I saw her first in a reflection in a shop’s window.
Along Ibn Gvirol, heading to the square, just before the car park where Rabin was shot.
She wore a white cotton dress and sandals, her hair was auburn, our eyes met and hers opened wide in surprise. I glanced quickly away. Then I turned around to see her but there was no one there. When I looked back into the shop’s window, even her reflection was gone.
It had been strange but the moment passed. I chalked it up to the heat, my mind playing tricks on me. I was in the center for an interview with a writer, a young novelist who has had some success overseas. His name was Tidhar, Lavie Tidhar, and he had won an international award, the World Fantasy Award, the week before, and so the paper wanted me to talk to him for a feature. I had spok
