“Are you being sarcastic at ten in the morning?”

Rina smiled. “I think of it as acculturating you.”

“You’re making fun of me. Like I’m this big, dumb goy who doesn’t know shit from shinola-”

“You’re not dumb and you’re not a goy-”

“I need you for this assignment, Rina. I’m the first one to say that. Can we have a cooperative, respectful, working relationship?”

Rina took his hand. “I’m sorry, Peter. I know you’re dealing with something very serious.”

The car grew quiet. Decker said, “I liked the breakfast buffet the hotel gave us this morning. You can eat enough to get by for the entire day.” He smiled. “Even if you don’t surreptitiously wrap rolls with tissues and hide them in your purse.”

Rina sighed. “Now who’s mocking?”

“Why do they do that?”

“They?”

“I mean the tourists-”

“You mean the Jewish tourists.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Decker exclaimed. “You know, Israel may not be fancy, but it isn’t shtetl Poland. The country’s not going to run out of food. Not to mention the fact that the nefarious roll stuffer could afford to lose a few pounds.”

“It just gets thrown out anyway.”

“It’s uncouth.”

Rina smiled. “It’s déclassé, I agree, but what the heck. They’re paying for the food, they might as well eat it.”

“Eating it is one thing. You can eat all you want on the premises. But filling your purses with fruit and rolls and pats of butter-”

Rina began to laugh. “We only saw one lady who did that.”

“Then she put a carton of yogurt…” Decker smiled. “That was just out of line.”

They both started laughing. Decker finally said, “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s my pleasure. I know you’re going to be working the whole time, but I do hope you get a little chance to at least…soak up some atmosphere.”

Atmosphere, he thought. Then he said, “It’s weird. I feel like I’m in a foreign country. But I don’t feel I’m in a religious foreign country. Nothing Jewish except the Hebrew.”

Rina said, “If you get a chance to see the Bursa, you’ll realize it’s a Jewish country. From what I hear, it’s replete with Chasidic Jews.”

“There were lots of Chasidic Jews in the LA diamond mart, too.” He bit his mustache. “Maybe I’m not explaining myself right. This just doesn’t feel that much different from a working-class area in LA.”

“Wait until you get to Jerusalem. Then tell me if you feel the same way.”

Decker drove a few more blocks, following Rina’s directions. The area seemed to have turned nicer. The apartment buildings weren’t necessarily newer, but they seemed more solidly built. They were fashioned from ocher-colored limestone, held bigger windows, and had patios landscaped with potted trees and flowers. The main road was wide and divided, and had visible street signs. Directions to various cities were posted at the main intersecions.

“Where are we now?”

“Ramat Aviv.”

“It’s a wealthier area.”

“You can tell.”

“I’m learning. Are we near the Yaloms’ address?”

“Not too far.”

They passed a complex of big buildings floating in seas of emerald green lawn. Across from the buildings was a series of parking lots.

“University?” Decker asked.

“Museums.”

“Ahhhh. Are the museums good?”

“The Museum of the Diaspora is outstanding.”

“Is that where the Dead Sea Scrolls are?”

“No, that’s in Jerusalem. At the Shrine of the Book. You have an interest in biblical archaeology?”

“Just a curiosity. Too bad I won’t see any of it.”

Rina looked at him. He wasn’t being flip, he was disappointed. She took his hand and kissed it. “Next time. Under better circumstances.”

Decker heard himself answer with an amen.

A house of sadness. Black cloth had been draped over the mirrors, the paintings, and the TV. The cushions from the sofa had been removed, exposing the couch’s gauzy underlining. Decker knew that with the cushions gone, the sofa was permitted to be used as seating for the Jewish mourners.

But Moshe Yalom still opted for the floor. He was a thin man, perhaps in his early seventies, clean-shaven with curly, gray hair atop a long saggy face. A man beaten by life, but not defeated by it. There was still obstinacy in his milky blue eyes. His wife, Tziril, seemed younger. Proportionately, she was heavier than her husband, more meat on the bones, but her doughy flesh was pale. She wore a loose smock and her hair was covered by a scarf.

Rina had made the appointment with Tziril. She had commented that Mrs. Yalom had sounded amazed by the request, as if it had never occurred to her that America-a foreign country ten thousand miles away-was actually pursuing an investigation of her son’s murder.

Decker studied the woman as she spoke to Rina. Rina reported that she and Peter should sit in the chairs, they weren’t in mourning. Tziril talked some more. Rina translated: They had started the process of shiva-the seven days of intense mourning-earlier than Jewish law required. Technically, shiva should take place only after burial. But both Tziril and her husband had felt it was ridiculous to hold off. Who knew when their son would be brought home?

Tziril spoke once more, then disappeared inside a cubby off the living room. Her husband stood up slowly and padded down a long hallway.

“Where’s everybody going?” Decker whispered.

“I don’t know where Mr. Yalom’s going,” Rina said. “Mrs. Yalom went to get us some tea. She asked and I didn’t want to refuse her hospitality. It seemed important to her.”

“Absolutely.” He looked around the living room. “If it helps her relax…”

The apartment was small, the living room paced off around ten by thirteen. But it seemed larger because it had double glass doors that led to a generous wraparound porch. It was screened and held all-weather furniture-a dining-room table and chairs, an outdoor sofa and coffee table, a rocker in the corner. There were two potted citrus trees that were starting to bloom, the flowers emitting a lemony smell. The porch doors were open and allowed a fair amount of circulation. Otherwise, a room this compact would get stuffy in no time.

Decker looked down. The floors were made out of some kind of crushed rock tile, like nothing he’d seen in America. Rina sat in one of the many folding chairs that had been crammed into the room. Decker had counted twenty of them. He sat beside his wife.

“Did they hold a meeting here or something?”

“The chairs are for the morning and evening minyans,” Rina explained. “The father isn’t allowed to leave the house. So the men come to him and say services here. So he can say kaddish…for his son.” She looked down, her eyes moist. “This isn’t the natural order of things.”

“No, it’s not.”

Slowly, Mr. Yalom padded back into the living room and lowered himself onto a pillow resting on the floor. The old man hadn’t paid them much attention. Decker felt that if it had been up to the father, they wouldn’t have been granted an interview.

Tziril came back, holding a tray filled with four tea glasses resting in sterling cup holders. She went through the ritual pouring, setting down a glass on the floor for her husband. A few minutes of sipping and it seemed to Decker they were as comfortable as they were going to get. He took out his notepad. Tziril’s eyes went to the pad, then to Decker’s face.

She said in accented English, “What do you want to know?”

“You speak English,” Decker said.

Tziril nodded. “In gymnasium, we learn English almost as soon as we learn German. When we came to Israel…it was then Palestine…I say to my uncle, the British are in control, why cannot they speak English over here? But I learned Hebrew.”

“You speak well,” Decker said.

“You are kind,” Tziril answered. “In Europe, you must learn other languages because countries are so close.” She sat back in her chair. “Your wife…speaked…spoke…to me in Hebrew, so I answer her in Hebrew. But I remember my English a little.”