Cafe Nevo (38 page)

One of the first and most frequent of these was Ilana Maimon.

Ilana had been wounded by shrapnel, but only superficially: the cuts on her arms and face were shallow enough to require only cleaning. However, because of her pregnancy, she was hospitalized for several days' observation.

On the second day, a nurse carried in a large potted plant wrapped in foil. “A man brought this for you,” she said. “I told him he could come in, but he didn't want to.”

“What man?” Ilana asked.

The nurse shrugged. “He wouldn't give his name. An old guy, with an Iraqi accent.”

Ilana took a couple of deep breaths. “What did he say?”

“He just asked how you were and asked me to bring this in. A secret admirer maybe?”

“Take the paper off, please.”

Beneath the foil was a young pine tree. The nurse detached a card from the slender trunk and brought it to Ilana.

“Care for this young one,” the card read. “Feed it, nurture it, and when it is strong enough, plant it with the others in the forest.” There was no signature.

The next day Ilana was released. She sent a roomful of flowers to the children's ward, but the pine sapling she took home.

 

“Nu?”
demanded Sternholz, when she appeared in his hospital room. He stared pointedly at her midriff.

“It's all right,” Ilana said. “No harm done.”

“Thank God,” the old man sighed.

“How do you feel, Emmanuel?”

“How should I feel? A man gets killed, he doesn't feel like dancing. And besides, I can still taste Muny's breath. Feh!”

“He saved your life, Emmanuel. While everyone was standing around screaming and crying, he dove right on top of you and started pumping.”

“And broke my rib, the old fool. Where's that Englishman of yours?”

“David had to go back to London.”

Sternholz sniffed.

“He stayed until lie knew I was all right,” she said defensively.

“And I thought he was a
mensch.”

“He is.”

Sternholz curled his lip. “What line of business is he in?”

She looked a little startled. “David's an architect.”

“So? We don't build houses here?”

“He's rather a grand architect,” she said gently. “He heads his own firm. David specializes in converting old churches into gentlemen's residences.”

“Churches we got. Gentlemen...” He waggled a hand from side to side. “Fine work for a Jewish boy.”

“He's not much of a Jew, really.”

“He's not much of a man,” Sternholz sneered, “but he's as much a Jew as anyone. What does it take? A Jewish mother.”

At last Ilana took offense. “It's none of your business, you rude old man, but I'll tell you anyway. David asked me to come with him. He wants to marry me.”

Sternholz nodded thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “And you refused.”

“Yes.” She shut her lips firmly.

“You prefer to raise the child on your own?”

“I prefer to live here. I don't know why I tell you these things. Besides, I'm not all alone. I have family,” she said. Such a simple word, yet it tasted like champagne. “And a friend.”

“Vered Caspi?”

Ilana nodded.

“She's in a delicate condition.” He gave her a sharp look. “Isn't she?”

“Ask her.”

“Where is she? I have something to say to her,” he said fretfully, sounding, for once, like the old man he was. “Tell her to come.”

“I will when I see her.”

“Is she all right?”

“She wasn't hurt,” Ilana said carefully. She had assumed that Sternholz knew what had happened that day. If he didn't, she wasn't about to tell him.

But Sternholz asked no more questions. A few moments later he closed his eyes and instantly sank into sleep. One thing dying had done for him was to cure his insomnia.

Ilana did pass on the summons, but Vered stayed away from the hospital. Sternholz sent additional messages, through Muny and anyone else whose services he could commandeer, but these, too, were ignored.

A week after Sternholz was sent home with strict orders to stay in bed, he was sitting in his armchair at the window overlooking the sea when he heard high-heeled shoes coming up the wooden stairs. There was a brisk knock, the door to his apartment opened, and Vered Caspi stepped over the threshold, stopping just inside the room.

“Go ahead and say it,” she demanded, arms akimbo.

“Say what?”

“ ‘I told you so.' ‘It's all your fault.' Whatever this message is you've got for me. Go on, get it out of your system.”

Sternholz drew his bathrobe shut. Without his apron he seemed half his former size, a fallen angel. He said, “Sit with me,
maidele.”

She leaned against the door. “Just get it over with, will you?”

“Come in and shut that door,” he growled, and, with a sigh she closed the door and sat opposite him on a folding chair from the café.

Sternholz studied her in silence. She had always been what people called “fashionably thin,” and Sternholz called “skinny”; but now she was as gaunt as a starving street urchin. There were dark smudges under her eyes. She wore no make-up, and her hands moved restlessly.

“You look like hell,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Is the baby alive?”

“Alive and kicking,” she said after a pause. No point denying it any longer. She had just come from Rafi Steadman's office. He had taken one look at her and offered her an abortion, which she refused, having carried the child long enough to feel a fierce protectiveness toward it. What had happened was not the baby's fault, and she was damned if she would add it to the roster of victims.

Sternholz nodded. “How's Daniel?”

“Okay,” she said. “He cracked his collarbone, but it's already healed. He's fine.”

“So is Caspi.”

Vered looked shaken. “What are you talking about? Don't you know?”

“More than you think. I've been there.”

She'd heard of people turning gray overnight, but not senile. Perhaps it was the shock. Gently she said, “Sternholz, Caspi died.”

“I know that,” he replied peevishly. “So did I.”

“No, I mean really died. Permanently. We buried him.”

“Caspi is happy,” said the old man.

“Oh, Sternholz.”

“Don't ‘Oh, Sternholz' me,
maidele
. I know what I know and I know where I've been. Caspi is with people who love him. He's with his family. You can take that or leave it, but if you've got a drop of good sense, you'll take it.”

Vered laughed fearfully. “Sternholz, have you gotten religion in your old age?”

Astonishingly, the old man blushed. “Not the kind you mean. But something happened when I died.”

“You keep saying that. But you didn't die. You just stopped breathing for a moment, that's all.”

“My heart stopped, too. I
was
dead. And I came back.”

“Full of revelations,” she mocked.

“Just a few,” he said calmly.

“All right. Tell me what happened.”

“I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about you.”

“What's there to talk about? I was Caspi's wife; now I'm his widow. Maybe you're right about him being happy,” she said bitterly. “He got what he wanted.”

“What's that?”

“Me. Forever and ever.” Her mouth twisted. She covered it with both hands. Sternholz tried to stand but the old ticker gave a warning pang. He sank back, breathless.

“Verdele,” he said when he could, “listen to me. Peter Caspi died in the best way he could, saving his wife and child. With all my heart I envy him his death. It was the making of him.”

“His death was the making of him? You're mad, Sternholz.” She started to laugh, then hiccuped, sobbed, and laughed again. “He always said I would leave over his dead body. He was right.”

Sternholz scowled. “You're not going to get hysterical on me, are you?” and he gave her a look that cowed her into calmness. “Caspi died a liberating death. His last act was to thrust you away. He freed you; you mustn't refuse that gift.”

“And I thought you of all people would dare speak the truth to my face.”

“What is the truth?”

“That I am responsible. I got Caspi killed.” She spoke with great tragic consciousness. Unforgivably, Sternholz sniggered.

“That's
funny?”
she said incredulously.

“It's silly. You're taking credit where none is due.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“
If
the grenade was meant specifically for him, which is far from certain, by the way, don't you think maybe Caspi brought it on himself?”

A gleam of hope showed in her eye, fading quickly. “You know what my last words to him were? ‘Caspi, I'm pregnant.' Of course, he knew it wasn't his.” She crossed her arms and leaned back triumphantly.

“You said the words; then came the explosion. B follows A; therefore, A caused B. Very logical thinking. I'm glad to see that all your education hasn't gone to waste.”

Vered found herself laughing. “You old fool. You know what I mean.”

“I know you're a mixed-up child who ought to listen to her elders and betters. I'm sure Jemima's saying what I say. If Caspi was murdered, you didn't do it. Khalil Mussara did, with a big assist from the victim.”

“No, no, no.”

“Ah, you don't like that.” He bared his teeth. “Caspi and the Arab were like two dogs, fighting over a bush to pee on. Is it the bush's fault if they tear each other to shreds?”

“How dare you make such a comparison!”

“Why? Is it harder to admit that you were used than to take all the blame on yourself?”

Sternholz was so adept at being cruel to be kind that sometimes even he doubted his good intentions.

Vered moaned, “Leave me alone, old man,” but she remained seated, head bowed.

“How did you feel when it happened? A little relief mixed in with the horror? ‘The King is dead; long live the Queen'?”

“Shut up!” She covered her ears.

“Is that why you're starving yourself? Vered Caspi is human: shame, shame.”

“Stop it!” she screamed. Sternholz gave her a diagnostic look, then changed the subject.

“The boy is really all right?”

Her hands came down; her head rose. After a moment she nodded.

“Does he talk about it?”

“He says, ‘Daddy saved us. Daddy was a hero.' He's proud. I don't think he misses him particularly.”

Sternholz thought about his own son, who had died at the hands of soulless enemies whose malice the child could not begin to comprehend: Jacob had cried out for his father, whom he believed invincible, but his father had come too late. Sternholz would have given all the subsequent years of his life for the chance to do what Caspi had done. The man was blessed beyond imagining, almost beyond bearing.

Sternholz turned his head aside, rubbing his eyes surreptitiously. “He did die well, God bless him,” he said gruffly to Vered. “He lived like a pig but he died like a lion. Who would have guessed that Caspi had it in him?”

“
I
knew he had it in him,” Vered said, and for a moment her voice and eyes were fiercely proud. Caspi was still her man, and if by his preemptive act of self-sacrifice he had defeated her bid for freedom, he had also proved her right. He had shown a sign of the greatness she had never ceased to believe was in him, buried deep, and in so doing silenced those who believed she had wasted her life on a worthless man. Though she failed, she had attempted something manifestly worthy. “He did a noble thing,” she said.

“Noble?” Sternholz cackled. “Let's not get carried away here. Let's not forget who we're dealing with. Caspi had a thousand chances of making you and Daniel happy. Did he ever take one? So he made a nice gesture in the end—that doesn't erase the slate.”

As she listened, Vered thought of the myriad insults to her pride that the old man had witnessed, for Caspi had always brought his women to Nevo. People die, she thought, but humiliation doesn't. Her heart hardened; she said, “Caspi did it to entrap me. And he succeeded. He saved the life of my child, and if Daniel had died because of my stupidity, my
sin—”

“Your weakness,” Sternholz corrected pedantically. “Your error.”

“—I would not have survived him. I promise you I would not have. So Caspi saved both our lives. I owe him something I can never repay, and I
know
what he would have claimed in payment. I'm honor bound—can you understand that, Sternholz?”