The World of the End

by Ofir Touché Gafla

  Ann barely managed to open her eyes, begging for a little more sleep. Her exhaustion rewarded her with ten additional minutes. She rose from the chair without feeling dizzy. The mists melted away. She looked down at the body and said lethargically, “You’re still here?” and, dragging her feet toward her, looking her over apathetically, a serious smile on her lips, “Now you and I are one and the same.” With a sure hand she picked a burgundy shard from the dead woman’s auburn hair. The doorbell rang with deterrent immediacy. The shard fell out of her hand and skittered across the floor, stopping near the door. She crawled to the rectangular slab of wood that stood between her and the world. The silences between the ringing of the bell grew shorter until the visitor decided to drive her out of her mind and leaned his hand on the doorbell, flooding the entire house with an infuriatingly trite ding-dong, forcing the deafened homeowner to turn the key in the lock and open the door.

  He hid behind a pretentiously large bouquet of Sweet Williams, a Magritte-ian character in an elegant suit, three-quarters man and one-quarter floral arrangement, awaiting the response of the battered woman, who exposed nothing more than her head. She accepted the flowers and muttered into the bouquet, “Another small fish…”

  “What did you say?” Adam smiled hesitantly.

  “Thanks for the roses,” she said, burying her head in the petals.

  “They’re Sweet Williams, Ann.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If I had wanted to bring roses…”

  “You would have brought roses.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t ring.”

  “You rang like a madman.”

  “I mean on the phone. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You have.”

  “Are you upset that I came by unannounced?”

  “No.”

  “I wanted to come earlier, but unfortunately I was out of town on business. I just got back this morning. I had to see you, so, right after visiting my brother, I went to the flower store and came here.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Shahar. He had a nervous breakdown. He’s been institutionalized…”

  “I thought he was arrested.”

  “He had a breakdown at the police station. We all hope he’ll come out of it soon.”

  “Hmm…”

  “Ann, why are you hiding behind the…?”

  “Adam, I’m sorry, but I can’t see you anymore.”

  The lavishly fragrant man took off his glasses and looked at her forlornly. “You never let me explain what happened that night.”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” she whispered feebly. “I must ask you to leave.”

  “If you’d just let me in…”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, returning the bouquet, revealing her battered face.

  “Oh my God, what happened to you?” he asked, putting down the bouquet and extending a hand to caress the long scratch marks along her plum-colored cheek. “Who did this to you?” he yelled, gently pushing the door open.

  The sound of the phone perked up her tense shoulders and she moved ghostlike toward the sound of the noise, answering sluggishly, “Yes?”

  The hospital director began in a panicky flow, “Ann, why didn’t you return my call? Did you hear the message I left you? I asked you to come in to the…”

  Ann lay the receiver back in place and pulled the cord from the socket in one swift, indifferent motion. Hearing the door slam behind her, she turned around, annoyed. “Didn’t anyone teach you to close the door like a civilized person?”

  Adam emitted a muffled shriek when he saw the body, recoiled, moved toward it fearfully and recoiled again, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an amusing dance of horror until his body was willing to stride forward again, his head straining onward, his body remaining behind.

  “Dear God,” he muttered softly, “isn’t that…?”

  Ann sunk into an old wooden chair by the kitchen table, smiling sweetly. “I told you not to come in.”

  “What happened here?!”

  “Want some tea, Adam?” Ann asked, rising out of her chair and floating toward the kettle.

  “I asked you a question!”

  “We argued,” Ann retorted dryly.

  “You argued?” he said, holding her spindly shoulders in his large hands. “You have a dead woman in your living room!”

  “They can’t hear you downtown,” she said, pushing him away and looking at the kettle. “Do you take sugar?”

  “How can you be talking about tea?!”

  “Do you think that if we abstain from tea she’ll come back to life?” She grabbed two mugs from the sink, washed them, and pulled the silver box toward her, fished out two teabags, placed them at the bottom of the mugs, and shot the kettle an impatient look. “You still haven’t told me if you take sugar?”

  Adam ignored her question, grabbed the garbage can from the corner of the kitchen, and ran back to the living room.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, staring at him in surprise.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” he carped, and leaned over Marian, careful to keep his knees away from the pool of blood that ringed the body as he sifted through her hair for shards. After gathering all of the pieces of the vase, he rose and began pacing, his palms pressed hard against his temples in thought.

  “Stop thinking about it,” came the lifeless voice from the kitchen. “She’s dead already. Nothing matters anymore.”

  “Ann, I want to understand something. What would you have done had I not come?”

  “Take a long shower. After that I suppose I’d have gone to sleep. You have no idea how tired I am.”

  “At some point you would’ve had to do something about the corpse in the middle of your living room.”

  “I imagine at some point I would’ve done something.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “Well, I guess I would’ve tried to get rid of it.”

  “Yes, that’s obvious, but how?”

  “Do me a favor, Adam, I’d rather not deal with the details.”

  “But, Ann, that’s exactly what counts. The details. Even the slightest mistake could send you to life behind bars, and please excuse my ignorance of all that has transpired here, but…”

  “There’s not much to understand. She was married to the guy from the health club.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. They were divorced and she wouldn’t give me the necessary information. You know, in case I wanted to find him.”

  “And would you want to?”

  “I told you, I don’t want anything anymore. Jacques wouldn’t notice me anyway.”

  “Jacques?”

  “The guy from the health club.”

  “But still you wouldn’t want to spend the rest of your days behind bars.”

  “You meet a man twice and already he’s an expert on all your wants and desires.”

  “Ann, maybe you should go shower. I think you need to unwind.”

  * * *

  He sat opposite her, held his mug of lukewarm tea in a remarkably steady hand, and sipped long and slow.

  “What?” Ann said, moving uncomfortably in her chair.

  “Will you come with me to the Caribbean?” He put the mug down and took her hand in his.

  “What?” she asked again, looking from the corner of her small eye at her captive hand, held in his big damp one.

  “I think we both need a change of atmosphere. What do you say?”

  His grip tightened and her childish hand was swallowed by his five demanding fingers.

  “If I say no, will you crush my hand?”

  He eased his grip and smiled apologetically. “I just think it wouldn’t hurt either of us if we kept a low profile, at least till we know we have no problem coming back.”

  Ann’s laughter did little to disguise her shock. “You sound as though everything was planned out in advance and all we have to do now is follow your perfect plan.”


  “Nothing was planned in advance, but I think our best chance right now is to make her disappear and then disappear ourselves. Imagine if by tomorrow we were far away from this place, lying on some divine beach, inhaling tropical air.”

  “I’ve never done anything like that.”

  “Nor have you ever done anything like that,” he said, pointing at the body and smiling peacefully. “I hope your passport’s valid.”

  “Yes,” she said, rubbing her calf against the leg of the table, relishing the touch of something cold and metallic.

  “Excellent. All we have to do now is work out the details and, in my opinion, if we’re careful and clearheaded, there’s no reason for us to fail. I hope you’re not expecting any visitors today.”

  “No,” she said, trying not to laugh, contemplating the outcome of her one and only attempt at hospitality.

  “Great. I see all the windows are closed and the blinds are drawn. Leave them that way. Don’t open the door for anyone and don’t answer the phone.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Ann said, wondering if her way of life had been a punctilious preparation for the perfect murder.

  Adam nodded alertly. “Wonderful. I’m going to go get us tickets, hopefully on the first flight out of here tomorrow morning. Afterwards, I’ll go home, pack a bag, and wait patiently for darkness. Then I’ll come back here with Shahar’s cello case.”

  “His cello case?”

  “A few years back, Shahar took some cello lessons for one of his roles. It’s a long story, but what’s important is that the case is long and wide, and this woman here is short and thin. We’ll be able to get her out of here without raising any suspicion. In the meanwhile, scrub the floors, don’t leave a drop of blood anywhere, get things back to the way they were, and pack a bag. Don’t forget a bathing suit. And no matter what you do, don’t touch her.”

  “If it’s fingerprints you’re worried about, I’m sure her whole body…”

  “Okay, okay, let’s think a second…”

  “I have an idea, Adam, but it sounds a bit cruel.”

  “Cruel to whom?”

  Ann curled her lips and whispered, “Acid.”

  “You don’t need to whisper. Acid is not a bad idea at all. It meets all of our requirements, distorts evidence, destroys the body, and points to a real motive on the part of the murderer. An acid burn and a cracked skull is exactly the kind of combination that confuses the cops, especially if we go overboard.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’ll embellish the crime. They do it all the time in movies. We’ll cut off a finger. Maybe two. And a toe.”

  “But what will we do after…?”

  “We’ll bury her.”

  “Where?”

  “We have a few more hours, my dear. We’ll think about it and by nightfall I’m sure we’ll be able to agree on the ideal burial spot.”

  Adam leaned in toward her, pressed two fleshy lips to her forehead, and whispered, “You’ll see how happy I’ll make you.”

  * * *

  Ann breathed in his fragrance, afraid that if he continued to stand in such close proximity, she would lose control. The joyous feeling continued to accompany her as he distanced himself, walked toward the door, turned, smiled apologetically, returned to the kitchen, bundled the garbage can in his brawny arms and left, signaling her to lock the door behind him. Ann chuckled and flipped the lock. “The small fish got a whiff of blood and turned into a shark.” She knew it was all a dream, and that only within its delicate frame did she take the wet floor rag, get down on her knees, and diligently scrub the disgusting stain, gazing at the fading blood marks through the delicate gossamer of mist. Ann smiled. The frame cracked. She prostrated herself beside the placid corpse, nestled up to her, and combed a few strands of hair away from her ear, laying her lips on the lobe and whispering calmly, “Hey, Marian, remember me? What do you have to say for yourself now? All the Jacques and Rushdies in the world didn’t do you much good, did they? But nonetheless I feel like I owe you an apology. After all, both of us know that I’m not a violent woman, and certainly not a murderer. That’s why I’m sorry that you were such a selfish bitch and that you forced me to act like an animal. But surely you witnessed what happened here a few minutes ago? Did you ever have a man who was willing to put himself at risk in that kind of way? Have you ever known that kind of love? So what if I’m dreaming and he’ll never be back. At least I have a life that lets me dream, sober up, and dream again like a true moron. And you? You’ll sleep forever. That’s the big difference, isn’t it? Did you hear that? Listen. He’s knocking. Adam’s back. He’s come to take me to the Caribbean. Is it possible I was wrong and it isn’t a dream? He said he’d only be back in the evening. I’m going to open the door. Listen to the urgency in his knocking, as though he hadn’t just seen me less than an hour ago. I hope you’re dying of jealousy, Marian.”

  A second prior to touching the handle, she heard a stern female voice from the other side of the door, “Open the door, I know you’re in there.”

  Ann drew back from the door. For a moment she feared that the lady might knock the door off its beaten hinges and bring it down with a victorious blow. “Ann, it’s Bessie. Bessie Kolanski, Rafael’s wife. I need to ask you something.” The voice softened: “I don’t know if you happened to hear, but my Rafael passed away. He died early this morning.” The sorrowful tone did not fool Ann. “Listen, I can’t afford to waste any time, tomorrow’s the funeral and I’m sure you know all too well why I’ve come calling on such a feverish day. So please, open your door.”

  Ann’s cold eyes roamed across the kitchen, scanning the cabinets, the sink, the table and chairs in amazement before returning to the orphaned mug in the middle of the table. Before she had the chance to recall where the other mug had disappeared to, the annoyed old lady delivered another, even more clamorous volley of knocks, yelling in a wavering voice, “Listen, you fool, I have no patience for your games. I hear you panting behind that door. I’m not here to argue with you. Believe me, on the darkest day of my life I’d rather focus on the dear man I lost and not on some small strange nurse holed up in her house.”

  Her feet rising and falling like a blind woman’s, Ann felt her way to the kitchen, halting at the entrance, her eyes caught by the garbage can, rimmed by a glistening bloody shard. In the distance she heard an old woman’s agitated voice tell of a high-spirited husband who thoroughly enjoyed the nurse’s tasteless trick and refused to wash the ink off his palm, even avoiding getting any soap on the area. To the new widow’s great distress, the mortician informed her that the strange substance could not be washed off at all, even after countless attempts with the most efficient of cleaners.

  “I refuse to bury Rafael with the mark of disgrace you’ve left on his hand!” fumed the old woman, kicking the silent nurse’s door as Ann entrenched herself next to the garbage can and tried to rage against its nefarious presence.

  “I’m begging you, Ann, if you have even a modicum of human respect for the dead, tell me what kind of ink you used so that we can figure out how to erase it. That’s all I’m asking of you, Ann. It doesn’t compute, inerasable ink, there’s no such thing.”

  In the hands of a murderer an innocent pottery shard becomes a weapon of destruction. Leaning against the kitchen wall, immersed in the deliberative carving of the four uplifting words into her palm, she ogled the blood as it flowed from the life line to the indifferent wrist, stalled alongside a sleepy vein, and dripped to the floor. A minute later, the nurse critically examined the first word she’d managed to squeeze between the intellect line and the life line, shocked to find that her small hand did not offer a wide enough parchment for the whole sentence and angered by the unnecessary whim that had brought her to this childish position, legs spread apart, bleeding, heedless and wild, reality askew and dreams dashed. A moment before she fell asleep for the umpteenth time, she drew the garbage can toward her with her uninjured hand, pulled out a few piec
es of the shattered vase, and aimed at the corpse, missing and trying again, and each time she managed to land a shard on the body, she called out, “Yes! Yes!” until no more. At last she was asleep, dreamless, sealed off from within and without.

  Devoid of consciousness, her body was laid out like abandoned furniture, cuddled and tucked away in a slumber of sweet oblivion. And when her eyelids implored her to return to the circle of life, she was sure she’d happened on a scene in which she had no part, not knowing what all the police officers were doing in her house, how they got in, and who’s the person lying next to Marian, oh God, another body, this time a man, and who’s the old woman clad in black calmly chatting with a smiling policewoman, and will someone please turn off those sirens, and is it possible they don’t notice her, how many of them are there, at least ten, and wow, how much attention they’re devoting to Marian, strutting around her like a herd of blind suitors, photographing, documenting, noting, hanging around her as though she’d repay them with some great insight, and the same goes for the dead stranger, another inexplicable focal point, she can’t identify him, has no idea how a naked stranger had managed to sneak into her house or how he had died. Suddenly the young woman in the police uniform turned her head, stared at her, and called out to one of her fellow officers, “Yaron, she’s wounded. Got to bandage her up before we take her.”

  She recoiled, trembling frightfully as the tall man bent down to her and asked to bandage her immobilized hand. He took no special notice of her behavior, simply doing his job. And then she ambled over and stood over Ann. The black widow. Her eyes daggers, her lips a long dark slit. Her voice rose from a hidden cave in the depths of her throat. “You should have opened the door.”

  Ann shrunk and whispered, “I share your pain.”

  “I wish I could say the same thing.” Bessie exchanged a knowing look with the policewoman. “From the first moment I knew something was wrong with you. That thirst for the kill. That glint in your eyes when you convinced me to sign the paperwork for Rafael. But at no point did I imagine that you take your work home with you. Don’t think I don’t recognize that poor woman lying there lifelessly. I remember her from her visits to the hospital. The man no, but what does it matter. Just another number on the merciful nurse’s list, eh?”