Prince of Fire

looked out the window.
    T HERE WERE NO TAXIS to be had on Mount Herzl, so he boarded a bus crowded with evening commuters. The seats were all taken; he stood in the open space at the center and felt forty pairs of eyes boring into him. On the Jaffa Road he stepped off and waited in a shelter for an eastbound bus. Then he thought better of it—he had survived one ride; a second seemed an invitation to disaster—so he set off on foot through a swirling night wind. He paused for a moment at the entrance of the Makhane Yehuda Market, then headed for Narkiss Street. Chiara must have heard his footfalls on the stairwell, because she was waiting for him on the landing outside their apartment. Her beauty, after the scars of Leah, seemed even more shocking. Gabriel, when he bent to kiss her, was offered only a cheek. Her newly washed hair smelled of vanilla.
    She turned and went inside. Gabriel followed after her, then stopped suddenly. The apartment had been completely redecorated: new furniture, new carpets and fixtures, a fresh coat of paint. The table had been laid and candles lit. Their diminished length suggested they’d been burning for some time. Chiara, as she passed by the table, snuffed them out.
    “It’s beautiful,” Gabriel said.
    “I worked hard to finish it before you arrived. I wanted it to feel like a proper home. Where have you been?” She tried, with little success, to ask the question without a confrontational tone.
    “You can’t be serious, Chiara.”
    “Your helicopter landed three hours ago. And I know you didn’t go to King Saul Boulevard, because Lev’s office called here looking for you.” She paused. “You went to see her, didn’t you? You went to see Leah.”
    “Of course I did.”
    “It didn’t occur to you to come see me first?”
    “She’s in a hospital. She doesn’t know where she is. She’s confused. She’s scared.”
    “I suppose Leah and I have a lot in common after all.”
    “Let’s not do this, Chiara.”
    “Do what?”
    He headed down the hallway to their bedroom. It too had been redecorated. On Gabriel’s nightstand were the papers that, when signed, would dissolve his marriage to Leah. Chiara had left a pen beside them. He glanced up and saw her standing in the doorway. She was staring at him, searching his eyes for evidence of his emotions—like a detective, he thought, observing a person of interest at the scene of the crime.
    “What happened to your face?”
    Gabriel told her about the beating he’d been given.
    “Did it hurt?” She didn’t seem terribly concerned.
    “Only a little.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes. “How much did you know?”
    “Shamron told me right away that the hit had gone wrong. He kept me updated throughout the day. The moment I heard you were safe was the happiest moment of my life.”
    Gabriel took note of the fact that Chiara had not mentioned Leah.
    “How is she?”
    “Leah?”
    Chiara closed her eyes and nodded. Gabriel quoted the prognosis of Dr. Bar-Zvi: Leah had come through it remarkably well. He removed his shirt. Chiara covered her mouth. His bruises, after three days at sea, had turned deep purple and black.
    “It looks worse than it really is,” he said.
    “Have you seen a doctor?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Take off your clothes. I’ll run a hot bath for you. A good soak will do you good.”
    She left the room. A few seconds later he heard water splashing against enamel. He undressed and went into the bathroom. Chiara examined his bruises again, then she ran her hand through his hair and looked at the roots.
    “It’s long enough to cut now. I don’t want to make love to a gray-haired man tonight.”
    “So cut it.”
    He sat on the edge of the bath. As always Chiara sang to herself while she cut his hair, one of those silly Italian pop songs she loved so much. Gabriel, his head bowed, watched as the last silvered remnants of Herr Klemp fluttered to the floor. He thought of Cairo, and how he had been deceived, and the anger welled within him once more. Chiara switched off the shears.
    “There, you look like yourself again. Black hair, gray at the temples. What was it Shamron used to say about your temples?”
    “He called them smudges of ash,” Gabriel said. Smudges of ash on the prince of fire.
    Chiara tested the temperature of the bath. Gabriel unwrapped the towel from his waist and slid into the water. It was too hot—Chiara always made it too hot—but after a few moments