The Man Who Wanted to Know Everything Read online

  Was there some other way to reach him that Mali hadn’t found? She could have told him about the pregnancy as she had planned, but she didn’t want to talk about it like this.

  “I spoke to Aviva today. She said her brother might have something for you. Do you remember him? He started importing electric bikes.”

  Kobi said, “I’m not looking for work anymore,” and Mali fell silent.

  Did the late-night newscast on TV start then? She remembered the news very well. Homes and streets were flooded and there were power outages across the country. Kobi got up from the sofa and sat down on the leather stool near the screen, as if her presence next to him was disturbing, and she, too, got up and left. When she returned to the living room he was watching a newscast on a different channel. On the TV screen two medical personnel assisted by a policeman could be seen rolling a stretcher with a sheet-covered body on it.

  “Where is it?” she asked him.

  He inhaled as if it was difficult to breathe, because he hadn’t noticed her approaching from behind. The sheet-covered body was put inside an ambulance next to which stood two policemen wrapped in raincoats.

  “Was that here? In Holon?” she asked, and he said, “Yes, on the other side of town.”

  “And did they say who that is?”

  The report was nearing its end and she didn’t manage to hear if the murderer had been caught or if the cause of death was known, but she could tell that a woman lay under the white sheet. “Can you turn that off? It scares me and I want us to talk,” she said quietly, and despite everything touched him on the shoulder. She didn’t give up that night, because in moments like this, one couldn’t give up. She went to their bedroom and returned with the umbrella, which was still lying on the bed. She said to him, “Didn’t you see what I bought you?”

  But the umbrella didn’t make him happy. Perhaps even the opposite. When he removed the wrapping paper he looked at it uneasily. “To replace the one you lost,” she said. “And it’s not as expensive as it looks.”

  He put the umbrella on the floor without thanking her, and it was this of all things that put her over the edge. “Are you seriously set on celebrating our anniversary like this?” she asked, and when he got up she almost screamed at him, “Kobi, do you hear me at all? Do you hear that I’m talking to you? It’s Mali from class. The war started.” He turned to her and his eyes lit up and it was then that she must have understood that something terrible had happened.

  The two of them were around sixteen years old when they met. The year was 1991. January. Ten years before they got married.

  This was their first conversation, or at least the first they remembered, and sometimes, mainly when they fought, she would use it in order to pull him out of his silence.

  Mail’s father woke her at two in the morning and told her that George Bush was bombing Baghdad, and she got dressed quickly and called Kobi and said, “Kobi? It’s Mali from class. The war started,” and he answered her in a sleepy voice and with the foreign accent he still had back then, “Now? In the middle of the night?”

  During the last few years she tried to imagine herself and him at that age without looking at old pictures but couldn’t. Kobi was skinnier then, and his body was soft, like the body of a boy. His chest and back were so smooth that she could caress him for hours. Mali knew nothing about him other than that he came from a city called Perth without his parents and lived with his mother’s relatives in Holon. He was an excellent basketball player and was exempted from English, because he spoke much better than the teacher and corrected her mistakes to the amusement of the students until she asked that he not come to class. There were rumors that his mother killed herself in Australia but afterward she learned that this was entirely untrue. Most of the boys in their grade feared this boy who came from Australia with jeans and Nikes and clear blue eyes that no one else had back then, so they made up stories about him. On the first day of school, when he introduced himself in homeroom, he said that he immigrated to Israel in order to volunteer for an elite unit.

  And it was completely by chance that they met each other. A matter of fate or luck, like so many things that would happen afterward.

  She didn’t think he could be interested in her because no one else was interested then. Her body was too long and thin, she didn’t get great grades, and she wasn’t audacious or daring, either. She had been the school champion in sprinting and long-distance running for three years, but this wasn’t something that drew the attention of the boys. But her last name was Ben-Asher, and Bengtson, Kobi was the next name on the class contact list, and so she was supposed to call him in the event of a war breaking out. Three hours after the phone call, at five thirty in the morning, she and her father came by in the old Subaru pickup to give him a ride to the hospital. He waited for them downstairs, a Discman in his hand and white headphones on his ears.

  She was embarrassed by the truck, whose upholstery gave off the smell of sewage pipes, and maybe by her father, too, who didn’t know English but nevertheless tried to talk with Kobi on the way.

  “What will you do there?” her father asked, and she explained to him that they’d spray water out of thick hoses onto those injured by the chemical weapons that Saddam Hussein would launch in the direction of Tel Aviv. And before he dropped them off across from the hospital he asked Kobi to keep her safe.

  That was their first meeting, and who could have guessed then that years later they all would stand together under the chuppah?

  A week after this, Kobi came to their house and she was beside herself with excitement and embarrassment. Her father was late returning from synagogue and while they were waiting for him her mother also tried speaking with Kobi in broken English. Gila was already fleeing from dinner on Friday nights, and this was a relief because Mali had no doubt that if they were to meet, Kobi would fall in love with her twin sister, who a year earlier left school and was already making money at work. Afterward a siren went off, which of course happened when they were finally alone in her room, and they were forced to close themselves up with everyone else in the sealed room, which was her parents’ cramped bedroom. She was filled with shame because her father’s underwear was lying all over the floor.

  The first time they slept together was also on a Friday night, a few months later.

  Her parents took a trip to visit relatives in Tiberias, and she invited Kobi to sleep over, even though her father didn’t allow it. Mali didn’t make a sound while they were doing it because she knew that Gila was listening to them through the wall, and she was indeed waiting for her by the door when Mali came out to wash her legs, still stunned by what had happened.

  Mali continued waiting for him in their bedroom, but Kobi didn’t come. And since Eilat he never let her go to sleep alone, not even when they fought. She lay in their bed and for a moment was able to see the boy with the headphones on his ears who waited for her and her father in the dark, his hands in his pockets. And perhaps that’s why, at one in the morning, she tried one last time.

  She went up to the roof and found him sitting on the white plastic chair in total darkness. This was her chance to tell him about the pregnancy, but she didn’t. Something smothered and wild about his look and his sitting there in the cold frightened her. She caressed his head and his chest over the black polo shirt he was wearing. She whispered to him, “Don’t leave me alone in bed, Kobi. Please,” and also gave him every sign that if he came to bed they’d have sex. There was a deep cut on his neck that night, but he always returned from boxing with injuries.

  When she passed through the utility room on the way downstairs she saw the gun, which hadn’t been there that afternoon. She tried to fall asleep and placed her hands on her stomach, but then the face of the girl who sold her the umbrella at the mall suddenly appeared inside her, and was immediately replaced by the covered body they saw before on TV. She opened her eyes with panic. The next image was the one she tried so hard to forget: the heavy hand coming toward her out of th
e darkness and crushing her throat.

  2

  Avraham identified the body immediately but didn’t say so since he thought it best for as few people as possible to know, and also because of the silence. There were two patrolmen and some medical personnel standing in the kitchen and waiting for instructions. One female officer stood by the entrance. And everyone who walked or spoke did so on the tips of their toes and in a whisper, as if to not wake the woman who lay on the rug in the living room.

  One of the patrolmen pointed at her when Avraham entered, but he had already noticed her. She lay on her back, and only her right eye was open. On the rug under her were images of colorful birds. And perhaps he didn’t tell anyone that he knew who she was during those first hours because of the shock he felt in the presence of her body. Ever since he had been appointed commander of the district’s investigations and intelligence branches, Avraham knew that his first murder case would come, and yet when it began he wasn’t certain he was ready.

  The evening prior to this it was announced on the news that the storm would start in the morning hours, and when Avraham woke up, heavy rain could already be heard. He called the station and informed the investigations coordinator, Lital Levy, that he was taking a day off. Anyway, he was supposed to participate in an unnecessary training session on cybercrime at national headquarters. He made black coffee and brought the mugs to bed and he and Marianka stayed under the blanket in bed all morning, watching four episodes of The Bridge on his laptop.

  Avraham’s eyes again closed.

  His father entered the room, placed his hand on his forehead and declared that he could stay in bed instead of going to school. When the door slammed behind his parents, warm pleasure spread over his body because he understood that he was staying home alone. Should he get up right away? Grab another moment under the blanket? They wouldn’t be returning until the evening and he would have time to wander around the apartment like it was all his. Make himself a giant breakfast.

  Marianka shook him gently when she heard from his breathing that he was asleep, and every time he opened his eyes the detectives on the screen discovered another body. He asked, “What, they already have another murder?” and Marianka stroked his forehead. He had no chance of figuring out who the murderer was before that strange Danish detective Sonya Cross did, not that he cared.

  That afternoon they took the car and drove to Tel Aviv. Avraham wrapped himself up in his ugly blue army parka that he last wore during the district’s organized trip to Mount Hermon in winter 2007, and Marianka wore the wool jacket she brought with her from Brussels. They parked in an almost empty lot by the beach and took advantage of a lull in the rain to sit on a wet bench facing the sea, which crashed on the rocks in front of them. No one else was on the boardwalk other than an Arab couple with a baby. And Avraham’s phone didn’t ring.

  Most of the police in the district were busy clearing the roads clogged up with rain or evacuating flooded buildings or dealing with traffic accidents. This is what he, too, did on days like this during his first years with the police. Now he was commander of Investigations and Intelligence, thanks to solving an assault case that occurred not far from their spot on the boardwalk and to those two boys he saved from death. There wasn’t a chance he’d be required to stand at some intersection in the pouring rain and direct traffic in place of the light that had collapsed.

  When the rain started up again they took cover in the Dolphinarium and afterward had rice-and-bean soup in the market. And Marianka didn’t speak longingly of the winters in her hometown in Slovenia, or in Brussels. When Avraham’s phone rang for the first time, a little after four thirty, he didn’t answer, and only when it rang for the third time did he realize it may be urgent. And maybe because he hadn’t expected what he’d hear, he didn’t remember what exact words Lital Levy used to inform him of what happened. Did she tell him there had been a murder? Or only that a woman’s body had been found in her home? Lital didn’t mention the victim’s name on the phone, because if she had mentioned it, Avraham would have remembered immediately and wouldn’t have been dumbfounded when he discovered her face at the scene.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, and Levy said, “No one. Just the patrolmen who closed off the scene. And Forensics is on their way but everything’s jammed up and it’ll take them some time. Can you go?”

  “It’ll take me a half hour. If Ma’alul or Shrapstein come back, send one of them as well.”

  Only when they finished the call did he realize that she didn’t give him the address, and he called her back but the line was already busy.

  Marianka suggested that he drop her off near the scene and that from there she’d take a cab, but he insisted on taking her home. They drove quickly and in silence. When they reached downtown everything still looked real and unreal at the same time, like it always does during a storm. Trees had fallen on the sidewalks and the streets were dotted with pools of water in which the evening lights flickered, as if Holon had transformed into Amsterdam or Venice. Avraham suddenly recalled that the first Maigret novel he read took place from beginning to end in a rainstorm and that the clothes and shoes of the large French inspector were completely soaked throughout. Was that a murder case? And would he know how to investigate a person’s death? He couldn’t remember how that fictional case had ended, but he did remember that he read the book when he was nineteen, one Saturday, when he remained at the base while taking an interrogation course in the army.

  On Sokolov Street people walked bent over forward as they struggled with the wind, and he drove in a car with a steamed-up windshield, as if he were cutting through a cloud of fog. For a moment it seemed to him that he was still lying in bed and watching himself in a television series.

  What already disturbed him then was that the murder occurred in one of the calmest neighborhoods of Holon, where there were burglaries and stolen vehicles but almost no violent crimes. And worst of all was that Lital Levy didn’t mention anyone who had been arrested at the time of the incident or any suspect who had escaped.

  Two empty patrol cars and an ambulance were parked in front of 38 Krause Street, and curious onlookers were gathered on the sidewalk behind police tape. Renovations were under way in the building on the corner of the street, and in front of the building next to it sat a Dumpster for the disposal of building refuse. The entrance to the building was closed, and Avraham stood in front of it waiting for them to let him in and afterward simply pushed on the doorknob. He had time to prepare himself for what he was going to see, since the building had no elevator and the apartment was on the top floor.

  The woman lying on the rug was named Leah Yeger. She looked just over sixty. Her right eye, the open one, was green but there was nothing to be seen by looking at it.

  Avraham searched the pocket of his coat for his notepad, because he needed to write down his first impressions, but the notepad wasn’t there and in its place he found a receipt for two cups of black coffee and a pretzel that he had bought at a snack bar back on Mount Hermon in 2007. That didn’t matter, because he remembered without writing and he didn’t miss a thing. He asked that everyone leave the apartment except for one patrolman and the paramedic who determined the time of death. His shoes were covered in plastic bags and there were gloves on his hands. And no one was allowed to approach the living room until the forensics technicians arrived.

  In the meantime he saw everything. He saw the hand marks on her neck and also the red ends of her ears and the swollen tongue, hanging sideways out of her mouth. She laid on the rug, among blue, red, and yellow birds, some of which held their beaks open as if they were trying to call for help. His eyes slipped away from the body and were drawn to the half-filled mug of coffee and the tray of biscuits on the table in the kitchen. And to the car keys that were in a bowl on the sideboard. The television was on with no sound.

  Avraham took off his coat and placed it folded up on the floor just outside the entrance.

  There was no doubt that the liv
ing room was the scene of the murder: a picture with a drawing of two women sitting in a yellow field had fallen off the wall, presumably during the struggle with the murderer, and next to it, on the rug, was a broken lamp. The patrolman who remained in the apartment, an officer whose face Avraham recognized but whose name he didn’t know, said, “Luckily there wasn’t a fire,” and Avraham suddenly remembered that he hadn’t asked him who found Yeger. And only then did he discover that her daughter was still in the bedroom.

  “She’s here now? By herself?” he asked.

  “Not by herself. There’s an officer and a paramedic with her.”

  Once, at times like this, he would have gone down to the street and smoked a cigarette in order to think and buy some time and perhaps call Ilana Lis, his old boss and former commander of investigations. But at the beginning of winter he quit smoking, because Marianka begged him to and because his fortieth birthday was approaching. Only occasionally did he still try lighting the pipe Marianka bought him in Brussels, but now the pipe was at the office. And he could not call Ilana Lis. So he returned to the kitchen and found a sheet of paper and a pen and nevertheless wrote down a few words the paramedic said about what was already clear to Avraham because he saw it himself: Yeger apparently died from strangulation. After a struggle. The temperature of her body indicated that until approximately two or three hours earlier she had still been alive.

  Her hands were closed. When they’d open them at the Institute of Pathology perhaps they’d find something between her fingers, he hoped, other than the slit marks left by her fingernails in her palms, when she clutched them, and perhaps a few slices of skin that she peeled off her own neck when she tried to free herself from the hands choking her. This was, then, his biggest hope.

  And though he hadn’t yet expressed it to himself in words this way, he did already feel that something was off about the scene. Too clean perhaps? As if someone straightened up the scene after the murder? Or maybe before? And he also felt that something else had been taken from the flat, other than her purse and keys.