by Elik Katzav
- Might I at least have my binder with the pictures?
Yuval looks at Meir for approval, who in turn nods.
“Let me just have a look.” Yuval then rifles through it and concludes, “Certainly, I don’t see why not. Here you go.”
They take my cell phone and my gun and put them in a computer bag. Yuval inspects them. He seems satisfied.
Yuval then grabs my file and frisks me. When he is done, he motions to Meir to enter the grounds and leads me on, keeping to the rear. The iron gate closes quietly behind us.
Chapter 19
Up close, this villa looks even bigger. The mansion’s entire left wing is hidden behind the trees. I can now also see that the driveway bends into a perfect circle, allowing any vehicle to leave the premises without having to turn around.
The cedars which form an inner circle of trees surrounding the house shade over a path at the center of which grows an island of purple and white flowers. The sound of running water betrays the existence of an artificial river at its center.
Opposite the gate, there’s a banged-up blue pickup truck. It’s parked facing the exit. I turn to Yuval and ask:
- Yours? Because you do not seem like the type of person who drives this kind of vehicle.
“It belongs to the gardener,” he clears his throat. “We drive Mr. Ben Ya’ar’s car. It’s parked, it isn’t sitting in the driveway.”
Yuval then walks up to the front door, which is made of double-thick heavy wood. Its irregular size suggests to me it was custom made. It also fits the dome shaped entrance.
He simply opens the door at the touch of his hand, without a key, kisses the mezuzah and walks through. Meir and I follow him into the large entrance hall, whose floor is made of white marble and brown stone, , which form a circle.
The carpeted circular staircase on the right leads to the upper floor. The ledge looks like it’s made of cast iron, with black and gold trimmings and carvings. The only thing that spoils its beauty is the stair lift specially fitted for Ben Ya’ar chair. Nevertheless, a lot of effort has been put into integrating its design into that of the lavish stairway.
At the foot of the stairs stands a round, heavy-looking hardwood table with brown and gold decorations and a vase with white flowers. Opposite from us, a pair of doors with golden handles with the same design as the staircase ledge.
Further to the left of these doors, there are glass shelves running along the entire wall. They display all sorts of artifacts, from vases through Judaica to small paintings on tiny stands.
The ceiling has small glass chandeliers with delicate gold trimmings.
Yuval motions me to walk further into the room and directs me towards the chairs at the round table. On my way, I try to take in as much as I can of this hall, like a visitor at a museum who is trying to get a glimpse of all the exhibits at once. Meir walks over to another pair of doors at the far left of the hall, opens the right door and vanishes behind it.
Rather than take my seat, I walk over to the glass shelves and take a closer look at their contents. Yuval closes in on me as I stop about a yard away from the glass.
- Your boss has quite an impressive collection.
Yuval directs me to my assigned seat.
“Yes, he has amassed this over the years,” he says, his posture conveying an uneasy feeling. He doesn’t care for me being so close to the display.
“Mr. Ben Ya’ar will be with you shortly. Kindly take your seat.”
- All this stuff, is it authentic? There’s lots of Judaica, historic relics. Are you familiar with this collection?
Yuval looks at the exhibits, then at me. “Of course everything is authentic. Over the course of his life, Mr. Ben Ya’ar has carefully and consistently collected Jewish artifacts in commemoration of our national heritage, diasporas where Jews faced extermination. He risked his life showing up at secret auctions of pieces from the Holocaust and from synagogues that had been destroyed. He donated significant sections of his collection to museums here in Israel. What you see here is but a small fraction of his total estate, which will be donated in its entirety when the time comes and Mr. Ben Ya’ar will unfortunately no longer be with us.”
I nod. From what little I managed to read about Eldad Ben Ya’ar thus far, I learned he is considered a major contributor to the preservation of Jewish heritage in both Israel and around the world. There are a great many stories circulating about various pieces, including works of art, which he purchased all on his own and then returned to their rightful owners in Israel, or donated to museums.
- And each artifact must have its own story. I’m sure you know each and every one of these pieces on display here.
I begin to walk slowly past the glass, watching each exhibit closely and point to a pair of silver pomegranates.
- These, for instance. Could you tell me what’s the story behind these two?
Yuval looks at me again. I clear my spot for him as I move away. He walks over and stands right in front of them.
“These pomegranates were found by a metal merchant in East Germany. All the town’s Jews were murdered in the holocaust. Over the years, the pomegranates and the other valuable items changed hands between the town folk, and right before this merchant was about to melt the artifacts and sell the molten silver, an agent working on Mr. Ben Ya’ar’s behalf tracked them down and secured their return to Jewish hands.”
I nod in appreciation of the story as the left door opens, only to reveal Meir, accompanying another person, a slim guy wearing sneakers that used to be white way back in the day, a worn-out pair of jeans, a plaid shirt and a blue cap. This guy’s hands are stretched forward, he’s carrying a large box. He raises his head for a moment, pulls the cap over his eyes and hastens towards the front door.
Meir turns towards Yuval and shakes his head. Yuval then turns back to face me as Meir shows the guy with the box out the door.
Yuval straighten his jacket and says, “Mr. Ben Ya’ar will see you now.”
As we walk towards the left door, I turn to Yuval and ask:
- Was that person who just left the gardener?
The door opens to a short corridor painted white, with two doors in the middle and another one right in front of us.
“Yes, that’s the gardener.”
I know he’s lying even with his back towards me. There is absolutely no reason whatsoever for the gardener to conduct his affairs directly vis-à-vis Eldad. That’s what Eldad has people on his payroll for, to take care of small potatoes like that.
- Pity he was in such a hurry. You might have asked him about the missing boy, maybe he saw something. After all, he’s working outside all day.
Yuval shrugs without even turning. “He’s a new gardener. We’re still on a trial basis. He’s not working on a full time basis yet, so there’s little chance he saw the kid you’re after. Besides, he keeps a staff. He doesn’t even get over here, unless it’s to sort out any financial affairs.”
As he reaches the door, he stops and turns to face me. “Before you walk in, I have to make something clear to you: Mr. Ben Ya’ar is a sick person, so there’s a limit to how long he can hold himself each time. Get in, ask your questions and go. Just leave. Do not drag the conversation out for no reason. It’s important not to wear him out. It’s already a handful to prepare him for his flight to France tomorrow. The doctors asked us to see to it he makes it to the flight as rested as possible.”
Eldad Ben Ya’ar’s study is right behind this door. A long rectangular room, it is fully carpeted with geometric patterns in brown and white. Across the walls, there are long shelves with dozens upon dozens of books. The bottom part, right under the wooden shelves, consists of a long brown wooden chest whose doors are shut. It runs the full length of the room.
The ceiling has a bunch of lamps in a big lampshade shaped like the Menorah, the seven-lamp lamp stand that, according to tradit
ion, was kept at both Temples in Jerusalem and was later looted by Emperor Titus.
The far end of the study has huge glass windows looking out to the garden in the back. They bring light in at such an angle that keeps the heat at bay, so the room’s temperature is kept at an optimal level.
Two white armchairs face a wooden desk in light brown with a desktop screen, a lamp, a set of stone figurines, probably part of Eldad’s collection, a keyboard and another pile of books.
Eldad himself is seated in a chair on the other side of the desk. He certainly does not look like a man in his late thirties, but rather much older. His illness saw to that. He is cased inside what looks like a motorized wheelchair which is narrower and less cumbersome than ordinary ones. His white hair is nearly gone. Whomever it was that combed Eldad obviously tried to make Eldad look like he still has a full head of hair. His face has so many wrinkles. Eldad might be a decade older than me chronologically, but he looks at least sixty. Nevertheless, deep inside this prematurely aged face, his eyes still look young and vibrant, vivacious, even. He’s wearing a white buttoned up top and blanket up to his knee. Yes, someone is certainly taking care of his appearance.
Eldad has been examining me closely with his eyes ever since I walked into his study. His head rests upon a cushion at the top of his chair. He addresses me in a hoarse voice. “Do sit down. Please forgive me for not getting up to shake your hand, but I just cannot get up at the moment, nor am I able to shake any hands.” He’s smirking ever so slightly with his lips.
- My name is David Maharani. I am investigating a missing child case and I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may.
I walk over to his desk and place my card as I take my seat in the armchair across from him. I am watching Eldad the whole time.
The situation feels highly uncomfortable right from the moment I walk into his room. Why am I here? Am I really here to interview an invalid with a terminal illness, and based on what? YouTube clips and a bus pass?!
“A missing child case?”
Eldad’s voice still sounds hoarse. Then again, from what I recall, this is one of the symptoms associated with ALS: the vocal chords gradually cease working, until the person loses his or her voice entirely.
- Yes.
I pull Idan’s photo from my folder as I rise from my seat and stand by the desk. I lift the pic higher to make it easier for Eldad to have a close look.
He raises his left arm from his keyboard on his wheelchair’s armrest. His hand is shaking, but he is nevertheless straining to see his task through and stretch his arm out to hold the photo in his own hand.
“I refuse to succumb to my illness,” Eldad says right after he finally succeeds in grasping the picture. “The moment I give up,” he continues, “and let trivial things like lifting a piece of paper, or in this case, a picture, get the better of me, I am done for,” he twitches his upper lip and manages to form an unsteady half a smile.
He has a blanket from the waist down, but I can still tell he is trying to adjust his seating as he holds the photo up and examines it.
“How tragic. So tragic. And the missing child is from this neighborhood you say? I can’t imagine how his parents must feel.” Eldad eventually lays the photo down on the desk, hands trembling. His entire body twitches as he attempts to regain a more comfortable sitting position. Once he sits back, his body relaxes and he stops trembling.
I rise from my armchair and take the snapshot back as I return to my seat.
- No. Idan is not from this neighborhood. I followed up on the data I was able to find and it led me here. This is where he was last seen.
A few unruly hairs fall from Eldad’s forehead onto his face. He scrambles to put them right for a few seconds until he succeeds.
“There was a time I wouldn’t even mind some hair falling over my eyes. I would brush it a side instinctively, but nowadays,” he sighs, “I have to plan my every move in advance and really have to implore my arm to rise up and clear my face. Do you know they’re telling me it’s going to get worse? No matter who I am, no matter how much money I throw at my condition, my demise is a foregone conclusion. But I am no quitter. My entire life I set myself high, strove hard and got there. I still have more things I am yet to achieve. This illness is merely a setback. I’ll beat this too, you know.”
Eldad goes silent for a few moments before he continues. “So you got here to this neighborhood because that’s where he was last seen, eh? Where did he come from? Maybe he’s got friends in this area. Still, mind you, I do not recall who among my neighbors has young children.”
- He got here from Hod Hasharon. According to the information I have, he doesn’t have any friends who live here. I am trying to figure out why it is he got here and what was he after.
“As much as I hate to say it, my illness keeps me from going out for most of the day. All my treatments take place here. I am flying out tomorrow for this innovative experimental treatment which is supposed to reverse the side effects of my ALS. Those at least were the results for the lab rats.”
“You know,” he continues, “you did a fine job if you managed to track this boy down and retrace his steps here, all the way from Hod Hasharon. I truly hope you succeed in finding him.” Eldad sounds pensive, if I can even tell, judging by his strained voice. It’s as though his thoughts have already taken him somewhere else.
“I had big plans before this, but now I am sort of a wreck. Nevertheless, this is not going to stop me. I’ll get through this as well, just like anything else.”
Eldad is looking straight at me.
“Nothing is going to stand in my way to achieving my goals. I am going to beat this illness and return to my old self,” he declares, his face imbuing such strength, despite him being in an advanced state of decay.
He lowers his eyes. “I am certain my men are cooperating fully and will answer any additional questions you may have concerning this boy.”
I sit on the edge of my armchair.
- Perhaps you might ask them to show me the tapes from your surveillance cameras. If you’ve got some that are facing the street, that could be of great help.
“Oh, cameras, sure. Sure. Oh, you know, our recordings only last twenty-four hours, after which they are deleted. I am sure the neighbors will be of greater assistance to you in this matter,” Eldad bursts out coughing, shaking all over. He begins to bend and twinge in his chair, his cough is that severe.
Before I even get a chance to get up from my seat, the door swings open. Here’s Yuval, walking right past me, heading straight for Eldad. He tries to adjust him just as the screen opposite Eldad is beginning to squeak. He then straightens Eldad as he looks closely at the screen. After pushing a few keys on Eldad’s armrest keyboard, Eldad’s body seems to be recovering from his cough attack.
“This interview is over,” Yuval is looking right at me. “Meir will show you out,” he nods at Meir, who is standing right behind me.
I turn to Eldad.
- Thank you for your time.
Eldad does not reply. He merely moves his head towards Yuval, who is typing something on the touch screen.
Meir hands me my stuff back as we reach the gate. I produce my gun and check it before returning it to my belt clip.
I hear the gate shutting behind me as I leave. Meir looks on, seeing me off with a stern look, just looking on through the bars. I shudder as I look into his eyes.
Chapter 20
Evening is already descending on Tel Aviv by the time I find a parking spot, when my phone rings. Father Conroy is on the line.
“Hello there, David. I was very glad to receive your email.”
- Hi, Father Conroy. Nice to speak with you again.
“So all is well? I take it you’re working again?”
- Well… I do what I can to survive.
Survive. The very sound of Conroy’s voice sends
me back. I’m like a leaf blowing in the wind until it lands inside the cave in that mound cliff. I look on from the sidelines, watching myself facing whatever it was that came out of Father Gaynes. I shout at myself Run! but I do not hear myself, I draw my gun like an idiot and shoot him, only to smash that paw against the wall. Then, everything runs in slow motion once again. He grabs my gun from me and shoots me. Over and over. I feel the bullets’ thump as they hit me. Over and over.
“David? Are you still there?”
I do not heed him. My eyes are closed. If I open my eyes now, that creature will stand before me once again. I feel its presence. It’s watching me.
- Yes
I clear my throat. My mouth is completely dry.
- I am here. It’s just that something just past me by. Please repeat, I didn’t hear what you just said.
“Oh. Well, all I wanted to ask was where did you come across this text. I am very intrigued. It’s so unique.”
- It’s part of my investigation. I found those pages at the house of a certain person I am after.
“You must realize,” he can hardly contain his excitement, “this text is in ancient Phoenician. I don’t know why they call it that. It’s not like there’s such a thing as ‘modern Phoenician’… pardon me, an old librarian’ joke...
Conroy then resumes in earnest.
“The origin of the specific dialect of the text you found is the Philistine language, which makes this text an even greater puzzle than you realize.”
- And you can read Phoenician? Even the Philistine dialect?
“Oh, I can’t read Phoenician,” he laughs. “I do understand the correlation between the pictograms that form the text, which allows me to understand it, make sense of it myself. I can’t really explain the process. I suppose that having grappled with all sorts of texts all these years made me develop the right perspective with which to approach any text, in this case, Phoenician.”
- And what makes this text so puzzling for you?
“Oh, right,” Father Conroy takes a moment to rearrange his train of thought and continues. “This text isn’t even supposed to exist, since these ancient peoples, the Philistines, or the Phoenicians, for that matter, did not use parchment or paper or anything like that. They engraved what little they did inscribe on stones or reliefs, a kind of sculpture, dating back to the seventh century BC.”
