Missing

by Adiva Geffen

  I guess I needed a healthy dose of rage to snap out of my paralysis. Cooper tried to stop me, but I was faster and ran down the stairs. When I reached the front door, I straightened my clothes and ran toward Ben Yehuda Street, leaving Cooper, my Kia and my violated apartment behind.

  I walked all the way to Joelle’s Café on Allenby Street, a place one should visit only in cases of extreme emergency. I sat down to catch my breath. Someone shouted that it was self-service only. I went to the counter, full of aging cinnamon buns and egg sandwiches that smelled like sardines.

  A woman, maybe Joelle herself, with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, recommended a sandwich to me. “I made it myself this morning,” she urged.

  I asked for two cinnamon buns, paid, and returned to the table next to the window. I looked at the world through a layer of filthy grease. Cooper was gone. So was the spaceman. The coffee was lukewarm, the cinnamon buns were fresh last week. At least I could smoke in there.

  What now? I wondered. I had no strength left to handle what the burglar must have left behind him. I’d seen it too many times. You go into your own apartment to discover a stranger’s hand has run through your panties and bras. You see your meager possessions scattered on the carpet: single shoes, coats with turned-out pockets, wide-open bags, and bits of chicken tossed out of the refrigerator.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  But where do I go now?

  I went outside the coffee shop and headed down Yarkon Street. Pretty soon I found myself at the front desk of the Dan Hotel. The receptionist looked down her nose at me. She asked me something in English, and I told her she could go fuck herself…under my breath, of course. Then I asked for a room with a view of the sea.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  I told her that I didn’t, but I still needed a room. She walked off and returned a moment later with the tight-lipped manager, who didn’t know what to do with the girl in the worn-out jeans who had dropped out of the sky into his luxury hotel.

  “Listen,” I said in a tone Sammy would call aggressive-practical, “I asked for a room on one of your top floors overlooking the sea. Is that clear, or do I need to make a scene here?”

  Five minutes later, my already minuscule bank account shrank to the point of nonexistence, but at least I was looking at the world from up high. I called down and ordered four glasses of whiskey.

  I gave the room service waiter a killer tip, filled the bath with warm water, and poured in all the little tubes and plastic containers that stood at attention under the bathroom mirror. Then I placed all four glasses of whiskey on the side of the bathtub, right next to a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and sank myself up to my neck in soothing bubbles. I smoked and drank until the massive stone finally rolled off my chest and sank in the scented bath water.

  Screw everyone.

  Is that what Daria had thought a moment before she decided to join the angels?

  ◊◊◊

  Next morning, when I went to the office straight from the hotel, I found Pops sitting on the fence next to the building.

  He was smoking.

  Not only was he smoking, fresh cigarette butts were scattered like dead bodies all around him. This could only mean something very bad had happened. My dad has only smoked two or three times in his life. The last time was after a doctor had stood before him in a hospital corridor, shook his head, and told him his Tamara was now a bright, winged angel. He had bought a pack then. What now? What did we have left in this world that would justify buying another? “Pops,” I called, and he rose to his feet with his face twisted into a painful expression that quickly transformed into a wide smile.

  “Thank goodness,” he said and started kissing me and mumbling incoherently.

  I held his hand and pulled him after me into the building. I faced him next to the elevator and said, “Pops, are you smoking?”

  “Me?” He gave me a look like a kid caught — well, like a kid caught smoking — and quickly crushed the cigarette with the sole of his shoe. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

  “Pops,” I stroked his wrinkled cheek, “my cell phone is under arrest, my life is in the toilet, my house was violated, and my cat hasn’t eaten in two days. What’s wrong?”

  “Tell me that everything is all right with you.”

  “Other than all that, everything is fine. What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you, but they, I mean the police, called me.”

  “You?” What mess had I gotten him involved in?

  “Your car alarm went off, and the neighbors complained. They checked and found someone had broken into your car. They couldn’t find you but were somehow able to find me. I think Bender gave them the number.”

  “And that’s why you’re here?” I tried to sound amused, as if it were all nothing. As if I weren’t panicking inside.

  “I couldn’t find you.”

  “Couldn’t find me where?”

  “Dikla.” He pulled his hand away from me. “Stop playing games with me. What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  “I’m a big girl now, remember?”

  “I took a taxi and came to see you. The door wasn’t locked, and you weren’t… God, your apartment looked like…”

  “The marines just had a picnic there?”

  “Even worse. The car, the apartment, you… Where did you disappear to?”

  “Look at me.” I pinched his cheek fondly. “I’m safe and sound. Everything is all right, Pops.”

  He wasn’t convinced. “I’m going to the police.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Then I’m going to see Sammy. She’ll know what to do.”

  I had to settle him down. Then I had get rid of him so I could start solving the riddles that were knotting themselves into a noose around my neck. I had played the detective game with Sammy long enough to know that all the seemingly unrelated events of the past few days must be somehow connected. Maybe someone thought Daria had left something in my apartment or my car. I suddenly had the feeling Daria had gotten herself involved in something dangerous. But I rejected that idea out of hand. What could possibly connect the late Daria, who had only wanted to find a little joy, with the series of bizarre break-ins that had struck my life?

  I had to get to my apartment, assess the damage, perhaps find out what was missing. I promised Pops I’d go to the police to file a report about the burglary then clean up the mess in my apartment. He promised he’d send someone to repair my broken car door. We kissed and said goodbye.

  “I’m getting you a new cell phone,” he shouted as I walked up the stairs. “I won’t be able to survive another night like that.”

  Me neither, Pops.

  Instead of going up to the office, I turned around, went out to the curb, and flagged a taxi to take me back to Mapu Street.

  My home is my castle and all.

  ◊◊◊

  I cautiously climbed up the stairs, alert for surprises, then entered an apartment that looked exactly as I’d imagined it would. Everything stored and hidden away in cupboards, closets, or drawers had been tossed all over my Afghan rug in the middle of the living room. Chechnya, my traitorous cat, lay comfortably purring between my silk tunic and my gray wool socks. “Chechnya, oh, Chechnya” — I stroked her feline neck — “if only you were a Rottweiler or at least a bulldog, we would have caught the burglar together.” The feline answer came quickly when she rolled on her back, demanding a belly rub. Cats have a miraculous soothing quality. I slowly allowed myself to relax with her. She closed her eyes, and I sank on the carpet next to her.

  Then the phone rang.

  “Why aren’t you answering your cell?” It was Bender.

  “I guess they forgot to tell you my cell is now criminal evidence. What were you able to find out?”

&nbs
p; “That the coroner released the body because the parents wouldn’t agree to an autopsy.”

  “And that’s enough for the police?”

  “Not if was a murder, but in this case they had no doubt it was a suicide. Sorry, that’s all I could find out. I sniffed around a little and found out the case is closed. No one’s gonna bother you again.”

  “That’s it? So fast?”

  “That’s it. Dikla, the family didn’t want an autopsy. In this country, the nonsense of faith and religion are above the law. If you don’t want an autopsy, all you need to say is that you’re afraid the Messiah would get insulted enough not to wake up the body of your dear one.”

  “I have a feeling the only ones the Messiah is going to awaken are the worms.”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “I’d like to see you. I think you were hurt by me, and I owe you an explanation.”

  “Me? Hurt? Do I have a reason to feel hurt?”

  “Not if you’d listen to what I have to say.”

  “We’ll talk when you get back,” I answered. “Go in peace, Bender.”

  20

  “You’re sure they didn’t take anything?” Sammy asked me as soon as I entered the office in the morning.

  “Nothing. Not even my laptop, and yes, the blue diamonds and my original Picasso are still there too. You know, all the little things I spoil myself with, thanks to the big fat salary you’re paying me.”

  “Did you file a police report?” She completely ignored the obvious hint about my long overdue raise.

  “Police? They’d simply say the apartment had decided to commit suicide and close the case.”

  “Did you put some vinegar in your whiskey this morning?”

  “No, I’m just being realistic. Nothing was taken.”

  “You need to file a report.”

  “Since when do the police care about break-ins?” I snorted. “I’d let Bender know, but he’s too busy matching up his socks before he packs his suitcase. By the way, I sent him to ask around about the coroner thing, and it turns out your friends objected to an autopsy, and the police didn’t insist. It was all just too quick and efficient.”

  “Which is noteworthy why?”

  “I’m not sure. What does your spider-sense tell you?”

  “That it’s hungry enough to eat flies.” Sammy took out an oversized bag stuffed with croissants and let her chin drop. A sure sign she was thinking. I let her and her croissants be.

  I turned on the computer and started to search, hoping I’d find something. I had no idea what. I googled the name Magidal Preschool for the millionth time. This time I checked a list of their workshops. I clicked on “The Road to Happiness” workshop description, which promised that participating in the workshop would help me accept myself and become a wholesome and free individual. Sold. I clicked the Contact Us link.

  The website was happy to see me and asked if it was my first time. I answered yes. A new window opened. I was asked to fill in my details. Then I had to choose a user name. I chose Lioness. A washed-up jellyfish in the body of a lioness. Then city, street, phone number. I stared at the computer screen. What should I do? Give my real details or continue to lie? At that exact second, a quiet rustle sounded from the door. My heart skipped a beat.

  Was it my imagination? Should I ignore it? Was someone lurking there? Was it Cooper? Maybe the burglar had had so much fun he decided to pay me a visit at the office?

  I took off my shoes and quietly rose from the chair. Through the peephole, I could see the corridor was empty. I must be losing my mind.

  I went back to the computer and continued to go through the website pages, speed-reading Barak’s collection of clichés, then going to the video with the promising title “The Road to Happiness.”

  I found her there. Daria. Alive and well and speaking with an unfamiliar passion. My lost little Daria.

  “Please tell us how you reached this happy mental state?” asked a handsome middle-aged man. Her father, no doubt.

  “With your help and training, I was able to find the road leading to revelation. I’ve found the supreme power that can carry us all to the heights of happiness.”

  “What is happiness?”

  Daria closed her eyes. “Happiness…is when you discover darkness, only to finally see the light inside of you,” she said.

  “And that is what you’ve experienced?” the doctor asked with a heavy American accent.

  “I was walking down a long corridor, everything was dark. I heard howling winds all around me, but I believed the light would find a way to get me through the darkness.”

  “Explain what you were going through.”

  “My life was a mess. Inner conflicts, unanswered questions, a lot of yeses and nos and questions like ‘Where is all this taking us? What’s the point?’ I was an unhappy person. Even worse, I didn’t have an understanding of just how important it is to feel happy.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  “That a person needs to ascend the ladder of spiritual levels. That I must understand happiness lies within me. Realize that the two conflicting forces meet and collide with each other. Learn to be both sad and joyful, conflicted and self-loving. Only then will I truly be happy. When I finally reached that place, my life changed. I had learned to accept myself for who I am, with all my inner conflicts. Today I’m a happy person.”

  Barak smiled and turned to the camera, which zoomed in on his matinee idol face.

  “We all carry a lot of anger, criticism, shame, guilt, loathing, and hostility toward ourselves and those around us, even toward our dear ones. Until we clean that negative consciousness from every cell of our bodies, there will always be wars. We must learn to cleanse ourselves, to reject the negative forces around us.”

  Applause. Barak smiled, shook Daria’s hand and turned to the audience. “We all thank you, Hadas, dear. Thank you for sharing your experiences with us. We wish you good luck in continuing down that blessed spiritual road. Thank you, Hadas!” More applause followed, then the video was over.

  “Look at this,” I told Sammy and typed the Magidal’s website URL on her computer. “Look, this is Daria, and this is Dr. Barak Magidal, her father. But her real name is Hadas, and I’ll bet you whatever you want that the good doctor isn’t her father. And czardas-crazed Evie isn’t really her loving mother.”

  “So what are they to her?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to find out. Why don’t we go straight to the police and tell them?”

  “Tell them what exactly?”

  “Impersonation, kidnapping, murder, we’ll find something.”

  “Look, I’ve got my knee, and you have a brain diluted with too much tonic water. Dikla, snap out of it. She killed herself. She decided to end her life, and it doesn’t matter who her real parents are.”

  “So they just get out of this whole thing scot-free?”

  “They have about a hundred witnesses who were with them in a workshop at some hotel up north. Let’s assume for a moment that she had some sort of connection with them, and they thought of themselves as her adoptive parents and came to me for help. What difference does that make?”

  “Sammy, since when do people present themselves as someone’s parents, then hurry to take her body and bury it? Maybe her real parents are still out there, wondering where their daughter is.”

  “I’m willing to check only one thing — if there’s a missing person report out there for a girl called Hadas. Would that make you feel any better?”

  “I’d feel better if you said you believed me.”

  Sammy looked at the screen. “I’ve seen enough,” she told me when the video was over. “I’m taking their workshop.”

  “I think you’d be better off taking a workshop that would teach you to stand on your head. Maybe then your sleeping brain cells would finally wake up!�
��

  “I’m going to pay a condolence call at Barak and Eve’s house,” she said suddenly.

  “So you’re finally convinced there’s something fishy going on? Great. I’m coming with you.”

  “Oh no, you’re not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Shoshkowitz, have you forgotten? The moment Barak and Eve see you, they’ll start screaming accusations. I think they might say things that would bruise your tender little heart, which is pretty guilt-ridden as it is.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “But I won’t. They’re furious, Shoshkowitz.”

  “That’s good. Anger is an essential part of the grieving process. I just want to explain what happened to them.”

  “And snoop around a little bit, right? Not now, not while the wound is still fresh and bleeding.”

  “I just want to get to know the world-famous doctor and Professor Deborah, The Great Mother.”

  “You’ll get into a fight with them after exactly three minutes and twenty seconds. I’m going there by myself, period. Shoshkowitz, right now your guilty conscience is a misfiring engine that’s driving your mind off the deep end. Take a day off. Go for a walk at the Tel Aviv Port. Buy yourself that pair of jeans you don’t need, or a hairpin — just lay off them for now. I’ll call you when I get back if there’s anything interesting to tell you. And the main thing, sweetie pie, fix that miserable Kia of yours. It probably just needs a new battery.”

  “Since when do you know anything about cars?”

  “Trust me.”

  ◊◊◊

  I trusted her. I drove north up Yarkon and headed toward the Tel Aviv Port. I was in my Kia, new battery installed, at the port entrance when I heard the purring of a motorcycle engine right behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror. A biker in a black helmet was right on my tail.

  Since the events of the night before, helmet-wearing bikers made me a little nervous. I kept my eyes on the biker, who looked suspiciously familiar, and continued to drive slowly toward the parking lot entrance. The biker stayed behind me, keeping his distance, but not letting go. The tingling sensation down my spine went from bad to worse.