Read Murder in Jerusalem for Free Online

but the truth is that these are women in despair of ever attracting men again. And worse: these are women who have given up on the need to appear as if they believe there is still a chance that someone could love them, given up even on the need to pretend that they hope they will find some such man. It stood to reason that Niva would be jealous of Aviva, or mock her, because in appearance Aviva was her total opposite, a gorgeous blonde who, according to Zadik’s calculations, had to be at least forty years old but did not look a day over thirty-five. Her fluttering eyelids, her long, long lashes, her laughter that rang out everywhere, the fulllipped smile she had for every male, the way she touched one long red fingernail to the edge of her lips in a way that promised…had he not known her as long as he had, he might have…but it was better not to think of such things, they would only bring trouble. Instead, it would be a good idea to get the lineup started. Every morning he had to remind them how important it was for them to be present and focused at the morning meeting, and how important it was to begin the critical summary of the previous evening’s program on time and to move on quickly to that day’s first lineup, which was bound to change twenty times. But nothing helped. For three years he had had to clap his hands and yell and shout, and suddenly disaster had struck, and at least this: they had all assembled around the table—or nearly all of them. “It’s too bad that it takes a disaster,” he said, removing his glasses, “for everyone to be here at eight-twenty in the morning.” Again he banged his pen on the table. “People, people,” he called. “Quiet, please!”
    â€œWhat’s all your shouting about?” Niva quipped as she placed a mug of coffee next to the page in front of him. “It’s as quiet as a cemetery in here.” She was immediately sorry and threw him a look that begged forgiveness. “Excuse me,” she said, lowering her gaze.
    Aviva waved her hands in the air, and she too shouted, “Quiet!” then moved her chair to the side so that Hefetz, director of the News Department, could squeeze by to get to his seat between Erez, the news editor, and Zadik. Zadik cleared his throat, and just then, with all eyes upon him, the room filled with the noise of a drill and the pounding of a jackhammer, the kind used to break walls down. Through the glass partition he could see the profile of a maintenance man in the foreign correspondents’ office next door, a large drill in one hand, his mouth covered against the dust.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” Zadik muttered. “Now? Right now? This is absurd, like…like some Marx Brothers movie.”
    â€œStop right now!” Niva shouted. “Keep quiet a minute!” she exclaimed as she ran to the window and pounded it with her fists. The maintenance man stopped working and the drill fell silent. The jackhammer pounded twice more, and there was the sound of a wall crumbling before it, too, ceased.
    â€œPeople,” Zadik said in a low, hoarse voice as he scribbled lines on the page in front of him, “first and foremost I want to say a few words about this tragedy that has befallen us. A tragedy,” he said with a sigh. As he raised his head he caught the eye of Danny Benizri, the correspondent for labor and social affairs, who was sitting at the far end of the table, near the corner, his chin in his hand. “A tragedy, there is simply no other word to describe it. We have lost our Tirzah. Anyone who worked with her knows what a tragedy this is. That woman…what can I say? If you say ‘Tirzah Rubin,’ you’ve said it all. Isn’t that true?”
    The telephone rang stubbornly and incessantly; Niva pounced on the receiver, speaking in a loud whisper: “What do you mean, ‘it needed a double cutting’?” Zadik