The Dead Sister

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I knew he was an Arab the moment I saw him. I didn't know why, but I could recognize Germans and Arabs immediately. Perhaps it was because I had killed a good number of each—Arabs during Israel's War of Independence, Germans after the World War in Europe.

This particular Arab was dressed in plain brown pants held up by a slim black belt. His shirt was white, open at the neck, and tucked into his pants. His jacket was dark blue and unbuttoned. He stood in the doorway to Greta's Café and mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Greta's Café was a cozy establishment on Allenby Street in Tel Aviv, a short walking distance from my apartment. It served as a sort of second home and office to me. I ate and drank there every day, and more often than not, prospective clients found me at my table at the rear, playing chess against myself with a board Greta kept for me under the counter.

The Arab put the handkerchief back in his pocket and stepped over to Greta. She was sitting in her regular spot behind the counter, close to the entrance to the café, and reading a newspaper, shaking her head slowly at the news. Greta was a big woman. Tall, wide at the hips and chest, with a fleshy face that had been wrinkled by age and sun, and iron-gray hair arranged in a nest-like halo of curls about her head. The Arab said something to her. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but toward the end of it, Greta cast a quick inquiring glance my way, and I nodded to her.

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