Asylum City

by Liad Shoham

  HIS phone rang as he was turning right into Sheinkin Street from Rothschild Boulevard. Michal. He breathed a deep sigh. He liked her, even though she was what his mother would call a “difficult lady.” Michal was the ultimate volunteer. She didn’t miss a day. She was a hard worker who gave her all for the asylum seekers who came to them for help, one of what Ronny called his “suicide bomber types.” But they’d been butting heads lately. She wanted them to take a more aggressive approach, to take action against the cause of the disease and not just the symptoms. He disagreed. In his opinion, it was better to concentrate their efforts in one area and not go off in all directions. A small group like OMA couldn’t fight the big battles. Their job was to help people with problems that were critical to them, no matter how small and mundane they might seem. He could barely raise enough money to keep the organization going, and now that MK Ehud Regev had started accusing agencies like OMA of being traitors to their country, it was even harder to find donors. The politician’s words were beginning to have an impact. It’s easy to scare people, especially when there was no obvious solution, when the reality of the situation was so complex and had so many implications. Mounting big campaigns, filing lawsuits, or appealing to the High Court of Justice would eat up all of their resources and leave them with nothing to offer the asylum seekers who needed their help so badly.

  They argued about it again yesterday. Michal told him that despite his objections, she’d filed a complaint against Yariv Ninio with the Bar Association, accusing him of being a racist who was responsible for the murder of Hagos and others, and demanding his disbarment. She maintained that the Foreign Ministry had determined that deporting migrants to Ethiopia on the grounds that they were illegal aliens from Ethiopia, and not refugees from Eritrea as they claimed, put their lives at risk, and that Ninio was aware of that opinion and had not only concealed it, but had argued repeatedly in court that the deportees were in no imminent danger.

  Itai was livid when he heard what she’d done. Despite his contempt for people like Ninio and everything they represented, and despite the fact that, like Michal, he’d been very fond of Hagos and was deeply affected by his death, he didn’t believe OMA should go to war against the State Attorney. Especially not when Michal didn’t even have any proof that the ministry’s legal opinion really existed. And they definitely shouldn’t make accusations of a personal nature. During the hearing on the appeal against Hagos’s deportation order, he’d been very much aware of the tension between Michal and Ninio, and he didn’t think it had been in Hagos’s best interest.

  Itai thought he’d convinced her it would be a mistake to file the complaint, and now it turned out she’d gone and done it behind his back. He was furious with himself for not keeping a closer eye on her. He should have anticipated that she’d go ahead with her plan.

  ITAI declined the call. Michal had tried to reach him last night and several times today. He was screening her calls. He didn’t have the energy to fight with her again. They couldn’t even agree on Gabriel, their joint project. He thought he should be allowed to go on drawing and painting freely, to express himself however he wanted, and when the time came and he was ready, they’d help him take his art to the next level. But Michal wasn’t willing to wait. She was never willing to wait for anything. She wanted things to happen now. A few days ago she’d reamed him out for not using his connections at the Bezalel Academy of Art (his uncle was a professor there) to arrange a scholarship for Gabriel.

  He stood still for a minute and looked around him at the busy street. The cafés were crowded. The skies had cleared, ending a string of rainy days and drawing hundreds of Tel Avivians outside. He spent most of his time in a different part of the city. It was equally crowded there, but much less pleasant. So near and yet so far.

  The girl he was going to meet—Ayelet—worked in the architects’ office with Ronny’s wife. “She’s a great girl and she’s hot, so don’t screw up,” Ronny had said, sending him to check her out on Facebook. He liked what he saw. Ronny had always had good taste in women. She seemed nice when he spoke to her on the phone, too.

  “BESIDES the business with the bike, do you have any other advice for me?” he asked Ronny after taking a deep breath and counting to ten.

  It turned out his friend had a whole litany of advice, including a list of subjects he shouldn’t bring up: foreign workers, migrants, social protest, cartels, crooked politicians, affordable housing. “I swear I don’t get you,” Ronny went on. “So many women ripe for the picking. If I were in your shoes . . . I’ve got to say you’re an embarrassment to men everywhere. Instead of going out and having fun, you spend all your time dealing with the problems of people whose lives are so deep in shit there’s nothing you can do for them. What about it, Itai? Can you have a conversation without mentioning the women who are raped in Sinai? Think of it as a favor to me.”

  “How about the weather? Is that okay?” He had to give a little after such a histrionic speech.

  “Well, I don’t trust you to talk about anything else, so the weather sounds like an excellent way to go,” Ronny shot back.

  “So I can tell her how cold it is in Levinsky Park, how the asylum seekers stand around all day in the rain, shivering and hungry, and no one gives a damn?”

  “No worries. You keep joking about it and I can promise you one thing: you’re not getting laid.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ve got it. I can only talk about how the weather affects people in north Tel Aviv.”

  “And take her someplace normal, a café or a pub,” Ronny went on, ignoring his last remark. “Not to a demonstration or some restaurant run by refugees. Can you do that?”

  “Café. Cappuccino. White sugar, not brown. I ought to write this down,” he said, smiling.

  “Asshole.” Itai could imagine the smile on Ronny’s face at the other end of the line, too. “And if, heaven forbid, she orders chicken breast, don’t make a face. Just take a deep breath and think about the breasts on her, okay, bro?”

  HE walked to the end of the block and turned left into Melchett Street. Again his phone started ringing. Michal again. He resisted the urge to pick up. It’s just her way to trigger my sense of guilt, he reminded himself, to make me feel I’m not doing enough. He knew that tomorrow she’d find some reason to read him the riot act in any case.

  Ronny was right. He deserved a night off every now and then. If he picked up, they’d just argue and it would ruin his mood.

  Deep in thought, he didn’t notice the woman approaching.

  “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Ayelet.” Her skin was warm and smooth. He felt his body respond to the scent of her delicate perfume and her tight black dress.

  “Hi. I’m Itai,” he answered. “I heard there’s a great pub around the corner.”

  Yes, tonight he was going to take a little time off from himself. The phone in his pocket was still ringing. He ignored it.

  Chapter 3

  THE winter sunlight streaming in through the window was making Yariv Ninio’s eyes sting. He reached out automatically to the other side of the bed. It was empty. His bladder was full. He started to get up, but a stabbing pain in his head forced him back down.

  He wanted to call out for Inbar, but his mouth was too dry. His tongue felt like rubber.

  He lay in bed, weary from a night of restless sleep. His temples were throbbing. Suddenly he remembered that Inbar had left on Thursday to spend a few days in Eilat with her girlfriends. An early bachelorette party. He didn’t get it. The wedding was two months away but she was already frantic. He didn’t have the strength to deal with all the drama.

  Again he tried to sit up but was hit by a wave of nausea. Last night he’d gone out to a bar with Kobi. He shouldn’t drink so much. He always regretted it the next morning.

  The pressure in his bladder became intense. Yariv pushed himself up into a sitting position. Dizzy and headachy or not, he had to get to the bathroom before he burst.

  When he was finally
on his feet, he found it hard to breathe. He realized he had a stuffy nose. He looked down and a shiver ran through his body: he was fully dressed. He’d slept in his clothes, his shoes still on his feet and ugly brown stains on his shirt.

  A fragment of memory from last night suddenly flashed through Yariv’s mind: he’s standing outside Michal’s building shouting profanities at her. Then he’s knocking on her door, calling out to her, waiting to tell her to her face what he thinks of her complaint, what he thinks of her in general.

  He made his way as quickly as possible to the bathroom, struggling for breath.

  “Go away, Yariv. Go home. You’re drunk.” Michal’s voice resounded in his head.

  He gaped in surprise when he saw his face in the mirror. His nose was swollen and his nostrils were clogged with dried blood. Under his eyes were dark blue bruises that were already turning black. What the hell had happened to him? More to the point, what the hell had he done?

  Chapter 4

  WITH a few quick strokes of his pencil, Gabriel Takela was trying to capture the arc of the pigeon’s wing as it perched on a power line looking down at the street below. He was getting soaked by the rain, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the stench from the large green Dumpsters filling the space behind the restaurant. When he was drawing, he was totally absorbed in the emerging picture, even if it was no more than a pencil sketch in a small pad. It helped him escape. At such times he didn’t think about the present, the future, or the fact that nothing was likely to happen anytime soon that would change his life for the better.

  He sketched trees, animals, buildings, children, occasionally adults—Israelis he saw in the street. He felt compelled to. Forms and colors accosted him everywhere, begging to be captured on paper. But he never drew anything from home. Or women. It aroused too much emotion and longing.

  Yesterday Itai had brought him watercolors and brushes. Gabriel could barely contain his excitement. He desperately missed painting in color, breathing life into his black-and-white drawings, yellowing the leaves and greening the grass and attempting to capture the colors of a white man. He was so overwhelmed, he hadn’t even opened his present yet.

  He knew he was good, that he had a keen eye and a quick hand. Even Michal had asked him to draw her. Despite his reluctance, he eventually gave in. Michal and Itai were like family, the big brother and sister he never had. He didn’t have anyone else. There used to be Hagos, but Hagos was dead. Before that there was Liddie, but she was dead, too.

  Amir, the restaurant owner, allowed them a fifteen-minute break every three hours. They also got a free lunch and could take home any food that was left over at the end of the day. Amir was a good man. He paid them a decent wage, and he paid on time, too. John told him the law said they should get more, but it was enough for him. Before Gabriel found this job he’d worked for people who paid much less and never let him take a break.

  Not far away, three other Eritrean boys who worked in the restaurant were sheltering from the rain under an awning. Gabriel kept his distance, not joining in their animated chatter. He didn’t used to be like this. Back home he’d had lots of friends and loved to be the center of attention. But that was a long time ago. Now he was a different person.

  Just as he began on the pigeon’s feet, it spread its wings and he watched it fly away. He was bringing his eyes back down to the pad when his cell phone rang.

  “Gabriel?” He recognized the speaker immediately. Her voice was shaking.

  His body responded with a shudder to what his head still hadn’t grasped. Was it possible? He was afraid to hope. He dreamt so often of hearing her voice. He could imagine the moment, the instant he would get a sign of life from her. He agonized constantly over what had happened.

  “Gabriel?” she asked again, and his eyes filled with tears. He heard a hacking cough in his ear.

  HE thought she was dead. The others urged him to accept it. At the border, just before Rafik released them, he asked where she was. Rafik moved his finger across his throat and grinned. Gabriel’s body was weakened and exhausted, but nevertheless he felt the blood rushing to his head. He wanted to kill him right then and there. He didn’t care about the consequences or how close he was to Israel and freedom. Rafik raised his rifle and cocked it. Gabriel saw him place his finger on the trigger, the same finger he’d gestured with. If the others hadn’t pulled him out of the way, the Bedouin would have shot him without flinching, like he once saw someone shoot a rabid dog in his village back home.

  “LIDDIE?” he asked hesitantly, still afraid to believe it. His voice was trembling with emotion.

  THE last time he’d seen her was in Sinai. Rafik had his eye on her from the beginning. It frightened them both the way he looked at her. There’d been rumors in the refugee camp in Sudan about the things the Bedouins do to women. Gabriel put his hand on her shoulder to indicate that she belonged to him, that she was a married woman, although in actuality she was his little sister. Liddie hid her face as best she could, trying to make herself invisible. Rafik didn’t make a move on her the first two days. Just stared. Gabriel allowed himself a sigh of relief. But the third night, everything changed. The Bedouin woke Liddie up and dragged her out of the tent by her hair. Gabriel raced to her defense, throwing himself at Rafik. But Rafik wasn’t alone. Two of his henchmen grabbed Gabriel and held him down. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t free himself. Rafik dragged Liddie away, screaming and pleading. Like him, she resisted, and like him, she could do nothing to save herself. Michael, one of the other men in their group, tried to come to their aid, but a third Bedouin struck him in the face with the butt of his rifle, drawing blood. After that, no one else moved.

  “LIDDIE, is that you?” he asked again.

  He heard a bloodcurdling scream at the other end, followed by more coughing.

  “Liddie?” He was shouting, causing his three workmates to turn and look.

  “Help me, Gabriel . . . help me,” he heard between tears and coughing.

  WHEN Rafik disappeared with Liddie, the Bedouins holding Gabriel started in on him, kicking him in the head, the abdomen, the ribs. Their feet kept coming, as if he were the ball of rags they used to kick around in their schoolyard soccer games. At some point he lost consciousness. When he came to he found himself chained to the rest of the men in their group. Michael offered him some water. The long cut on his face was infected. For several days he burned up with fever. He owed his life to the Israeli doctors who treated him.

  “THEY beat me, Gabriel . . . help me,” Liddie begged.

  “Where are you? Tell me where you are,” he shouted frantically.

  More coughing.

  “Liddie?”

  “Gabriel?” The voice was male.

  “Give me back my sister. What are you doing to her?” He was crying now, too.

  “Listen up, you son-of-a-bitch. If you want to see your sister again, it’ll cost you twenty-five thousand shekels. You got one week. Be in Levinsky by the slides on Thursday. We’ll find you. You don’t bring the money and we kill your sister, understand?”

  Gabriel didn’t know what to say. The excitement of hearing Liddie’s voice, of learning that she was alive, had been replaced by anxiety and horror. Where would he get that kind of money in a week? The little he earned he sent back to their mother who had stayed behind.

  “Understand?” the man repeated.

  “Help me, Gabriel, help me,” he heard Liddie crying out in the background, pleading as she had done the last time, in Sinai. He hadn’t been able to save her then, but he wasn’t going to let her down again.

  “I understand, don’t hurt her!” he yelled.

  The call was disconnected.

  Gabriel stood there motionless for a few moments, gripping the phone tightly in his hand. He’d heard about calls like this. The Bedouins in Sinai set a price for the passage to Israel, and then in the middle of the desert they demanded more. If you didn’t pay you were tortured. People called their family, their
friends, anyone who could raise the money. Meanwhile, they were held hostage.

  But the man on the phone wasn’t a Bedouin. He was speaking in Gabriel’s mother tongue, Tigrinya. Had Liddie crossed the border? Was she here in Israel?

  A chill went down his spine as he recalled how he himself had been tortured. He reached out and touched the scar on his left cheek. Like the burn marks on his hands and feet, it was a memento that Rafik’s Bedouins had left on him for the rest of his life.

  Where had Liddie been all this time? What were they doing to her?

  GABRIEL was standing at the bus stop, his drawing pad clutched to his chest. He’d asked Amir to let him off early. Time was running out. If he couldn’t come up with twenty-five thousand shekels in a week, his little sister would die. Those people had no conscience. He knew that.

  He had to find a way. He’d promised his mother before they left that he’d take care of Liddie. Now, every time he sat down to write her a letter, he felt too ashamed, too guilty, to tell her that his sister wasn’t with him.

  Where would he get the money? He lived with fifteen other Eritreans in an apartment near the old Tel Aviv bus station, five to a room. He and John shared a mattress. It had taken a long time before he could afford the luxury of a mattress and a roof over his head.

  Gabriel had heard about a man who went to the Israeli police when he got a call like this. His son was murdered.

  He had to talk to Michal and Itai. He had to tell them. They were good people, and smart, too. Maybe they could tell him what to do. He called Itai’s cell phone several times but got no answer. When he called OMA, Naomi told him Itai hadn’t come in yet. He was at a meeting in Jerusalem. He called Michal at home, but the line was busy. She was probably still there. She didn’t arrive at the office before two o’clock on Sundays. He couldn’t wait. He had to talk to her right now. She wouldn’t get mad, she’d understand. She said he could get in touch with her at any hour of the day or night if he needed help.