At the entrance to his office, Rubin was waiting for him, an accusatory look on his face; Natasha stood behind him in the hallway as if she were his shadow. “No way,” Zadik said, “I don’t have time now. You saw what’s going on,” he said, scolding Rubin. “Matty,” he called to Matty Cohen, who had just entered the secretary’s office.
Matty Cohen cast a look of misery at Aviva. “I didn’t hear about Tirzah until now, when I came into the building and saw the death notices. I didn’t know anything about it. Zadik, I’ve got to have a word with you—”
“Take a number,” Zadik said with a sigh. “I don’t know what’s with all you people today. We’ve got a meeting.”
“Zadik,” Matty Cohen said, breathing heavily and wiping the sweat from his ruddy jowls with his hand, “I’ve got to talk to you for a minute.” He looked around suspiciously, grabbed Zadik by the arm, and whispered, “Or with someone from the Police Department, it’s about something … I … last night …” Zadik, too, looked around, taking in the department heads standing in the doorway; the head of Maintenance was already in the office making himself a cup of coffee, while Max Levin and Inspector Eli Bachar were on their way to a side office that Aviva had requisitioned for them.
“Okay,” Zadik said to Matty Cohen. “But just for one short minute, and then we’ve got to get this meeting started. Come, step outside.”
They stood in the hallway. Matty Cohen peered toward the stairway and to the far end of the hallway, as if to verify that no one could hear them. “Listen,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. “Last night I came to the String Building, I was on my way up to the roof to put a stop to the filming, Benny Meyuhas’s project, but in the end I didn’t get there because my kid, the little one, you know, I’ve told you, he’s
got spastic bronchitis, my wife didn’t know what to do and I had to get him to the emergency room. That’s why I didn’t hear anything about Tirzah until I came in this morning and saw the death notices.”
Zadik looked at him, impatient. “But what’s this got to do with Tirzah? And what have you got to tell the police?”
“That’s just it, I …” Matty Cohen hesitated, passing his hand over his huge belly. For a moment they could hear only the voices that burst forth from the television screens in every room, sentence fragments from which they could discern certain words, like “Hulit factory”; Zadik caught wind of Danny Benizri’s name alongside Matty Cohen’s noisy, quickened breaths. Cohen whispered, “I think I saw Tirzah there, next to the scenery flats. I was walking up above, you know, on the catwalk toward the roof, I was holding on to the railing, and I looked down, … I saw her with someone, I’m almost certain it was Tirzah, not completely sure but almost, and there was someone there with her, a man or a woman, I only heard Tirzah saying, ‘No, no, no.’”
“What time was this?” Zadik asked.
“I can tell you exactly, since I told you that because of my kid … my wife called just then … a minute later she phoned, and that was at ten minutes to twelve. She’d said right from the start that I was crazy for going out in such bad weather in the middle of the night to catch them filming, as if …”
Zadik suddenly felt weak, and leaned against the wall. In a shaky voice he said, “Ten minutes to twelve? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I told you, my wife phoned just then.”
“But they say that she apparently died at around twelve,” Zadik said, thinking aloud. “You understand, that means that … it’s as though … but you’re not certain it was Tirzah you saw?”
“No, not completely,” Matty Cohen admitted. “Fairly certain, but I don’t know who …”
“So let’s forget about it for a little while,” Zadik advised. “Later, after the meeting, we’ll talk about it, maybe we need to … but then the police will be all over the place here and … let’s wait a bit …”
“Zadik,” Aviva called out to the hallway, clearly displeased, from her desk just outside his office. “Everyone’s waiting in there. What should I tell them?”
c h a p t e r t h r e e
If you don’t pull your head out of your own heap of garbage, you’ll never know what’s happening on your own street—even if you are a smart guy like Shimshi,” Rachel Shimshi announced. “When he’s stuck in his own shit he can’t see nothing.” She tightened her grip on Esty’s arm and pulled her down next to her at the edge of the sofa. Of the five women gathered in front of the television in her living room silently watching black clouds of smoke encircle Danny Benizri as he stood at the entrance to the tunnel, Rachel was most worried about Esty—not only because she was pregnant after a string of troubles that had made them think she would never be able to give birth, but because of the promise she had made to Adele. During Adele’s last days, when she was barely able to utter a word, Rachel had promised to watch over her daughter.
Esty shook off Rachel Shimshi’s grip, stood up from the sofa, and, pointing at the television, shouted, “Let go of me! Do you see what’s going on here?”
“No one here’s blind, we all see what’s going on,” Rachel Shimshi said, her eyes on the black smoke pouring from the tunnel that had completely engulfed Danny Benizri. Years earlier, Danny Benizri had visited their home, had eaten with them, and because of that Shimshi thought he was on their side and had specially requested his presence, alone. When Rachel had awoken at two a.m. and found Shimshi dressing in the dark like a thief, she had tried to stop him. She told him there was no point to it. She still couldn’t calm down when she thought about how he had tried to get out of the house without her noticing, how he had taken his clothes into the kitchen and dressed there; he had even placed his shoes in the hall, thinking he would manage to leave without waking her. Shimshi didn’t want trouble. But a woman, even if she’s only given birth to one baby, is never able to get a decent night’s sleep again. And if you’ve raised six children, well, forget it, one ear is always open, listening for their cries. Ever since they were born, she’s heard every little noise. Noise? Even when there’s no noise at all, it’s enough that somebody just shifts in his bed. On tiptoe, barefoot, Shimshi went to the kitchen. He didn’t even drink coffee or turn on the light. How many times had she told him there was no point to waging war, that the owners of the factory would win out, as always: the rich get richer from every little thing, it’s only the poor that get screwed.
How many times had she told him that it was a waste of time, that they’d already lost everything anyway, that they were better off getting their severance pay and taking their chances. But Shimshi, he couldn’t give in, especially not him: he was the local union leader; he had to set a good example. But why did he have to take Avram with him, with Esty here, pregnant, after so many troubles? And not just Avram: he’d taken four trucks from the factory.
Ever since Shimshi had left home that night—with the expression he’d had on his face when she caught him, she would have thought he was headed for some other woman if she didn’t know him so well—
she’d had this movie in her head, something starring Clint Eastwood she’d seen a while back. She couldn’t remember the name of the film, but these scenes kept playing again and again where this guy does things his own way, even if it means he’ll die for it, die fighting the scoundrels. That’s what they certainly were, scoundrels, she knew it for sure, all those politicians in the government, and that labor minister—it’s clear the woman would never lift a finger to help anybody.
Rachel had told Shimshi “over my dead body” and had tried lying in front of the door, and if he’d tried to fight with her, she would have managed to stop him for sure with her fingernails. But Shimshi was no fool. He knew her too well. He refused to fight; instead, he got down on his knees next to the door and said, in his quietest voice, “Rachel, do me a favor, I don’t have a choice. If I don’t do this I won’t even have my honor left. Try to understand, this is bigger than everything, bigger than paying the electricity bill.” She could not stop him. He did not want to tell her what exactly they were planning; she thought they
were going to shut themselves up inside the factory. But now, what she was watching on television, well, she’d had no idea they were talking about dynamite and blowing up the tunnel and kidnapping the minister. Not a clue. Nothing, either, about wanting Danny Benizri there.
But Shimshi had looked at her in that particular way he had, and she no longer had the heart to give him more trouble than he already had—and anyway, she understood it wouldn’t do her any good.
It was high time to empty the ashtrays and make some more tea.
Rachel Shimshi narrowed her eyes to slits: the television people were stalling for time, while here, all the girls were waiting for her, like she was their leader or something. As if it wasn’t enough already that her husband headed the union. Fanny, tugging at the ends of her yellow hair and patting her baby’s back even though he had already quieted down, smoked cigarette after cigarette. Esty, too, with that big belly; even after she’d finally gotten
