Legends Read Online Free PDF Page A

noticed that some of the calls went to the same number in Brooklyn. I recognized the country and area code 1 for America, 718 for Brooklyn because it’s the same as ours on President Street.”
    “You didn’t by any chance copy down the number?”
    She shook her head in despair. “It didn’t occur to me …”
    “Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t know this Samat character was going to run out on your sister.” He saw her look quickly away. “Or did you?”
    “I never thought the marriage would last. I didn’t see him burying himself in Kiryat Arba for the rest of his life. He was too involved in the world, too dynamic, too attractive “
    “You found him attractive?”
    “I didn’t say I found him attractive,” she said defensively. “I could see how he might appeal to certain women. But not my sister. She’d never been naked in front of a man in her life. As far as I know she’d never seen a naked man. Even when she saw a fully clothed man she averted her eyes. When Samat looked at a woman he stared straight into her eyes without blinking; he undressed her. He claimed to be a religious Jew but I think now it may have been some kind of cover, a way of getting into Israel, of disappearing into the world of the Hasidim. I never saw him lay tefillin, I never saw him go to the synagogue, I never saw him pray the way religious Jews do four times a day. He didn’t kiss the mezuzah when he came into the house the way my sister did. Elena and Samat lived in different worlds.”
    “You have photographs of him?”
    “When he disappeared, my sister’s photo album disappeared with him. I have one photo I took the day they were married I sent it to my father, who framed it and hung it over the mantle.” Retrieving her satchel, she pulled a brown envelope from it and carefully extracted a black and white photograph. She stared at it for a moment, the ghost of an anguished smile deforming her lips, then offered it to Martin.
    Martin stepped back and held up his palms. “Did Samat ever touch this?”
    She thought a moment. “No. I had the film developed in the German Colony in Jerusalem and mailed it to my father from the post office across the street from the photo shop. Samat didn’t know it existed.”
    Martin accepted the photo and tilted it toward the daylight. The bride, a pale and noticeably overweight young woman dressed in white satin with a neck-high bodice, and the groom, wearing a starched white shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple and a black suit jacket flung casually over his shoulders, stared impassively into the camera. Martin imagined Stella crying out the Russian equivalent of “Cheese” to pry a smile out of them, but it obviously hadn’t worked; the body language the bride and groom were standing next to each other but not touching revealed two strangers at a wake, not a husband and wife after a wedding ceremony. Samat’s face had all but disappeared behind a shaggy black beard and mustache. Only his eyes, storm-dark with anger, were visible. He was obviously irritated, but at what? The religious ceremony that had gone on too long? The prospect of marital bliss in a West Bank oubliette with a consenting Lubavitcher for cellmate?
    “How tall is your sister?” Martin inquired.
    “Five foot four. Why?”
    “He’s slightly taller, which would make him five foot six or seven.”
    “Mind if I ask you something?” Stella said.
    “Ask, ask,” Martin said impatiently.
    “How come you’re not taking notes?”
    “There’s no reason to. I’m not taking notes because I’m not taking the case.”
    Stella’s heart sank. “For God’s sake, why? My father’s ready to pay you whether you find him or not.”
    “I’m not taking the case,” Martin announced, “because it’d be easier to find a needle in a field of haystacks than your sister s missing husband.”
    “You could at least try,” Stella groaned.
    “I’d be wasting your father’s money and my time. Look, Russian