by Rena Rossner
Gone but not forgotten. Never did the boys regret, and sometimes, when they thought no one was looking, one by one they’d wander still. And they’d look and watch and sometimes still they’d see, the holy lions, mist-shaped, curling up onto the graves. And they knew it was the lions who had led them, clothed in mist, each to his beloved’s bed. You can still see them sometimes in the morning mist. They answer to the bellow of the largest one of all, The Ari, the great lion king of Safed, whose ghost still haunts the city’s cliffs and stones.
And so the boys grew up and nearly all got married, and they loved their wives well and even taught them dance in the privacy of their homes, and the wives all wondered how they learned it, but never questioned, for the fox-trot was a dance they loved to learn. All except Gedaliah, who still waited for his ghostly bride to someday rise again. Celibate, he waited, for he knew no human girl would ever compare. She’d mastered him forever, Anav, she held his soul, and with his gift to her that night he’d made her whole.
THE SCAPEGOAT FACTORY
OFIR TOUCHE GAFLA
After a decade of complete degeneration, even he realized there was no sense in living up to nothing. Solvi Lumsvenson, once a Danish cab driver, presently a member of the formerly dead, couldn’t go on doing more of the same, namely sex, drugs and metal-rock. ‘Pleasure’s a bitch’ was the first thought that accompanied his every waking morning during his tenth year of renewed existence. He was craving a change.
The first change took place 15 years ago when Solvi – 30 years old, living in Copenhagen, recently married, about to become a father, relishing the promise of life in all its splendor – came to blows with fate.
It was a sunny day. A group of friends were having a picnic in the woods when a huge oak tree landed on the flabbergasted picnickers like a divine slap in the face. ‘Someone forgot to shout “Timber!”,’ ran the joke among the survivors. ‘They died in one fell swoop,’ ran another. No one knew what exactly happened until two years later when a teetotal lumberjack came out with it.
On the eve of the tragedy he had been drunk and tired and once he realized he was cutting the wrong tree he stopped mid-cut and went home. ‘Couldn’t see the forest for the trees,’ he tried to excuse himself, but couldn’t keep it bottled up any more. He was single-handedly responsible for the deaths of three people and the grave injuries of four more.
Solvi was among the lucky survivors, if brain damage, a vegetative state and a lack of any basic form of communication with the outside world could be considered luck.
‘At least he’s alive,’ some said. ‘Of course,’ grunted his wife, pulling back the toddler who was climbing all over his statuesque father and pinching his face in a fit of soon-to-be-orphaned laughter. ‘My poor alien,’ was how she referred to her husband, for she couldn’t conceive of a different word. ‘Alien, alien,’ the kid shouted. ‘My dad is an alien.’
A week after the child’s second birthday, an errant blood clot brought about the conclusion of the tragedy and Solvi passed away in his sleep. Incidentally, two days later the scrupulous lumberjack stepped into the nearest police station.
The second change was far more shocking. After five years of uneventful death, Solvi woke up one rainy afternoon at the cemetery and instantly began looking for shelter.
While hiding under a big oak tree, he looked up and felt a sudden twinge of regret, soon to be replaced by a terrible sense of panic. Moving away from the tree, he glanced around him and saw another man, and then another, until the whole place was swarming with humanity, cursing the rain. It was a diversion of sorts, for once one of them pointed at a tombstone bearing his name and exclaimed, ‘Damn! I think it’s happening all over again,’ it dawned on Solvi that he was back for more. Life, that is.
That day he spent an exceptionally wet hour in front of his grave, failing to come to terms with the stunning revelation. Then he left the place, took a peek at a newspaper and found out he had been ‘away’ for five years. He didn’t waste another minute and rushed home, only to confront a screaming widow and a belligerent-looking boy who told him to bugger off.
The formerly dead were the subjects of an incredibly expensive experiment whose results have surpassed the wildest expectations of its initiators, a group of neuro-physicists who fell in love with the theory of eternal temporariness, according to which everything under the sun would one day expire. Love, life, misery, sickness – all is temporary. And death. Nothing is permanent for the very nature of existence is steeped in mutability.
When those scientists declared that death is temporary, they were swept by a tsunami of derision. But, true to their beliefs, they knew that derision was not everlasting. They conducted endless experiments at a small cemetery in Copenhagen, away from the public eye, until they witnessed the first sign of life in the maggoty cadaver of a certain 45-year-old woman who had drowned in the bath two years earlier.
They had never revealed their methods and only conceded that since everything is temporary, nothing is irrevocable. Perhaps nothing was irrevocable, but much was certainly irretrievable, as hundreds of the formerly dead found out upon trying to regain their past lives. No one welcomed them with open arms, and petrified hostility was the common reaction of their dearest to that macabre re-emergence. Funnily enough, the only ones who extended a helping hand were members of certain religions and lovers of goth-metal. Solvi opted to take advantage of the latter.
In goth circles, Solvi became a household name. Everybody wanted a piece of him and metal groups dedicated entire albums to the man who was resurrected against all reason. Just like his counterparts, Solvi was invited on innumerable TV shows and interviewed about his posthumous experience. Unlike them, Solvi came up with silly anecdotes and fascinated the masses with his ridiculous fibs. (‘We actually keep on living in a world of complete darkness, and after a while we get used to our mole-like existence.’)
Soon afterwards, the book deal arrived. The money Solvi got for Second Notes from the Underground secured his next five years, although he was constantly sued by other formerly dead who claimed he was nothing but a liar. ‘Amnesiacs,’ he retorted and resumed whatever he was up to at that moment, which was either sex, drugs, metal rock, or preferably all three at once.
Eight years into his renewed life, Solvi became sick of it all. He wrote another autobiography called Core, about his life prior to his death, but no one was interested. The world only wanted the ‘husk’ version of his life. With the remainder of his money he left Copenhagen and sought retreat in a small village, frittering away his days in his cabin, awaiting death. Solvi was never suicidal; he’d just had enough of it all, but to his dismay he discovered that death was not an option. His attempts at self-annihilation came to nothing.
Still, he kept reminding himself that if everything was temporary, then this loutish resurrection wouldn’t last forever. Doing crossword puzzles and watching reality shows only brought about a stronger sense of despair. He was looking for something meaningful to do, some form of occupation that would serve as a blessed distraction. His financial resources were rapidly dwindling, but he just couldn’t come up with anything. He even started frequenting forests in the hope that history might repeat itself – alas, to no avail.
On one of his excursions to the woods, he came across a man hanging from a tree. He rushed to help him, but the man called, freeing his neck from the noose, ‘Don’t bother – it just won’t do.’
Solvi realised he’d happened upon another of the formerly dead who, just like him, wanted out. ‘Death escapes us,’ Solvi told him.
‘Well, duh,’ the other man said and landed on his feet. He explained that every Monday he came to the forest, picked the same tree and tried to off himself. ‘You see, failure will eventually prove to be temporary as well, right?’
Solvi smiled and introduced himself.
‘Yehoshua,’ said the man, and shook his hand. It turned out that Yehoshua had just come out of prison, where he spent six years for armed robbery.
‘You robbed a bank?!’ Solvi asked with a slight note of admiration in his voice.
Yehoshua grinned. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. I never robbed a bank. It’s just that I was so bored and saw no meaning to my renewed life and, as you can imagine, couldn’t put an end to the whole travesty until I heard about the factory.’
‘The factory?’
‘The Scapegoat Factory. They are always looking for new employees, for lack of a better word. Preferably Jews.’
Solvi pondered what he’d just heard. He knew about Jews but, as far as he could tell, he’d never met one. Bible. Jesus. Circumcision. Holocaust. Israel. Pork. This was the extent of his knowledge as far as Jews were concerned. The first time he heard someone mention them was when a high school friend was singing ‘Hey, Jews’ and another friend told him to shut the fuck up. Ever since, he had associated Jews with songs by the Beatles, although he knew the connection had been totally misconceived. Yellow Submarine started playing in his mind when he asked, somewhat cautiously, ‘But… isn’t it a bit discriminatory, you know, to hire employees based on…?’
Yehoshua shook his head. ‘I said they prefer Jews. It doesn’t mean they’re the only ones they hire for the job.’
‘And when you say “they”...’
‘The people who run the factory. Or should I say the man behind it all: a certain Felix Cohen. You see, this guy came up with an interesting premise. Looking around, he realised the easiest way to make money these days is to present a new application to the world. The future’s in application or, as my nephew likes to say, “The only way is app.” So he came up with the guilt application, where people take the blame for other people’s crimes. Well, not really crimes, but rather slight misdemeanors, petty insults, you know, the daily manure of human relationships.’
‘But why would anyone take the blame for another’s…?’
‘Money, peacock-brain. Money!’
‘I have to say, I’m not very impressed.’
‘Well, perhaps this is going to impress you. What started as a strange idea became something totally different when Felix realised the amazing potential at hand. You see, Felix got his brother, a retired police superintendent, involved and he suggested an upgrade.’
‘An upgrade?’
‘There are so many unsolved crimes, cases that will forever remain open for lack of material evidence or will be shut because the police have reached an impasse. Well, Felix and his brother weren’t really thinking about the perpetrators but rather about the families of the victims. Nothing is worse than a feeling of injustice. As far as those families are concerned, someone has to take the blame, right? When you point an accusing finger there must be someone to point that finger at. So why not provide a scapegoat, someone who’ll take the blame and rid the families, the police and the masses of that terrible sense of injustice?’
‘But then the perpetrators walk away scot-free.’
‘Well, under the circumstances they do anyway, don’t they? And trust me, the families are so grateful once the factory supplies a criminal that soon enough they forget that he or she isn’t the genuine scum who’s put them through hell.’
Solvi was speechless. They were already out of the woods.
Yehoshua scratched his neck absentmindedly. ‘And you know what’s the best thing about it? It gives us, the formerly dead, a true sense of purpose.’ Solvi smiled weakly.
‘Are you by any chance a Jew?’ Yehoshua asked him Solvi was thinking of a celestial lapidary named Lucy and shook his head.
‘A shame, but you can still take the blame.’
‘Why do they prefer to employ Jews?’
Yehoshua patted his shoulder and wore a condescending expression. ’Read a little history, my friend.’
Which he did. Right after reading about the factory. Right after coming to terms with his decision to find some meaning for his vacuous existence.
A week after he met Yehoshua at the forest, Solvi arrived at The Factory. He found himself in a corridor teeming with dozens of bearded men. To his surprise, each time one of them was ushered into the office for an interview, he was instantly asked to leave.
‘Vot more do you vont? Not only am I a Jew, but I’m a dead one! Even now you refuse to let me be a part of your vorld?!’ complained a gaunt creature of unimpressive height, overlooking the strange dance of his lopsided beard with his twisting yarmulke.
‘I came back to claim the blame, I came back to name my shame,’ shouted another.
The loudest of them all climbed a bench, a minute after he was kicked out of the office, and cried aloud, ‘You have no idea! We are to blame for everything! Cancer! Earthquakes! Nine Eleven! Aids! Global Warming! Triglycerides! Famine! Hell, if not for us, who will the world come after?’
When Solvi entered the office, a middle-aged man greeted him with a smile and said, ‘How refreshing.’
Solvi sat and cleared his throat before speaking. ‘I’m with the formerly dead.’
The man said, ‘Yes, I guessed so. So, what are you after? Robbery? Tax evasion? Drug dealing? Rape? Murder? Or perhaps some exquisite monstrosity of the highest degree?’
‘Before I say anything, I’d like to point out I’m not a Jew.’
The man exclaimed, ‘No!’ and giggled. ‘Didn’t take you for one. Let’s make one thing clear: you don’t have to be a Jew to work for us, but you have to understand what’s expected of you. Once you assume the blame for a certain criminal act, there’s no turning back. You will be held accountable for it ad infinitum. You have to believe it. Just like those morons who believe the Jews killed Jesus, even after the Pope himself has absolved them of that imaginary crime.’
‘But it’s not the same, is it?’
‘It is, for you have to believe you are to blame to the same extent that those who shout “J’accuse!” believe it. That’s the only way to be a convincing scapegoat.’
‘But isn’t my taking the blame proof enough of my…?’
‘Not at all. Once again, it is only convincing if both condemner and condemnee believe in it. Credibility’s the name of the game.’
‘And the fact that you’re seeking dead Jews for this job?’
‘It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? If you’re to be blamed just because of who you are, at least try and get something out of it, right?’
‘And what about me?’
‘You seem like a very conscientious piece of work. Why don’t you go and mull things over?’
‘No need for that.’ Solvi leaned over the desk and extended his hand. ‘I need meaning.’
Three years later, prisoner Solvi Lumsvenson, serving time for manslaughter (a hit-and-run accident) was once again running out of patience. Having undergone a self-inflicted brainwash, Solvi came to believe he had been the man behind the wheel responsible for the tragic death of Marketa Gloon, an 86-year-old woman who was crossing the street, pushing a trolley full of groceries back from her weekly visit to the supermarket. But the principle of eternal temporariness suddenly applied to his sense of guilt. Three years were price enough, as far as he was concerned, to pay for a mistake, as serious as it might be.
Unfortunately, he had another year before the authorities would let him go. Now, more than ever, he wanted out. Out of this prison cell, out of this city, out of this world. He tried escaping for the umpteenth time and was shot in the back. How he hated that moment when the guard gave him a hand and helped him up, muttering, ‘Still no luck.’
But on his fourth return to his cell from solitary confinement (rules are rules, weird circumstances notwithstanding), a surprise awaited him in the form of a visitor: a 50-year-old woman who looked like a whore turned librarian.
‘My name is Rosa. Rosa Gloon,’ she said.
His heart skipped a beat. ‘Are you related to…?’
‘I’m her daughter.’
‘Why has it taken you so long to come and see me?’
‘I have been living in Paris for 20 years now. I had no idea. I got here two days ago and we
nt to pay my mother’s grave a visit, when… I saw that her tombstone was sprayed in some phosphorescent green. I didn’t know what it meant until a certain lady explained to me that my mother’s stone is marked since she was of the formerly dead.’
Solvi bit his tongue. ‘Your mother has just returned? Was there another second coming?’
‘No. I don’t know how I’ve never heard of what happened a little bit over a decade ago, you know, when the dead were resurrected by those crazy scientists. As far as I know, it only happened once. Anyway, my mother was one of them, which means that the woman you killed had already been dead when you hit her.’
Solvi didn’t correct her. Evidently she hadn’t heard of the factory. He didn’t even mention the bizarre realisation that both he and his ‘victim’ had returned to this world at the same time. But, despite his sudden surge of happiness, there was something wrong with her story. ‘But if your mother had already been dead…?’
‘She forgot.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My mother was an extremely senile woman. It turns out that when she came back from the dead, she didn’t give it much thought. She just wandered the streets looking for her home until she found it. Luckily for her I hadn’t managed to sell it because it’s a tiny place in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, she did remember she used to keep the key under the rug and got in as if she hadn’t just returned from the dead.’
‘You’re telling me your mother forgot she was dead?’
‘Yes. And so, when she was run over several years later by you, she actually died I came here to let you know that –’
