The Missing File (21 page)

“How long have you been living in Ofer's building?” Avraham continued, and Ze'ev replied, “You know that, too. Just over a year now.”

“And do you have a private office at the school where you teach?”

“A private office? No, there's a staff room.”

“When you saw Ofer on the dunes, was he carrying his bag, the black bag?”

“I told you, I didn't see him there. Please, believe me.”

Avraham was silent for a moment, tapping his pen on the piece of paper in front of him and searching Ze'ev's eyes with his own. “I think there's another reason for your calling the police and coming in here to speak to me,” he then said quietly.

Ze'ev looked directly at Avraham, with no fear, only curiosity. “What reason?”

“In fact you've been pursuing me since the investigation began. The day it started, you invited me to your apartment, didn't you? The next day you called the police to say you had found Ofer's body, and then you joined the search and chased after me all day. That same week, you invited yourself for another interview with me, and here you are again, for the fourth time.”

The description of the police inspector being hounded by him was thought provoking. Ze'ev hadn't seen it like that. He said, “I'm sure you don't recall, but we ran into each other on the stairs of my building that same Friday on which I called the police. It was purely by chance; I wasn't following you, and you didn't even notice me. In any event, I wouldn't say I've been pursuing you. What are you implying, anyway?”

“I think
you're
trying to imply something,” Avraham said. “You would like to tell me something about your relationship with Ofer, but it's difficult for you to do it. You want to and don't want to at the same time. Would you like me to help you?”

E
ven in retrospect Ze'ev was unable to assess how much time had passed from the start of their conversation until the moment the chessboard came crashing down to the floor without either of them overturning it.

He looked around. Before the crash, Avraham was taking the conversation in a direction that disgusted Ze'ev though probably was inevitable. Ze'ev answered all his questions while escaping them inwardly with the help of his writing. He wanted the crummy room at the police station to be etched in his memory, every tiny detail, so that he'd be able to describe it in a book one day, perhaps in a novel centered around a police detective—if he ever dared to write one. He tried to memorize the appearance of the walls of the room: close to one another, white and bare, but dark somehow, maybe because the paint was old. It was more a cell than a room. Fixed to the wall above the desk were three shelves, made from a yellowish wood, on which cardboard files and three books, the names of which he couldn't remember, were haphazardly piled. A gold-plated commendation plaque was also on display. There was no window. On one of the occasions on which Avraham left the room and Ze'ev was left alone for a while, he stood up to stretch his legs, leaned forward, and saw on the inspector's computer screen a photograph, in shades of blue, of a European city that he wasn't able to identify, either at dawn or sunset. At the bottom of the picture an orange-colored light shone from behind a bedroom curtain.

The letters had not been mentioned yet, and he wasn't solely to blame for that. He had told Avraham that he had more to say, but the inspector insisted on asking him dark question after dark question about his “relationship with Ofer”—though maybe he cooperated with that. He found it easier to respond to insinuations that were swallowed up by the questions he was being asked than to confess about the letters. “If you like, I'll turn off the tape and you can just talk to me about what went on between you two,” Avraham said. “If it has nothing to do with the disappearance, I promise it won't leave this room.”

It was almost humiliating.

“You don't have to turn it off. I came here to talk. And I already told you about our relationship. I was Ofer's private tutor for four months, and aside from teaching him English, I think we were close, that I was some kind of a mentor to him. I saw sides of him that no one else did, and I listened to him the way no one else could or wanted to.”

Avraham did surprise him with the next question, “Do you think Ofer loved you?” and Ze'ev said, “Loved me? What a strange question. Ofer felt that I was willing to give him something that others didn't. I don't know if he loved me.”

“And did you love him?”

“You're using that word again; I don't think it's the right word. I love my son; it's not the same thing. I think I identified with Ofer, that I saw parts of myself in him and that I had a lot of empathy for him. I wanted to help him.”

“And did you feel he wanted more, that he was asking you for more?”

“Not at all. But maybe I don't understand what you mean.”

“That he wanted you as a close friend, or to be his father—I have no idea. We understand from statements collected during the course of the investigation that Ofer was very attached to you. Loved you perhaps. Forgive me for using that word again, I know you don't like it.”

Ze'ev looked at him. For the first time he felt unsure of his ability to read Avraham's intentions. He didn't know if Avraham was telling the truth, if that's what the police had been told during their inquiries. It certainly could have been the truth. He wondered who the police had spoken to—Ofer's parents, without doubt—but would Ofer have told his friends about their relationship?

“No, I like the word,” Ze'ev said. “I simply think you are not using it correctly.”

“And what do you have to say about what I have just told you?”

“I don't know what to say. I'm sure Ofer appreciated the way I listened to him and perceived him. I don't think that means he loved me.”

“Mr. Avni, tell me, why in fact did Ofer stop coming to the lessons?”

He could have called him Ze'ev.

“He didn't stop. I told you the last time; his parents informed me that he no longer needed private English lessons, and I don't think it was only due to financial reasons, because I was willing to continue for free. Perhaps they weren't pleased with the relationship that developed between us.”

“Yes, that's what you said last time. I remember. But it's not entirely true, you know. I spoke to his parents and they told me explicitly that the lessons were stopped at Ofer's request. He didn't want you to come to their home any longer.”

Ze'ev recalled their last lesson: nothing out of the ordinary, in Ofer's room, preparation for a grammar test on the use of the present perfect tense. Ofer didn't say it would be their last one. At the start of the lesson, Ofer gave him back the Hitchcock box set, and Ze'ev tried to find out if he had watched any of the movies and what he had thought of them, but couldn't get Ofer to respond. Hannah Sharabi served him a cup of tea and date biscuits. It was raining by the time the lesson ended, and long drops of water were trickling down the windowpane. Hannah Sharabi offered him a jelly doughnut on the way out—it was the third or fourth night of Hanukkah. He remembered thinking that evening how wonderful it was to discover the rain from angles one wasn't accustomed to, through the windows of others. Two days later, Hannah knocked on their door and informed him, apologetically, that Ofer would be taking extra lessons in math, rather than English, from then on.

And Ze'ev didn't even know how Ofer did on the test. “Perhaps it's easier for them to present it like that,” he said. “This is the first I hear of Ofer wanting to stop the lessons.”

“Perhaps he wanted to stop them because he felt he loved you too much.”

“What is it with you and that word? I'm telling you, they are not telling the truth. Ofer wasn't the one who chose to end our lessons.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that's what they said in their interviews.”

“So they're either mistaken or lying,” Ze'ev replied.

Avraham went silent again. Perhaps he was waiting for Ze'ev to continue. “You know what?” he finally said. “I think you're right. I don't believe them either. And I'm sure that after they stopped the lessons, Ofer tried to meet with you, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that based on the statements we have collected during the course of the investigation, I am sure he tried to meet up with you after his parents stopped the lessons—maybe even without their knowledge.”

“I don't understand. Is your investigation centered on the lessons I gave to Ofer?”

“Among other things. The investigation is focusing on Ofer's life in general, and the lessons were an important part of it, don't you agree?”

“Yes. Of course. But I don't understand what you're asking me, then.”

“The question is, did Ofer initiate meetings between the two of you after the lessons were stopped? Because I know he wanted to. Perhaps he tried and you refused?”

Had Ofer really wanted to get together with him? During their chance meetings on the stairs, he had appeared so shy and embarrassed. He had avoided looking at Ze'ev, as if he wished to ignore him. They bumped into each other a few weeks before his disappearance, in the morning, outside the building. Ze'ev was unchaining his bike when Ofer came outside wearing a gray T-shirt. Ze'ev called out to him, and asked him how school was going, and Ofer said okay, and that he was late for classes, and took off. Ze'ev thought for a moment about offering him a ride on the back of the bike—Michal's helmet was in the trunk—but then decided against it, sensing Ofer's reluctance and feeling hurt by it.

“Ofer didn't initiate any meeting,” he said. “To the contrary. As I told you before, I had the sense that he was avoiding me, perhaps because he felt guilty about the lessons being stopped. If he had approached me, I wouldn't have refused. I told you, I offered his parents to continue the private lessons free of charge.”

“So you want me to believe that you haven't spoken since December?” Avraham asked, and Ze'ev said, “Certainly we spoke. A word or two when we ran into each other in the building. But can I say something for a moment?”

Avraham leaned back in his chair, and Ze'ev got the impression that the inspector was finally ready to listen.

“I understand from your questions that you believe my relationship with Ofer continued after the lessons were stopped, and I'm telling you that's not true. Your questions on the subject are a waste of time. I knew before coming here that you'd take this line of questioning, so I was prepared, but still, I think it's a shame. I didn't hide the fact that Ofer and I had a close relationship. If I had wanted to hide it, I don't think I'd be here, of my own accord, telling you about Ofer—‘pursuing you,' as you put it. Don't you think?”

Avraham didn't answer.

“You clearly suspect me of being involved in Ofer's disappearance, especially in light of what you now know about the phone call. Or at least you're pressing me, trying to find out if I am involved. That's your job. I get it. But it isn't true. Let me ask you again: If I was involved in Ofer's disappearance, do you think that I'd call the police or come here on my own initiative to speak about it? Or that I'd tell you the truth about the phone call? Anyway, I have something more to say, and then you can carry on asking me whatever you like.”

“I'm listening,” Avraham said.

“Okay. Let me first say that I know that what I'm about to tell you will only increase your suspicions. But, again, I ask you to think logically and understand that if I was in any way linked to Ofer's disappearance, I would never have chosen to come here and tell you what I am about to say.”

Was there a way to speak about the letters without being forced to express a sense of remorse that he didn't truly feel? He imagined himself praying in a synagogue, draped in a prayer shawl, tefillin wrapped around his arm and his forehead, but no God in his heart.

Avraham glanced briefly at the recording device to ensure that it was still on.

“I was also the one who wrote the letters in Ofer's name,” Ze'ev said, and Avraham looked at him as if he had no idea what he was talking about.

T
he noise of the chessboard crashing to the floor came only later.

At first there was only silence.

“What letters are you talking about?” Avraham asked, and Ze'ev said, “These,” and bent over to reach into his bag to retrieve the black notebook with the folded sheets of paper on which he had copied the near-final versions of the three letters he had sent. He handed them to Avraham.

A few days later, after Ze'ev understood what had happened with the letters, he realized that Avraham was not only their fourth reader but also the last. It was unlikely that anyone would ever want to read them—Michal wouldn't want to see them again, and neither would Ze'ev, most likely. Nonetheless, the three letters were the start of what he had hoped would be his first novel. But as it turned out, Avraham would forever be their final reader.

Avraham read through the letters quickly. Was he able to make out Ze'ev's handwriting? He placed the first one on the desk, facedown, and went on to the second. When he got to the third, he focused his attention on the lines that Ze'ev liked best, the series of poetic questions focusing on what Rafael and Hannah Sharabi had done after reading the letters:
“Where did you read the two letters I sent you? In my room? In the living room? And what thoughts went through your mind when you read them? Did you tell yourselves that it isn't me, that it can't be me, in order to protect yourselves from what was written in them? Did you try to convince yourselves that someone else wrote them in my name so that you wouldn't have to deal with the pain in what I was trying to say? And what did you do with them after you read them? Did you destroy them so that you would never again have to read those words that you don't want to hear? But I will never stop writing.”