The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,158
if it’s too painful?”
“It will be. But she won’t remember it for long.”
With a nudge, the doctor cast Gabriel adrift. Slowly, he crossed the common room and sat down in the chair that had been placed at Leah’s side. Her hair, once long and wild like Chiara’s, was now institutionally short. Her hands were twisted and white with scar tissue. They were like patches of bare canvas. Gabriel longed to repair them, but could not. Leah was beyond restoration. He kissed her cheek softly and waited for her to become aware of his presence.
“Look at the snow, Gabriel,” she said at once. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Gabriel looked out the window, where a bright sun shone upon the stone pine of the hospital’s garden.
“Yes, Leah,” he said absently as his vision blurred with tears. “It’s beautiful.”
“The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. The snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain down on Tel Aviv.”
Gabriel squeezed Leah’s hand. The words were among the last she had spoken the night of the bombing in Vienna. She suffered from a particularly acute combination of psychotic depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. At times, she experienced moments of lucidity, but for the most part she remained a prisoner of the past. Vienna played ceaselessly in her mind like a loop of videotape that she was unable to pause: the last meal they shared together, their last kiss, the fire that killed their only child and burned the flesh from Leah’s body. Her life had shrunk to five minutes, and she had been reliving it, over and over again, for more than twenty years.
“I saw you on television,” she said, suddenly lucid. “It seems you’re not dead after all.”
“No, Leah. It was just something we had to say.”
“For your work?”
He nodded.
“And now they say you’re going to become the chief.”
“Soon.”
“I thought Ari was the chief.”
“Not for many years.”
“How many?”
He didn’t answer. It was too depressing to think about.
“He’s well?” asked Leah.
“Ari?”
“Yes.”
“He has good days and bad days.”
“Like me,” said Leah.
Her expression darkened. The memories were welling. Somehow, she fought them off.
“I can’t quite believe you’re actually going to be the memuneh.”
It was an old word that meant “the one in charge.” There hadn’t been a true memuneh since Shamron.
“Neither can I,” admitted Gabriel.
“Aren’t you a little young to be the memuneh? After all, you’re only—”
“I’m older now, Leah. We both are.”
“You look exactly as I remember you.”
“Look closely, Leah. You can see the lines and the gray hair.”
“Thanks to Ari, you always had gray hair. Me, too.” She gazed out the window. “It looks like winter.”
“It is.”
“What year is it?”
He told her.
“How old are your children?”
“Tomorrow is their first birthday.”
“Will there be a party?”
“At the Shamrons’ house in Tiberias. But they’re here now, if you feel up to seeing them.”
Her face brightened. “What are their names?”
He had told her several times. Now he told her again.
“But Irene is your mother’s name,” she protested.
“My mother died a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. Sometimes I—”
“It’s not important.”
“Bring them to me,” she said, smiling. “I want to see them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, of course.”
Gabriel rose and went into the foyer.
“Well?” asked Chiara and the doctor simultaneously.
“She says she wants to see them.”
“How should we do it?” asked Chiara.
“One at a time,” suggested the doctor. “Otherwise, it might be overwhelming.”
“I agree,” said Gabriel.
He took Raphael from Chiara’s grasp and returned to the common room. Leah was gazing sightlessly out the window again, lost in memory. Gently, Gabriel placed his son in her lap. Her eyes focused, her mind came briefly back to the present.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“It’s him, Leah. It’s my son.”
She gazed at the child spellbound, clutching him tightly with her ruined hands.
“He looks exactly like—”
“Me,” interjected Gabriel hastily. “Everyone says he looks like his father.”
Leah trailed a twisted finger through the child’s hair and placed her lips to his forehead.
“Look at the snow,” she whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful.”
79
JERUSALEM—TIBERIAS
AT TEN THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Israel Museum announced it had acquired a previously unknown work by Vincent van Gogh—Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, oil on canvas, 104 by 60 centimeters—from the estate of Hannah Weinberg. Later, the museum would be forced to acknowledge that, in point of fact, it had received the painting from an anonymous donor, who in turn had inherited it from Mademoiselle Weinberg after her tragic murder in Paris. In time, the museum would face enormous pressure to reveal the donor’s identity. It steadfastly refused, as did the government of France, which had permitted the transfer of the