The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"Monsters," said Shoshi, and went to her room. Dayan trotted after her.

Daniel walked through the dining area into the kitchen, where he placed the groceries on the counter. Pots simmered and hissed on the stove; a chicken baked in the oven. From the adjoining service porch came the whine and rumble of the washing machine. The room was hot, the air steamy and heavy with spices.

Laura stood at the sink with her back to him, the running water and kitchen noises obscuring the sound of his entry. She wore paint-stained jeans and a dark green T-shirt. Her soft blond hair had been pinned up but several wavy strands had come loose and created a lacy aura around her neck. He said shalom softly, so as not to frighten her, and when she turned around, took her in his arms.

"Hello, detective." She smiled. Drying her hands on her pants, she stood on tiptoes, held his face, and raised her own for a kiss. It began chastely enough, then deepened, and for a moment Daniel lost himself in it. Then she pulled away and said, "I sent Shoshi over to Lieberman's. Did you see her?"

"I got there first." He pointed to the bag. "Picked her up along the way. She's in her room, with the dog."

"Have you eaten at all today?" she asked.

"Business lunch."

"The same business that got you out of bed?"

"The same."

"Would you like a little something before dinner?"

"No, thanks. I'll wait for Kiddush."

"Drink something," she said, and went to the refrigerator.

He unbuttoned his shirt and sat down at the kitchen table. Laura fixed a glass of iced coffee and brought it to him. She filled a half a cup for herself and stood next to him sipping, with her hand on his shoulder. He swallowed a mouthful, closed his eyes, and exhaled. The coldness and sweetness of the coffee made his palate ache pleas-urably.

Her hand took flight. He opened his eyes and saw her step away, adjust the dials on the stove, peer under the lid of a pot, swab her forehead with a paper towel. Without makeup she looked like a young girl, the fair skin heat-flushed and moist, the blue eyes open and curious. Returning to his side, she kissed the top of his head, took his bad hand, massaged the knuckles absently.

"When Lieberman called and said you hadn't made it over, I knew you'd had a wonderful day."

He nodded, finished the coffee, and asked, "How much time do I have until Shabbat?"

"Half an hour." She unbuttoned his cuffs, pulled his shirt off, and put it over a chair. "Go shower and shave. The boys were playing submarine in the bath but I've cleaned it up for you."

He stood, gave her hand a squeeze, left the kitchen, and walked back into the living room, stepping over an obstacle course of toys and books. As he passed the glass doors leading to the balcony he caught a glimpse of sunset: feathery streaks of coral and blue-the colors of a sailor's tattoo-sectioning the sky like layer cake. Detouring, he walked out on the balcony, placed his hands on the railing, and looked eastward.

An Arab boy herded a flock of goats through the open field that separated the building from Liberty Bell Park. Daniel watched the animals step nimbly through the weeds and rocks, then cast his gaze outward, past the artist apartments of Yemin Moshe and across Hinnom. Toward the Old City perched on its ridge-towers, ramparts, and parapets, like something out of a storybook.

His birthplace.

Behind him, the sun dropped and the ancient stone surfaces of the city within a city seemed to recede, dreamlike, into the Judean dusk. Then, all at once, electric lights came on, illuminating the crenellated walls. Spotlighting frieze and fissure, drawing forth the outlines of domes, turrets, and spires in brazen auric relief.

As if on cue, the surrounding villages began twinkling like nests of fireflies and he became conscious of encroaching darkness, aware that he was far from ready for Shabbat. He allowed himself a few more seconds of indulgence, closing his eyes and tuning in the smells and sounds of the city below. Petrol and chicken soup. Laughter and playground shouts rising from Liberty Bell Park. A hum of traffic from the King David intersection. The air, warm and sweet, bathed in a piney fragrance borne on puffs of desert breeze.

He breathed it all in, felt serene, then started thinking about the dead girl and was gripped with tension. When he opened his eyes, all was chaos. Lights and colors, shadows and secrets, the boundaries blurred, everything stirred up like some crazy broth.

Feeling overwhelmed and impotent, he quickly left the balcony, went to the bathroom, and stripped himself naked.

Standing under the needle spray of the shower, the water slapping him full-face, so hot he could barely stand it, he lathered himself and scrubbed his skin until it hurt.

Wondering who'd washed her, transformed her to a bloodless shell, like some horrible molt.

What kind of monster killed and then scrubbed up afterward, as if the victim were a dirty dish to be scoured and cast aside. As if the filth of the crime could ever be erased.

What kind of mind could celebrate such butchery?

He stepped out of the shower, clean but not cleansed.

He took all three children to the synagogue in the building, prayed with as much concentration as he could muster, and returned home to quiet order-Laura in a midnight-blue velvet gown, her hair covered by a white silk kerchief, curled on the couch with Dayan on her lap, turning the pages of an art book. The wine poured, the table set with white linen and Shabbat silver, the room dancing with the orange flicker of candlelight.

The five of them went to the table and sang "Shalom Aleichem," the poem that welcomed the Sabbath angels. Then he took Laura's hand and chanted "Woman of Valor" in a ancient Yemenite melody. After they'd embraced, he blessed the children, placing his hand on each of their heads, lingering on the words a little longer than usual.

In another part of the city, a ceremony of a different type unfolded. A consecration of the knives, as the grinning man liked to think of it. He'd played memory games and masturbated three times, which had relaxed him physiologically, though it hadn't slowed down the freight train that roared through the tunnels in his head.

How cozy, he thought, grinning, pushing past the roar. Domestic, yet self-sufficient. Soft music, a sandwich, a beer, his favorite reading material on the nightstand. The semen-soaked tissues, pleasantly ammoniac, crumpled in the waste-basket. And his little beauties, resting peacefully in their cozy velvet bed.

Carefully, tenderly, he unlatched the case, opened the lid. Stared at each of them. Lovingly.

Beauties.

Removing the smallest scalpel, he turned it in his fingers, thrilling at the buttery smoothness of the handle, the cold, sweet sting of the blade. Touching the cutting edge to one knuckle, barely grazing the skin, watching as a droplet of blood arose painlessly, then filled the knuckle-lines before flowing ticklishly down his finger. Lowering his tongue to the wound and drinking himself. Sperm out, blood in. Efficient. Self-sufficient.

He looked in the mirror above the bureau. Picked up the earrings and stared at them-cheap shit, but precious to him. He shuddered, put them down, took the scalpel and drew the blade across his throat, a millimeter short of contact. Pretending. A lovely pantomime. Feeling his erection return. Touching the handle of the scalpel to his cock, probing his balls, twiddling the short hairs around his anus.

"Little Dancer," he said, out loud, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice. Dry mouth. Another beer would taste good. In a minute.

He looked at the knife again, kissed the blunt edge. Laid it on his thigh and shivered.

Little Dancer. How it loved to waltz lightly on ballroom floors of flesh, tracing its progress in frothy scarlet. Dipping deeper and uncovering the mysteries within. Dance and skip, slice and delve.

Real science, the ultimate blend of real science and art.

Last night's dance party had gone well, so clean, so orderly.

A lovely affair. Lovely.

Nahum Shmeltzer walked unnoticed through the lobby of the King Solomon Sheraton, made his way through a gaggle of tourists, and went down the stairs, past the Japanese restaurant and into the American one. Blond oak, dark-green upholstery and mirrored panels, plastic-coated menus, glass cases holding fake antiquities. Cute. The woman liked American food.

As usual, he was early and he expected to wait for her. But she'd arrived already and was sitting in a booth in a mirrored alcove, reading the menu-though she probably knew it by heart-a cup of coffee at her fingertips.

She saw him and waved. Smiling prettily.

Not bad for someone her age.

Though he knew the smile was contrived, he enjoyed looking at her. A lot more pleasant than the two hours of paperwork to get the sex offender programs run.

A hostess offered to seat him. He told her he was joining madame and walked to the booth. She greeted him with obvious warmth, held out a fine-boned hand, and said it had been a long time since they had seen each other.

"Too long," said Shmeltzer. "Must be three or four months." Three months since the last liaison. Ten months since that night in Eilat.

"Exactly. Please sit, dear."

A waiter came. Blond with a Yankee accent. Handed him a menu, took his order for hot tea with lemon, and left.

"You look well," Shmeltzer told her, meaning it, though it was part of the speech. She'd tinted her hair a dark chestnut-brown, but had allowed a few gray strands to remain. Her tailored suit was beige linen and the topaz brooch on her lapel set off the brown specks in her eyes. She'd applied her makeup effectively-softening the wrinkles instead of trying to mask them.

All in all, a classy production. Terrific bone structure. The kind who'd look right at home in the fancy places in any major city. He'd heard stories: that she'd been widowed in '56, worked the black-tie-and-Beretta circuit overseas, from London to Buenos Aires, then New York for a long time. That she'd made a fortune on the American stock market. That she'd been involved in the Eichmann capture. That she'd used her own kids as cover. No way to know how much was true, how much was bullshit. Now Shin Bet had her and she stayed close to home, though Shmeltzer still had no idea where her real home was. He'd looked through the files once, trying to find her, wanting a follow-up to Eilat. No address, no number. Nobody by that name, adoni.

She smiled, folded her hands in front of her, and Shmeltzer imagined the kind of assignments she was pulling now: society matron nibbling canapes at consulate parties. Doting grandma on a park bench, feeding sweets to her aineklach, diapers sharing space with the 9 mm in her purse. Rich tourist lady lounging in the hotel suite adjoining that of a certain visiting dignitary, stethoscope to the wall, fancy machines whirling and humming. No paperwork-or garbage-bin stakeouts for her.

Too rich for his blood. Eilat had been a fluke, post-assignment tension release.

He looked around the restaurant. Across the room sat a group of American college kids. Three females, two males. Hebrew U., probably. Escaping dormitory cooking for a night out on the town. Nine-dollar hamburgers and Coca-Cola.

A young couple with two small children sat at the far end. The husband looked like a professor, bearded, with glasses; the wife, small, ginger-haired, a real looker. The kids were boys, one about six, the other younger. They drank milk, laughed, punched each other. He picked up scraps of conversation. American-accented English. All of them in brightly colored shorts and polo shirts. Probably exactly what they looked to be, though you could never be sure.