A Possibility of Violence Read online

  Dedication

  To my firstborn son, Benjamin

  Epigraph

  There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.

  —EDGAR ALLAN POE, “THE MAN OF THE CROWD”

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Two

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About the Author

  Also by D. A. Mishani

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  DURING THE RUSH OF THE LONG summer they spent together in Brussels, there was a moment when the feeling of happiness and calm that surrounded them cracked, and through this crack another possibility seeped toward him—toward the two of them, actually.

  They were sitting on a shady bench on Parc de Bruxelles’s wide boulevard, near the Museum of Modern Art. Avraham was sitting and Marianka was lying with her head in his lap. It was six in the evening and the sky was blue and cloudless. She read and he stroked her short hair. He couldn’t read anymore, since he had spent most of the day reading a detective novel by Boris Akunin in their apartment and at two cafés while waiting for her shift to end. As always, at the end of his reading he managed to prove to himself that the detective in the novel was mistaken.

  Suddenly a shriek could be heard behind them.

  Avraham did not understand why the black woman had screamed, but he saw her advancing toward them. She was pounding her head with her left hand and scratching at her face, and he did nothing. Marianka rose and walked toward the woman, who was tall and wore a tattered dress, similar to a shroud. On her feet she wore several pairs of thick wool socks and sandals. Marianka stopped in front of her and spoke. She held the woman’s elbow in order to stop her from cutting her face. She said to Avraham in English, “Someone kidnapped her daughter. She’s looking for her and can’t find her in the park. I’ll take her to the police station,” and Avraham asked, “Do you want me to come?”

  He remained on the bench with the backpack and Marianka’s open book lying facedown. Watched them walking away. Marianka wrapped her arm around the woman’s waist and still held her arm with her other hand. They left the woman’s plastic bag next to him, in which he saw only other plastic bags. Countless plastic bags from Toys “R” Us.

  When she returned, Marianka sat down on the bench a small distance from him and asked for a cigarette. He saw that she had been crying.

  He asked, “Did they find her?” Marianka didn’t answer. “Marianka, did they find her? Did someone kidnap her?”

  “She doesn’t have a daughter,” Marianka told him. “The cops know her. She’s been wandering through the park for three weeks already. The first few times they searched for her daughter, but then they found out that she doesn’t have a daughter. At least not in Brussels. She came from the Congo a few years ago. She scratches herself until she passes out.”

  At home they ate a summer dinner that Avraham put together before going out. Talked a little bit.

  The next morning they were fine, but that evening it seemed to both of them that anything that could go wrong would.

  And that’s exactly what happened.

  Part One

  1

  CHILLS PASSED THROUGH AVRAHAM’S BODY WHEN he entered the interrogation room for the first time in three months. The air conditioner had been running since morning and the room was cold. He remembered well the last time he sat there, and the woman who sat across from him then.

  In the months that had passed, he imagined more than once the next interrogation he’d conduct in this room. He pictured his initial entrance into the room, steady and sure of himself, thought about the first questions he’d ask, in a stern voice. It wasn’t supposed to take place on that same day, but maybe it was just as well that this was how it happened. Like leaping off a cliff into a stormy sea, with no preparation.

  THE FIRST DETAILS HE SAW WHEN he sat down across from the suspect were the dark, narrow face, the small black eyes, and, afterward, the thin arms, from which thick veins protruded. His palms were dirty, as were the nails. Average height, thin, unshaven. Maybe in his thirties. The suspect sat on the other side of the long table. He asked, “Who are you?” but Avraham ignored his question. He organized the papers in front of him as if he were alone in the room. He hadn’t managed to delve into the materials, only glanced at them briefly during the short conversation he had with the beat cop who arrested the suspect during the early-morning hours.

  According to the report the beat cop wrote, the message about the suitcase was received at the call center at 6:44. Even though it was likely to be a false alarm, and despite the lack of manpower, a unit was immediately sent to Lavon Street. The cops on patrol weren’t able to locate the scene, so at their request the call center contacted the woman who made the call, and she came down to the street in a robe and directed the cops. Less than ten minutes later the bomb squad arrived, ordered the road closed to traffic and pedestrians, and began making preparations to neutralize the suspicious object. The initial inspection of the suitcase revealed a Supratec alarm clock, connected by electric wires to a bottle of 7UP, in which there was an unidentified liquid, and to what looked like a detonation device. According to the bomb squad’s notes, the suitcase was blown up at 7:50.

  A moment before he opened the door to the interrogation room Avraham sent a text message to Marianka: GOING INTO AN UNPLANNED INTERROGATION. I’LL CALL WHEN I GET OUT. She answered him right away: THE VACATION’S OVER? GOOD LUCK!

  Everything was ready.

  The recording device was working.

  He asked the suspect for his name and the suspect said, “Amos Uzan. You a cop? You realize I’ve been waiting here five hours already?”

  He didn’t bother responding. “Date of birth.”

  “Mine? July 10th, 1980.”

  “Address?”

  “Twenty-six Hatzionut.”

  “In Holon?”

  “In Las Vegas.”

  “Profession?”

  “Conductor of the Philharmonic.” Amos Uzan smiled. “No profession. Write I’m not presently working.”

  According to the beat cop’s report, Uzan was not a musician. He had been a chef at Café Riviera, afterward owned a small business fixing motorcycles, and in the end owned a little kiosk in downtown Holon. In addition to the income from these businesses, it appeared he made some money from modest illegal activities—mainly as a drug mule and hash dealer. He was born in Bat Yam and raised without a father, with two older sisters, in a family social services knew well. Dropped out of high school. Mother was a hairdresser. His first criminal charge came at the age of fifteen. He was stopped with a friend in a stolen vehicle. Avraham looked at him, then returned his gaze to the papers. He said, “You’re suspected of placing, near a daycare on Lavon Street, in the early-morning hours today, a—” but Uzan cut him off: “What are you talking about? A guy leaves his house to take a morning walk and they arrest him. What do I have to do with a daycare?”

  “That will soon be clear.”

  “So why did you arrest me, then? Do you even have any evidence?”

  FROM THE HURRIED GLANCE AT THE file, and from the short briefing with the beat cop, it appeared that they didn’t have any evidence.
Uzan was arrested thanks to the resourcefulness of the cop, who before the fake bomb was blown up gathered detailed testimony from the woman who left the message. She was sixty-four years old, retired. Woke up early that morning in order to begin cleaning for Rosh Hashanah. Opened the shutters in the living room and hung the rugs on the windowsill to air them out. She planned on beating them only after eight. Her husband was still asleep. When she spread out the rugs she saw a man enter the courtyard of the building at 6 Lavon. Actually she didn’t see him entering but rather crouching among the bushes in the courtyard, as if he were searching for something. At first she thought that this was a tenant who had dropped something from above. Afterward, she saw him hide the suitcase behind the bushes, next to the path leading to the daycare. Why did the thing look peculiar to her? Because the garbage cans stood just a few meters away, and if he were a tenant in the building, he would have thrown the suitcase out there. And why hide it carefully like that behind the bushes and not place it on the sidewalk? The building where the witness resided was located at the end of the street, but the sight line from her window was pretty decent. In her field of view were some treetops and an electric pole, but they didn’t obstruct it. She estimated that she watched the suspect for more than a minute, and said that he didn’t leave immediately but instead remained, looking around. Despite the distance, the witness feared that he would see her and she retreated back into the living room. When she stuck her head out again, the suspect had already fled in the other direction, toward Aharonovitch Street. Walking slowly, not running. It seemed to her that he limped. Her description was sketchy, as expected. The suspect was short, with a thin build, and, as far as she could remember, wore sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt that was brown, or some other dark color. She couldn’t see the features of his face.

  A few minutes after collecting the testimony, the beat cop identified the suspect in a crowd that had gathered at the end of the cordoned-off street, his build and clothing matching the description provided by the witness. The suspect had observed the blowing up of the bomb and looked nervous. When the beat cop asked for his identification, he took off running quickly. He managed to get about a hundred feet away before one of the cops in the area grabbed him. Uzan wasn’t carrying identification and denied that he was trying to flee. He denied all ties to the suitcase and claimed that he was there because he went down to buy bread and milk. He refused at first to provide his identification number but was persuaded to do so. A check at the Criminal Record Database made it clear that he had a few previous convictions, most of them drug offenses.

  Avraham said to him, “We’ll reveal the evidence when we decide to. In the meantime, tell me what you did this morning on Lavon Street,” and Uzan replied, “What anybody does. I went out to get some fresh air.”

  “You told the police officer that you went to buy milk and bread. I see that you’ve changed your story.”

  “What’d I say? I didn’t change my story. I went out to get some fresh air and to buy milk, too.”

  “You went to Lavon to shop at a convenience store? That’s quite far from where you live.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I have to answer you? I can buy wherever I want, no?”

  “You don’t have to answer. I’m writing that you’re not willing to explain what you did on Lavon Street.”

  Unlike in the previous interrogation, a suspect sat before him who knew police interrogation rooms well. When he was asked questions whose answers were liable to trip him up he didn’t respond immediately but instead paused until he found the right answer. He said, “I went there because I owe money at the store in my neighborhood. Does that explain it?”

  “And why did you stop to watch the bomb squad?”

  “Do you know how many people were standing there? There was a suspicious object, I stopped to see what it was.”

  “And you fled when the officer asked you to identify yourself.”

  “I didn’t flee—I already explained that to her. I decided right then to go and I didn’t hear her call me. Suddenly two cops jump on me and tell me that I’m fleeing.”

  “So you didn’t flee?”

  “Does it look like I fled? Believe me, if I had fled, no cop would have caught me.”

  Something in Uzan’s answer puzzled Avraham, and he opened the arrest report and immediately understood what it was. He looked up and observed the room, as if measuring its size. Two fluorescent lights were lit on the ceiling. In the picture in the police database, Uzan’s face was smooth, but since being photographed he had grown a tiny mustache, Charlie Chaplin–ish, which, in contrast to his nails, looked quite well groomed. “And where is the milk and the bread?” asked Avraham, and Uzan said, “What?”

  “Where is the milk and the bread you bought?”

  “I didn’t get to buy anything. The road was closed off.”

  Avraham smiled. “I see. So you must be quite hungry. And what exactly is your connection with the daycare?” he asked, and Uzan groaned. “I don’t have nothing to do with no daycare. Thank God I don’t have kids.”

  “So why did you place a suitcase bomb there?”

  “You’re totally crazy. I’m telling you, I didn’t place any suitcase bomb. You all got sunstroke?”

  The excitement was gone. As well as the fear that had accompanied Avraham into the room. He was in the right place. He was back to himself, to his role, to the thing that he did better than anything else. If Uzan knew that there was a fake bomb in the suitcase, he hadn’t fallen into a trap. Avraham suggested he get himself a cup of water from the watercooler at the other end of the room, next to the door, and Uzan said, “I’m not thirsty.”

  “You’d better drink. We’re going to spend a few more hours here and it’s important that you drink, otherwise you’ll get dehydrated. Go drink.”

  He waited.

  Uzan got up from his chair and went to the watercooler. On his way he passed by Avraham, and after pouring cold water into a clear plastic cup for himself, he passed by him again on his way back. His steps were light and springy. According to the testimony of the neighbor, the suspect who placed the suitcase next to the daycare left the place walking slowly, and with a limp, she thought. Whereas the cop who made the arrest reported that Uzan took off at a fast run when she asked him to identify himself. And he wasn’t limping now, either.

  Avraham had no more than a few hours before he would have to decide whether or not to bring Uzan to the court to extend his detention, and it was already clear to him this wouldn’t happen.

  The time was 2:30. Uzan had nothing more to say, and by evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest, he would be free to go home. And Avraham still didn’t know if he’d be releasing an innocent man who went out early in the morning to breathe some fresh air and buy a liter of milk and a loaf of bread, and was arrested due to a beat cop’s incorrect gut feeling, or if he’d be releasing the man who this morning placed on the path leading to a daycare an old suitcase in which was a demolition charge that clearly wasn’t intended to go off. He said, “We have testimony that whoever placed the suitcase wore a hood, and you’re wearing a sweatshirt with a hood. It’s strange that a man would wear a sweatshirt with a hood in this heat, don’t you think?” And Uzan erupted, shouting, “Tell me, who are you, anyway? What do you care what I’m wearing? I was chilly this morning. And what about you? What kind of cop dresses like that?”

  Instead of a uniform Avraham wore white pants that ended above his ankles and a new peach-colored shirt. But that was because, officially, he was still a policeman on leave.

  HE’D RETURNED TO ISRAEL A FEW days before this, at the beginning of September.

  He had a few more days of vacation remaining, until after Rosh Hashanah, and he devoted them to preparing the apartment for Marianka’s arrival. In the early-morning hours, a bit after sunrise, he went to the beach in Tel Aviv, dipped his feet in the water, and smoked his first cigarette, facing the soft waves. The wat
er was warm. When he was in Brussels the sea had aroused in him an incomprehensible longing. Outside, a late-summer heat wave prevailed, unbearable, but inside him was a lightness he didn’t recognize. He wore thin, airy shirts in colors he hadn’t imagined he’d ever wear. Marianka said that he looked terrific in them. They planned to organize the apartment together after her arrival, to purchase appliances that were lacking, to repaint the walls and add livelier colors, maybe even renovate the bathroom and kitchen, but he wanted to get an early start on a few changes. Mainly he threw away old items. Blackened pots and cracked plates from the kitchen, faded linens, towels worn out from use. He stuffed clothes he’d never wear again in plastic bags and cleared out shelves in the bedroom closet.

  When he entered the station house this morning David Ezra rose from his spot behind the duty officer’s desk and hugged him. “That’s it? You’re finally back?” he asked, and Avraham said, “Not yet. I just came for a meeting with the new commander. Have you met him yet? How is he?”

  Ezra winked for a reason Avraham didn’t understand and said, “Decide for yourself.”

  He went from room to room, knocked on half-open doors, answered predictable questions about his vacation and Marianka. He was happy to see most people, and they were happy to see him. When he turned on the light in his office he was surprised to see again just how small the room was. But its compactness was pleasant and reassuring, and the fact that it had no window gave him a sense of security. The walls were empty and close by. Three years now he’d wanted to hang a picture on one of them but didn’t know which, and now he had a reproduction of a colorful painting loaded with details that made an impression on him when he’d taken refuge with Marianka in the Museum of Modern Art on one of the rainy summer days.

  The computer was off and he switched it on.

  There was dust on everything. A gray layer on the desk and on the shelves and on the black desk lamp. How does dust get into a room without a window? In the garbage can were bits of a brown envelope and a few crumpled pieces of paper he didn’t remember throwing out.