by L. Rosenman
Raul was fifty-nine, a tall, thickset man, not at all attractive to Joe’s taste. “But you never know with women,” he muttered bitterly. They may be easily impressed by superficial, external characteristics like bulky muscles popping from beneath undersized shirts. Although Raul looked a little younger than his age, Joe didn’t believe Michal could be attracted to such a person. He began delving into his dialogues with Michal in recent months, their hugs, their sexual relations, but couldn’t think of anything that could justify such a drastic move. But... the fact was that they were both absent - Raul... and his Michal.
At nine o’clock he decided to call the hotel. The room reserved under the name of Mrs. Michal Rafael was booked until that morning, but she hadn’t spent the night there. In fact, she’d never even checked into the hotel. Joe slammed down the phone, almost tearing it off the wall, but didn’t dare call Raul’s wife again.
How dare Michal leave her two poor girls, who missed her and loved her dearly? Joe slammed his fist into the pillow as hard as he could. To his astonishment, he began to weep. In all the weeks and months of spending his nights alone in foreign hotel rooms around the world, he’d never felt as alone and abandoned as he did tonight. At ten o’clock, he called the police. He explained that the last time Michal had been seen was at three in the morning in Tel Aviv, and, since then, her whereabouts were unknown.
“Sir,” said the on-duty dispatcher, “at least twenty-four hours must pass before we launch an investigation to clarify the circumstances of the disappearance. It’s only been nineteen hours. Come in to the station house tomorrow morning, and we’ll take care of you,” the dispatcher promised.
06/17/2013 – Second day of disappearance
At eight-thirty in the morning, after Joe had made sandwiches, taken the girls to school and kindergarten, reassured his parents and Michal’s parents, and canceled his appointments for the day, he went to the police station in Migdal Haemek. He rubbed his red eyes. Coffee would certainly help. His sleepless night, together with the unbelievable amount of chores around the house, had left him broken and shattered. He walked into the police station with long, heavy steps. The station house had the feel of a shadowy Irish pub from the seventies and smelled accordingly. The dark wood counters, the national flag, and the picture of the president didn’t evoke in him the reverence intended by government and law institutions. Joe placed his ID card on the dispatcher’s desk and looked at him, clenching his face. He tried to penetrate the dispatcher’s indifferent gaze, hidden behind his thick glasses.
“I want to report a missing person.”
“Yes. Who’s missing?” the dispatcher asked, lifting his gaze from his notes for a moment.
“My wife.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“She was last seen in Tel Aviv at two o’clock in the morning, in the Florentine pub,” he said quickly, “yesterday. I mean, on the morning of the sixteenth...”
“That’s where you last saw her, and then you suddenly lost her?”
“Not me... I wasn’t there. She was with her friends.” The dispatcher took off his glasses and looked at him, a hint of a smile drawing up the hairs of his mustache.
“Her friends. I understand. And where were you?”
“I was at home with our girls.”
“Uh-huh.” The dispatcher leaned back and rubbed his hands together. His smile widened slightly. The stone lying in Joe’s stomach climbed up to his chest. He took a deep breath and felt closer than ever to bursting. He looked around and saw two men approaching the counter.
“It’s urgent. She’s missing. Where can we talk?”
“An investigating officer will be right with you. It’ll be about forty minutes. He’s in the middle of an important investigation. Meanwhile, sit back here and see if you can call any of her friends from Tel Aviv or elsewhere in the country. Perhaps you had a fight and forgot about it?”
Joe slammed his fist on the counter. It hurt. “I’m an agent of the security forces. I demand to see an investigator immediately!” The on-duty dispatcher was unmoved. He was accustomed to citizens slamming their fists in despair. In fact, the stain on the wooden counter had come about precisely from those occasions.
“No problem. Sit down, relax, and have a glass of water.” He pointed at the cooler at the corner of the room. “They’ll be right with you.”
Joe called his direct boss, the manager of a covert unit in Tel Aviv. The manager was attentive and tried to help, but didn’t know anyone in that police department. He recommended that Joe travel to Tel Aviv immediately after filing his report.
“Joe,” he said, “We’re in the middle of an important case, as you know. But I understand. Take twenty-four hours to find her. After that, with a little effort, you could pick up where you left off. In the meantime, I’ll get ‘Tiger’ to work your case.” Joe gritted his teeth and hung up.
In his second conversation with the credit department manager, Tommy listened to him without interruption, and then suggested that he call the Florentine pub. Perhaps someone had seen or heard something. Tommy sounded sympathetic and asked Joe to let him know if there were any updates. The Florentine staff couldn’t locate the night- shift manager, but promised to call as soon as they did. Joe remembered the names of two of Michal’s old Tel Aviv friends, but eventually decided not to contact them. The questions and embarrassment he and Michal would suffer once she showed up weren’t worth the amount of information he might gain.
Cold sweat dripped down his back. Nightmarish visions of Michal being raped and murdered in the dark streets of south Tel Aviv flooded him. He imagined the announcement released by the terrorist organizations: Michal, dressed in orange, tears rolling down her cheeks, a butcher’s knife at her throat, begging the camera for the release of several dozen terrorists in exchange for her life. Despite the anger that struck Joe last night, when he’d discovered that both she and Raul were absent, he no longer believed there was a romantic relationship between the two. He knew his Michal. The fear of disaster was stronger than the jealousy that came over him. He didn’t trust the capabilities of the Migdal Haemek police and planned to pull some strings in order to locate her while the cops did what they could.
The investigator on duty, Inspector Zahavi, a senior police officer at the station, called Joe into his office. It was a dark little room down the hall. A small table stood in the center and dozens of bags and boxes were arranged on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The table was as dusty as the shelves, and the round, brown stains on it hinted at the quantity of caffeine Zahavi consumed. Joe sat in front of the policeman. He was at least twenty years older than Joe, broad and potbellied, his bald head gleaming, and his bright eyes, possibly gray, were framed by black spectacles. It was hard to imagine Inspector Zahavi pursuing criminals on foot with a drawn gun in his hand. The air was thick, and Joe’s headache deepened. He imagined that suspects interrogated in this room would confess almost instantly if only to get away to a more favorable location.
“I’m Inspector Zahavi. Pleased to meet you.” Joe reached forward and shook his hand. His grip was so strong that it made Joe’s hand ache for a few seconds.
“Listen, Officer...”
“Inspector,” Zahavi corrected him.
“Listen, Inspector Zahavi, my wife has been missing since the night before yesterday,” Joe raised his voice, “and it’s not like her. She’s in grave danger. I can feel it. I know it. You need to start looking into it immediately!” Zahavi’s look turned serious. He stood up and came so close to Joe that he could count the wrinkles around his eyes.
“I’m not here to take orders from you, Mr....” He sat back and looked at his papers. “Mr. Rafael. I understand that your wife... was in a pub before she disappeared. Tell me everything from the beginning.” Joe told him of the bank’s anniversary celebration, the recreational day in Tel Aviv and the pub, and that no one had noticed when Michal had gone missing. He spoke of how devoted she was to her family, her slight tendency
for anxiety, her excellent memory, systematic nature, and attention to detail in everything she dealt with.
“It’s not typical behavior for her, Inspector Zahavi,” said Joe. “There’s no way she wouldn’t sort out some arrangements for the girls if she’d decided to leave. She has a good heart, and she loves her family unconditionally.” He handed the inspector a current picture of Michal. Zahavi gazed at the picture and turned his face, now lighted with a slight smile, to Joe.
“You have a beautiful wife, Mr. Rafael. She doesn’t happen to have a special... friend?” Joe considered slamming his fist on the table again, but it was still throbbing with pain from the last time.
He swallowed and answered, “No.”
“Do you know, sir, that earlier this morning, someone else from the bank was reported missing? The branch manager, Raul Dominguez.”
“Yes. But I don’t think there’s any kind of connection between them,” he added, without being asked. “Apart from work, of course.”
“Ok-ay,” said the inspector slowly, raising an eyebrow. He went silent for a few seconds and then said, “I’ll move it to a higher authority, and they’ll start questioning and checking in Tel Aviv. I have a good friend in the Jaffa station house. Don’t worry, sir. You’re in good hands, and I hope we find them really fast. That is, your wife. We’ll contact you as soon as we know something.” He made sure he had all of Joe’s details and got up.
Joe left for his car with his head bowed down. The mystery had left him battered and hurt like never before. In his line of work, he always dealt with complex, sometimes troubling matters to do with the security of the country. He’d experienced shocking events that he kept carefully concealed from Michal, but he never had a personal connection to any of them. For many years, he’d had an inexplicable feeling that, someday, some calamity would befall him and change his life, and now he felt as if, in one sweep, someone had exposed his naked self for the whole world to see.
The challenge will be accepted with love, an inner voice told him. Joe couldn’t remember when or where he’d heard that sentence. “Who the hell’s putting me through this terrible challenge?” he cursed. He tried to break away from this sense of personal injury and misery. Was it possible that his wife had been kidnapped in retaliation for an action he had executed outside the country? Perhaps as a warning to stop the task which he was handling in Europe? In fact, maybe there was a connection between his national security role and Michal’s kidnapping? But… it was Michal and not him that was the victim, and only God knew where she was.
“The girls!” he suddenly exclaimed. He’d have to deal with the explanations to them, to her parents... everyone.
An hour later, Raul’s wife called. He answered, hoping to hear something new that would shed some light on the mystery, but she only threw out accusations at a machine-gun rate. The torrent exhausted Joe until finally he hung up. “She probably won’t even realize I’ve hung up, at least not right away,” he muttered. Joe hugged his knees in his car seat and closed his eyes. He reviewed their lovemaking two days earlier, how she’d cuddled in his arms, purring and mewling like a cat, and then given him a charming smile of the type reserved for those special nights... Michal, the intoxicating woman he was lucky to have as his wife.
He had been fortunate to accompany his father on one of those nights, sometime in the winter of ‘97, when his father had forced him to join the ‘parliament’ of his friends in the town square. There, he saw her for the first time, the daughter of his father’s best friend. She had emerald green eyes. God, that can’t be a real color, he’d thought. The steel strength in her eyes softened with the pleasantness and charm radiating from her sweet expression, making the hairs on his arms stand up. She gave him a feline, angelic smile, the smile that led her to become his wife. Their married life, to be honest, had its ups and downs. He regretted that, for weeks, he’d get back from working abroad only on the weekend, so she was left alone with the children for the entire week. But their reunions, even after so many years together, had always been passionate and electrifying.
In Raul’s apartment, the shutters were closed, and not a single ray of light penetrated the house. Orna was sitting on the floor, her eyes swollen from a night of crying, tossing notes and papers around her. Raul’s desk drawers were overturned and his papers were strewn in piles on the floor.
“He was always neat, that bastard,” she thought, “but now that there’s a woman involved here, perhaps his emotions might help me...”
Finally, she found a little note. She looked at it and her sweaty hands crumpled it with force until she finally, furiously, threw it at the wall. She pulled out her cellphone and dialed.
Chapter 3: Saul
Rules of the Crystal Circle
Role of the guide: To help remind every participant of his plan and his integration with the other participants’ plans.
The guide will adjust and contribute from his experience and his love, but will never impose. The participant will always choose his own path.
Memory: It is forbidden to remove any memory from the group summaries. Everything will be forgotten as soon as the gate is closed.
06/16/2013 – ‘Tel Aviv’ Hotel, first day of disappearance
The bed creaked, and the mattress was too soft. He was sweating and the clothes made him itchy. He looked at himself and saw that he had slept in his clothes - long pants, an elegant white button-down shirt, and even his black shoes. Strange. His head hurt really badly, and his throat was parched. He got up, went to the small bathroom, and drank half a gallon of water in big gulps. He sat on the toilet and tried to arrange his confused thoughts. Fragments of memories devoured each other: a glass of champagne, another glass of wine, a jewel. Flashes without context appeared in his mind, so he had probably been drunk. He’d never felt that way before, though.
His face looked back at him from the mirror. His scant hair was wet and too long. Stubble dotted his cheeks and chin, and his gray-blue eyes were bloodshot. Not a particularly handsome man - stout, almost completely bald.
“Who are you, anyway?” he asked himself in the mirror. He was spreading out his hands to smooth his dripping hair when he noticed the wedding ring. He took it off quickly, with contempt, and tossed it into the toilet and flushed. He hated jewelry, especially binding jewelry such as that ring.
“Okay. First, change into something normal!” he ordered himself. He turned to the little weekend suitcase on the chair. Everything inside it was arranged in perfect military order, nice but unnecessary. He pulled out a pair of knee-length shorts and a large T-shirt that would hide his big belly. He didn’t like that stomach. “An urgent diet and some exercise! Get out for a run!” he decided.
But who am I? He couldn’t remember. His memory of the night before was a huge glass of beer, smoke... and then... nothing. It was very disturbing, but since he didn’t know who he was, he decided to trust his feelings. They were very clear: He must get outside! He opened his wallet, pocketed a couple of two-hundred-shekel bills, put on white running shoes and went downstairs. It was relatively early, seven in the morning. The pain was still beating between his temples. He was in dire need of coffee and food.
The young front desk manager who was on call for the night turned to him kindly. “Are you heading out, Mr.... Mr.….?”
He turned to the young man quizzically. What was he getting at?
“What’s your name, sir?”
He thought for a moment. What was his name, really? Then he fired off the first name that came to mind. “Saul.”
“Well, Mr. Saul, going for a jog? have a good morning.”
“Wonderful morning,” said Saul and walked out into the street. He turned onto the boardwalk and walked along the beach. At this hour, it seemed like most of the residents of Tel Aviv were running, pedaling, or walking along the boardwalk. Heavy traffic… people engaged in the pursuit of something unclear, perhaps their health, he thought. He turned to a small café on Allenby Street, sat down a
nd ordered a coffee and a bagel. What am I doing now? Where should I go? It was clear to him that he’d made up the name Saul, but for the time being, he had no other name. “The participant will always choose his own path”.
He looked at a man sitting two tables to his left, peering at him curiously. Does he know me? It’d be strange to go over there and ask who I am. He looked at the store across the street, a small shop selling stationery products. The sign read ‘David & Sons’. He felt he was suddenly being loaded with adrenaline. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists. He thanked the waiter, left a few bills, leapt from his chair, crossed the street, and entered the shop.
“Hello, is David here?” he asked in a tense and alert tone. A bright-haired young man looked at him curiously, not recognizing him.
“Oh, he isn’t in yet. Who are you, sir? Does he know you?”
“No,” Saul hesitated, “I need him regarding an urgent matter. Can you tell me where he’s at?”
“He’s out running errands in south Tel Aviv. I’ve no idea. He’ll be in around ten, eleven o’clock. Would you like to leave your details and he’ll get back to you?”
“Forget it!” Saul bellowed and left without thanking him. He returned to settle in the café and waited, ready to ambush. After a second cup of coffee, a young woman with two small children came in. He looked at her with interest. I like women. No doubt. Young… like that receptionist… what’s her name? For a moment, a picture of a slim girl with a ponytail appeared in his mind, laughing at him. Then the memory was gone.
Who was she? The boy looked about five years old. He started to cry after his older sister teased him. He felt tremendous sympathy for the kid. Saul recognized that his confidence was fragile. He remembered a fair-haired child with scraped knees, in short trousers, weeping miserably. Was this a memory of his child or his own childhood?
At ten-thirty, an adult male walked into David & Sons. He looked about sixty. He was the only one who didn’t leave the store a few minutes after entering; therefore, he wasn’t a client. He’s the owner. It’s time to act! He paid his bill and crossed the street. The older man stood behind the cash register counting money. The young man greeted him warmly.
