The Body

by Richard Ben Sapir

  “I wasn’t saying that, Brother Folan. You were,” said the doctor, assuming Jim was one of the Dominican brothers.

  They went into the kitchen of Isaiah House and made eggs and salami and drank wine with it, and talked about the sad life of Father Lavelle, with Jim implying he could help. It was, of course, a lie, even though he never once told an outright lie, but it was the only way he could safely extract from the psychiatrist what he had to know.

  Father Lavelle had been under treatment for three years. He was a classic case of a chronic depressive. Outwardly an overachiever, but that was only the deceiving symptom of it. Chronic depressives need activity and goals. They are like people running up falling ladders. To outsiders they appear to have nothing but energy. Actually they are running for their lives.

  In childhood, chronic depressives can be treated by a psychologist or psychiatrist. Usually they are very passive, mistaken as good children, or very angry, mistaken as bad. But by the time they mature, they have to be treated chemically to break the depression.

  Analysis alone would not do. Many world leaders are chronic depressives, and many of the sudden deaths when they are out of office are the result of their depressions catching up with them. When they have a cause or a job, they can survive.

  Father Lavelle had many causes all his life. He refused chemical treatment, instead going out into the wilderness. He insisted upon God upholding him.

  Jim looked to Brother Maurice. Perhaps the psychiatrist did not catch the symbolism, but the two Catholics did. It was in the wilderness that the devil tempted Christ by urging Him to throw Himself off one of the cliffs, trusting to God to save Him, and Christ refused, saying one did not tempt the Lord. Father Lavelle’s refusal to accept medical help when it was available, instead of tempting the Lord, was symbolically throwing himself off a cliff.

  Jim had a crucial question.

  “Was Father Lavelle inclined to make judgments that the worst had happened? In other words, would he automatically jump to the worst possible conclusion without checking out the facts?” asked Jim.

  “Brother Folan,” said Dr. Baumgarten, still uncorrected as to Jim’s title, “Father Lavelle lived the worst possible conclusions and went through life collecting the data to prove them.”

  They talked late into the evening, and it reminded Jim of Newbury Street back in Boston, where one could have truly illuminating talk, relaxed among educated men. It was one of the little joys of being a Jesuit, and, as in Boston, Jim usually just asked questions and absorbed.

  He knew this was not just talking without giving. To be listened to and questioned was a gift also, especially to intelligent people.

  He found out that the best terrorists were chronic depressives. Classics. When the cause was won, they would have to fight on other fronts for other causes. If not that, they betrayed the cause when it became a reality.

  Jim mentioned he heard that terrorists were really very rational people. Psychiatrists said that.

  “Probably a psychiatrist who was a chronic depressive, and shared the same demons as the terrorists he was asked to interrogate. Chronic depressives make good psychiatrists, also,” said Dr. Baumgarten, smiling. “They always have their sick patients to hang on to for dear life. And don’t think otherwise.”

  “And saints,” said Brother Maurice. “With their troughs of despair.”

  “Unless,” said Jim, “it comes from God.”

  “Then, one cannot argue,” said Dr. Baumgarten.

  Which brought up whether chronic depression could come from God, which brought up whether God was capable of evil, which brought up good and bad, and the limits of the devil.

  It was that sort of night. Jim retired, filled in his mind. Before he said good night to Brother Maurice, he got either a warning or a bit of advice.

  These Dominicans were a mission to both the Jews and the Christians, believing there is a mystical link between the Church and the Jews. Originally, the early Church believed the Jews were competition, and that was where much of what became theological anti-Semitism in Christian Europe stemmed from. The very existence of Jews was thought to be a refutation of Christianity, since if the Messiah had come, then why did so many of the people he was born among reject him?

  But the Church had come to realize that one did not negate the other, and both were here for God’s purpose until the end of time.

  “You will be surprised, Jim, at what we share, and what we don’t share, with the Jews.”

  “I studied Judaism. I know Talmudic argument a bit, the Halakah, and many of the differences of their sects. You don’t think I am one of those Americans who think there are three kinds of Judaism, Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox and that’s it, and let’s light Hanukkah candles with our friends because that’s really their Christmas?”

  “I said, you will be surprised,” said Brother Maurice, “and you will.”

  12

  A Friend in Need

  Warris Abouf knew his time was at hand. He knew Major Vakunin was under pressure from above. Warris saw it in the way the major’s bearing carried even in the way he sat, transferring his unpleasantness to his spinal column. Vakunin was more imperial this day, more upright. He was shorter in his sentences, less tolerant of answers. Faster with the ultimatum.

  “If you can’t find someone, we will say you cannot do it and that is it. Done,” said the major. The fingernails of his right hand tapped the green-felt desk top.

  “Oh no, no, no,” said Warris. “As I said in the reports, this is a more subtle, you see, a more subtle project than it would appear on the surface.”

  “In all the universities in Moscow, in all the training camps, you have not been able to find us our Palestinian fluent in Hebrew and knowledge of Vatican affairs? Where is the subtlety? You take a Palestinian. You take a Catholic and you take one that knows how to speak Hebrew. I know, myself, of five, and I am not our expert, Comrade Abouf.”

  “And I know them. Speaking to one I imagined was an Israeli, I could barely make out his Hebrew. I had to give him a Hebrew lesson. Two others were not real Christians, and by that I mean, while they were loyal to us, to the true socialism, they did not even know what an apostolic delegate was. Is that what I could call knowledgeable of Vatican affairs? And then the others who were knowledgeable were, I am sorry to say, people we could not trust.”

  “You dismissed them that easily.”

  “I would have to stand by my estimate.”

  Warris knew that if the major managed to get Warris to change his estimate, then the major was covered, having relied on a subordinate who could be blamed for failure.

  Even if the major felt the men were all right, he would not recommend them without having Warris’ approval, because then the major would be responsible. What he wanted from Warris was his own security on the one hand, and the easing of pressure from above on the other.

  Warris knew the bullying that would come. Ordinarily he would negotiate some compromise. Part of everything Warris had in his life was knowing what his commanders wanted, would tolerate, would push for, would not push for. And he knew this major had to have Warris’ approval on a candidate for the special assignment within Israel.

  And so the threats came, and the warnings came. The major disclosed that he had defended Warris. He had said in a pinch that his man always came up with what was needed.

  Now what could he say? What could he say?

  And it was this moment that Warris had prepared for. He showed a sense of panic. He inhaled deeply, as though a flush had overcome him. His hands wrung together. And he stood up abruptly, his body stiff, at attention.

  “Sir,” he blurted out, “I must now do the only thing possible. I must recommend the only candidate possible. One who fits every qualification.”

  “Now we are doing business,” said the major.

  “I recommend Warris Abouf, sir. Comrade.” And Warris threw the major a salute he had learned in one of the camps that had given him the brief
mandatory military training. It was a rather inelegant salute, with more fervor than form.

  “No,” yelled the major. “Absolutely not.”

  And Warris neatly returned all the major’s reasoning about Warris’ poor performance combined with the organization’s need for a candidate, which Warris had discovered, to his dismay, could be filled only by himself. And he was volunteering as a last resort. Warris felt confident he would now be going home.

  Unfortunately, one of the problems about logically backing someone into a corner was having all the logic dismissed by the reality of who was running things, and why they were being run that way. Truth could be so brutal at times like this.

  “I’m not letting you go,” said the major. “You’re too comfortable to work with. I worked with others. Frankly, Warris, you are the decent Arab. I don’t even think of you as an Arab at all. You understand me and I understand you. The others are like working with zhids. Now, come now. Be a good fellow and get us someone we can all live with.”

  “Yes, Major,” said Warris.

  “Let me be of more help, Warris. And this is confidential. A knowledge of Hebrew can be made up for with a knowledge of Jerusalem,” said the major.

  “All of Jerusalem?” said Warris weakly. Already, Moscow was cold to the marrow, and all the pink-faced Russian joy, with their winters, always made it more miserable. There was nothing to live here for. His wife, Tomarah, was a woman he slept with. His son was now ridiculing him, with his mother’s help. To watch this daily was a worse scourge than the cold.

  But Warris was realistic enough to know that his pain and despair were better than being shot or starving to death. For himself, he was a reasonable man. But such was his despair that he made a mistake of concentration, and had to ask that the major repeat himself. He had missed some rarely given technical information.

  “I am sorry, please repeat,” said Warris.

  He had even been prepared with reasons why it would be no risk if he were captured. He never knew who was accepted and who wasn’t. All he knew about were the students he interviewed, and there were hundreds. And, of course, that was meaningless information. Any reasonable man had to see that. But there was reason and there was reason, Warris knew bitterly.

  And when you were a major in the KGB dealing with an Arab, all the reason was on your side. You let the Arab play with only as much reason as you felt comfortable with, and when you were uncomfortable, you took it all back. Warris smiled and nodded.

  “We believe whatever is happening between the Vatican and Israel has to do with some building, some negotiation on Haneviim Street. We have penetrated the Vatican. And we know.”

  “Street of the prophets,” said Warris.

  “You know it?” said the major.

  “No,” said Warris. “Haneviim means ‘prophets.’ That’s the Hebrew word. ‘Prophets.’ A prophet is one who speaks for God. It is what the word means. ‘Speaker of God.’”

  “Look, you are not a bad fellow, Abouf. Come, we will eat in the commissary downstairs, I know you like that. Come. They have shashlik. See, I am letting you know about you, Abouf.”

  “Yes, the commissary,” said Warris. He always remembered the first meal he had there. He saw meat left over on plates, and that was when he decided these were the people he wanted to work for.

  But it was not like nowadays, with everything offered to almost everyone. Warris had to work for it. He had to earn his place here. He had earned his place through his cunning.

  One of the African students had been beaten to death in an important neighborhood. Students at Patrice Lumumba Friendship University said that he was killed because he was trying to date the daughter of an important official. They said he was killed because he was black, and there were angry stirrings when the body was officially lost. Students said gasoline was poured over his genitals and set afire.

  Before anyone could organize a protest, Warris himself organized one, apologizing for the behavior of any particular student, because, as his signs said, “We are not all animals. Russia, the only friend of the Third World.”

  It did not totally diffuse the anger among the students, and it made Warris enemies. But the enemies he made were not nearly as important as the friends. The enemies did not have extra meat to leave over on their plates.

  Warris went down to the commissary with the major. This meal, too, would change his life.

  A thick-faced woman with big arms brought steaming platters of shashlik for the major. She was fat. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the top and as she leaned forward over the table Warris caught the major’s eyes. The major’s eyes did not look at the shashlik. They did not look at Warris. They did not even look at the waitress herself, but fixed on one spot, that fleshy cleavage pushed up almost to her collarbone.

  “Exquisite shashlik,” said Warris.

  “Yes,” said the major, staring at the breasts.

  “A number four wine would be good,” said Warris.

  “Yes,” said the major.

  And the major noticed that the shashlik had done wonders for the Arab’s disposition, because he became that chatty, almost mindless bubbler, happy to serve. He had a little request, too, one that everyone who worked for 2 Dzerszhinsky Square had to get clearance for. It was a camera. He wanted to photograph the family he loved.

  Would the major supply personal camera and film, since Warris was not allowed to buy them because of his position?

  “Yes, yes,” said the major. “You are a good man. Good people deserve to be treated well.”

  A week later the camera was ready, with one roll of film. Marking on the cartridge in official glaring blue said only the KGB could develop this roll. It was a criminal offense for anyone else to develop it, not that anyone could really photograph anything sensitive, anyway.

  Arkady was the first he photographed, in front of the little cartoon bear on the ice-cream stands. Arkady did not want to pose for Warris’ “stupid pictures,” as he called them, but Warris promised him a trip through Dewtsky Mir (Children’s World) and a toy of his choice.

  Tomarah was a bit harder to photograph, and Warris discovered that she was the source of Arkady’s calling the pictures stupid.

  “Why now pictures? Why pictures of me? What is the purpose of a stupid picture?”

  “Smile. Laugh,” said Warris, trying to align the camera.

  “These are stupid pictures. Why do you want me to laugh?” she said. He had gotten her to sit in front of the window, at first explaining that south light made a woman look more glamorous.

  “You should laugh because your laughter enhances a blonde’s voluptuousness. You are an exciting woman.”

  “Liar,” she said.

  “You are saying to me you are not beautiful, precious?”

  “You are a liar. That’s what I am saying. Liar.”

  “Get closer to the window. You will look so beautiful with the light coming in.”

  “I will not laugh.”

  “You are so beautiful.”

  “But not laughing. Laughing is not attractive. My eyes squint like Tartars’ when I laugh.”

  “No. Not laughing. Whatever made me say laughing,” said Warris, touching her shoulder gently, and stroking.

  There had been a time when just thinking of her could make him burn. And even while he understood that she had married him to get a resident’s permit for Moscow, he had accepted that just to get into her snow-white flesh.

  The sex had been good for many, many months, but in the second year, a year after Arkady was born, it had settled into something that was just there. The fire was gone, replaced by a sort of mutual comfort, in a home where a truce reigned.

  But in the last six weeks, since Arkady had told him what the rouge on his cheeks represented, there had been only two incidents of sex, and each a grinding performance of duty lest Tomarah suspect something.

  Somehow, she sensed that sex with her had become a labor, and not only did this fail to decrease her appetite, it e
nlarged it. It aroused her that, like some weary worker, he would have to start up her body like a cold machine. There was the touch on the breast, the kiss on the clitoris, and then if Tomarah said ready, he would mount.

  Sometimes she would say, “No. No,” and mention more of this or more of that.

  This day as he stroked her cheek, she wanted the sex right away.

  “After the pictures, dear,” said Warris.

  “The pictures later.”

  “But with pictures, I can get excited.”

  “Liar,” she said. “Don’t lie.”

  “I only have to see your breasts,” said Warris.

  Her large breasts were well hidden in two layers, the first a thick white bra and the second a flowery print blouse, just as opaque.

  “You are not a breast person. You like my, you know what,” she giggled, patting her very round backside.

  “You don’t see what men notice.”

  “They notice nothing. What do they notice?”

  “How full you are. Men love the fullness.”

  “I am a woman,” she said, with a telltale grin. “Average maybe. Better. A little.”

  “Better than better,” said Warris.

  “You don’t fondle me that way.”

  “Just seeing them is excitement.”

  “No,” she giggled. And not calling him a liar meant she was open for more of the same.

  “Oh yes, they are magnificent. Here. Let me open this button,” said Warris, reaching forward.

  “Not unless you mean business.”

  “Of course I mean business,” said Warris. He opened one button, and kissed his forefinger and placed it upon the white, rising pillow of flesh jutting above the sharp bra line.

  “That’s too much,” laughed Tomarah, closing the blouse again, but not fastening the button.

  Warris focused, adjusted the lens for daylight afternoon winter, and snapped the picture.

  “Is that all I get?” said Warris.

  “Not for the camera.”

  “I want your picture.”