Murder in Jerusalem (17 page)

“Who built this model, this maquette? Tirzah?”

“Yes, it's the model of the house,” she said, pursing her thick red lips, which gave her face a look of exaggerated earnestness. “The whole story takes place there. Do you know
Iddo and Eynam
?”

Michael mumbled something incomprehensible.

“I play the part of Gemullah,” she said, and her eyes shone with visible pride. “That's why I had to understand the story really well.
Iddo and Eynam
is the story of ancient Jewish Hebrew roots,” she declaimed. “Benny says it's about the missing link in the ancient history of the Hebrews and about the attempt by the Ashkenazi intellectuals, like, to castrate the Eastern Jews, to annihilate the missing link in the ancient history of the Hebrews. He talked to us about it before we started filming. I don't completely understand, but Hagar says it's about a woman, and the two men fighting for her, and in the end everyone dies because of the war between them.”

“Everyone?”

“No, I mean, Gemullah dies and Ginat dies and Gamzu buries them, but it's like, spiritually and emotionally, he dies later, too.”

“So it's safe to say you have enjoyed taking part in this film.”

“It's been a real experience.” She pushed her long, shiny hair behind one ear. “It's a big privilege,” she added, regarding him with large, black, flashing eyes. “He chose me from all those…lots of them…there were lots of girls at the audition. Singers, too. I wish it wouldn't end, you have no idea how beautiful it is…”

He glanced at the cassette protruding from the video player and took a gamble. “I see you already have a videotape of it here,” he said as he leaned over and pressed the play button.

“No, no!” she said, mortified. “Don't touch that, you're not allowed! It's only a working copy to help us correct our mistakes, to show us how we're acting. I don't—it's not edited, and Benny will be furious if someone not involved in the production sees it without—”

The sounds of a song in some strange language filled the room as they emerged from the mouth of Sarah-Gemullah walking along the rooftop railing, dressed in a flowing and lightweight white gown, her arms extended to the sides in sleeves as wide as wings, her black hair shiny and the moon dangling above her. Then the film cut short, and for a moment other images sped by until finally the film returned to the screen. Now a bearded man, tall and very dark, dressed in a heavy silver robe with a sort of breastplate, was carrying something in his arms; it took a few seconds for Michael to realize it was a slaughtered goat dripping blood. Gemullah in her white gown, head bent, stood next to a man in a light-colored suit and top hat before the bearded man. “Who is that?” Michael asked, pointing to the man thrusting his hands into the blood of the slaughtered goat.

“That's Dr. Gamzu,” she whispered in response, as the man in the top hat smeared a streak of blood on Gemullah's forehead. “That's before their wedding ceremony. It's not in the story, it's an image that Benny added. You're not allowed, nobody's allowed yet—” The scene was accompanied by a high-pitched flute and the vague murmurings of the bearded man.

They did not notice Benny padding down the hall in bare feet and entering the foyer. Michael only caught sight of him when he was standing next to him. Without a word he pressed the button and stopped the player. For a moment the room was filled with the sounds of an orchestra and a group of children sitting around a Hanukkah menorah shouting the answer to a question asked by the host of the show, Adir Bareket, whom Michael recognized thanks to his son. Fourteen years earlier, when Yuval was ten, he had been addicted to the programs hosted by Adir Bareket and had begged his father to take him to participate in one of them, at least as a member of the studio audience. He had mentioned the prizes the kids could win and the exciting surprises and had even used the trick that almost always failed but which he tried again and again, claiming in a teary voice that everyone else had been allowed to go. But Michael, who generally liked to grant his son's wishes, had stubbornly refused and had not even pretended that there was some technical difficulty. Instead, he had repeatedly explained to his only son who, at that time, he saw only twice a week and every other weekend, what exactly it was he hated about that program: how a few children received prizes and gifts after degrading themselves to the satisfaction of the host and the jubilant cries of the children in the studio, how they exposed their hidden weaknesses or their ignorance or their excessive innocence to the whole world. Now he looked for a moment at Adir Bareket, who preceded the lighting of the first Hanukkah candle with greetings and an insipid joke, and noticed how his face had swollen with the years and his eyes had sunk into the folds of his copious flesh, even though his looks had apparently had no adverse effect on his success: he had become the superstar of a prime-time Friday-evening entertainment program for adults, a show devoted to exposing the intimate relations between couples, as copied from a popular American television program.

“They're putting a stop to my production,” Benny Meyuhas said with more astonishment than bitterness. “We're only fifty thousand dollars short, and they won't let me film the final bits. So how much does a program like Bareket's cost? Live, with five cameras in the big studio in the String Building, with all the warm-up performances they do with the kids beforehand and the ‘A Wish Comes True' segment. How expensive all that is, and how repulsive,” he said derisively. “But that's what the riffraff wants, that's the way it is the world over. If it weren't for the special grant for Eastern Jewish culture, they never would have given me the chance—” He dismissed the rest of what he was going to say with a wave of his hand and fell silent.

“What I saw here was quite impressive,” Michael said hesitantly. “I imagine that—how much money are we talking about here?”

“All in all another fifty thousand,” Benny Meyuhas repeated, adding in a mechanical tone, “for a sum like that they want to put a stop to the largest production they've had in the last few years. Anyway, nothing matters now, nothing matters anymore.”

The young woman began to protest but quickly shut her mouth and lowered her head in the manner of a person who knows her place. “In the end they'll provide the budget,” she said to Michael in a feeble voice. “In the end—”

“Sarah told me,” Michael said, turning to Benny Meyuhas, “that you explained your interpretation of the meaning of
Iddo and Eynam
to the participants before you started filming, but she couldn't quite repeat it. Perhaps you'd be willing to tell me what—”

“Now?” Benny Meyuhas asked, amazed. “Now I can't—anyway, why is it relevant?”

Michael looked at him expectantly and did not respond to the question.

“Look,” Benny Meyuhas said, fixing his eyes on the wall behind the monitor as though reading a speech written there. “I do not believe that this story,
Iddo and Eynam,
is about ancient Jewish documents or the tribe of Gad, which supposedly never returned from Babylonian captivity. I believe that this is a story about Jews of Eastern origin in Israel, and what Zionism has done to them. The East is Gemullah singing her songs to the moon, and Zionism is that which treats her at best like some folkloric finding, and the West is what tries to identify the grammar—grammar, can you believe it?—in these songs, which were created by a man and his daughter. And you know what's so beautiful about all this?”

Michael shook his head and watched Benny Meyuhas expectantly.

“What's so beautiful with Agnon is that he really loves what you call ‘communities of different cultures' and that he doesn't think they're perfect—”

“Who?” Michael asked. “Who doesn't he think is perfect?”

“Eastern Jews. He thinks that they, too, were in a process of degeneration, that they were sinking. This story is truly a tragedy, and it touches, if you'll excuse the word, on the
mystical
nature of our lives here. In my opinion this is the most beautiful and the saddest story about Zionism that exists, and I don't need to tell you that Agnon was larger than life, perhaps like Shakespeare, and for me—”

Michael wished to respond; what Benny said about Agnon's attitude toward Eastern Jews had touched him in a way he was not prepared for. It was so far from the gloomy impression that that professor of literature had made on him twenty years earlier. Benny's words, combined with the delicate images he had seen on the screen just minutes before, were so emotionally saturated, so pierced through with deep sorrow and, especially, with honesty, that he had not expected something like that at all, especially not from a production for television.

The chirp from his beeper caused Benny Meyuhas to stop talking and look around, alarmed. Michael waited a moment, but he understood that Benny Meyuhas would explain no more. He glanced at the display on his beeper and asked to use the telephone. Benny Meyuhas nodded his absentminded consent, pressed the remote control, and the screen went black. Michael could hear Eli Bachar's muffled voice along with the television, reporting the arrests of the laid-off workers from the Hulit factory and their anticipated trial. He listened to what Eli Bachar was telling him and said, “I'm on my way now. First I'll talk to Zadik.”

“Has something happened?” the young woman asked.

“Yes,” Michael said. He looked at Benny Meyuhas, who was shutting off the video player. “Matty Cohen died half an hour ago.”

A tremor passed through her, and she covered her mouth with her hands as though suppressing a scream. Benny Meyuhas's face showed no signs that he had heard. Slowly he rose from where he had been bending over the screen and, without uttering a word, walked in the direction of the bedroom.

N
atasha had already been standing for nearly half an hour, again, in the corner next to the ladies' room at the end of the hallway on the second floor, where she could watch everyone who entered Aviva's office and could know who was inside with Zadik. Twice she had passed through the hallway as if by chance, and peeked in. Aviva was talking on the phone and did not notice her; Natasha returned to her post by the bathrooms, and every time someone approached, she rushed inside the ladies' room. It wasn't that she cared whether someone saw her there or not; it's that she didn't have the energy to talk to people and explain what she was doing there. In fact, she herself did not exactly know how to explain it; she only knew that at first she had been waiting for Rubin to arrive, and now, after he had arrived, she was waiting for him to leave Zadik's office, even though she knew quite well that he was not speaking with Zadik about her, since she had seen Hagar arrive with him and understood that the only thing they had on their minds was Benny Meyuhas and his film.

She could speak with Hefetz, light a fire under him as they say, but she did not have the courage to talk to him. How could she ask him to give her a crew after having said to him, “You disgust me”? It really did disgust her just thinking about Hefetz. She could not bear to hear one more time about his wife's flight, how she was supposed to have arrived in another two days but had come home early. She had not even heard him out, had walked away in the middle of his sentence. She was tired of being his plaything. And she was no idiot; she knew Hefetz well. If he knew what she was onto, he would take the whole thing away from her and give it to someone else. He would promise, as always, that she—and only she—would broadcast it, but in the end he would take away both the report and the credit: with Hefetz, there was no mixing love and business. He would even say he was motivated by concern for her welfare. And anyway, he would never dare to allow her, no one would now; hadn't Zadik himself told her, “Everything's on hold now, Natasha”? If the head of Israel Television had told her this, surely nobody else would take it lightly. A couple of policemen and one accident, and everyone was peeing in their pants. True, it wasn't just any old accident, it had been fatal. And she had better stop acting like she was indifferent, as if she didn't care about Tirzah. It wasn't that she didn't care, in fact she cared a lot, even though she had barely known her; you don't have to know somebody to feel bad for them. It was a shame about anybody who died before their time, and an even bigger shame about Rubin. She knew him well and liked him and knew how important Tirzah was to him. But there was no doubt that for her personally, Tirzah's death had ruined everything. It was clear that nobody would talk to her now; like Zadik said, as soon as the police got involved, he had to maintain a low profile. Everyone had to maintain a low profile. He wasn't willing to risk complications with anyone: “That's all I need right now,” he had told her as he rooted between his teeth with a toothpick he had removed from his shirt pocket, “trouble with the ultra-Orthodox. As if I don't have enough grief as it is.” She had tried to tell him again, had chased after him down the hall like some puppy, explaining, when Rubin was already at Benny Meyuhas's place with the police and everything, that if not today, then who knew when she'd have another opportunity to catch them red-handed, “in real time,” she had said, using his own language. But he had said, without breaking his pace or even looking at her, “Listen, sweetheart, nothing can be done right now, this isn't the time.”

From the end of the hallway she had first heard Rubin's voice and then seen him and Hagar entering Aviva's room, and after that they disappeared into Zadik's office. She strolled down the hallway two more times, peering in at Aviva. The first time Aviva had not even noticed her, but the second time she had said, “Hey, Natasha, come here a second.” She had entered the office and stood next to Aviva's desk, straining to hear, without attracting Aviva's attention, what was happening in Zadik's office. But it was impossible to hear anything, not without putting your ear to the door, which she obviously couldn't do with Aviva there and people from the
On the Circuit
program entering and leaving the little office next to Aviva's and shouting like crazy about the lineup for that evening's show. Aviva said, “Do me a favor, Natasha, I can't take it anymore.” She cast a furious glance in the direction of Zadik's office. “He won't let me budge, as far as he's concerned I could live here and everything. He forgets that human beings have needs occasionally. I swear, it'll only be a minute. Just one thing,” she added, indicating the little office with her head. “Don't let anybody from the crew, from
On the Circuit,
make phone calls from here. They're not allowed to tie up the lines. These people are all I needed this morning,” she mumbled, “but they're doing renovations downstairs, so I couldn't very well toss them out. Where else could they hold their staff meeting?”

As if on cue, Yankeleh Golan, chief producer of
On the Circuit,
let out a roar; there was no mistaking his deep bass: “A whole week of work, and that's all you people have to show for it?! I am
not
opening with the chairman of the Israel Aircraft Industries' workers' union; that's not an item! It's practically noon and you don't have anything better than
that
?!” Aviva dashed out of the office, the phones on her desk ringing, but Natasha did not answer them. She stood between Aviva's desk and the door to Zadik's office. Ringing telephones and loud voices were issuing from the little office, along with a woman complaining: “Don't smoke here, Assaf, do me a favor. You can't manage for ten minutes without a cigarette?” The door to the little office flew open and Assaf Cooper marched out to the hallway, failing to notice her. He stood outside, close by the door, his back to her, speaking into a cellular phone he had lodged between his shoulder and his ear. “I don't want a lot of screaming, I want it to be painful and sensitive…you're representing a murderer…talk to me about it…” He was speaking very loudly, lighting a cigarette with one hand and pulling his belt tight with the other. She glanced at the skullcap threatening to drop from his head. “If any dilemmas arise…” he was saying into his phone. “What, no dilemmas? How do you explain that? What did you say? It's all a matter of money? That doesn't sound too good, just money…”

Natasha crept toward Zadik's office, her back to the window and her eyes on the doorway, making sure no one would catch her with her ear to the door. That was how she managed to hear Rubin say, “Zadik, come on, just watch one little bit—just one little bit of the rough cut, do me a favor, that's all I'm asking. Look, just look, it's a series about the splendor of Eastern Jewry. Think about how ‘in' that is these days.” She could also hear how Hagar was butting in, cutting into Rubin's words as if she was his equal; in that artificially sweet voice of hers, like a kindergarten teacher, she said, “Zadik, it's Agnon! Nobel Prize, Zadik, during your tenure, the credit will go to you, and Benny will dedicate it to Tirzah's memory.” It was hard to comprehend how people dared to be so transparent. How could Hagar speak to Zadik as if he was some kind of idiot? What did she think, that Zadik didn't understand why she was saying those things?

Zadik was saying something, but Natasha could not understand exactly what, and then she couldn't hear anything at all. Then suddenly there came the sound of a woman singing in a clear, truly pure voice that gave her the shivers. Whenever she heard Mercedes Sosa sing, she got hot and cold and trembled all over. Now, too, such a tremor passed through her. But this wasn't Mercedes Sosa, this was a different, unfamiliar language and a strange melody, sad as a lamentation. Natasha backed away from the door and sat down at Aviva's desk, which was quite lucky since at that very moment, as she sat down and answered the telephone, Niva appeared in the doorway. She was waving a sheet of paper in her hands, and without looking into the office said, “Aviva, there's a fax here that Zadik has got to see.” Only then did she look inside. “Oh, Natasha,” she said with an air of disappointment. “Where's Aviva?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Gone to the bathroom? Tell her I'm looking for her,” and she turned to go, then turned back again and added, “I totally forgot, Hefetz has been looking for you, a few times this morning already. Why aren't you answering your beeper?” Before Natasha had a chance to answer, Niva had rushed on, her clogs banging heavily down the hall. Her voice rang out: “Benizri, Benizri, where are you off to? Danny Benizri, you're not leaving here without a word with Hefetz. He's waiting for you!”

Natasha didn't expect life to be easy; she was willing to work hard and engage in first-rate journalism. Like Danny Benizri. It was great, what he'd done, going straight into that tunnel with the laid-off strikers, fearless. That's how reporting should be done. But they'd let him do it, he hadn't had to convince anyone to let him. She wasn't afraid either, she was willing to risk a lot to do the job right. A real lot. Like what, she didn't know how dangerous it was dealing with those ultra-Orthodox, especially the ones with the black skullcaps? Boy, did she! But she had no intention of sitting quietly and waiting for the powers-that-be to find it in the goodness of their hearts to let her pursue it. There was no way a young woman like herself wasn't going to find a way on this, her only real opportunity. After all, she knew how to handle situations far more hopeless than this one. Hadn't she managed to catch a flight to Israel—the only woman on board, no seats available—in the middle of the Gulf War, just as SCUD missiles were falling? Hadn't she started working as a reporter when there had been no job opening? True, they hadn't even given her a job as a researcher—only freelance: hourly wages, no benefits—but not just anyone could have gotten to where she has. And it wasn't because of Hefetz, it was on her own. If anyone at all had helped her, it was Schreiber. Hefetz had only entered the picture later, and he hadn't done her any good, he'd only screwed things up with his jealousy. Like, what was there to be jealous about her? She wanted to know what it was she had going for her; if she knew, then maybe she, too, would believe she was lucky. There was nothing to envy: quick sex in his office late at night, telephone calls all the time from his wife, who is always looking for him. Had he ever taken her anywhere? Given her anything? Nada, he hadn't even helped pay her rent, hadn't even taken her out for a good meal for fear they'd be seen together. No perfume, no flowers, nothing on her birthday. She didn't mean to say he was a miser, because she'd seen how sometimes he paid for a meal out of his own pocket—not with her, with other people—but with her only one thing was for sure: he hadn't spent a shekel on her. And now, wasn't she the one who'd succeeded in getting the secret address of the apartment where Rabbi Elharizi met with that lawyer who everybody says is super-close to the prime minister? And wasn't she the one who had filmed him dressed as a Greek Orthodox priest at the airport? No one could tell her she didn't have first-rate journalistic instincts. She only needed the right opportunity, then everything would fall into place. And this was just that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she knew it. The frightened voice of that woman who had phoned her and assured her of the address and the appointed hour. That woman—when this was all over, Natasha would track her down and thank her properly. She'd even send her flowers. Well, it wasn't clear how she'd find her; on the phone she'd refused to explain how she'd reached Natasha, how she'd gotten hold of her mobile phone number, why Natasha in particular. But Natasha was not worried; she knew that at the end of the day, whatever information needed to surface would surface. If they would only put her on the air today, at least with that business about the allocations being paid to yeshivas for students who were actually dead. She needed to make her report before the Knesset finance committee had its meeting and it was too late. This was something she had heard about by chance, not from that woman, but from a guy who had once been religious and had left the fold. She didn't know why he'd come to her with the story; he had simply told her the facts, hadn't told her why she was the one. “Nathan told me to contact you,” he had explained. She didn't know anyone by that name, but she hadn't let on because this could be the opportunity she'd been waiting for. She would go on air with this business about the allocations, and then everyone would let her move ahead with the big stuff. If she didn't get it on air today, they'd be able to continue collecting money on dead people. Everyone knew it was true; she was in possession of documentation, death certificates, the names of people who were supposedly living but were really dead. So who was going to tell her to go on television with it that night? And who was going to give her a crew, a soundman and a lighting technician and a cameraman, to film her at night? No one. She was certain of it.

“Thanks, hon,” Aviva said. Natasha left the office and returned to her corner at the end of the hallway, next to the bathrooms. Now she could hear Zadik's voice, so she peeked. He had left his office without Rubin or Hagar and was standing in the hallway calling to passersby, then opened the door to the little office and said, “Come here, Nahum, Schreiber, Assaf, come, come see what a work of beauty we've created here, the splendor of the Orient, roots, we've got a rough cut of a new dramatic series here…Agnon, gentlemen, Agnon—” and everyone filed in. Hefetz entered—he did not notice her—and someone else, Max Levin, that nice man from Props, and Avi the lighting technician, too. They were probably there about the stolen spotlights. She had heard in the newsroom that along with the business with Tirzah, they were investigating the thefts.