With an abashed look, Henrietta admitted that she and Esther Grunewald had never been close friends. More acquaintances than anything else. I realized that she was embarrassed to admit she had given her son to a woman whose heart and character were unknown to her.
She did tell me that Esther Grunewald had no siblings and that both her parents had died in a car accident in 1937. Esther Grunewald left no one behind when she emigrated from Germany.
By the time I ran out of questions, I had filled little more than three-quarters of one page in my notebook. I flipped it closed so I wouldn't have to look at the dearth of information I had to go on. What did it matter? This was a hopeless case anyhow.
Henrietta told me she shared an apartment in the south of Tel Aviv with two other women and that she worked as a cleaning lady. She did not have a telephone in her apartment, but one of her clients did. I wrote down the number and the day of the week she cleaned there and told her I'd call her with a report in two weeks, or sooner if I found anything. Then I told her what I normally charged as a retainer.
"I can't pay twenty liras right now," she said. "I can give you ten now and the rest next month."
I said that would be fine. I had no doubt she would come up with the money. To do otherwise would be to disgrace her son, not just herself.
After she left, I took the empty coffee cups to the bar. Greta was there, looking at the doorway through which Henrietta Ackerland had just exited.
"I feel guilty for not bringing that girl something to eat. She's skin and bones," she said.
"That
"When you get to be my age, Adam, you'll understand that thirty is still very much a girl."
"You going to finally tell me your age, Greta?" There was a running bet among the regulars as to Greta's age. I estimated it to be fifty-eight, but it could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty-five.
Greta smiled. "Not today." She had on a flower-pattern dress and was leaning against the bar, her heavy breasts resting on the bar top between her meaty forearms. Everything about Greta was big—her calves, arms, hips, bust. Even her head was big and crowned with a nest of salt-and-pepper curls. "She's a new client?"
"Uh-huh."
"You don't sound too happy about it. Can't you use the money?"
"Of course I can use the money. How else could I afford to come here every day?"
"Yes. I have no idea how you get by. It was nice of you to order coffee for her. Very generous."
We both smiled. Four months earlier, soon after I had returned to prime condition following my time at the hospital, I helped Greta handle a problem. A brawny man was pushing her for protection money. I took the man aside and explained to him with my fists that Greta was off-limits. After he hobbled off never to be seen again, Greta offered to pay me for my help, but I said I didn't want her money. She didn't like the notion of not paying, and she found that having me around made her feel safe, so she said I could eat and drink her debt to me.
Since then, I'd probably eaten and drunk three times what she would have owed me, if not more. But neither of us mentioned it. I kept eating on the house, never abusing the privilege too much, and she kept liking having me around.
"I just don't think I can do what she hired me to," I said.
"Then why take the case?"
"Because it's better for her to feel hopeful."
"Is she in trouble?"
"No. But she is troubled."
"Poor girl," Greta said.
"At least she has a photograph," I answered.
Back at my table, I discovered I was wrong. On the tabletop lay Henrietta's picture. I picked it up, rushed outside into the heat of Allenby Street, and looked in all directions. Henrietta was nowhere to be seen. Back inside, I sat at my table and examined the picture once again. It told me nothing I didn't already know. Why would it?
I carefully placed the picture between the pages of my notebook and slipped it into my pocket. Then I surveyed the chessboard I'd been playing with when Henrietta arrived.
I played chess almost every day. Greta kept the board and pieces behind the bar for me. I always played both sides and always a lightning game, with no time to think over moves. A lightning game is the only way to keep things interesting when you play with yourself as an opponent. I found that it also took my mind off things, which was usually a blessing.
This particular game, white was in a hopeless position, behind by one rook and a bishop. But in a lightning game anything can happen. I kept on playing, making rapid moves, hoping that white would somehow rally to a victory. Maybe I was looking for a sign that a hopeless situation, like the new case I had taken on, could still end well.
White lost in four moves.
A little after seven I folded the chessboard and went over to the bar so Greta could stow it away for me.
"When are you seeing Rachel Weiss?" she asked me as she took the board from my hand.
