The boy’s voice stopped him in the doorway. “She came here,” he said without opening his eyes, and the hair on the back of Assaf’s neck stood up. “Maybe a month ago? Maybe two months? I don’t know. She’s looking for someone, a child maybe? A guy? Came with a picture like this, photo, do you say ‘photo’ in Hebrew?” Assaf nodded, and the boy continued: “Asking if we know, maybe it’s her friend, I don’t know.”

Assaf listened quietly. His mouth went dry; a pain began to drone deep in his heart.

“One was here – his name was Paganini.” The boy spoke in a dreamy, floating voice. “He played violin, playing, playing, until a gas balloon exploded in his hands, and no more playing.” He was silent for another long moment. Assaf was afraid he had fallen back asleep and wouldn’t talk again. But the boy continued, his eyes closed. “And he, Paganini, saw her guy playing guitar in the pedestrian mall.”

“And Paganini? He knew the…her guy?”

“No…didn’t know. How could he? But her guy, he play very good, very good, Paganini said.”

Assaf knew he mustn’t think about what he was hearing here yet, only listen. Forget it, this guy of hers who plays the guitar so well, forget all about it.

The boy was no filled with a little life; he tried to sit up again, and succeeded for a moment. “And when he play, the guy, there are a lot of musikanti there, giving concerts together, like artists, in the street like this. Like, a group. And everybody is little, kids, but it’s also a little mafia, I don’t know. Complicated…” He surrendered to his weakness, lay back, and continued: “I remember her” – his voice murmuring between the deep breaths of a sleeper – “she’s little…not afraid of anything, came here alone, yelling to me, ‘Get up, get up, look at his picture’…”

pp. 196-197

Route Map