Despite acquiescing to his demand not to speak with his brothers and father, I did get some information regarding them. His father was old, past seventy, and the leader of his clan and village. A strict man who believed in the traditional ways, who thought sons and especially daughters should know their place and obey their elders. There had been five older brothers. One had died during the Arab revolt against the British in 1937. Another had been killed in battle against Jewish forces in 1948. A third had joined a paramilitary group in Lebanon, promising when he left to return triumphant and expel all the Jews from Israel, and had not been heard of since.
"My two remaining brothers and I also fought against you," he told me, pride and defiance edging his voice. "I got this"—he gestured to his scar—"fighting up north. Did you fight in the war, Mr. Lapid?"
"Yes."
"In the north?"
"No. I fought in Jerusalem and in the Negev, for the most part."
"So we didn't fight one another."
Yes, we did, I thought. Whether you and I faced each other across a specific battlefield or not was not important. We were enemies, and perhaps we would be again in the future. None of that mattered to me. A woman was dead and her murderer was out there somewhere. And I had received money to find him. Anything else was extraneous and unimportant.
I looked him over, this gentle-seeming man. Even with the scar on his cheek, he did not look like a soldier. But, I reminded myself, I had met many such men, and many of them turned out to be excellent soldiers. War had the ability to shape men to fit the mold of a fighter.
I asked, "At no point during the eight months since she ran away did Maryam attempt to contact you?"
He shook his head.
"Is it possible that Maryam remained in contact with anyone in your village? One of the women, perhaps?"
"Not that I know. I don't think she did. We're a small village, Mr. Lapid, an extended family in a way. I would have heard something."
I tapped my pen on my notebook, thinking that I wouldn't be able to speak with any of the women either. Their husbands and fathers wouldn't allow it, even if Ahmed Jamalka did.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I asked, guessing that there wasn't.
He confirmed my guess with a shake of his head.
I scratched between my eyes. He had given me very little. Next to nothing, really, and his restrictions might hamper my investigation. But that was all right. He had paid for my services; he had the right to give me directions.
We exchanged telephone numbers where we could leave messages to each other, and I said I would give him a progress report in a week, or sooner if I learned something important before that.
I flipped the notebook closed and stared at him. He stared right back at me. I said, "There is a chance that you're wrong, you know. About your brothers, I mean."
He said nothing.
"What happens if, without speaking to your brothers, I discover that they killed your sister?"
He let out a long breath, and his hand went to his scar in what I perceived to be an involuntary motion.
"Then I have made a big mistake coming to you," he said finally, in a voice that was small yet resolute.
There was no more to say. I nodded. "All right, I'll get to it."
He got to his feet, glancing at the chessboard.
"Take the black bishop with the white queen. It's mate in three moves after that."
Then he turned and left the café. I took the cigarette he had rolled for me and sniffed it. Even unlit it had a rich, satisfying scent. I pulled the chessboard closer and moved the white queen as he'd instructed me. For once I played slow, trying to find a way for black to get out of its predicament. Three moves later white won. I smiled. Ahmed Jamalka had left with an oblique parting shot.
Jonathan Dunsky lives in Israel with his wife and two sons. He enjoys reading, writing, and goofing around with his kids. He began writing in his teens, then took a break for close to twenty years, during which he worked an assortment of jobs. He is the author of the Adam Lapid mystery series and the standalone thriller The Payback Girl.
Ten Years Gone
The Unlucky Woman (short story)
