He rubbed the sole of one of his boots against
the other. His lips, tightened pale, contrasted morbidly with the
inkiness of his beard and whiskers.
"Go away" - ordered the warden offhandedly.
"Shalev" - I said but he did not react - "I have an offer to make. Give
me your silence. I want to buy it from you. Let me be the one to go to
the chief and then refuse to talk to him. You tell him that everything
is fine, that it was all one big misunderstanding, that you had a fight
with your wife, with your family. Apologise profusely. After we exit, I
will give you back your silence, I swear to you."
Shalev exerted himself and raised his head, watching me intently. But
then his chin drooped and I chastised myself: "you lost him, you lost
him" and I wanted to beat myself unconscious.
The warden shook his head in mute disdain.
The silence was broken by the smoke-drenched curses of prisoners and
staff, as they crossed the link chained paths. A woman staffer exited,
banging a wooden frame behind her portly figure. She scrutinised the
warden questioningly, a sooty cigarette hanging from the corner of a
lipstick smear:
"This is Shalev?"
"That's me" - said Shalev - "I am ready now. I will talk to you.
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