Balilty, or Eli Bachar.
After being investigated and providing an initial, unsigned testimony, Arye Rubin had accompanied Michael to Benny Meyuhas’s home, where Eli Bachar, Sergeant Ronen, and two people from forensics were already well into their search for some finding that might explain what had become of Benny Meyuhas. Rubin had shown no outward sign of shock at finding the house in disarray—drawers overturned, large black bags stuffed with anything that had aroused suspicion—and Michael, secretly observing his reactions for some sign that Rubin did know what had become of his friend, had been impressed by the man’s self-control. He knew by Rubin’s strained posture, by the repeated spasms of his left eyelid, and by the fist his hand kept forming and unfurling that Rubin was actually under intense strain. He knew
from experience that tension and anxiety cause many people to jabber compulsively and associatively without inhibition, especially if you kept quiet and ignored their distress. Thus, he tended to silence in Arye Rubin’s company, not speaking to him apart from relevant and necessary questions, like asking for Rubin’s help in deciphering Benny Meyuhas’s handwriting as he paged through the small appointment book he found on the nightstand in the bedroom, or basic details about meetings that had been scheduled the week before. Rubin, however, had not been tempted to ease his burden by talking; on the contrary, the longer they stayed in Benny Meyuhas’s house, the more tight-lipped he became. They had made their way back to Israel Television in silence; even now, as they sat in Rubin’s office drinking the coffee he had prepared for them, they did not speak. Rubin’s face projected something deep and serious, his expression that of someone who had witnessed a disaster involving someone close and dear to him and been powerless to help. It was Michael who disrupted this silence as he raised his eyes to the corkboard and the enlarged black-and-white photographs posted there. “Is that one from World War Two?” he asked, pointing at a photo of Japanese soldiers standing in tight rows, their hands raised high in a sign of surrender.
“Yes,” Rubin answered, regarding the corkboard as if noticing it for the first time. “I have a whole collection. Like that one,” he said, pointing at another photograph, this one of soldiers in gray uniforms sitting on barren desert ground, their heads bowed. “It’s from World War I, enemies of the French army. And this one,” he announced, drawing Michael’s attention to a midsize color photo of soldiers in camouflage in a tropical jungle. “Americans in Vietnam,” he explained. “I have a whole collection, but there’s no room for them all here.”
“It’s not a very uplifting collection,” Michael noted. “In fact, a bit odd, wouldn’t you say?”
Rubin shrugged. “It’s what interests me. Why should I worry about whether it’s odd or not?”
“There are no Israelis here, no Arabs,” Michael observed, surprised.
“No Egyptian soldiers. You know, the classic photos.” He placed his empty mug on the table.
Rubin stretched his lips into a mirthless half-smile. “No need for those here, they hit too close to home,” he said quietly. “I carry those around in here,” he explained, pointing to his head.
“I’ve heard that you yourself were a prisoner of war during the Yom Kippur War,” Michael stated.
Rubin frowned, passed his hand over his face as if to erase it, and gazed at the wall facing him. “Forget about it, that’s a kind of myth, it’s not worth talking about. I wasn’t really a prisoner of war… . If it’s all the same to you,” he said quickly, pressing the start button on a nearby monitor, “I’d prefer to keep this thing on.” A portrait of Zadik in a black frame appeared in the upper corner of the screen, while in the center of the picture, against a background of old black-and-white photographs of Zadik from his childhood and more recent color snapshots taken with the American president and with the head of the union at Israel Television, stood Giora Ilem, known for facilitating songfests and sing-alongs and for writing particularly sad lyrics. Dressed in a black shirt, the buttons of which seemed ready to pop off, he repeatedly slicked back what had once been a healthy forelock of sand-colored hair but now looked like a coil negligently stuck to his forehead. There was a grimace on his blotchy face, the pinkish tones of which no makeup could conceal. His stubby fingers were clasped, the palms of his hands resting on his chest, and he quickly noted, with suppressed sadness, as if squelching his tears, the names of the people in the photographs with Zadik: Yitzhak Rabin, Golda Meir, Shimon Peres, Ariel Sharon (in the uniform of a brigadier- general), Abba Eban, President Gorbachev, U.S. presidents Carter and Clinton, the author Gunter Grass, an aging Yves Montand. He dwelled on one particularly radiant photo, of a young long-haired Zadik smiling broadly, his arm around Sophia Loren’s shoulders, and ended with Zadik in the company of Israeli singers Arik Einstein and Uri Zohar. He told of Zadik’s love of Israeli music, especially songs from the pioneering early years of the state, and with a big smile in spite of his sadness, explained that anyone who knew Zadik had to have heard his off-key renditions of
“Ammunition Hill” or “The Two of Us Hail from the Same Village” at one time or another.
“Will you look at this,” Rubin muttered. “This is what they have a budget for, the sky’s the limit for Giora Ilem, the National Sycophant.”
Michael noted that it was the first time he had heard Rubin speaking
maliciously offscreen. “Some people just glide through life like first-time skiers,” Rubin said, and without taking his eyes from the screen, added, “Nice guys, the kinds that get along with everybody. Who doesn’t love Giora? Who could say a bad word about the guy? But what is he if not a collection of cliches and interminable niceness, a guy who resolutely stays clear of all confrontation in order to preserve his popularity? I can’t stand these nice people who haven’t got an enemy in the world.” Rubin turned the volume down but left the monitor running. “I have to keep on top of things,” he said by way of apol-ogy, “even if for the time being they’re only dragging old stuff out of the mothballs. Pretty soon there’ll be a special broadcast with an official announcement about Zadik and Israel Television.”
Michael looked at Rubin’s dark gray eyes and the fine web of wrinkles surrounding them, at the deep line between his gray brows, at his narrow nose with the small hump that lent it a fascinating presence, at the deep twin creases running the length of his cheeks, which hinted at torment, at the full lips that, surprisingly, did not suggest hedonism, at the short-cropped gray hair. “What a good-looking man, a real hunk. He’s even better looking in person than on television. You can see how tall he is and all that. He looks like Paul Newman, don’t you think?” Yaffa from forensics had asked him this the day before as they stood in the hall in front of Michael’s office, just before a short meeting on the results of Matty Cohen’s autopsy. “You can be sure he’s the type who gets any woman he wants. If he’s interested,” she added in a whisper. After a moment of reflection, she said, “But he doesn’t look like someone who’s particularly interested. I’d say he’s not a happy man, and I doubt he’d put much effort into it. There’s even something, well, dead about him, you know? Anyway, he’s in mourning right now, they say he really loved Tirzah, even though they were divorced. What do you think of him?” she asked Tzilla, who was standing next to her, one hand on the doorknob.
“Yes,” Tzilla said, distracted. “He looks like a real Don Juan to me, but I understand there aren’t any women who haven’t—”
“There are guys like that,” Yaffa said, thinking aloud. “Guys who can’t say no to a woman. If she’s hot for him and wants him, he’ll go along with it. That’s the kind of face he has.”
“What a great setup,” Tzilla said with sudden bitterness. “Really wonderful. The man gets to screw around but at the same time bears no responsibility and carries no guilt.” Yaffa regarded her in wonder.
“You can even have a kid out of wedlock,” Tzilla added, “no strings attached. What can I tell you, it’s paradise! What a great guy he is!”
“I really do think he’s a pretty great guy,” Yaffa said. “Maybe his character’s a bit weak, but he’s got—they say he’s a really good guy, like the kind who helps people out.”
“We’ve heard all about it. I’m sure he’s a real saint,” Tzilla muttered, pressing the doorknob and entering the room. She slammed the door shut without waiting for Michael and Yaffa.
What’s her problem?” Yaffa asked, shaking her ponytail. “She’s become some sort of man-hater on us. What’s going on? Has she been having problems with Eli?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Who hasn’t?” he said, though his meaning was unclear. He opened the door and waited for Yaffa to pass inside. He, too, had noticed Tzilla’s unusually ugly mood and, lately, Eli’s restiveness. Although he was very involved in their marriage, their lives, their relations with their children—after all, he had been their principal matchmaker and godfather to their eldest son—he did not dare ask them anything directly. At best he would say to Eli Bachar,
“How are things?” and gaze at him intensely with the kind of look intended to make Eli squirm and ask, “What?” But lately Eli had simply dodged his stares. Before going on vacation, Michael had twice invited Eli out for a quick cup of coffee down at the corner, just the two of them, and had asked, “What’s happening?” and “How are you doing?” with great feeling, and he had felt certain Eli understood he was really taking an interest, had hoped to
