"Still, he must have had an impression of her."
"I suppose so." She paused, cocking her head to the right and glancing at me through eyes that had suddenly gone narrower. "Why do you ask?"
Instead of answering, I said, "Was your husband away often during the evening and night?"
"Yes. Just like today, he would be at sea."
"Did any of those times coincide with the evenings Esther went out dancing, leaving you with Willie?"
Natalie froze. For a moment, it seemed that she wasn't even breathing, and I was worried she might faint. Then her eyes twitched and did a wild sort of dance. I imagined that a similar turbulence was swirling through her mind. Emotions rippled across her face, most fading too quickly to read, but the profound hurt she felt was evident. It was clear that my question had surprised, even stunned her. Looking at her, the dagger of shame in my stomach twisted, cutting deeper. This short, homely, pregnant housewife did not look like a killer. She did not seem capable of slitting the throat of a woman, stabbing a baby through the heart, and then disfiguring the two of them. What she looked like was a mother—warm, kind, gentle and loving. In all likelihood, I had just caused an innocent woman a great deal of pain.
She gave a tiny shake of the head, little more than a tremor. I remained silent, not answering the question in her eyes:
Along with the question, her eyes showed instinctive denial swiftly followed by doubt. Was she casting her mind ten years into the past, thinking back on those evenings on which she had babysat Willie? Was she grasping at any explanation that might help her deny an awful truth? I realized that there was no need to tell her of Elena Warshavski and the kiss she'd witnessed, that the seed of suspicion had already been there in her mind. Perhaps it was planted when she'd caught her husband looking at Esther in a particular way. Perhaps it had been the other way around. Or perhaps it was simply the general fear of the plain wife with the irresistibly beautiful unmarried friend, that it would take but a playful bat of the eyelashes or a suggestive sway of the hips for the friend to steal her husband away.
Natalie shut her eyes tight and took a shuddering breath. Her eyes were dry when she opened them, and her entire body was rigid, as if she was exerting tremendous willpower to maintain control of herself. Her hands were pressed hard to her belly. She strained to keep her voice even, but it quavered just a bit when she spoke.
"No, Mr. Lapid. None of the times Alon was away coincided with the evenings I watched over Willie."
I said nothing. I knew she was lying, and she knew I knew.
"And now I think you should leave."
For a few seconds I remained seated, not moving. Her jaw was clenched, her mouth pinched, her eyes unwavering, as if challenging me to call out her lie. I did not. What would be the point? I would get nothing more from her. At least not now. It didn't matter whether the suspicion I raised was justified or not. I was a stranger and I had attacked the thing she valued most: her family. That made me the enemy.
I stood up. She followed me with her eyes. They were hard and cold as freezing metal. I forced myself to meet them.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you," I said.
Her expression did not change. She did not want my apology. She wanted no more words out of me. "Just leave. Just go."
On the street outside her building, I paused to light a cigarette. I wasn't feeling too proud of myself, even though I had only done my job, what I knew I would do once I stepped over Natalie Davidson's threshold. I told myself I'd not caused her pain for nothing. I'd learned some valuable things. I'd learned that Esther Grunewald had had a romantic relationship and that the idea of Alon Davidson having an affair with her was not unthinkable to his wife. Crossing the street, I glanced back and saw Natalie standing at her window, peering down at me. I couldn't read her expression. Seeing my upturned face, she drew the curtain.
I turned west on Bograshov, walked slowly past London Square, and swung south at the coastline, my shoes thudding on the narrow promenade with the sea to my right. The laughter of beachgoers mingled with the crash of waves on the shore, pierced now and then by the bellows of ice-cream vendors hawking their melting wares. Gulls swooped overhead like airplanes on a bombing raid.
I found a table at a seaside café, grabbed a beer and a grilled cheese toast, and sat watching the sea reflecting the softened afternoon sun and the people bathing in the surf. A radio behind the bar was playing something with plenty of violin and cello. It sounded like German music. Melodramatic and dark and foreboding.
