The Butcher's Theatre (44 page)

under each healthy breast and said, “The babies are waiting.”

Avi ignored her, took another look across the courtyard

at the ground-floor apartment. Malkovsky had gone in three

hours ago. It was doubtful he’d be out again. But something

kept drawing him back to the balcony, making him think

magically, the way he had as a child: An explosion would

occur the moment he withdrew his attention.

‘Av-ra-ham!”

Spoiled kid. Why was she rushing? He’d already satisfied her twice.

The door to the apartment remained closed. The

Malkovskys had finished their meal by eight, singing Shabbat

songs,in an off-key chorus. Fat Sender had come waddling

but once at eight-thirty, loosening his belt. For a moment Avi

thought he was going to see something, but the big pig had

simply eaten too much, needed air, a few extra centimeters around the waist. Now it was eleven—he was probably in bed, maybe mauling his wife, maybe worse. But in for the night.

Still, it was nice out on the balcony.

“Avi, if you don’t come here real soon, I’m going to sleep!”

He waited a few moments, just to make sure she knew she couldn’t push him around. Gave one last look at the apartment and walked inside.

“Okay, honey,” he said, standing at the side of the bed. He put his hands on his hips and showed off his body. “Ready.”

She pouted, folded her arms across her chest, the breast tops swelling with sweet promise. “Well, I don’t know if I am.”

Avi peeled off his briefs, showed himself to her, and touched her under the covers. “I think you are, my darling.”

“Oh, yes, Avi.”

Friday, at ten-thirty in the morning, Daniel called Beit Gvura. Though the settlement was near—midway between Jerusalem and Hebron—phone connections were poor. A chronic thing—Kagan had protested it on the Knesset floor, claimed it was all part of a government conspiracy. Daniel had to dial nine times before getting through.

One of Moshe Kagan’s minions answered, announcing “Gvura. Weakness is death” in American-accented Hebrew.

Daniel introduced himself and the man said, “What do you want?”

“I need to talk with Rabbi Kagan.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Out. I’m Bob Arnon—I’m his deputy. What do you; want?”

“To talk with Rabbi Kagan. Where is he, Adon Arnon?”

“In Hadera. Visiting the Mendelsohns—maybe you heard of them.”

The sarcasm was heavy. Shlomo Mendelsohn, cut down at nineteen. By all accounts a kind, sensitive boy who’d combined army service with three years of study at the Hebron yeshiva. One afternoon—a Friday, Daniel remembered; yeshiva boys got off early on Erev Shabbat—he’d been selecting tomatoes from an outdoor stall at the Hebron souq when an Arab emerged from the throng of shoppers, shouted a slogan, and stabbed him three times in the back. The boy had fallen into the bin of vegetables, washing them crimson as he bled to death, unaided by scores of Arab onlookers.

The army and the police had moved in quickly, dozens of suspects rounded up for questioning and released, the murderer still at large. A splinter group in Beirut claimed credit for the kill, but Headquarters suspected a gang of punks operating out of the Surif area. The best information was that they’d escaped across the border to Jordan.

Moshe Kagan had been campaigning for Knesset at the time; the case was custom-made for him. He jumped in, comforted the family and got close to them. Shlomo’s father made public statements calling Kagan Israel’s true redeemer. After the thirty days of mourning were up, Kagan led a parade of enraged supporters through the Arab section of Hebron, arm in arm with Mr. Mendelsohn. Displaying the dead boy’s angelic face on slogan-laden placards, trumpeting the need for an iron-fist policy when it came to “mad dogs and Arabs.” Windows were broken, knuckles bloodied; the army was called in to keep the peace. The papers ran pictures of Jewish soldiers busting Jewish protesters and when the election was over, Kagan had garnered enough votes to earn a single Knesset seat. His detractors said Shlomo had been his meal ticket.

“When do you expect him back?” asked Daniel.

“Don’t know.”

‘Before Shabbat?”

“What do you think? He’s shomer shabbat,” said Arnon with contempt.

“Connect me to his house. I’ll talk to his wife.”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“If I should let you bother her. She’s cooking, preparing.”

“Mr. Arnon, I’m going to speak with her one way or another, even if it means coming out there in person. And I’m shomer shabbat myself—the trip will disrupt my Shabbat preparation.”

Silence on the line. Arnon snorted, then said, “Hold on. I’ll connect you. If your government hasn’t screwed up the lines completely.”

Daniel waited several minutes, began to wonder if he’d been cut off, before Kagan’s wife came on. He’d seen her at rallies—a tall, handsome woman, taller than her husband, with wide black eyes and pale skin free of makeup—but had never spoken to her and was surprised at the quality of her voice, which was soft and girlish, untainted by hostility.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” she told him, “my husband’s out of town and I don’t expect him back until shortly before

Shabbat.”

“I’d like to speak with him as soon after Shabbat as

possible.”

“We’re having a melaveh malkah Saturday night, honoring a new bride and groom. Would Sunday morning be all right?”

“Sunday would be fine. Let’s say nine o’clock. I.n your

home.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I’ll write it down.”

“Thank you, Rebbetzin Kagan. Shabbat shalom.”

“Shabbat shalom.”

He hung up thinking What a gracious woman, filed his papers, and looked at his watch. Ten-thirty a.m. He’d been at the office since five forty-five, reading and reviewing, recycling useless data—succumbing to Laufer’s suggestion that he’d missed something. Waiting for the discovery ofj another body.

But there had been no call, just a troubling inertia.

Two full weeks—two Friday mornings—since Juliet, and I nothing. No rhythm, not even the certainty of bloodshed.

He was disappointed, he realized. Another murder might I have yielded clues, some bit of carelessness that would finally establish a firm lead to the killer.

Praying for murder, Sharavi?

Disgusted with himself, he checked out and left for the day, determined to forget the job until the end of Shabbat. To get his soul back in alignment, be able to pray with a clear head.

He visited his father at the shop, stayed longer than usual, eating pita and drinking orange juice, admiring several new pieces of jewelry. When he invited his father to come for Saturday lunch, he received the usual answer.

“I’d love to, son, but I’m already obligated.”

A shrug and a grimace—his father was still embarrassed after all this time. Daniel smiled inwardly, thinking of plump, cheerful Mrs. Moscowitz pursuing Yehesqel Sharavi, with soup and cholent and golden roast chicken. They’d been carrying on this way for over a year, his father complaining but making no attempt to escape. The man had been a widower for so long, perhaps he felt powerless in the presence of a strong woman. Or maybe, thought Daniel, he was

underestimating this relationship.-A stepchild at thirty-seven. Now that would be something. “After lunch, then, Abba. We have guests from America, interesting people. Laura and the children would love to see

you.’

“And I, them. What do you think of the pin I gave Shoshana?”

“I’m sorry, Abba. I haven’t seen it.” His father showed no surprise.

‘A butterfly,” he said. “Silver, with malachite eyes. I conceived it in a dream I had two nights ago—springtime in the Galilee, flocks of silver butterflies covering the sky, alighting on a stand of cypress. Such a powerful image, I began work yesterday at sunrise and finished by the afternoon, just before Laura came by with the children.” “They were here yesterday?”

“Yes, after school. Laura said they were shopping at Hamashbir and decided to drop in. It must have been destiny’ —the old man smiled—“because I’d just gone out to shop myself and had a brand-new chocolate bar in my pocket, Swiss, with raspberry jelly in the middle. Michael and Benja-min pounced on it like little lions. I offered some to Shoshana,

too, but she said candy was for babies, she was too old for

it. So I gave her the butterfly. The green of the malachite went perfectly with those wonderful eyes. Such a beautiful

little girl.”

“I got home after she was asleep,” said Daniel, thinking How cut off have I been? “I’m sure she’ll show it to me

tonight.”

His father sensed his shame, came over, stroked his cheek, and kissed it. The tickle of whisker evoked a flood of memories in Daniel, made him feel like a small boy—weak, but safe.

“I’ve been consumed with work,” he said.

His father’s hands rested on his shoulder, butterfly-light. Yehesqel Sharavi said nothing.

“I feel,” said Daniel, “as if I’m being drawn into something … unclean. Something beyond my control.”

“You’re the best there is, Daniel. No man could do more.”

“I don’t know, Abba. I really don’t know.”

They sat together in silence.

“All one can do is work and pray,” said his father, finally. “The rest is up to God.”

Spoken by anyone else, it would have sounded pat—a cliche employed to kill discussion. But Daniel understood his father, knew he really meant it. He envied the old man’s faith and, wondered if he’d ever reach that level, where reliance upon the Almighty could dissolve all doubt. Could he hope to attain the kind of religious serenity that obliterated nightmares, steadied a heart beating out of control?

Never, he decided. Serenity was out of reach. He’d seen too much.

He nodded in agreement, said “Amen, God be blessed,” playing the dutiful son, the unquestioning believer. His father must have known it was an act; he looked at Daniel quizzically and stood, began circulating among the jewelry, tidying, fussing with velvet, and adjusting displays. Daniel thought he looked sad.

“You’ve been helpful, Abba. As always.”

His father shook his head. “I bend wire, Daniel. I don’t know about much anything else.”

“That’s not true, Abba—”

“Son,” said his father, firmly. He swiveled and stared, and Daniel felt the little boy take over again. “Go home.

Shabbat is approaching. Time to rest and renew. Everyone rests, even God.”

“Yes, Abba,” said Daniel, but he thought: Does Evil have respect for God’s calendar? Does Evil ever rest?

He got home at eleven-thirty, saw the look on Laura’s face, and knew they’d either work things out or have a terrible fight. He stayed with her in the kitchen, plying her with smiles and unswerving attention, ignoring the lack of response, the seemingly frantic preoccupation with simmering pots and meat thermometers. Finally she softened, allowed him to rub her neck, and laughed when he got underfoot, the two of them knocking shins in the small, hot room.

She wiped her hands with a towel, poured iced coffee for both of them, and gave him a hearfelt kiss with cold lips and tongue. But when he tried for a repeat, she backed away and asked him to sit down.

“Listen,” she said, settling opposite him, “I understand what you’re trying to do. I appreciate it. But we have to talk.”

“I thought we were.”

“You know what I mean, Daniel.” “I’ve been overinvolved. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s more than that. For the last few weeks you’ve been in another world. I feel as if you’ve locked me—all of us—out of your life.”

“I’m sorry.”

Laura shook her head. “I’m not trying to wring an apology out of you. What we need to do is talk. Sit right here and tell each other what’s on our minds. What we’re feeling.” She placed her hand on his, white linen over mahogany. “I can only imagine what you’ve been going through. I want to know.”

“It’s very ugly, nothing you’d want to hear.”

“But I do! That’s the point! How can we be intimate if we skate on the surface?”

“Share with me what you’ve been doing,” said Daniel. ‘How’s the Bethlehem painting going?”

‘Dammit, Daniel!” She pulled her hand away. “Why are you being so withholding!”

“Sharing is mutual,” he said quietly. “You have things of beauty to share—your art, the home, the children. I have nothing to offer in return.”

“Your work—”

“My work is cruelty and blood.”

“I fell in love with a policeman. I married a policeman. Did it ever occur to you that I think what you do is beautiful? You’re a guardian, a protector of the Jewish state, of all the artists and the mothers and the children. There’s nothing ugly about that.”

“Some protector.” He looked away from her and took a sip of coffee.

“Come on, Daniel. Stop punishing yourself for the horrors of the world.”

He wanted to satisfy her, thought of how to begin, the right way to phrase things. But the words spun around in his head like clothes in a dryer, random sounds, nothing seemed to make sense.

He must have sat that way for a long time, because Laura was patient by nature, and finally she got up, looking defeated. The same look he’d just seen on his father’s face.

You’re a real harbinger of cheer, Pakad Sharavi.

“If you can’t deal with it right now, fine. I can accept that, Daniel. But eventually you’re going to have to.”

“I can,” said Daniel, taking hold of her wrist. “I want to.”

“Then do it. There’s no other way.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to begin.

At twelve-fifteen, feeling freer than he had in a long time, he drove to Lieberman’s and picked up the groceries, dancing a verbal ballet with the garrulous shopkeeper in order to avoid discussing the case. His next stop was a florist on Rehov Gershon Agron, where he bought a bouquet of daisies and had them arranged against a bed of leather fern along with a card on which he wrote I Love You,

Battling the traffic, he managed to get to the Dugma school by twelve twenty-eight, just in time to pick up the boys. He idled the car by the curb, searched for Sender Malkovsky’s bulk among the group of parents waiting for the children.