Asylum City (5 page)

RIGHT
away he could see that Michal was dead. The bruises on her face and her vacant eyes said it all. He'd seen dead people before, in his village, in the refugee camp, on the way to Israel. He wanted to go to her and cover her face, close her eyes, say good-bye, but his feet carried him backward step by step, pulling him out of the apartment. Unaware that her neighbor was standing behind him in the doorway, he bumped into him as he retreated. The dog started barking wildly and the neighbor spat something that sounded like a profanity. Michal lying there, white and lifeless on the red carpet. . . . He couldn't deal with it. His head was pounding. He ran. The sight of Michal's body on the floor continued to haunt him.

WHEN
Gabriel reached the old bus station, he collapsed onto a bench in Levinsky Park and burst into tears. He cried for Liddie, for Hagos, for Michal, and for himself and his miserable life. People passed by, barely glancing his way. Everyone here carried the burden of their own sad story on their back.

At the restaurant he saw Israelis laughing because they had a happy life. They threw food away without thinking twice. And his life? Nothing but sorrow, pain, and hardship. Why? Where was the justice in it? Hagos and Michal were such good people. They helped migrants like him find their way through the confusion and fear. Without them, he might never have gotten out of this park. Now they were both dead and he was back here.

And what about Liddie? What had his little sister ever done wrong? What was he going to do now?

Itai! Gabriel got up and started in the direction of OMA. Suddenly, he stood still. What would Itai say when he told him? He knew Itai was fond of him, but would he still feel the same way when he heard how he'd fled from Michal's apartment like the coward he was?

No. This wasn't the time to talk to Israelis. He needed someone like him, someone who would understand. But who? His mother was far away, and he hadn't made any real friends in the few months he'd been in Israel.

Arami. He could go to Arami, the interpreter at OMA. He'd heard good things about him. They'd even spoken a couple of times. People said that Arami was very sensible, that he offered practical advice, not just idle words. The Israelis liked him, too. He'd helped them out once in the detention camp when he first arrived, and he spoke English very well. That's why they offered him work as an interpreter. He translated for the police and sometimes in court. Arami would help him. He needed someone like him to tell him what to do.

ANAT
Nachmias realized she'd walked into a trap the moment she entered the restaurant. She didn't even need to call on her training as a police officer and deputy chief of the Special Investigations Unit. The evidence was right in front of her eyes: her parents were already there. In all her sixty years, her mother had never gotten anywhere on time.

Her folks had an unchanging ritual. Wherever they went, they arrived at least half an hour late with her mom, out of breath as if she'd just run a marathon, exclaiming, “I'm so sorry, but I had to finish . . .” Then came a story about some chore that, if left undone, would have resulted in a terrible tragedy.

That was her dad's cue to jump in, complaining, “She's going to kill me one day the way she's always late. I almost had a heart attack.” Turning to Anat, he'd say, “Your mother is planning the perfect murder. Show me a jury that would convict her. They ought to teach her tactics in the police academy.”

Her parents were not only there on time, they were holding hands. Okay, now she knew something was going on, and it wasn't good.

“Who's sick?” Anat decided to cut to the chase.

They looked at her, baffled.

“Well, your father's cholesterol is high, and me, I've got high blood pressure, you know, because of the circumstances. But all in all, thank God . . . ,” her mom said.

“Why do you think someone's sick?” her dad asked.

“No reason. My mistake. Forget it,” Anat said with relief. Still, there was something fishy about this lunch. She didn't buy her mother's story that they'd simply decided to take a day off from work and happened to be near her office.

“To tell the truth,” her mom began hesitantly, “Dad and I want to talk to you about something important.”

Up to a few years ago, whenever her parents wanted to talk to her, it was always about the same subject: her job. They couldn't get it into their heads that their bright delicate little girl had decided to become a cop. They regularly joked about cops going around in pairs, one who knows how to read and one who knows how to write. They were contemptuous of the police, claiming they were incapable of solving crimes, and they still held a grudge against every cop who ever wrote them a ticket. And then all of a sudden they discovered they'd raised a policewoman. There was a weed in their garden. It was years before her mother was able to utter the words, “My daughter is a police officer.” Before that, she'd always say she was a civil servant. Even now she invariably added, “But she also has a law degree. She graduated first in her class.”

It took Anat a long time to convince her folks that their nagging wouldn't do any good. Their daughter was a cop, and that wasn't going to change.

When the “why don't you quit your job and we can be a normal family again” phase was over, her parents (her mom, to be exact) found a new subject to harp on: she was over thirty (thirty-two, to be exact) and still single. Her mom didn't care that she'd put herself out there but hadn't managed to find the right man. She took the fact that she wasn't married as a personal affront. Every Friday night at the family dinner she was forced to listen to her mother's lengthy philosophical musings over how the Goldsteins' daughter Dikla, with her crooked teeth, was already married, and the Zilberbergers' daughter Efrat, with her big nose, already had a baby, while their lovely daughter didn't have anyone.

Although Anat kept her opinions to herself and answered her mom's laments by assuring her, “It'll all work out. Sooner or later someone will want me,” she, too, was upset that she had no one. There were days when she got home from another bad date or scanned the dating sites on the Internet in vain that she began to harbor the fear that she'd be stuck like this, alone, for the rest of her life. She ridiculed her married friends whose lives were a monotonous routine and who were run ragged by their kids, but she also felt a twinge of envy.

Not surprisingly, her mom drew a direct line between her single status and her work. After all, what normal man would want to marry a woman who had such a masculine job, a woman who spent her days dealing with rapists and murderers? There was no chance she'd find a husband at work, of course. Who would her well-educated daughter, the girl who graduated at the head of her class in law school, choose to go out with—the cop who could read or the one who could write?

A
waitress in a black uniform took their order. When her mother said she'd just like a glass of water, she wasn't hungry, Anat became even more anxious. Her mom didn't need to put on a whole production for the “do you know what it's doing to your poor mother to see that you're still single” speech. Normally, she just picked up the phone.

“So what is it this time, Mom?” she asked impatiently when the waitress left.

“Listen, Anat honey,” her mother said, pausing to heighten the drama. She'd always had a well-honed sense of the theatrical.

“Yes?” she urged.

“It's not easy for Dad and me . . . ,” her mother began, pausing again.

“What isn't easy?”

“First of all, I want to tell you that we love you, and whatever you say, we'll understand,” she said, glancing at her husband who nodded in agreement.

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen, honey,” she repeated, hesitating once more before going on.

“Spit it out, Mom. The suspense is getting on my nerves.”

“Your mother thinks,” her dad intervened, “that maybe, and it's fine, sweetheart, I mean . . . we'll understand. . . . In any case, your mother thinks that maybe you like girls more than boys.”

“What?” Anat spluttered, her astonishment making her voice louder than necessary, causing several heads in the restaurant to turn in their direction.

“It's the way you dress,” her father explained, nodding at her baggy ripped jeans. “Mom read on the Internet that it's the style favored by . . .”

“It was a very good article. It made everything very clear,” her mother cut in. “What girl would decide to become a cop if she didn't . . .”

Anat's parents looked at her expectantly.

“You think I'm a lesbian?” she said, breaking the silence. She was still stunned. “First of all, you can both relax. I'm not. Second of all, if I were, I wouldn't be ashamed to tell you, believe me. And about being a cop, come on. That's so absurd, it isn't even worth wasting my breath.”

“So explain to me why you told Ohad, the Blausteins' boy, that you don't want to go out with him.”

She knew she should be mad, but she couldn't keep from laughing.

“Well done, Mom, very well done,” she said, clapping her hands.

“Anat, sweetheart, what's wrong with you?” her father asked.

“I've said it before, Dad. The fact that Mom isn't an interrogator is a huge loss to the police force. When it comes to mind games, nobody . . .”

“Enough, Anat,” her dad said firmly. “We're very glad you're not . . . and even if you were we'd support you, because we love you and there's nothing wrong with it. But that's no reason to insult your mother.”

“I'm not insulting her. Look, I'll spell it out for you,” she answered, trying to catch her mother's eye. The older woman was looking down at the table. “Mom knows I'm not gay. All this nonsense about what she saw on the Internet is a diversion. She's just mad that I wouldn't go out with Ohad Blaustein after she worked so hard to persuade his mom to get him to call me. That's the whole story. Your role here is . . .”

“So why wouldn't you? Do you know how embarrassing it was for me to face Bilha?” Her mother broke in before she could explain to her dad that he was merely a pawn in his wife's game.

“He's nice enough, but what can I say? He doesn't do it for me. I wasn't trying to embarrass you or offend him. It happens. Like I told you on the phone, I appreciate the effort.”

“I just can't understand it, honey,” her mother replied, placing her hand over Anat's. “If you keep on like this . . . what are you waiting for? Prince Charming? You know, when I met your father . . .”

To Anat's relief, her phone started ringing and the beeper in her bag came to life. It was like a gift from heaven.

“Hold on a second. It's work,” she said, interrupting her mother who was about to tell her how her dad courted her and she rejected his advances because he was chubby and she didn't find him attractive, but in the end she gave in and it hadn't turned out so bad.

“Nachmias?” It was Amnon, the duty officer. “Female body at 122 Stricker Street. Possible homicide.”

“On my way,” she said, disconnecting.

“I have to go. Something came up,” she said to her parents as she gathered her things together. “We'll continue this engrossing conversation later, I promise,” she added, seeing the disappointment on her mother's face.

“What happened?” her dad asked.

“Could be a murder.” The turning point in her dad's attitude to her job came when he started to see her name in the paper.

“And you'll be involved in the investigation?” he asked, still surprised by the kind of work his daughter did.

“I doubt it,” Anat was forced to admit. “My boss is at a seminar in Austria. They'll probably hand it over to Major Crimes.”

“You can't go out dressed like that, honey. It's freezing outside,” her mom scolded.

She glanced at her reflection in one of the many mirrors in the restaurant. The figure she saw didn't look like a police detective worthy of respect. She took out a rubber band and used it to pull her hair back in a bun. That was the most that a skinny five-foot-two woman with freckles could do to make herself look older and more professional.

Her phone rang again. The heavy coughing on the other end told her it was her boss, David, the head of the Tel Aviv District Special Investigations Unit. She'd never met anyone who smoked so much, and there were a lot of smokers on the force.

“Nachmias, I spoke with the District Commander,” he began before being stopped by another bout of coughing. “I want this case. I'll be back in three days. You're in charge till then. The DC will talk to the Chief. I told him I trust you two hundred percent and he has nothing to worry about until I get back.”

“Do you think they'll play along?” she asked, stealing another glance in the mirror. She'd been too lazy to wash her hair last night and now it was frizzy. Who would hand a case to someone whose hair was sticking out in all directions?

“I'm working on it, doing everything I can from this end,” he said with another cough. “You just do your job.”

As usual, he didn't wait for a reply before hanging up.

GABRIEL
gazed at Arami expectantly, waiting for him to say something, to offer him some consolation after the horrifying experience he'd just told him about. They were standing in an alley not far from Arami's house. The rain was beating down on the plastic awning above their heads. Garbage bags were piled on the sidewalk.

Arami's continued silence unnerved Gabriel even more.

“You believe me, don't you?” he asked, pleading. “You believe I had nothing to do with it?”

“Of course I believe you, Gabriel,” Arami said finally. “I know you didn't kill her.”