silhouettes against the dense summer greenery.
Gutman had aged since the night of his arrest. He'd lost weight, his skin was pale, and he blinked like a man not used to being out in natural light.
'So it's you.' When he saw David he lifted his eyebrows. 'For this they let me loose?'
'You're not loose,' David replied.
'Oh? More Gestapo torture. I get it now.' Gutman enlarged his eyes. 'Bring the old Jew out of Bergen- Belsen, let him breathe, then send him quick to the delousing van.'
David knew Gutman was a shrewd old crook and that his indignant persecution talk was merely rhetoric. But he found the Nazi references troubling. They were bad enough coming from Arabs, but when a Jew used them they were calculated to injure and infuriate.
'Let's call this a short reprieve.'
'Just how damn short is it going to be?'
'Depends on you.'
'Do I have to read your mind?'
'Okay, Jacob, let's take a little walk.'
He gestured for Shoshana to follow, then guided Gutman up King George toward the offices of the Chief Rabbinate.
'How's your father?' A moderate tone now, as if Gutman had decided to behave like a normal person for a while.
'You should have told me you knew him.'
'And embarrass you?'
'I wouldn't have been embarrassed.'
'Oh? So you like to arrest your father's friends?'
The harsh defensive tone again; David ignored it. 'You recognized me. Tell me how.'
'I knew you when you were a kid. I've seen you a few times since. People point you out: 'Hey, there goes young Bar-Lev, nice boy.' See, David, you're not old enough yet. Later your face will change. Your true cop-type character will assert itself.'
They passed Stein's Bookstore. Through the window David saw an old man in a skullcap moving languidly among stacks of moldy second-hand Hebrew and German books. Ahead, grenade screens guarded the entrance to the Jewish Agency. Bands of razor wire caught the sun.
'I haven't seen your father in years. Or many of the others.'
'The hunters.'
Gutman glanced at him. 'What did he tell you?'
'Nothing. It's the one thing about which he's never said a word.'
'Didn't he say anything about me?'
'Yes. He said you were a man who had been 'wronged.' '
Gutman smiled. 'Still, you knew I'd been a hunter?'
'Yigal Gati told me. He came around one day.'
'Hmmm. This is interesting. Tell me more.'
'I didn't like him much. Pushy kind of guy.'
'He always was. A good commander but no compassion, none at all.'
'Yes,' said David, 'I know what you mean. A real first-class Israeli prick.'
Suddenly Gutman stopped. He turned to David. There was fear in his eyes and wariness too. 'What are you telling me?'
'That Gati's not doing you any good. That if you want help with your difficulties, Gati's not your man.'
'So who is my man? You?'
'Calm down. Let's go into the park. It's nice and cool down there.'
He glanced back at Shoshana, then guided Gutman off King George. As they descended by a footpath and entered the trees, the sounds of Jerusalem traffic faded away.
'So what are you going to do for me, sonny-boy? Going to get me off?'
'Can't do that. A reduced charge-maybe. But for that you'll have to trade.'
'Trade? You mean bargain? Your camel for my rug-that sort of thing?'
'How about your money for my Torah?' For the first time, David saw Gutman grin.
This, he knew, was the crucial moment, the pivot upon which the interview would turn. Gutman could spill, if indeed he had anything to spill. Or he could tighten up and then it would be useless to try and make him talk.
They passed a young mother in a red blouse pushing a baby carriage, and then a young man with one leg, tall, tanned, athletic, a Lebanon veteran, walking with crutches, his sweetheart by his side.
'I want to explain about the Torahs.'
'I'm listening.' David gestured toward a bench. Gutman sat down. David sat beside him. Shoshana leaned against a tree.
'I don't want you to misunderstand. I didn't do it for the money. I never cared about that.'
'So what did you care about?'
'Religious people. Their stupid halacha. The way they've brought this country to its knees. They're detestable. The Knesset ought to ban them. Fire the rabbis. Outlaw the yarmulke. Cut off their damn earlocks and if they don't like it ship them out.' He shook his head. 'One day in 1972 one of them, a black-suited black-hatted son-of-a bitch, hit my only daughter, Miriam, with his car. He was a diamond merchant, fifty-two years old. She was nineteen, on leave from the army, a beautiful red-headed kid, eyes so sweet you'd look into them and want to cry. He ran her down, squashed her right there on Malkhe Yisrael, and the bastard didn't even stop. Just drove off with his precious diamonds, and then, when they caught him and put him on trial-no doubt of the outcome; the case was open-and-shut-up pop a dozen of his friends to say he couldn't have been the driver because he was with them in their lernen group interpreting Talmud at the time. Then his lawyer starts in on Miriam like she was some kind of slut, like she practically deserved to be run over for walking in a religious neighborhood, her head provocatively uncovered and her bare legs fanning flames of lust. The prosecutor was a young smart-ass. He didn't prepare himself; they ate him up alive. Then came the verdict. Reasonable doubt, says the judge. No punishment. No damages. The fucker walks out of court, a great big smile on his face. Your father tells you I was 'wronged.' Yeah, I was wronged. Oh yeah! I was wronged!'
Gutman twisted in his seat. There were tears in his eyes. David glanced at Shoshana; she was staring embarrassed at the ground.
'Give your father credit, he tried to help. Told me I had to come to terms with what had happened, put it behind me and get on with my life. I listened and I tried but I couldn't do it. My wife was dead. I had nobody left. So that's when I thought up my little vengeance scheme. Pretty pathetic for a hunter, maybe, but for me at my age it wasn't bad…'
He shifted position, wiped his eyes, tensed himself as if to show them he was strong. 'Trade in Judaica. Export the stuff to the diaspora. The scrolls too. I practically gave them away. Anything to get the damn things out of here faster than the damn scribes could write up more. So maybe it was pathetic. Still it satisfied. Every time I sold off some of that crap I felt a little thrill, a little lighter in my heart.' He laughed. Now they want to lynch me. A Torah thief-they're crying for my blood. Suppose I say: 'Okay, sorry, judge, I'm remorseful, I won't do it again.' Then what? He gives me four years instead of five?' Gutman looked around. 'A day like this, you think what prison could be like. I know I'm going there, and I know that's where I'm going to die.'
David peered at him. This, he decided, was one very strange human being. Gutman was spilling, so far so good. But there was more, there had to be.
'So tell me, Mister Big-Shot Detective, why do you think Gati's been trying so hard to get me off?'
'You have something on him.'
A shrewd smile now. 'Pretty smart, sonny-boy. Yes, you're pretty smart.'
'Tell me about it?'
'Maybe I will.' He paused. 'Funny thing, I kind of like the idea of him being so frantic on my account. Hiring that fancy lawyer Abramsohn for me-yeah, that was nice. Then Abramsohn says I should just keep calm and everything will get worked out. By calm he means silent. But now I'm not so sure. I could get killed in jail, poisoned, or maybe one night someone sneaks in and slits my throat. Anything to silence me, because they don't know what I
