Hatchet

by Israel Levy

  At two a.m., after three bottles of Guinness and three shots of tequila, the sisters wobbled out to their cars, alcohol glazing their eyes. Hugs and kisses, goodbyes. Naomi flopped into the car and fumbled to find the right key (“Leibowitz should see me like this, driving under the influence”) she laughed out loud and drove out of the parking lot and onto the road. She could hear the brakes of the car she cut off screeching, and the driver showering her with curses pertaining to her mother, father and entire dynasty, all the way back to the days of Abraham.

  The ringing alarm clock felt like a gong banging against Naomi’s head. The radio automatically turned on just in time for the news. “Three soldiers were killed…” she changed the channel (“I cannot start my day with that”). The sounds of the morning music kept pounding in her ears like full volume bass as she moved toward the shower, stopping on her way to switch on the kettle. She emerged from the shower still sleepy. Dripping wet she stood at the kitchen counter completely naked, and with her eyes still half closed made herself an extra strong coffee with sugar. All she could think about was that black, black liquid touching her lips, flowing down her throat through her chest to her stomach, and warming her slumbering body.

  She took the coffee with her and went to living room to check the news online (“Maybe checking the news isn’t such a good idea after all”). By the time she finished her coffee she was dry, thanks to the breeze that came in through the kitchen window. She went to the closet and picked out that black bra she once bought in an attempt to turn Reuben on, and a pair of bikini panties. She faced the mirror and lathered her body with lotion, rendering her skin smooth and pleasantly fragrant. She pictured Moshe standing behind her (“Seriously, you’re out of your mind”) and put on her lawyer clothes. She grabbed her beach bag, stuffed it with her bathing suit and beach towel and then remembered she’d left the “Revisionist” at the beach and grabbed a magazine instead. When the door slammed behind her she had already reach the next floor. Running down the stairs finally managed to wake her up. There were two voice messages on her cellphone.

  “Hey, Naomi,” she heard Shuli’s voice. “I just made it home. The girls are asleep, the little angels, but I’m still not over the fact that you fucked Reuben. How could you? Well, anyway, I’m off to bed. I’m pretty sure I’ll have a massive hangover tomorrow morning. Good night, sis.”

  The second message was from Reuben. She pressed “delete” without listening to it. She also deleted the emails he sent, then turned on the stereo. The Arik Einstein CD was still playing and she couldn’t be bothered to change it.

  Chapter 2

  “Good morning, Naomi.”

  “Good morning, Yael. Please save me.”

  “Yeah, I know. Milk, two sugars.”

  “You’re a sweetheart.”

  At noon Naomi got up from her desk for the first time to stretch her legs. On the desk, scattered between mountains of paperwork, were five empty cups of coffee. She grabbed her bag and on her way out passed by Leibowitz’s door. It was open, and when he saw her pass by he called out “Naomi, can you come in a minute?”

  She backtracked and popped her head in. “You called, Mr. Leibowitz?”

  “Come in, come in. And close the door behind you.”

  Naomi was surprised. She couldn’t remember the last time he called her into his office. She sat down on a Louis XIV style armchair Leibowitz’s wife had bought for him on one of her boring trips to the markets of Paris. As he finished a phone call, Naomi took a quick glance around the room which had been heavily decorated with antique French furniture. With too much free time on her hands his wife had decided to import Parisian furniture and flooded his room with a style of décor that was completely out of character with his personality (“Not at all my taste”).

  “So listen, Naomi. I’ve talked to Reuben. He was very pleased with your last performance.” A slight blush came to her face and she took a deep breath and chose not to say anything (“Excuse me! He was pleased with my performance?! Goddammit with all these men”).

  “And anyway,” Leibowitz went on, “I too have noticed your impressive abilities and your excellent handling of the cases assigned to you. Just between us, the work you’ve been given so far was pretty dull. Let me ask you this: remind me what you did during your army service?”

  The look on her face grew even more surprised. “I was in the Intelligence Corps,” she said.

  “That’s right, I remember now from your job interview. You were an officer, correct? Tell me, what did you do exactly?” She told him about the rigorous basic training, the non-commissioned commander’s course, and the officer training course. She did her two year mandatory service plus one year at the rank of captain, commanding a platoon at the Intelligence Officers Academy.

  “Excellent. So I gather you have high security clearance?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Naomi (“What is he getting at?”) she felt a slight buzz of excitement.

  “Well, pay close attention. We’ve decided to put you on a precedential damages case. The persons involved make it highly classified.” Naomi felt her stomach flutter. “We’re going for a precedent where the family of a terrorist attack victim is forgoing the national security claim and suing both the family of the suicide bomber and the organization that sent him.”

  Naomi was gripping the armrest of her chair. Her heart was racing, her breathing was rapid and her face pale. She pulled herself together (“This is one serious case”). “Wow, I’m not quite sure how to react. But, if I may, a few questions come to mind. One, if the bomber was an adult, then there’s no way of suing his family. And two, whatever the verdict may be, doesn’t suing a non-legitimate terrorist organization pose the danger of creating a situation of us recognizing its existence? Does this sort of verdict even stand under international law? And three, can the family waive their national security claim? And if so, do they understand the possible repercussions of such an act?”

  Leibowitz’s face assumed a wide grin. “I was right about you, my girl.” Naomi could feel herself blush.

  “You’ve touched upon the main points we must clarify before making any statement. But just so you know: one, the suicide bomber was sixteen, so the family is responsible for his actions and there is room for a damages suit; two, recognizing the existence of an organization does not legitimize it. We just need to check the international treaties that enable extending verdicts issued in Israel to other countries that have signed these same treaties, assuming of course that they exist; and three, I believe what we are facing here is a legal lacuna. In other words, a situation that has never before received legal clarification. And yes, the family is willing to accept the outcome of forgoing their national security claim.”

  “There’s a lot to find out, before we even sit down to file the suit.”

  “Indeed there is, Naomi, you’re absolutely right. This case is precedential and it is generating a huge amount of interest among attorneys in Israel and abroad. It has the potential of being truly groundbreaking. So are you interested in leading the team that will be working on this case?”

  “Mr. Leibowitz, I don’t know what to say. The answer is yes, of course, I’m absolutely interested. Thank you!”

  Leibowitz leaned back, in an attempt to get as comfortable as possible in his hard-backed, ornate wooden chair. “Ok then,” he smiled at her excitement, the sort of which he no longer experienced.

  “We’re meeting the family tomorrow morning in the conference room. You’ll be leading the meeting. Forward whatever you’re working on now to Haim, take a few hours to clear your head. You’re in for some extremely intensive work.”

  She made her way to the elevator, and then to the car, in complete silence. She could feel a mounting pressure in her chest. She couldn’t even remember driving to the beach but all of a sudden found herself there, parked at the head of the path leading down to the water. She stepped ou
t of the car and only then, with the wind on her face and the sounds of the crashing waves in her ears, did she face the ocean and yell, in a voice she didn’t even know was hers: “Yes! Yes! YES!!!”

  She kicked off her shoes and ran towards the beach barefoot, feeling the wet sand between her toes and the cool wind on her face which was hot with excitement. She kneeled, pulling up her skirt to stop it from getting wet, when all at once, she sensed that someone else was there. She grew quiet, the sound of the waves was all she could hear. Something made her turn to look around. A movement in the shrubs drew her attention and she noticed the figure behind them.

  “Who’s there?” she called out. “Come out.” Now she saw that the figure emerging from behind the bush was Moshe and her heart began to race. “Moshe, what are you doing here? How long have you been hiding there?”

  “Hi, Naomi. Ever since you told me you come here a lot I’ve been here every day, looking for you. You forgot this the last time you were here,” he said, reaching behind the bush for the familiar plastic bag handing over her book, which she had been certain she’d lost for good.

  “Did you read any of it?”

  “Yes, a bit. It’s interesting. I didn’t really know much about the Jewish resistance movements. It’s a lot like the National Liberation groups that operated in South America, Cuba, Argentina, and even reminds me of the Palestinian Resistance.”

  “Whoa, hold it right there!” she cried out. “Do not make that comparison and do not make the mistake of referring to terrorist organizations as ‘national resistance groups’. I know all you South American are leftists by default, but enough’s enough.”

  “Ok, ok,” said Moshe, a bit frightened by the full on attack. “Let’s change the subject,” he attempted. “What do you do for a living?”

  The sun, now beating down, found them sitting on the towel, talking. She spoke and he focused on her lips, thirstily drinking in her words and her image. He spoke and she gazed at his tanned features (“He actually looks like a native American”), grooves left by the war of existence formed deep, character revealing wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. She learned that he worked in construction, and that, as she thought, he had come to Israel from South America, completed his architectural degree at the Technion in Haifa, but couldn’t find work.

  “The market is flooded with architects who have good connections,” so he started working as a building inspector.

  “Isn’t it hard work? Wouldn’t you rather work in an air-conditioned office and not get your hands dirty? Some clients of the law firm where I work own architectural studios, I could maybe put you in touch with them.”

  But Moshe said no, he liked what he did. “I’ve drifted away from architecture and I actually like the manual labor aspect of my job. You can feel how something new is being formed right from under your hands, block after block, wall after wall, floor after floor, and all of a sudden what was once a deserted flat surface becomes a building where families can start their new lives. Something in that hands-on experience speaks to me.

  “But what about the creative side of things?” asked Naomi.

  “You’re right. At first that bothered me, but I’ve started devoting more time to my painting and find myself at my easel at home almost every day. Sometimes I paint all night until I have to go to work in the morning.”

  She looked at him (“I’ve never thought of construction work in that way before, and what’s more, he’s an artist! Interesting…”) and glanced at her watch. It was late.

  “I have to get back to the office.” She wrote her number and email on a piece of paper. “That’s my cell and email. Give me yours if you want. We can stay in touch.”

  “Sure,” he grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted down his cellphone number and gmail address. (“Not bad, not bad”) she smiled to herself.

  “Where’s your work? I can give you a lift,” hoping he’d accept the offer so that she could spend some more time with him, but he said he wanted to stay at the beach a little longer, maybe swim a bit, and go to work after that.

  Before getting into the car she gave him one last look. He reminded her of the character of the architect in The Fountainhead, a book she loved in her teens. He was standing there all tanned and muscular, wearing a pair of shorts held together by a length of rope instead of a belt (“What happened to his ‘slip’?”), facing the sea as if in the final scene of some film noir (“All that’s missing is for this image to be in black and white”).

  A contented little smile appeared on her lips as she drove back and it remained on her face as she entered the office. A few minutes later she was deep in her work, preparing for the following day’s meeting with the family. She skimmed through the first documents in the file Yael had placed on her desk but couldn’t concentrate. She turned her chair towards the window just in time to see the streetlights come on as dusk descended, when all of a sudden Yael stormed in the room and leaped at her in an overwhelming embrace.

  “Naomi! First of all, congratulations on your promotion! And second,” she was breathless with excitement, “in the underground parking, Floor -2, next to column 26, you’ll find a parking spot marked ‘Naomi – Leibowitz’!”

  “What?! My own parking spot! Amazing, Yaeli, we really nailed it.” Yael surprised her once again by planting a kiss on her cheek before leaving the room.

  A quick look at the clock signaled her to shut the files (“I think I’ll leave early today, I don’t feel like staying”) and she rushed down to her car and took a spin around the underground parking to check out her new spot. Seeing her name stencilled on the smooth concrete floor was so nice. She tried to reach Shuli on her cellphone. Naomi had promised her she’d start working out at the gym in the hotel near the beach. “With all the rich yuppies training there you might find someone better than that Reuben of yours, not to mention your mystery man Moshe.”

  She didn’t see Shuli outside the gym (“She might be waiting for me inside”) so Naomi went in and was immediately struck by the pungent smell of sweat in the air. She heard loud exhale sounds coming for every direction and the whole space was in motion with people running on treadmills or lifting weights. She heard a trainer counting while breathing heavily and memories of the smell of army tents sprang to her mind, that sweaty smell that stuck to everyone’s fatigues after a long night’s march mixed with the odor of clammy, calloused feet as they are finally released, with a sigh, from the constraints of military boots.

  “Hey, Sis. What’s up?” Shuli’s voice shook her from her reveries. They hugged and kissed and stepped up to the front desk. Naomi found the young girl at the counter annoying (“I hate that they’re always so young, beautiful, fit and tanned”). She took Naomi’s photo, uploaded it on the computer, and within seconds handed her a freshly issued member’s card. The photo was less than flattering.

  They went to the locker room to change. Thin mist was in the air and some of the women that moved through it were naked while others wore colorful sportswear (“Ok, I don’t look so bad compared to everyone else”). Shuli changed as quickly as she could, attempting to cover up the love handles she now sported since her last birth. Naomi on the other hand eyed the competition and chose to stand in her birthday suit for several long seconds, relishing the envious looks, before slipping into her flattering, body-hugging purple leotard.

  “Naomi, you’re a witch. I know exactly what you’re doing, my not-so-innocent sister. Come on, let’s go.”

  They left their clothes in the lockers and strode to the exercise hall. A burly guy (“Too pumped for my taste”) came up to them. His t-shirt, stretched tight against his muscles, read ‘Combat Fitness Instructor’.

  “You two look lost. I take it it’s your first time here?”

  “We used to go to a different gym ages ago but it’s our first time here.”

  “Alright, so let’s build you a workout plan. What’s your focus? Fitn
ess, weight-loss, bodybuilding?”

  “We just want to look good,” said Shuli.

  “To get guys like you to turn their heads and look at us when we walk by,” Naomi heard herself say, and immediately blushed, followed by a quick jab to the ribs from Shuli and a disgruntled ‘ouch’ from herself.

  She had no idea there were so many muscles in her body, most it would seem completely dormant. She got the sense the instructor did everything in his power to get her to feel every single inch of her body, pushing her harder and harder with stretches, weights and whatnot. “This targets your stomach, this targets your shoulders, this one targets your butt” (“If he doesn’t cut it out I’ll kick him in his ‘this targets your balls’”).

  She gave Shuli a lift home.

  “No, I can’t come inside. I feel so gross, I just want to go home and get in the shower.”

  Luckily she had two full bottles of mineral water in the fridge. She ended up sitting on the kitchen floor with the fridge door open and its tiny bulb the only light in the dark kitchen. She was so exhausted she couldn’t even bring herself to lift her arm to switch on the light. With one bottle already empty and the second at her mouth (“Fuck it, no way am I getting in the shower now”), it was all she could do to drag herself into bed. Still wearing that purple leotard, her eyes shut before her head met the pillow.

  When the alarm clock buzzed the next morning she was already in the shower. She knew this was the day she was really going to ‘kill’ it at work. She took out a fresh razor from the cupboard and shaved her legs in long, gentle strokes, careful not to nick herself, then lathered on her favorite body lotion, squeezed herself into the black skirt she hadn’t touched since graduation and picked out a white blouse to match (“Not too see through? No”). The formal looking shoes she chose were reminiscent of those famous, sturdy ‘Golda Shoes’ – the very fact that she even thought of that term was a testament to her age, she pondered and laughed. A black, tailored jacket completed her look. She checked herself in the hall mirror (“Not too bad for a thirty-two year old spinster lawyer”) and was inside her car within three minutes. Twenty minutes later she was already in her new parking spot (“No more searching round and round in circles for an empty spot”), smiling happily at Haim the lawyer who honked at her in congratulations and drove off in search of a spot of his own.