SHE WAS SEATED in her wheelchair, in the shade of a stone pine. Her hands, scarred and twisted, held a sprig of olive branch. Her hair, once long and black, was cropped short and nearly all gray. Her eyes remained vacant as Gilah and the doctor spoke. Ten minutes later they left her. Gabriel walked down the garden path and knelt before the wheelchair, holding the remnants of her hand. It was Leah who spoke first.

“Do you love this girl?”

“Yes, Leah, I love her very much.”

“You’ll be good to her?”

The tears rolled onto his cheeks. “Yes, Leah, I’ll be good to her.”

She looked away from him. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”

“God, how I hate this city, but the snow makes it beautiful. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She looked at him again. “You’ll still come visit me?”

“Yes, Leah, I’ll visit you.”

And then she looked away again. “Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”

“He’s fine, Leah. Be careful driving home.”

“I’ll be careful, Gabriel. Give me a kiss.”

Gabriel pressed his lips against the scar tissue on her ruined cheek and closed his eyes.

Leah whispered, “One last kiss.”

THE WALLS of Gabriel’s bedroom were hung with paintings. There were three paintings by his grandfather—the only surviving works Gabriel had ever been able to find—and more than a dozen by his mother. There was also a portrait, painted in the style of Egon Schiele, that bore no signature. It showed a young man with prematurely gray hair and a gaunt face haunted by the shadow of death. Gabriel had always told Chiara that the painting was a self-portrait. Now, as she lay beside him, he told her the truth.

“When did she paint it?” Chiara asked.

“Right after I returned from the Black September operation.”

“She was amazing.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel, looking at the painting. “She was much better than me.”

Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “How long are we going to stay here?”

“Until we find him.”

“And how long is that going to take?”

“Maybe a month. Maybe a year. You know how these things go, Chiara.”

“I suppose we’re going to need some furniture.”

“Why?”

“Because we can’t live with only a studio and a bed.”

“Yes, we can,” he said. “What else do we need?”

41. Paris: August

Paris: August