by Y. I. Latz
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Mali said. “We just got back yesterday from a two-month trip to India. Now we’re looking at the photos we took. Have you ever been to India?”
“No. India repulses me.”
“You’re wrong. There are a lot of magical areas there. You should fly there one of these days. Do you want to see the photos?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. Why am I talking your ear off about India in the middle of the night?”
My breathing was labored. I was dying for a glass of water. But the dirty kitchen made me hesitate.
“You’re not Moroccan,” Mali decreed.
“Sorry?”
“You sounded different to me on the phone. And I really have nothing against Moroccans. Quite the opposite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Your mother already told me you got a bad impression.”
She smiled. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s the other way around. A trashy dad would have a trashy daughter. At least now I know I know she’s not trashy.”
“No. My girl’s not trashy.”
“So what’s up, does she want to work as a waitress in some trendy café in the neighborhood? Is that the deal?”
“No, she’s going to be a student.”
“You said she was a waitress over the phone.”
“A student…and a waitress.”
“She’s coming back from the Far East at the end of the month, right?”
“From South America,” I corrected her.
“You told me the Far East on the phone.”
“South America.”
“You said India, Nepal, Kathmandu.”
“No. Colombia, Venezuela, Argentina, Brazil.”
“I’m sure you told me something different when we talked on the phone.”
“Does it really matter to you where she’s coming back from and what she’s planning to do?” her friend intervened on my behalf.
“You know what? You’re right,” Mali said, and briefly disappeared.
She returned holding clean, folded sheets and a pillow, thrusting them at me. “Go to sleep. And…you can take off your tie. I promise we won’t tell anyone that you sleep without it. Right, Ilana?”
◊◊◊
I dropped into the unfamiliar bed again.
The unfamiliar sheets smelled strongly of detergent.
My internal torment resumed.
What am I doing here?
In the sea of new lies I had been spreading around, there was only one truth, two at most: I had a daughter who was backpacking through South America.
What would I do about Nairobi?
How would I explain to the kibbutz member that I never reached Africa, and couldn’t pass on the money-filled envelopes to their children?
They were counting on me, and I was letting them down. What would the young backpackers do without the money they were so eagerly expecting?
I came to a decision that filled me with joy: to leave the surreal apartment forever tomorrow, while leaving Mali a personal check to compensate for changing my mind.
I felt better.
Before I fell asleep again, I quickly read through four text messages received on my phone while I slept. All of them were from my wife. She noted, surprised and complaining, that for the first time in my life, I had flown abroad without calling her from the airport and sending the virtual farewell kiss that had become our custom.
The four text messages ended with the exact same words:
“I love you.”
My heart contracted within me.
These messages reinforced what I was thinking about myself—
Ungrateful pig.
◊◊◊
Morning.
I was burning up with fever. My body was assailed by chills. Swallowing caused me pain. I hadn’t felt like that for years.
I barely managed to get myself out of bed. And yet I was determined to carry out the decisions I had reached before I fell asleep.
The list was brief yet clear:
To return home to the kibbutz—
To tell my wife and the kibbutz members about being laid off—
To explain why I hadn’t gone to Kenya—
The apartment was empty. I shuffled toward the bathroom. Even such a simple action tired me out.
I didn’t turn back. On the kitchen table, I left a brief, sloppily phrased note of apology, adding a check as compensation.
I hurried to leave the apartment, my backpack on my shoulders and the suitcase dragging behind me.
My feet stumbled. My head was spinning. I felt like I couldn’t take one more step. I entered the first café I saw and dropped into a chair. There was a real heat wave outside but I was shaking.
I addressed the waitress. “Excuse me, is there a pharmacy around here?”
“There is, at the end of the street,” she replied, her mouth pursed.
“Is it far?”
“I told you, at the end of the street.”
“Right, but is the end of the street far away?”
“How far could it be, when I’m telling you ‘at the end’?” she grumbled, adding mockingly, “If you’re asking me whether you need to catch a cab to get there, the answer is no. You don’t need a bus, either.”
I got up. “Could I please leave my suitcase here?”
“Why?”
“I want to go to the pharmacy.”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you take it with you?”
“I don’t feel well. Please,” I begged.
“And you’ll come back here?” she asked skeptically.
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
“Why?!”
“You said you were sick. Why would you come back?”
“Oh. I have a meeting and…I’m leaving you my suitcase, after all.”
She examined the suitcase. “Okay, but I’m not responsible for it.”
“Thank you!” I said gratefully, leaving in the direction she had pointed out.
She ran out after me. “Hey, you! The coffee! You didn’t pay!”
I extracted a twenty-shekel bill from my pocket and gave it to her.
“Wait, I’ll give you change,” she said, the hostile expression on her face growing more pronounced.
“No need. Keep it,” I said generously, as if I had left her a much larger tip than I actually had.
◊◊◊
Strange voices invaded my mind.
If only I could open my eyes.
“He’s homeless.”
“He’s not.”
“I’m telling you he’s homeless,” said a woman’s voice.
“He doesn’t look homeless.”
“When’s the last time you saw a homeless person?”
“He just looks tired to me.”
“Does anyone here know him?”
“We should just call an ambulance.”
“Who’ll pay?”
“Who’ll pay?!”
“Where have you been living? Don’t you read the news? Emergency Services will make you sign a commitment. You’ll be responsible for everything. They don’t work for free.”
“Call the police, then.”
“Yeah, the police are free. That’s a better idea.”
“Hold on a second with the police. He’s got a phone in his hand. I suggest we look up his wife’s number and call her.”
My eyes were closed, but my ears were open. My head was lying on a table at the café to which I returned after my visit to the pharmacy. I was equipped with aspirin. I’d taken two pills. The pharmacist had warned me not to take more than two at a time, and recommended I see a doctor urgently. I took three more pills. I didn’t remember a
nything else. The voices woke me up.
I struggled—
I wouldn’t unclench my fingers—
The fingers were gripping my phone—
The voices around me grew louder—
Some of them sounded downright angry—
Finally, I managed to sit up. This simple action required a massive effort.
I opened my eyes. There were faces all around me.
“Sir, are you all right?”
The young man inquiring how I was doing had a ponytail and a pleasant smile. The girl standing next to him had a hostile expression. She made another desperate attempt to extract the phone from my hand. I resisted. She gave up. Stepped away. Started talking quietly into her own phone, her eyes fixed upon me, spitting fire.
I could overhear her. She was talking about me.
Trying to convince someone.
She addressed me. “What’s the phone number for your wife, or your kids?” she asked, without detaching the phone from her ear.
I didn’t answer. I got up. Or at least tried to do so.
My legs were shaking.
I made it.
“Where are you going?” the young woman asked suspiciously.
“Home.”
She didn’t seem impressed, and resumed huddling over her phone. “But you’re the police! Not me!” I heard her declare passionately. “Send a squad car and find out everything yourselves!”
I hefted the backpack onto my shoulder, pulled the suitcase after me and turned toward the exit.
The young woman called out after me. I didn’t bother to look back, but knew it was her voice. “Hey, you!”
I walked faster.
She took off after me, grabbing my arm.
I tried to shake her off.
She wouldn’t let go, yelling, “Why are you all just standing here? I called the police and an ambulance!”
I moved away sharply.
The girl lost her balance and fell.
She bumped into the corner of the table.
She let out a cry of pain, followed by a stream of curses.
I didn’t linger,
Quick! Home!
Less than ten minutes later, I was back in my bed in the room I had rented, one block away.
I found the letter I had left in the kitchen where I had last seen it. I tore it to shreds and hid it in my pocket. I sprawled out on the bed in my clothes. The fever and the pain made me groan. I suppose frustration was another cause.
Surprisingly, a single thought went through my head before I sank into a swoon-like sleep: the fear that Mali, my new roommate, would discover that once again I was sleeping with the tie around my neck.
◊◊◊
I have no idea how many times my phone rang before the cheery ringtone invaded my sleep.
With a major effort, I opened my eyes.
I was lying in the dark.
The phone’s screen was illuminated.
Smadar—
I didn’t have time to answer.
I tried to focus my eyes on the tiny screen.
Twenty-two unanswered messages—
It was eight thirty in the evening. I had never had twenty-two unanswered messages, and wondered if I had ever even received twenty-two messages in one day.
Every possible disaster rushed through my mind.
Neta!
The majority of my concern was dedicated to our daughter, of course.
The telephone buzzed again.
Smadar—
This time, I answered.
“My darling, is that you?! Thank God! Thank God!” she called out loudly.
“Why? Did something happen to our Neta?”
“No, no, no. Heaven forbid. Neta’s fine. She’ll be released from the hospital in a day or two. There’s still the issue with her passport and the accident, but there’s definitely a solution to that.”
“Then what happened?”
“What happened?! You’re asking what happened? You tell me what happened! God, I was so worried about you. What a disaster! Were you there? Were you hurt? Are you injured? Where are you talking from?! A hospital?! Tell me the truth. I’m begging you, only the truth. Were you injured?!”
“Of course not.”
“I was so worried about you. And you’re not answering your phone! I’m glued to the TV. It’s so horrible, so horrible. Are you okay? You’re sure you’re okay? Where are you, anyway?”
Where am I—
Good question—
I hadn’t prepared for the question in advance, and hadn’t come up with an answer.
Slowly—
Carefully—
I replied, “Where am I? What do you mean, where am I?! In Kenya!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“Ken-ya!”
“I know that much. Where in Kenya?”
“You know I can’t.”
“Just tell me whether you were in Mombasa, yes or no.”
“Why?”
“Why?! After everything that’s happened today, you’re asking me why I’m asking?”
“What…happened?”
“I’m begging you. Please! Tell me.”
“Yes… No…”
“Thank God. Thank God. You just got the gift of life all over again.”
My feeling of anxiety intensified.
I already realized I was missing some pieces of the puzzle, and that our conversation was being conducted on two parallel tracks.
She continued. “You don’t have to keep the disaster a secret. There are live broadcasts about it on all the stations.”
“I have to go.”
“Yes! Yes! I was so worried about you! God help us all. The main thing is that you’re alive.”
◊◊◊
I quickly accessed a news site on my phone. Palestinian terrorists had attacked a minibus in Mombasa carrying a group of Israeli seamen to the harbor. Three of them had been killed, eight injured.
“Israeli seamen—”
I knew who they were. These were the fighters on “my” submarine, who had been allowed to disembark for a brief shore leave. I was supposed to have joined them on their way back to the harbor. The cook who took over for me surely had time to join them.
I tottered to the bathroom cautiously, as if stepping on broken glass.
My reflection looked back at me from the cracked mirror on the wall.
This faded visage was me?!
Under a stream of cold water, I made the decision to stay in Tel Aviv. However, I didn’t have enough cash, and if I used the ATM or my credit card, Smadar might find out that I had never left Israel.
There was one way around that obstacle—
I rushed out of the shower stall. Naked and dripping with water, I called my wife.
“Smadar,” I said in a hollow voice, “I lied. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you. Yes, I’m in Mombasa. Nothing happened to me. I swear. I’m fine. But my suitcase was in the car that got hit, and inside were the envelopes with the money that the kibbutz members gave me.”
And I waited a moment before adding—
“And all of their money is gone.”
◊◊◊
Mali came back from work an hour or two later. She found a sparklingly clean house, and a glorious hot meal waiting for her on the kitchen table: chicken soup, a giant schnitzel overflowing the boundaries of the plate, mashed potatoes with butter and fried onions.
A rare event in her single-girl life. She reacted the way I expected her to: her eyes gaped wide open.
“All that for me? Why? Mmmmm, yummy!” she enthused, and began to eat while standing, with her purse still on her shoulder. “Wow! You’re a real chef!” she declared repeatedly with her mouth full.
“
I am a chef.”
“You’re not a businessman?”
I laughed. “No way.”
She peered at me suspiciously. “The tie, the suit, the manners. So what are you?”
“I told you, a chef.”
“In a restaurant?”
“Sort of,” I said, deciding to hold off on the details. “And I have a request for you. Neta, my daughter, let me know she was extending her trip in South America by a few days. I’m asking your permission to stay here in the meantime, until she arrives.”
“Why? Don’t you have a home?”
I decided to add, without acknowledging her question, “Just for a few days. The gourmet meals are on me. What do you say?”
Chapter Seventeen
My Wife’s Surprise
For nearly two weeks, I rarely left the rented apartment on Sheinkin Street, other than a handful of forays in the late hours of the evening to the neighborhood grocery store. I dedicated most of my time to carrying out some repairs in the apartment, cooking for Mali and her friends, and sitting down at the computer in my room.
I barely talked to Mali. I avoided her, resorting to various excuses. I didn’t want to embroil myself in new lies. The ones I had already spread were quite enough.
Throughout this entire time, I tensely followed the investigation into the assassination attempt in Mombasa, Kenya. To my relief, the media did not suspect the true identity of the victims, and did not discover that they were not innocent sailors, but rather Israeli soldiers in civilian clothing, on their way to their submarine, submerged deep in the heart of the sea.
I took care to send Smadar soothing messages from “abroad.” Luckily for me, my lie was not discovered.
But there was another reason why I hardly ventured outside the apartment. I was scared. This was after a voicemail message Smadar left me on one of those days:
“My hero, the Navy Field Security Bureau called you three times. They contacted me twice, and one time they called the kibbutz secretary’s office, imagine that. They’re summoning you for a meeting, tomorrow at ten at your base. Tomorrow, did you get that? Tomorrow! They said your phone wasn’t accepting calls or else you were screening them. They’re so funny. I told them the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing, that you’re on assignment for the Navy somewhere in the world with one of your submarines—don’t worry, I didn’t say where—and that after you got back, they could get their ass in gear and go to the kitchen and find you themselves, without phoning me or the kibbutz secretary. Do you have any idea what they want from you? What exactly is Navy Field Security? A few more parasites for you to feed in your kitchen?”
