The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

“The magic spring, Saba,” said Shoshi. She wrapped the coils of her grandfather’s beard around her slender fingers. “Ple-ease.”

  Yehesqel tickled her chin, took another swallow of arak, and said, “When Mori Yikhya died, it was a terrible thing. He lay down in the sand and stopped breathing in the middle of the desert, a place without water—we were all dying. The Halakhah says that a body must be washed before it is buried. But there was no water. The Jews were sad—we didn’t know what to do. We prayed and said tehillim but knew we couldn’t wait a long time—the Halakhah also says a body must be buried quickly. All of a sudden something happened, something special.”

  He held out his hand to Shoshi.

  “The magic spring came up!”

  “Yes. A spring of water came up from the middle of the sand, a great miracle in honor of Mori Yikhya Al Abyad. We washed him, gave him honor, and buried him. Then we filled our water bottles and drank. Many lives were saved because of Mori Yikhya. As his soul entered heaven, the spring dried up.”

  “A wonderful story,” said Luanne.

  “The Yemenites are fabulous storytellers,” said Laura. She added, laughing, “It’s why I married Daniel.”

  “What stories did Abba tell you, Eema?” asked Shoshi.

  “That I was a millionaire,” said Daniel. “My name was Rockefeller, I owned a hundred white horses, and could turn cabbage to gold.”

  “Oh, Abba!”

  “There are books of beautiful poems called diwans,” said Laura. “They’re meant to be sung—my father-in-law knows them all by heart. Would you sing for us, Abba Yehesqel?”

  The old man tapped his Adam’s apple. “Dry as the desert.”

  “Here’s your magic spring,” said Daniel, filling his glass with arak. His father emptied it, had another half glass, and was finally cajoled into performing. He stood, righted his beret, and cleared his throat.

  “I will sing,” he said, “from the diwan of Mori Salim Shabazi, the greatest Yemenite tzadik of all. First, I will sing his peullot.”

  Accompanying himself with hand and body movements, he began to chant, first softly, then louder, in a clear, reedy tenor, reciting in Hebrew as Daniel whispered translation in Luanne’s ear. Using original melodies more than four hundred years old to sing the peullot—the miraculous deeds—of the Great Teacher Shabazi, who put an end to the exile to Mauza by bringing down an affliction upon the imam of San’a. Mori Shabazi, whose grave at Ta’izz became a sacred shrine, even to the Muslims. Who was so humble and God-fearing that each time worshippers tried to grace the grave with flowers, the whitewash flaked off the headstone, the monument finally disintegrating into thin air.

  Gene opened his eyes and sat up, listening. Even the boys stopped their play and paid attention.

  The old man sang for a full half-hour, of the yearning for Zion, the Jew’s eternal quest for spiritual and physical redemption. Then he took a break, wet his gullet with more arak, and looked at Daniel.

  “Come, son. We will sing of our ancestor Mori Shalom Sharavi, the weaver. You know that diwan well.”

  The detective got up and took his father’s hand.

  At four the old man left for his afternoon Torah class and Laura pulled a book out of the case.

  “This is a recent translation of Yemenite women’s songs, put out by the Women’s Center in Tel Aviv. My father-in-law would never sing them—he’s probably never even seen them. In Yemen the sexes were segregated. The women never learned to read or write, were taught no Hebrew or Aramaic—the educated languages. They got back at the men by making up songs in Arabic—closet feminism, really—about love, sex, and how foolish men are, ruled by lust and aggression.”

  “Amen,” said Luanne.

  “This is getting dangerous,” Gene said to Daniel. He rose from the couch, hitched up his trousers.

  “My favorite one,” said Laura, flipping pages, “is ‘The Manly Maiden.’ It’s about a girl who dresses up as a man and becomes a powerful sultan. There’s this great scene where she gives a sleeping powder to forty-one robbers, takes off their clothes, and inserts a radish in each one of their—”

  “That,” said Gene, “is my exit line.”

  “Mine too,” said Daniel.

  They left the women laughing, took the children and Dayan down to Liberty Bell Park.

  As Daniel came out of the apartment, his eyes were assaulted by the sunlight. He could feel his pupils expanding, the heat massaging his face. As he walked, he noticed that everything looked and felt unnaturally vivid—the grass and flowers so bright they seemed freshly painted, the air as sweet as sun-dried laundry. He looked at Gene. The black man’s face remained impassive, so Daniel knew it was his own perceptions that were heightened. He was experiencing the hypersensitivity of a blind man whose sight has miraculously been restored.

  “Some guy, your dad,” said Gene, as they made their way through the field that bordered the northern edge of the park. “How old is he?”

  “Seventy-one.”

  “He moves like a kid. Amazing.”

  “He is amazing. He has a beautiful heart. My mother died in childbirth—he was mother and father to me.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  “No. The same with Laura. Our children have no aunts or uncles.”

  Gene eyed the boys and Shoshana, running ahead through the tall grass.

  “Looks like you’ve got plenty of family, though.”

  “Yes.” Daniel hesitated. “Gene, I want to apologize for being such a poor host.”

  Gene dismissed him with a wave. “Nothing to apologize for. Tables were turned, I’d be doing the same.”

  They entered the park, which was crowded with Shabbat strollers, walked under arched pergolas roofed with pink and white oleanders, past sand-play areas, rose beds, the replica of the Liberty Bell donated by the Jews of Philadelphia. Two men out on a stroll, two out of many.

  “What is this, Father’s Day?” said Gene. “Never seen so many guys with kids.”

  The question surprised Daniel. He’d always taken Shabbat at the park for granted. One afternoon a week for mothers to rest, fathers to go on shift.

  “It’s not like that in America?”

  “We take our kids out, but nothing like this.”

  “In Israel, we have a six-day workweek. Saturday’s the time to be with our children.” They continued walking. Daniel looked around, tried to see things through Gene’s perspective.

  It was true. There were teenagers, couples, entire clans. The Arabs came over from East Jerusalem, three generations all banded together, picnicking on the grass.

  But mostly it was Daddies On Parade. Big brawny guys, pale, studious-looking fellows. Graybeards and some who looked too young to sire. Fathers in black suits and hats, peyot and beards; others who’d never worn a kipah. Truck drivers and lawyers and shopkeepers and soldiers, eating peanuts and smoking, saying “Yes, yes, motek,” to toddlers tugging at their fingers.

  One guy had staked out a spot underneath an oak tree. He slept on his back as his children—four girls—constructed houses out of ice-cream sticks. A two-year-old ran bumpily across Daniel and Gene’s path, sobbing and grubby-faced, arms extended to a blond man in shorts and T-shirt, crying “Abba! Abba!” until the man scooped the child up in his arms, assuaged her misery with kisses and tongue-clucks.

  The two detectives stopped and sat on a park bench. Daniel looped Dayan’s leash around a back slat, said, “Sit,” and when the spaniel ignored him, dropped the subject. He looked around for Mikey and Benny, spotted them clear across the park, climbing a metal structure shaped like a spaceship. Shoshi had met up with a girlfriend, was walking with her near the guardrail of the roller skating rink. Both girls had their heads lowered, lost in a conversation that looked serious.

  The boys reached the top of the spaceship, clambered down, and ran toward the Train Theater, disappearing behind the boxcars.

  “You let them get out of your sight like that?” said Gene.

 
; “Sure. Why not?”

  “In L.A. you can’t do that—too many weirdos hanging out at the parks.”

  “Our parks are safe,” said Daniel, chasing away the leering image of Sender Malkovsky.

  Gene looked as if he were going to say something. Something related to the case, Daniel was certain. But the American stopped himself, bit his lip, said, “Uh huh, that’s good,” and stretched his legs out.

  They sat there, surrounded by shouts and laughter, but lulled into inactivity by empty minds and full bellies.

  Gene’s arms dropped to his sides. “Very nice,” he said, and closed his eyes. Soon his chest was heaving, and his mouth opened slightly, emitting a soft, rhythmic whistle. Poor guy, thought Daniel. Luanne had dragged him all over the country. (“Sixty-three churches, Danny Boy—she’s been keeping score.”)

  He sat there next to the sleeping man, felt himself sinking into the bench and didn’t fight it. Time to let his guard down. Rest and renew, as his father had said. Time to remove his policeman’s eyes—suspicious eyes trained to home in on discrepancy, the odd, disturbing flaw that an ordinary person wouldn’t notice.

  No protector, no detective. Just one of the fathers. A guy out with his kids in Liberty Bell Park.

  His eyelids were heavy, he yielded to their weight. Shabbat shalom. True Sabbath Peace.

  So complete was his surrender that he had no idea he was being watched. Had been observed, in fact, since his entry to the park.

  A big nigger and a little nigger-kike. And a little worm of a dog that would be good for a few minutes of fun.

  Beautiful, just beautiful.

  Amos and Andy. King Kong and Ikey-Kikey in blackface.

  Nigger-kike—the very idea was a joke. De-evolution at its nadir, selective breeding for stupidity and weakness.

  The little asshole was stupid, which was why he listed his name in the phone book. Everyone in this fucking country did—you could look up the mayor, go to his house, and blow his face off when he came out the front door.

  Come and get me. Instant victim: Just add Jew genes.

  Reminded him of that invention he’d thought of as a kid. Insta-Auschwitz, little green box on wheels. Quick disposal of unwanted pets. And other untermensch nuisances. Clean it all up. Cut it away.

  Look at that. Rufus and Ikey-Kikey Blackface limped out on the bench like a couple of grokked-out winos.

  What did you get when you crossed a nigger with a kike—a janitor who owned the building? A shylock who ripped himself off?

  One big hook-nose squashed flat.

  One hell of a circumcision—have to use a chain saw.

  The man felt the laughter climbing up through his esophagus, forced himself to keep it bottled up. He feigned relaxation, seated on the grass among all the other people, half-hidden behind a newspaper, wearing a wig and mustache that made him someone else. Scanning the park with cold eyes concealed behind sunglasses. One hand on the paper, the other in his pocket, fondling himself.

  All those kids and families, kikes and sand-niggers. He would have loved to come rolling in with a giant chain saw of his own. Or maybe a lawn mower or a combine, something relentless and gas-powered . . . No, nuclear-powered, with gigantic blades, as sharp as his little beauties but big. As big as helicopter rotors.

  And loud, making a sound like an air-raid siren. Panic-feeding, ear-bleeding loud. Blood-freezing loud.

  Come rolling in with the nuke-mower, just pushing it through the human lawn, listening to the screams, churning everything up.

  Back to the primordial soup.

  Some terrific game, a real pleasure diddle. Maybe one day.

  Not yet. He had other things to do. Hors d’oeuvres.

  Project Untermensch.

  The one who’d refused him had set things back, fucked up the weekly rhythm, really gotten him upset.

  Stupid sand-nigger bitch, his money hadn’t been good enough.

  He’d watched her for a couple of days, gotten interested because of her face, the perfect fit for his mind-pictures. Even when she put on the tacky red wig, it was all right. He’d take it off. Along with everything else.

  Everything came off.

  Then she goes and fuck-you’s him.

  Unreal.

  But that’s what he got for improvising, deviating from the plan.

  Trying to be casual—that never worked.

  The important thing was structure. Following the rules. Keeping everything clean.

  He’d gone home that night and punished himself for stepping out of bounds.

  Using one of the little dancing beauties—the smallest bistoury—he’d incised a series of curved discipline cuts in the firm white skin of his inner thighs. Close to the scrotum—don’t slip, ha, ha, or there’ll be a major endocrine adjustment.

  Cut, cut, dance, dance, crosses with bent ends. Rotated. One on each thigh. The crosses had seeped blood; he’d tasted it, bitter and metallic, poisoned by failure.

  There, that’ll show you, filthy boy.

  Stupid sand-nigger whore.

  A delay, but no big deal. The schedule could be fouled if the goal was kept sacred.

  Project Untermensch. He heard children laughing. All these inferior slimefucks—it made his head hurt, filled his skull with a terrible roar. He hid his face behind the paper, concentrated on making the noise go away by thinking of his little beauties asleep in their velvet bed, so shiny and clean, extensions of his will, techno-perfection.

  Structure was the answer. Keeping in step.

  Goose step.

  Dance, dance.

  CHAPTER

  40

  Moshe Kagan seemed amused rather than offended. He sat with Daniel in the living room of his home, a cheaply built four-room cube on a raised foundation, no different from any of the others in the Gvura settlement.

  One corner of the room was filled with boxes of clothes. On the wall behind Kagan was a framed poster featuring miniature oval portraits of great sages. Next to it hung a watercolor of the Western Wall as it had been before ’67—no sunlit expanse of plaza; the prayer space narrowed by a rear wall and shadowed by jerry-built Arab houses. Daniel remembered coming upon it like that, after making his way through dead bodies and hailstorms of sniper fire. How demeaned the last remnant of the Temple had looked, rubble and rotting garbage piled up behind the wall, the Jordanians trying to bury the last reminder of three thousand years of Jewish presence in Jerusalem.

  Underneath the watercolor was a hand-printed banner featuring the blue clenched-fist logo of the Gvura party and the legend: TO FORGET IS TO DIE. To the left of the banner was a glass-doored bookcase containing the twenty volumes of the Talmud, a Mikra’ot Gedolot Pentateuch with full rabbinic commentary, megillot, kabbalistic treatises, the Code of Jewish Law. Leaning against the case were an Uzi and an assault rifle.

  An angry red sun had set itself resolutely in the sky and the drive down the Hebron Road had been hot and lonely. The unpaved turnoff to Beit Gvura anticipated Hebron by seven kilometers, a twisting and dusty climb, hell on the Escort’s tires. Upon arrival, Daniel had passed through a guarded checkpoint, endured the hostile stares of a gauntlet of husky Gvura men before being escorted to Kagan’s front door.

  Lots of muscle, plenty of firearms on display, but the leader himself was something else: mid-fifties, small, fragile-looking, and cheerful, with a grizzled beard the color of scotch whisky and drooping blue eyes. His cheeks were hollow, his hair thinning, and he wore a large black velvet kipah that covered most of his head. His clothes were simple and spotless—white shirt, black trousers, black oxfords—and bagged on him, as if he’d just lost weight. But Daniel had never seen him any heavier, either in photos or onstage at rallies.

  Kagan took a green apple out of the bowl on the coffee table that separated him from Daniel and rubbed it between his palms. He offered the bowl to the detective and, when Daniel declined, made the blessing over fruit and bit in. As he chewed, knotty lumps rose and fell in his jaw. His sleeves were
rolled up to his elbows, revealing thin forearms, sunburnt on top, fish-belly white on the inner side. Still banded, Daniel noticed, with the strap marks of the morning phylacteries.

  “A terrible thing,” he said, in perfect Hebrew. “Arab girls getting cut up.”

  “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me about it, Rabbi.”

  Kagan’s amusement spread into a smile. He ate half the apple before speaking.

  “Terrible,” he repeated. “The loss of any human life is tragic. We are all created in God’s image.”

  Daniel felt he was being mocked. “I’ve heard you refer to Arabs as subhuman.”

  Kagan dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Rhetoric. Hitting the ass across the face in order to get its attention—that’s an old American joke.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course if they choose to reduce themselves to animals by acting in a subhuman manner, I have no compunction about pointing it out.”

  Kagan chewed the apple down to the core, bit into the core, and finished it too. When only the stem was left, he pulled it out of his mouth and twirled it between his fingertips.

  “Sharavi,” he said. “Old Yemenite name. Are you descended from Mori Shalom Sharavi?”

  “Yes.”

  “No hesitation, eh? I believe you. The Yemenites have the best yikhus, the finest lineage of any of us. Your nusakh of prayer is closest to the original, the way Jews davened before the Babylonian exile. What minyan do you attend?”

  “Sometimes I pray at the Kotel. Other times I go to a minyan in my building.”

  “Your building—ah, yes, the toothpick in Talbieh. Don’t look so surprised, Inspector. When you told Bob Arnon you were religious I had you checked out, wanted to make sure it wasn’t just government subterfuge. As far as my contacts can tell, you are what you say you are—that kipah isn’t for show.”

  “Thank you for your endorsement,” said Daniel.

  “No need to get upset,” said Kagan genially. “Blame the government. Four months ago they tried to slip in an under-cover agent—I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you? Yemenite fellow, as a matter of fact—isn’t that a coincidence? He, too, wore a kipah, knew the right things to say, bless this, bless that—blessings with false intention, taking God’s name in vain. That’s a major transgression, not that the government cares about transgressions.”