“Yes, Reuven?”
A long silence made me think the recording was over. I was about to hand the phone back to him, and then I heard, “Will you come to Dror’s wedding?”
Siman wiped a wet eye and pulled the phone back to him.
“I could have left a key to the store for you at the kiosk next door, but I wanted you to hear this.”
“Great. Yes, you had a meaningful conversation,” I said uncomfortably.
Ya’acov gave me the key to the store. All the bills were paid, and Reuven had even found some real estate agent who already advertised it for sale. I told Lifshitz to take care of it. I couldn’t care less.
Chapter 41
They say a man starts to get old the day he stops working.
My father was used to being a big shot in a big chair at the largest medical rights law firm in northern Israel. The timing of his retirement was not exactly his choice. His partners at the Gideon, Bar Natan, Evron & Co. law firm indicated to him that he was no longer wanted. He sold his share to his treacherous partners and bought a ticket to Namibia, just to show them he didn’t care.
He cared. Dad was angry about the way the law firm treated him and was obsessed with the garden. Most days he just sat at home in Afula waiting for Sharon to get back from work so he wouldn’t be alone.
When my father went on pension, he sold his part of the firm and took a short trip to Namibia, perhaps to mark the retirement with a unique experience.
One of the first people affected by his retirement was the gardener, who was fired. My father started a new daily routine. He would wake up late, and after having his coffee he would work in the garden. My father is a modest man, but every time I came home he would show off the fruit he picked from the trees, or the beauty of the new flowers. But a month of staying at home and working obsessively in the garden was enough for him; a hole opened in his soul.
One morning he decided to beat the void in his heart. He set his alarm for 7:30, got up, washed his face, put on a white t-shirt, jeans that he considered respectable, and brown leather sandals, and went to the Afula Municipality for his first day of volunteer work at the Welfare Department. In joining the department, he doubled its manpower. He brought a vast amount of knowledge with him. The needy people who came to his shabby office had no idea that the man with the old sandals facing them used to charge 700 shekels (plus tax) for a half-hour consultation with him just a few months ago. My father was no sucker.
Back in his office, when a a wealthy client would come to the office, he would double or even triple his prices. He had a reason: in court, he performed magic. Once he told me of a client he had who was blind and who had been rejected by the Israeli National Insurance Institute. He managed to get the court to rule that he was entitled to half a million shekels of retroactive compensation. When the ruling was announced, tears of joy appeared beneath his cheap sunglasses.
At first, I didn’t understand why my father insisted on getting up early three times a week and going to volunteer at the Welfare Department, but now I know.
My eyelids became heavy as I stared at the work table’s whiteboard on which I mark changes of the employees’ shifts. My back had never hurt before, not even during the basic training days in the army when we used to carry an enormous amount of weight on our backs. But apparently sitting continuously in an office chair is harder on the back than any combat service. I would take a short break every hour and go make myself some black coffee in the kitchen next to my new office: Security Guards Training Coordination. The job was more tedious than waiting for a bus. It would have been more exciting if they had asked me to count grains of rice.
Every morning I would go over the list of agents who were supposed to be doing a single day of training, making sure that whoever needed periodical medical check-ups got them, and setting up an alternative training day for anyone who had to postpone unexpectedly. Some of them lied about not feeling well just to miss the training days with the bad instructors, but I didn’t give a damn.
The small office was near the control room. There was a phone, a computer, coffee, and a girl from the town of Efrat named Moriah, who had just completed her mandatory service as a soldier for the ISA two months earlier. She continued to work here, paid by the hour. She wants to be a special education teacher.
I came in every morning at 9:00 and left at 5:00. Until 10:00 in the morning, I didn’t do anything but have coffee and say hello to my colleagues. From then until lunch, I would make sure that everyone showed up for their training and check-ups. After lunch, I updated the tables and received calls about changes in the security guards’ schedules. I heard that this is what most office jobs are like, a routine that can drive you mad. The worst is that the office has only one window, which faces the facility’s exit. All-day long, I listened to the familiar sounds of my unit coming and going to field operations and secret meetings.
And I’m stuck here, in this small office, filling in tables.
“I’m not taking your gun from you,” Amit said. He seemed to be suffering from having this conversation. “It’s because you fainted, and we don’t know why. Let’s wait 2-3 weeks, and then we’ll see what the doctor says.”
I now understand how my father felt during that month when he came back from his trip to Namibia and sat at home doing nothing. If only I could, I would secure an undercover meeting, even for free. It had been three weeks, and the secret from Baku was growing inside of me like a parasite feeding off my thoughts. I should have told her straight away. How can I tell her now?
Since I started my new impotent job, time passed very slowly, especially when compared to the last two and a half years that had sped by so quickly. That may explain how I wrote everything contained in this diary in a week and a day.
Amit won’t want to have me back in action. Why would he take the risk? He’s better off bringing in some young bull who just got out of the army, waiting for a license to go wild. Amit is better off with me here, in this little room with the small window, writing down in lines and paragraphs what remains of me. I’m not used to writing. It doesn’t come naturally. Who cares? Who’s going to read it? Libby told me that it’s good for me, and that alone is a good reason.
Maybe I should have developed a parallel identity, like Captain Billal. When he’s at home, he’s Lev Giller, and when he’s here, he’s an attack dog named Billal. Maybe that way I would have been able to control the widening of the crack in me. Maybe being split is the only way to remain sane here. Perhaps that way my hands wouldn’t shake. Possibly that way, I wouldn’t have heard my hoarse inner voice, also cracked like Yemima, also from the war.
A new life. I need to leave this place and start a new life.
Chapter 42
I had intended to resign today.
I have started to forget things. All kinds of things. I forgot to call somebody back; I forgot my car keys on the table. Yesterday I went to the bathroom in the office and forgot to flush the toilet. While I was washing my hands, Bitton went into the stall I had been in and ran out like he was being shot at.
I had a big lump in my throat. It was revolving from side to side, looking for a position to settle into. I was going to do it. I was going to tell Amit what I had decided. The many years I had been in the unit and the relationship I had developed with Amit gave me the right to show up in his office without an appointment. My finger was about to touch the door when I heard the metallic voice of the doctor coming through the speakerphone in Amit’s office.
“Yes, Amit.”
“How’s it going, Dr. Amrani?” I heard Amit bellow as if the doctor were hard of hearing.
“All right, Amit. How are you?”
“Thank God. Sorry for getting right to the point, but what about Itay Evron? Can we bring him back?”
“I would rather you didn’t.”
“I would rather be on the beach at Koh Phangan with a pineapple sha
ke. I asked if I could bring him back or not?”
“It’s risky . . .”
“Listen, doctor, I was there with him. I’m short a guard, and you have no idea what that means. ISA operations are not being carried out. Can I bring him back?”
“Has he been to the psychologist?”
“I don’t know. That’s his business. I gave him an open account from the unit to have as many sessions as he wants. He’s a big boy; he can decide for himself. Can I please bring him back to operations?”
“I don’t like the idea.”
“I don’t like your answers. On Sunday he’s returning to field operations, Do we have an agreement, doctor?”
“Make an appointment with me for two weeks from Thursday.”
“Can he work until then?” Amit said, and I heard two knocks on the table when he said the last two words.
“What? I didn’t hear you. Your reception is not good.” Dr. Amrani said.
“Thank you, doctor,” Amit said.
“Keep an eye on him.”
“Now you’re talking. I have another question.” My ear was glued to the door, like in the cartoons. Suddenly, my phone rang, and I jumped back, pressing the mute button twenty times. The sound of a chair moving came from the room. I tried to look innocent, as if I had just arrived at the door, but then I heard them continue talking.
It was Liza. I sent her a message that I was in a meeting and would call her in an hour. Amit and Dr. Amrani were now talking about Amit and his wife Talia’s fertility treatments. Amit’s voice went soft, and I was no longer sure it was the same man. I had never heard his voice sound like it did now, somewhere between hope and despair. Dr. Amrani’s voice also changed, and even over the speaker, it sounded like he was talking to a person whose emotions were exposed. I left before the conversation ended. By now I had no idea what I wanted to do. When I got home, Donna was lying on the couch and had just finished watching an episode of her series. On the table was an empty bowl with the remains of beet soup.
I said hello, put my bag down next to her, and went to the bathroom. When I came back, the flushing sound was replaced by that of my ringing phone, which was in Donna’s hands. The name Liza was on the screen, I took my phone and silenced it.
“Answer her,” she said, sounding a bit like Amit.
“I’ll talk to her later,” I said. I silenced the phone and was about to put it down on the table, but Donna stopped me.
“Answer her now,” she said, “and put it on speaker.”
Chapter 43
There are not many stormy days in Israel, and despite my hatred for clichés, this day knew exactly when to come.
I didn’t need the dramatic setting to feel defeated. It was enough to simply ask me how I was feeling, the way my father had asked. My answer was, “Like shit.” The rain was pouring down on Dad and Sharon’s house, and the thunder rolled in from far away, as if God were angry with me.
That was a few days ago. I was sitting in the dining room with my head down on the notebook of the course “Ethnic Identity − The Balkans as a Case Study.”
At noon I still thought to myself that I would take the exam tomorrow. Now it sounded like a bad joke. The living room was flickering from the light of the gruesome news on television − videos of riots in so-called mixed cities where Muslims and Israelis live side by side, and footage of individual terrorists stabbing civilians on the streets. Pillars of smoke rose over Gaza and helicopters flew over Nablus and Hebron.
“Ten minutes,” my father announced so that Sharon and I would get ready for dinner.
I was staying at my father’s place again because that was what my gut told me to do. Donna said that if we were breaking up, it was a complete break-up.
“A relationship is supposed to empower you,” she said in a clear voice, despite the tears on her face. “You’re not happy with me anymore. I don’t know why I can’t give you what you need, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”
She was talking about me like she wasn’t there, as if her emotions were not a big deal.
She realized all by herself that something had changed in the equation, that there’s some new variable between us.
Donna sat beside me silently and stared at the bottom of the closet. I stared at her. Her breath became heavy, and her ears turned red, the way they always did when she was cold, drank wine, or was fired up.
She shut her eyes tight as if I had thrown sand at her. Her one dimple appeared like a bi-polar disorder that appears only when she cries or laughs.
“D . . . Donna . . .” I stuttered and started crying myself. I continued to look at her beautiful face, and she covered her face with her hands. I stood up and paced the room. I felt that I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what. Outside the window, I saw the rain washing the street like a river, like the tears when two people part. For months I had been putting water inside our little sailboat. The mast wasn’t very sturdy, but its stern was stable. Now I had sunk both it and us.
I put my forehead on the cold window.
“Donna,” I called to her. I saw her reflection through the window, sprawled out, and covering her face with a pillow. She looked exhausted, like she had just walked a long path, or perhaps she was gathering her strength for a long journey.
“Donna,” I let out a pathetic little whimper, “tell me you’re not mad at me.”
She was silent.
“Donna, please!” I hit my head on the window and smeared it on the cold surface. The rain was pouring down on one side of the glass and my tears washed it on the other side.
“Tell me you’re not mad at me,” I whined.
Her heavy breathing became sobbing into the pillow, and I couldn’t bear to see it. I went up to her and touched her leg. She pulled it like I was contagious.
“Get out of here!” she said to me with the most a face I have ever seen.
I left.
Chapter 44
Libby once told me that people with anxiety need to find some way to make themselves feel safe. That is why my father (her uncle) would tie things when he became angry. A strange habit indeed, which was because he had been an officer on a missile boat in the navy; anything that is not tied down gets lost. During difficult times − of overdue mortgage payments, or stupid fights with my mom − he would get angry if someone even took his pen or moved the television remote control. He would take a thin rope or tape and tie them to the table or the lamp.
That’s what helps my father feel safe.
For me, what works is my bank account website. When I’m feeling anxious, I check my account on the internet. On this portal, I feel like a king.
The picture of a smiling banker welcomes me, and bright and assertive text boxes request my password to make sure it really is me and not someone else.
Of course I know the password; I chose it. I remember when the bankers in the commercials looked old to me. Now they’re my age. The website was always welcoming to me, but since the first payment from the store’s new buyer in Afula came in, my homepage has become even more welcoming.
My account page gives me details of everything the bank is offering me. All I have to do is give the order. It’s all mine. I have a lot of money − almost a quarter of a million shekels, all for me.
A few months ago I would have given up the whole amount to get rid of the curse of the explosions that were killing my sex life, but now I have a cure that doesn’t cost money: Liza, Liza, Liza. She’s the first one since that damn village. She cured me.
I look at my watch. It’s after 10 p.m., not too late to go out and celebrate.
“I just got back from a field patrol. Talk to me tomorrow,” Bitton answered.
“Go out? Are you crazy? There’s an intifada outside,” Luvaton wrote to me.
“Sure, man. Where do you want to go?” Leroy would have replied if he hadn’t got
ten killed on my shift.
The bartender with the curly hair and the strange earring gave me my two glasses with a knowing smile. After all, not many people sit at the bar and order two drinks.
I gulped down the two shots, one after the other. Pak-Pak. Then I turned to my right and – and saw him . . . Well, well, well. Guess who the guy sitting to my right is . . .
“Asher!” I exclaimed, as if he were on the other side of the street. “You’re Asher Ziggy!”
“Yup,” he said calmly, emphasizing the enthusiasm that seemed to grip me.
“You can call me Nadav.”
“Nadav? That means Asher is like . . . it’s kind of a stage name?”
He asked the bartender for some kind of beer I’d never heard of. Then he glanced at me.
“Yes, my name is Nadav Deutsch.”
“Give me one of those beers too,” I told the bartender; he signaled “patience” to me with his hand.
Sitting alone, he got his glass of beer. To his left was a couple in their forties − he balding, with a thin, graying beard, and she with smile lines.
“Celebrating, eh?” he said, and winked at my two empty glasses.
“Nope. Just a day to forget,” I told him, but I wasn’t sure he heard me. I realized how tall he is when he stood up to take a coaster from the bartender’s stand.
“Sorry. I sat in someone’s chair. Are you waiting for someone?” I asked him, and he took a long sip and waved dismissively.
“It’s okay. Feel at home,” he said.
The music got louder, and I got my beer − which turned out to be bitter and cloudy.
“Are you performing today?” I asked him.
“Today?” he asked, looking at his vintage Casio calculator watch. “It’s after midnight.”
“Wow, I didn’t notice,” I said. Seems like he was doing great without me.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“Me? Oh, umm. She dumped me.” I said to him, “And you?”
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