took Reuven a long time to get to the point. Yizhar realized he was still holding the companyâs picture in his hand. Well, heâd just have to go on holding it. To put it down now would surely spark Reuvenâs slow-burning but inexorable curiosity.
Ah, damage already done. Here he comes. Reuven lumbered toward the desk, and came around behind it. He looked at Yizhar to see if he would be stopped or scolded, then peered over Yizharâs shoulder.
âOh, yeah,â he said. The picture was a familiar one to Reuven, who spent about half of every working day in Yizharâs office. âGertler.â
Yizhar put the picture back down on his desk.
âIritâs got a thing for him,â Reuven said.
âDoes she?â he asked.
âSheâs weird.â
Reuven was so insightful.
âLots of women like him,â Reuven went on.
âHe was always very attractive,â Yizhar said. âEspecially in uniform.â
âHunh,â Reuven replied, picking up the picture. He held it up to his face, almost touching his nose. He turned it this way and that, like a faceted jewel. âYou know, itâs funny. You can smell a drunk, just by the way he looks. Something about the eyes.â
Reuven was not an articulate man, but he had instinct.
âYes,â Yizhar said.
Reuven put the picture down.
âYouâll manage Hajimi, too, Colonel,â Reuven said.
âThanks so much, Sergeant,â he said. But all irony, in fact, all subtlety, was lost on Reuven. Like everyone in the army, Reuven knew almost every military story there was to know, whatever there was to know of it. There had been rumors about Gertlerâs case, on the outside, but on the inside everyone had what they thought was a pretty firm grasp of the facts. After what had happened to poor Shimon, Yizhar was left with the results: Gertler was a shell of a man, a general who failed at the most important moment in the battle. It had been Yizharâs first experience packaging problems for Israel.
âWell,â Reuven said. He looked around the room, then back at Yizhar. âDonât work too late.â
âDonât you worry, Sergeant,â Yizhar said. âHakol bâseder.â Everythingâs okay.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
I RIT CLOMPED OUT at seven-thirty. It was always good to see her go, although tonight, he felt a little wistful about that stripe of white flesh. Maybe he wasnât being generous enough. Something about her little line of nakedness, her one bolt of daring, seemed vulnerable, and maybe not so unappealing. Maybe that little stripe was a highway that led in to her inmost being, and Yizhar was always looking for a way in to anyoneâs character.
He closed up the files, and put his keys and his electronic identification card into his pocket. Dinner from the Thais down the street, he thought. Outside in the cool evening air, the hush and murmur of nighttime put him out of sorts. He was exhausted and the streets sounded like sleepâthe gentle buzz of generators, the hum and sputter of old lightbulbs in flickering signs, the quiet, insistent rumble of police vans patrolling the streets, the sound of tires on newly laid tarâbut he was not sleeping. When he walked down King George, he noticed that the big clock at the Hamashbir department store was off by an hour, even though it had been almost five months since the time had moved back. One year, they hadnât bothered to change the clock at all, just waited until the time moved forward again. Oh, Jerusalem, Yizhar thought. What did an hour matter?
In front of the pharmacy on Jaffa, under the impassive gaze of the winged Assyrian lion that was carved into the cornice of the Generali building, a bomb squad wearing extreme protective regalia inspected parked cars. As if flesh could be protected from fire and dynamite by thick plastic shields. Yizhar shook his head. He and the Generali lion
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
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