Murder in Jerusalem (33 page)

Emmanuel Shorer tugged at the ends of his ample mustache and let out a sigh. “I had no idea,” he said dryly, “that Zadik had any sort of charm at all, as far as you were concerned. I do believe I heard rumors of a threatened dismissal—”

“No, no, certainly not,” Ben-Asher said, smoothing his hair back and removing an unseen speck from his trousers. “Perhaps there were differences of opinion, but he had, in any event, reached the end of his contract, and—”

“Ahhh,” Shorer exclaimed, “so in fact you had no intention of extending his contract.”

“Well, that decision was not solely mine,” Ben-Asher said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “There had not even been any sort of formal discussion of the matter, though now—”

There was silence in the room for a long moment before the police commissioner asked, “So how do you envision the ongoing work of Israel Television in the near future?”

“You mean, until you people solve this conundrum?” Ben-Asher inquired, sitting up straight in his chair.

“Let's say,” Shorer said expectantly, “that in an atmosphere of panic and mistrust, when everyone is suspicious of everyone else and people are afraid—afraid in general and afraid to enter the building—well, how do you intend to—”

“Why should people be suspicious of others?” Ben-Asher asked, astonished. “It seems perfectly clear that this is not someone from inside Israel Television, that we're talking about a security issue, maybe even the Jewish underground movement. If I were you, I would assign police protection to Arye Rubin and the entire building. Naturally, you have a free hand and any assistance you—”

“And who is going to fill in for Zadik?” the police commissioner asked.

“I am hereby appointing Hefetz to replace Zadik as director of Israel Television,” Ben-Asher announced as he rose from his chair and opened the door. “Call Hefetz,” he said authoritatively. “Where's Hefetz?”

“Our people are speaking with him,” Shorer told him.

“He's under investigation?” Ben-Asher asked, rattled.

“Everyone's being questioned,” Shorer responded. “We're not calling it an investigation yet. This is only an initial clarification of the facts.”

“So have them bring him here for a moment,” Ben-Asher demanded. “Israel Television is the flagship of the state of Israel, we cannot leave it for even a second without a captain,” he proclaimed dramatically from the doorway. “We cannot tolerate anarchy in this institution. My motto is, ‘A guiding hand at every moment.'” He called out, “Bring Hefetz, where is he sitting? In his office?”

The police commissioner looked at Ben-Asher as though he were about to say something, but instead he remained silent, looking expectantly at Emmanuel Shorer, who was drumming his fingers on his knees. Shorer shrugged and said, “All right, there doesn't seem to be any choice in the matter. If the prime minister—if it's necessary, then it's necessary. Can you call him, please?” he asked Michael, who hastened to bring Hefetz in from his office near the newsroom.

 

“Clear everyone out of the secretary's office,” Ben-Asher ordered. “Have them wait somewhere else, there are too many people here. And turn the volume down!” he commanded, pointing at the television monitor; half of the screen showed trucks blocking various intersections, while the other half featured the minister of labor and social affairs holding an unscheduled press conference in the lobby of the new Hilton Hotel. She kept smoothing her mussed hair while speaking with emotion about the importance of obeying the law. “If every disgruntled citizen of Israel takes the law into his own hands…,” she was heard saying before someone turned down the volume on the monitor. No one, however, suggested turning it off altogether.

Someone shouted, “Israel Television should be shut down right now, and everyone should be sent home. It's dangerous to be here!”

A woman's voice rebuked him. “Are you crazy? Israel Television should never be shut down. That would be like we were at war or something.”

Ben-Asher rushed to the door of the office and opened it. “I would ask of everyone to clear the area,” he said imperiously. “Allow the police to carry out their task quickly. Please, all of you, clear the area.” People regarded him, then turned silently to file out. “We'll be needing a policeman on this floor,” he told the police commissioner.

“We've already sealed off the hallway,” the commissioner retorted. “I don't understand how—” He whispered something to Shorer, who quickly left the room.

“Ahhh, here you are, Hefetz,” Ben-Asher said, stretching his lips into a smile that exposed two rows of large, bright white teeth.

“Mr. Ben-Asher,” Hefetz said, his voice trembling, “look at what—”

“What do you mean, ‘Mr.?' Hefetz, my friend, that's not the kind of relationship you and I enjoy. I have always been Natan to you. Why suddenly ‘Mr.?'”

“People here are in a panic, Natan,” Hefetz explained. “They want to close down Israel Television. They're shouting at me as if I could—what can I do about this?” he asked.

“Have a seat, my friend,” Ben-Asher said in a fatherly manner. “Sit, drink some water, settle down. You need to be relaxed to set a good personal example. Here, look at me: do you think this isn't difficult for me? Didn't I work for years with Zadik? Way back from the days when I was director of personnel, when this whole business was brand new. We go back a long way, had our share of arguments and disagreements and differences of opinion. Zadik was a great man, head and shoulders above the rest.”

Hefetz nodded in rapid agreement with every word, and looked around the room.

“There are people who will say,” the director general intoned, “that Zadik and I were enemies because of the petition. You remember the petition?” Hefetz nodded. “And because of the letter of resignation he handed me a year and a half ago. But it isn't so. You, Hefetz, my friend, you know the truth: that I held Zadik in high esteem. Didn't I?”

“Absolutely,” Hefetz said. He bowed his head like a scolded schoolboy.

“And, I believe, he held me in high esteem as well, did he not?”

“Sure he did,” Hefetz said, raising his head to look at the police commissioner.

“And I think that he would agree with my decision if he were to know that I am requesting you to serve as his replacement,” Ben-Asher concluded, carefully examining his polished fingernails. “What do you say to that?”

“I…I…,” Hefetz stuttered. “Whatever it takes, I…if there's no choice in the matter…”

“Why, Hefetz, do you have a problem with it?” Ben-Asher asked in wide-eyed surprise. “Do you feel incapable of the task of commanding this ship? Do you fear you will be unable to steady it?”

“No, no,” Hefetz responded quickly. “I…it's just that, I haven't yet…I'm still in shock about—”

“Because people have raised the idea of shutting down Israel Television until a proper assessment of what's going on here can be made,” said the police commissioner. “How do you feel about that?”

An expression of piqued interest crept across the face of Emmanuel Shorer, who had in the meantime returned to the room and resumed his position. After years of working so closely together, Michael often knew exactly what was passing through Shorer's mind, as he did now. If asked, he would have said the look on Shorer's face was one of ironic detachment, the look of a man watching a play performed by inept and amateurish actors. Only recently Shorer had told him—thanks to information passed on by his daughter-in-law, who worked as a makeup artist for Israel Television—about the differences of opinion (“They're calling it ‘war' over there,” he had said) between Zadik, the director of Israel Television, and Ben-Asher, director general of the Israel Broadcasting Authority. Zadik had issued a complaint about arbitrary cutbacks the director general had made in the budget, and that Ben-Asher had torpedoed a program he particularly disliked, had even made drastic reductions in wardrobe and makeup. He talked of Ben-Asher's plans to turn Israel Television—with the backing of the communications minister and the prime minister—into an entertainment channel, the bullhorn of the administration. Shorer had also brought to his attention the article published several weeks earlier in a Jerusalem daily titled, “Left-Wing Wasp's Nest or Citizen's Revolt?” Shorer had mockingly quoted the article, which claimed to take readers “behind the scenes at the IBA,” conjecturing about the source of the animosity raging between Zadik and Ben-Asher by mentioning Ben-Asher's demand that Zadik resign of his own free will, since he had “dragged Israel's official television station down to a level of complete lawlessness by failing to maintain a balanced picture of events.” Michael and Shorer had been having this conversation late one night in the Mahane Yehuda farmers' market, in a restaurant Shorer particularly favored because the owner, a guy named Menash who roamed from place to place opening a new restaurant every few years, tended to cook the food himself in huge aluminum pots, “Just like the ones my grandmother had,” Shorer told him. Menash prepared Sephardic classics, his specialty being calzones, little turnovers made with a very thin dough just like his own mother would make for Rosh Hashanah, but filled with meat instead of cheese. “They tell me that the Russians call it piroshki, but that's something altogether different,” he had told Michael. Michael, who was only then considering giving up smoking, had dared to mention it toward the end of the meal. “No question about it,” Shorer had said, “you've got to stop. Look at the color of your face, it's gray. Your face is gray. Have you had any tests done?” Michael had shrugged in response. “Do me a favor,” he had said, “let's talk about something else,” and so, in order to take his mind off the smoking issue, Shorer had regaled him with stories of the director general's policies at the IBA, how he was demanding the use of a new broadcasting lexicon, having proclaimed, in the latest Director General's Directive, that use of the expression “the other side” was no longer acceptable. “You know why?” Shorer had asked him, and then, without awaiting an answer, explained: “Because we can't let ‘the other side' write history for us. That's why it's no longer permissible to use the term ‘Intifada,' only ‘uprising' will do. Same with ‘territories,' only ‘Judea, Samaria, and the Gaza Strip' is acceptable now. Taste this, Michael, take a taste of this
matboukha,
he learned to make it from his grandmother. Right, Menash, this
matboukha
is your grandmother's recipe?” Menash was standing next to the table, rubbing his palms together. “Pour yourself some more
araq,
” Shorer instructed Michael, “it'll make you feel better. Listen to me, I'm talking like Balilty. How's Balilty? I haven't seen him for a few days…”

They drank to Menash's health and to a successful marriage with his new, third bride. “She's Russian,” Menash told them, “but she's got the soul of a Sephardic Jew. None of this liberated woman stuff, look at her back there in the kitchen.” Proudly, he pointed to a very young woman with golden hair standing behind the wooden counter, watching them.

“Zadik may not be the genius of his generation,” Shorer had told Michael when Menash took his leave of them, “but he's got a lot of integrity. And balls, too. I sat with him at the Peleds' one Friday night, just after the article came out. He tells me, ‘They may be able to control the use of this word or that in radio news broadcasts, but do they really expect me to instruct people what not to say on a political affairs program? Can you imagine everyone sitting around the table shouting, and we'll stop the discussion to remind them not to say ‘the territories,' but rather, ‘Judea, Samaria, and the Gaza Strip'? Now Zadik may not be the genius of his generation, but there's something very true about his practicality, his sincerity. So then Aliza Peled, you know her, the one with the white hair, teaches at the Hebrew University? You met her at Mumik's wedding”—Michael nodded—“so she says that her friend, a language editor, told her that in written Hebrew you're not supposed to write
Palestinian
with the letters
samekh
and
tet
but with the letters
shin
and
taf,
so as to recall the ancient Philistines.”

“That's all they talked about the whole evening.” Shorer sighed. “You go out for a nice dinner, hoping to have a good time, and these people can't let it rest, they get right to politics. We were four couples sitting around the table, and Zadik started talking about the cutbacks, complaining how Ben-Asher wasn't even willing to pay for taxis for guests anymore. How can you invite someone to appear on your program when you can't even send a taxi to fetch him? No wonder everyone's making a beeline for Channel Two.”

“We'll announce it on the evening news,” the director general was telling Hefetz. “You'll deliver a eulogy, say whatever you want to, but I want a copy beforehand. And then you can announce that you've taken it upon yourself…” Michael clamped down on the toothpick in his teeth and was staring at Shorer, when suddenly there was a sharp rapping at the door to the office and Eli Bachar stepped in. He motioned to Michael to come with him. Michael hurried out of the room and returned a moment later, his eyes on Shorer and the police commissioner.

“What is it?” the commissioner asked impatiently. “What else could possibly have happened?”

“Benny Meyuhas has disappeared,” Michael said. “They can't find him anywhere.”

“Meyuhas the director?” Ben-Asher wished to clarify. “He's the one they can't find?”

“He's been missing since yesterday, nobody's seen him,” Michael said.

“So this could be our man,” the police commissioner said. “We've got to put out an APB on him and make a public announcement, don't you think?”