“Tell them you’ve had a change of heart. Tell them your country needs you.”
Navot nibbled thoughtfully at the rice treats, one by one. It was, thought Gabriel, an encouraging sign.
“Has the prime minister approved it?”
“He didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Where will my office be?”
“Across the hall from mine.”
“Secretary?”
“We’ll share Orit.”
“The minute you try to cut me out of something,” warned Navot, “I walk. I get to talk to you whenever and wherever I please.”
“You’ll be sick of me in no time.”
“That much I believe.”
The rice treats were gone. Navot exhaled heavily.
“What’s wrong, Uzi?”
“I’m just wondering how I’m going to tell Bella that I’ve turned down a million-dollar-a-year job in California to stay at the Office.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Gabriel. “You’ve always been good with people.”
78
JERUSALEM
WHEN GABRIEL RETURNED TO Narkiss Street, he found Chiara dressed in a dark professional pantsuit and the children strapped into their carry seats. Together, they made the short drive across West Jerusalem to the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital. In the old days, before his remarriage, before his unwanted celebrity, Gabriel had slipped in and out of the facility unnoticed, usually late at night. Now he arrived with all the subtlety of a visiting head of state, a circle of bodyguards protecting him, Raphael wriggling in his grasp. Chiara walked silently at his side, Irene in her arms, her heels clattering over the paving stones of the forecourt. He did not envy her this moment. He took her hand and squeezed it tightly while Raphael tugged at his earlobe.
In the lobby waited a rotund, rabbinical-looking doctor in his late fifties. He had approved of the visit—in fact, Gabriel reminded himself, it was the doctor who had suggested it in the first place. Now he didn’t seem so certain it was a good idea.
“How much does she know?” asked Gabriel as his son reached for the doctor’s spectacles.
“I told her that she’s going to have visitors. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged his rounded shoulders. “I thought it would be best if you were the one who explained it to her.”
Gabriel handed Raphael to Chiara and followed the doctor along a corridor of Jerusalem limestone, to the doorway of a common room. It was empty of patients except for one. She sat in her wheelchair with the stillness of a figure in a painting while behind her a television flickered silently. On the screen Gabriel briefly glimpsed his own face. It was a still photo, snapped a thousand years ago, after his return from Operation Wrath of God. He might have looked like a kid were it not for the gray hair at his temples. The smudges of ash on the prince of fire . . .
“Mazel tov,” said the doctor.
“Condolences are more appropriate,” answered Gabriel.
“These are challenging times, but I’m sure you can handle it. And remember, if you ever need someone to talk to”—he patted Gabriel’s shoulder—“I’m always available.”
Gabriel’s face vanished from the screen. He looked at Leah. She had not moved or even blinked. Woman in a Wheelchair, oil on canvas, by Tariq al-Hourani.
“Do you have any advice for me?”
“Be honest with her. She doesn’t like it when you try to mislead her.”
“What if it’s too painful?”
“It will be. But she won’t remember it for long.”
With a nudge, the doctor cast Gabriel adrift. Slowly, he crossed the common room and sat down in the chair that had been placed at Leah’s side. Her hair, once long and wild like Chiara’s, was now institutionally short. Her hands were twisted and white with scar tissue. They were like patches of bare canvas. Gabriel longed to repair them, but could not. Leah was beyond restoration. He kissed her cheek softly and waited for her to become aware of his presence.
“Look at the snow, Gabriel,” she said at once. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Gabriel looked out the window, where a bright sun shone upon the stone pine of the hospital’s garden.
“Yes, Leah,” he said absently as his vision blurred with tears. “It’s beautiful.”
“The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. The snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain down on Tel Aviv.”
Gabriel squeezed Leah’s hand. The words were among the last she had spoken the night of the bombing in Vienna. She suffered from a particularly acute combination of psychotic depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. At times, she experienced moments of lucidity, but for the most part she remained a prisoner of the past. Vienna played ceaselessly in her mind like a loop of videotape that she was unable to pause: the last meal they shared together, their last kiss, the fire that killed their only child and burned the flesh from Leah’s body. Her life had shrunk to five minutes, and she had been reliving it, over and over again, for more than twenty years.
“I saw you on television,” she said, suddenly lucid. “It seems you’re not dead after all.”
“No, Leah. It was just something we had to say.”
“For your work?”
He nodded.
“And now they say you’re going to become the chief.”
“Soon.”
“I thought Ari was the chief.”
“Not for many years.”
“How many?”
He didn’t answer. It was too depressing to think about.
“He’s well?” asked Leah.
“Ari?”
“Yes.”
“He has good days and bad days.”
“Like me,” said Leah.
Her expression darkened. The memories were welling. Somehow, she fought them off.
“I can’t quite believe you’re actually going to be the memuneh.”
It was an old word that meant “the one in charge.” There hadn’t been a true memuneh since Shamron.
“Neither can I,” admitted Gabriel.
“Aren’t you a little young to be the memuneh? After all, you’re only—”
“I’m older now, Leah. We both are.”
“You look exactly as I remember you.”
“Look closely, Leah. You can see the lines and the gray hair.”
“Thanks to Ari, you always had gray hair. Me, too.” She gazed out the window. “It looks like winter.”
“It is.”
“What year is it?”
He told her.
“How old are your children?”
“Tomorrow is their first birthday.”
“Will there be a party?”
“At the Shamrons’ house in Tiberias. But they’re here now, if you feel up to seeing them.”
Her face brightened. “What are their names?”
He had told her several times. Now he told her again.
“But Irene is your mother’s name,” she protested.
“My mother died a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. Sometimes I—”
“It’s not important.”
“Bring them to me,” she said, smiling. “I want to see them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, of course.”
Gabriel rose and went into the foyer.
“Well?” asked Chiara and the doctor simultaneously.
“She says she wants to see them.”
“How should we do it?” asked Chiara.
“One at a time,” suggested the doctor. “Otherwise, it might be overwhelming.”