call him again tomorrow and headed to Greta's Café.
I got my chessboard, set up the pieces, and started playing. As I saw it, I had two options: I could wait for Reuben to furnish me with whatever information he could uncover, or I could go find Charlie Buzaglo and have another talk with him, this time in a location that would inspire him with less confidence. Doing the first required me to wait till the next day; doing the latter would be possible later that night.
I stayed at Greta's throughout the afternoon and evening. I read a few of the newspapers left behind by various patrons, ate a little dinner, smoked my cigarettes and wished I had more of Ahmed Jamalka's tobacco. Whenever my mind drifted to Sima Vaaknin, I directed it toward something else. After closing time, I turned over the chairs on the tables and offered to sweep the floor. Greta handed me the broom and went finto the kitchen to make sure everything was in its place.
I worked the room from the back to the front, periodically emptying the pan of dust and dirt, and was more than halfway through when a knock came upon the café's door.
"Adam, can you see who it is?" Greta called from the kitchen.
I answered that I could and went to the door, still clutching the broom.
The man behind the glass was tall and wide, and the darkness of night and lack of illumination masked his face in shadow. I flicked back the bolt and opened the door.
And saw Rafi, Charlie Buzaglo's accomplice on the night they'd attacked me, standing on the threshold.
19
I had brought my knife with me to Greta's, but it was in my jacket pocket, and the jacket was draped over the back of the chair I'd occupied throughout the afternoon. That chair was on the far side of the café, well out of reach.
What I did have in my hand was the broom. I started swinging it, aiming to catch Rafi across the head before he could pull out a club or a knife or even a gun.
As I was swinging the broom, two thoughts flashed through my mind. The first was that I couldn't believe Charlie Buzaglo had the guts to send someone to Greta's to attack me—I was sure he wouldn't dare venture out of the streets of Jaffa, where he held the advantage. The second was that Rafi's expression did not seem menacing and that his hands were empty of weapons.