Fracture Point

by T. D. Mandowsky

  He nodded and smiled.

  “No drama. I’m just lonely,” he said, and almost finished his beer with one swallow.

  “Why ‘Asher Ziggy’? What does that name mean?” I asked him.

  “Not everything has meaning,” he said. The bartender was about to clear away his glass, but he dragged it closer to himself and waved his finger and pointed to the bottom of the glass. “The backwash sip is the most appreciated one.”

  “But why would you use a stage name instead of your real name?”

  “It’s an alter ego, and it’s common in art,” he said in some sort of rhythmic talk, as if a melody were playing in his head. “Psychologists say that it helps let out the madness inside you. Something like that.”

  Maybe if I had developed an alter ego like Asher Zigi, I would have maintained my sanity. Like Lev Giller and his avatar, Captain Billal.

  “You know,” he said with a smile, “they say that good fences make good neighbors.”

  He drank what was left in his glass and then took out a pen and a little notebook that looked like the one Sharon gave me. “You gave me an idea for something,” he said, and wrote something in his notebook. “I’ll work on it later.”

  I hadn’t put up a fence, and I had no alter ego. My two lives were exchanging fire and hurting innocent bystanders. But it doesn’t matter. To hell with all these theories. It’s in the past, and the past and I are breaking up. That’s what I promised myself. “Nice to meet you. Have a good one,” he said and left. I tried to drink the whole beer in one gulp, like him, but I choked. The 40-year-old couple who sat in the chair next to me gave me a puzzled look.

  I gave them back my “What?” face and they got back to their business. They’re all smiles, their fingers touching, whispering secrets to each other. What the hell are they smiling about?

  I was so jealous that they’re going to go home and do it like rabbits − just like me, before it happened. The bartender gave me two more glasses, but this time his smile was fake. Liza sent me a message four days ago; the thought of answering her − or not − blew my mind.

  I thought about her body, damn her. I thought about Donna.

  I had another drink.

  I wanted to send a message to Liza telling her I was at the bar having endless drinks because I have so much money, over 200,000 shekels. I wrote to her that I was at the bar in the market and asked her to come. I also sent a message to Libby because I was thinking about how she’s so smart and I don’t know where I’m heading and whether this story has a clear direction. The bartender brought me one drink although I asked for two. “This is it,” he said when I tried to convince him I was all right. He also handed me the bill.

  Libby answered my text. “I’m not far from you. What are you celebrating?”

  Shit, shit, shit! I sent her the message I intended to send to Liza. That’s not as bad as the fact that I sent the other message to Liza, the one I intended to send Libby.

  “What” Liza wrote back immediately, without a question mark. I turned off my phone because I wanted to go back to the days before we had phones.

  I gave him two bills − a 150-shekel bill, and a 50-shekel one. He thinks he’s so smart, this curly-headed guy. I’ll show him. I sat down at a table and ordered three drinks from the waitress. I told her I was waiting for two more friends − I mean, two friends. She was quick, I think. I drank two of them and offered her the third. She said no, so I drank that one as well. I wanted to talk to her, but she was not very friendly and turned and left.

  “What terrible service,” I said to the two girls at the table next to me. “Only in Israel,” I added. At first, they looked at me and one of them smiled. Then I told them who I was and that I had a lot of money, over 200,000 shekels, and they turned back around. At this point, someone grabbed my shoulder and said I had gone too far and should go home. I said, “Take your hands off of me or I’ll break your face.”

  The guy said, “Hey, relax.”

  He had glasses.

  I could beat the shit out of him if I wanted to. I stood up and he moved back. I said, “You think you’re a man? Come and fight me. Motherfucker, you have no idea who I am.”

  He moved back or somehow became smaller. Smart man.

  I was about to sit down but suddenly got punched in the face. I don’t even know who hit me. I fell down but got right back up. With just one eye I looked to see who it was that hit me because the other eye was closed and full of tears. Some woman was screaming. Another blow missed me, not because I ducked, but because I was shaking. I saw who it was and I kicked him in the stomach and he bent over. Now it was easy, two punches to the head, but one hit him in the shoulder and the other hit a picture of a parrot with a beer. Someone shoved me and I was thrown on someone else. Then this guy who looked tough lifted a bar chair and hit me with it twice. I rolled up into a fetal position and the chair broke. The third time he hit me it was no longer a chair. I grabbed one of the broken legs of the chair and someone screamed, “Leave him alone!”

  I stood up and collapsed onto the tough guy, hitting him. Someone grabbed my shirt so hard that it ripped and I sent my elbow into his face. I saw the blood squirt from his nose and he let out a scream because that hurts like hell. Then I noticed that the leg of the chair was in my other hand. What am I, an idiot? Someone was pulling my shirt again, what was left of it. I beat the crap out of the guy and someone was pulling my arm and my hair and they screamed at me to stop. They pulled my hair over and over; the fifth time I turned to see who it was, because this person was going to die a painful death, but she pushed my face hard and shrieked, “Itay! Enough!”

  It was Libby, so I didn’t hit her.

  We went through Mahane Yehuda, which was only half-full since a lot of people were staying home because of the new intifada and because of all the people being stabbed on the street. Libby grabbed me by the neck like I was some cat, so I would walk faster. I was wobbly and it must have been embarrassing to walk around with someone who looked like such a wreck. I stopped several times and my phone vibrated. I thought I had turned it off. How did it go back on? I saw some hot girls drinking beer outside a bar on Agrippas St. One of them was dancing and her boobs were all over the place, and I must have been staring because I suddenly tripped and fell over and I didn’t quite know why.

  The floor in the market is covered in a thin layer of dark, disgusting gook − a combination of water, fish oil, dust, and traces of shoes’ soles. Even so, there still was some beauty to the sidewalk, especially from an angle that was new to me.

  Libby picked me up with someone’s help and put me into a taxi, the same way that cops put a criminal in a police car in the movies, holding his head and shoving him inside. I did it myself once or twice over the last few years.

  Usually taxi drivers talk all the time but this time he took one look at me and kept quiet the whole way.

  When I got out of the taxi, I said, “Thanks, man,” but he didn’t respond. He just hit the gas pedal and sped off.

  I walked up the stairs of my building but had to stop every few steps because my ribs were killing me.

  Who paid for the taxi? Libby? I’m going to transfer 1,000 shekels to her right now. What do I care? I have more than 200,000 − almost a quarter of a million.

  I’m in bed under the blanket and the damn bank website won’t open for me. I can’t remember the password. How did I lose Leroy? He was such a great person. He was a fighter, a charmer – but more than anything, he was a real friend. How could he have gone?

  I looked at the banker with the white button-down shirt on the bank website. I wonder if she’s really a banker, or a model they hired to tell me that she’s a banker.

  Liza sent a message, so I answered her. She must have sent me another one because I answered that one. I don’t remember what I wrote and I couldn’t see straight. Why can’t I get into my bank account? I
t’s my money.

  I brushed my teeth and I saw that my lip was swollen and was the size of my nose. I had a red bruise on my forehead and a big black-and-blue mark beneath a black eye.

  I’ll transfer 1,000 shekels to Libby and write her a note on the colorful paper pad with the purple bird on it, the one Sharon got me. Dad’s Sharon.

  I hope she’ll forgive me.

  The pillow smelled like Donna. Liza’s name was on the phone.

  I took Yemima in my hands. I don’t need a code to play Yemima.

  I tried to play the song that Donna loves.

  The one by . . . Arik Einstein.

  My hand was trembling so hard that every time I tried to play the fifth string, I would hit four at once.

  Everything I played sounded like crap.

  I tried again, but my hand was shaking. Son of a bitch!

  I grabbed Yemima by the throat and tried to choke her. It didn’t work because she is a guitar.

  So I slammed her against the wall and she screamed.

  I hit her over the bookshelf and then again, and the second time there was an avalanche of books. I hit her on the ground over and over again, and I screamed at her the way I would scream at a wanted Palestinian boy in his house, during arrests. Then I threw what was left of her against the wall.

  Someone was ringing the doorbell.

  I wobbled over to the door, still holding the neck of the guitar in my hands, its pieces and strings hanging from it.

  When I opened the door, I saw that it was my neighbor, Herzl. He saw a sweaty, injured man, breathing heavily and holding the neck of a guitar in his hand.

  He said, “Sorry. Never mind,” and disappeared.

  I sat down on the cold floor, with the door wide open. The light in the stairwell went out and every few minutes it went on as someone went up the stairs. Those who live above me passed by my door and stopped to look at me.

  One woman asked me if I was all right.

  After . . . who knows how long, I managed to get up and with my foot I dragged the remains of Yemima into a pile.

  I sat down to write what happened, and now I’m going to sleep.

  Maybe I’ll wake up in the morning to find out that this never happened.

  Maybe I’ll find that the pile of what’s left of Yemima has turned into a brand new guitar − but one without a crack.

  Chapter 45

  Five years have passed since the trumpets roared at the International Convention Center in Jerusalem as the Minister of Defense pinned a Medal of Courage to my chest − for rescue under fire. A month ago, the office sent me to Daphna the psychologist the way you send a car to the repair shop. As if all I needed was a small repair of my carburetor and I could get back to the field. What Amit didn’t realize was that my chassis had been messed up long before he got me.

  “What do you care? We’re paying,” he said to me, as if that were reason enough to go to therapy. It was my 27th birthday, and it was my second session with Daphna. She lives close to me in Talbiyeh.

  Before leaving, I sat on the bed and played Leroy’s guitar. The guitar has a thick neck and hasn’t been named. He didn’t go to the trouble of giving it to me, but he did leave a letter in advance to his mother telling them what he wanted them to do if something happened to him unexpectedly. He donated the money he had saved up to be used as scholarships for law students who were struggling financially. He gave his stuff to his friends, and he asked to turn his room into a guest room.

  Leroy’s mother came to my apartment, knocked on the door, and gave me his guitar like she was a delivery boy, and the guitar was a pizza. Then we stood facing each other and were silent.

  “Well, I have to go. Sorry. I’m double-parked,” she said, and moved back without turning around.

  “Yes, I’m sor . . . yes. Good-bye, Mrs. Cohen,” I mumbled as she started walking down the stairs, dividing her weight between her legs and holding the railing.

  That’s what someone who lost everything looks like.

  The Talbiyeh and Rechavia neighborhoods were as silent as a graveyard. The only sound was the news coming from open windows. The empty streets indicated how scared people were. It wasn’t safe anywhere. Three police cars and an ambulance sped wildly through the streets, their sirens blaring. They’re probably on their way to the scene of the latest attack. Random stabbings of innocent people have become daily events. Sometimes I only listen to the daily summary of the news in the evening, just to get an update on what the score is. Jonod Al-Takhrir had been almost completely wiped out, but their after-effect was still tangible and the streets were boiling. The head of the infrastructure, Yihya Sidawi, was still at large, but won’t be for long. He can’t hide forever. He’ll either cross the border to Jordan or will be caught. Maybe he’ll manage to wear explosive underpants and blow himself up among bus passengers or people out having a good time. That would be terrible, but at least it would mean that this round has come to an end, hopefully with Corporal Keinan − or what’s left of him.

  I counted the cracks in the sidewalk until I raised my head and saw the entrance to the charming old building.

  “How can you walk around like that? Aren’t you cold?” Daphna asked me so motherly when I entered.

  “Is it cold? I hadn’t noticed.” I said it twice because the first time she asked I was mumbling.

  I love this place. If Mom and Leroy are in heaven, it probably looks like Daphna’s clinic. Daphna is the psychologist from Talbiyeh. The transition from the real world to the clinic is like pressing a button on the remote control by mistake, throwing you from a dark horror movie to the Good Life Channel. The bustle of the street was replaced by a peaceful silence. The only sound was the humming of the air conditioner. The typical massive bricks of Jerusalem’s buildings were replaced with warm wooden floors; the wild trees became subtle bamboo plants in clear glass vases. The room has two sofas and a wooden desk, and that’s all. It’s comfortable and spacious.

  “Your eye looks better,” she said, pointing to where I had a black eye that now looked like a light ink smear. The scratch on my neck was almost gone.

  Daphna listened to me for an hour as I tried to continue from where we left off last time. The week before I had started with the cursed village and the difficulties in the Unified Security Course. I told her about Leroy, who taught me how to fight and was then killed on my shift. I told her about Donna, who loved me so much, and how I lost her. About the job that was widening the crack in me to the point of no return. When I was done, she asked me to start over from farther back.

  “How far back?” I asked her.

  “As far back as you can remember.”

  She watched me and listened. I think she was listening, but she was definitely watching me. I wanted her to take a deep breath and say that she has never heard of a case like mine before. That I’m a lost cause, that I’m a great case for her research or something. After a while, which turned out to be 50 minutes, she took a deep breath.

  “Itay,” she said, and signaled me with an open palm to slow down, “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

  Chapter 46

  My father is a man full of contrasts. I love him and everything, but sometimes I see him sitting on the porch staring into the air, and I wonder if he’s having deep thoughts, or whether he puts his mind in neutral and doesn’t think about anything. His indifference worked well for him in his career. He had the reputation of someone trustworthy and stable in a world of dishonest lawyers. Despite his slow manner and indifference, his mind was always sharp and competitive.

  “If someone is late to a meeting with me, certainly if it’s the first meeting, I know one thing for sure: I’m not doing business with that guy.” He would tell me that at least once a month, throughout my entire life. I would come late just to spite him. We would arrange to meet at 2:00 p.m., and I would arrive at 2:15, just so he
would understand that he’s not going to educate me. With everyone else, however, I was never late. The fear that no one would do business with me had me calculating the time of the trip, always leaving plenty of extra time.

  Liza replied, “That’s possible,” when I texted her. “Let’s have a beer.”

  It took me 35 minutes to send the message after writing it. I couldn’t decide if I should add an exclamation mark, or make the message longer in order to ask or state what I wanted.

  “That’s possible,” was her answer. It wasn’t very enthusiastic. If she knew I’d been thinking about her for two weeks already, she would have answered, “Sure,” or “Why did you wait so long?” but she didn’t know that, so she replied with a short “That’s possible.”

  She preferred coffee, not beer. So did I. Coffee is best.

  She said she was studying until late. She began at Tel Aviv University a month ago, so she suggested a café near the student dorms so we could meet somewhere near her campus, between the train station and the university.

  “Is that it? Have you left Jerusalem?” I asked her, and she answered, “Yes” and right after, “Am I not worth a trip to Tel Aviv?”

  “Of course you are,” I wrote. “Wherever you say.”

  “Take her a bit farther,” Libby said to me with dissatisfaction, “so she’ll also make some effort.”

  “A 10-minute walk in this cold weather is a lot,” I answered. She laughed. I didn’t.

  Libby was not happy about me seeing Liza. According to her, Liza was just a character I created, nothing more.

  “But maybe she’s an important part of your journey,” she said. How sweet of Libby, always trying to help.

  We were going to meet at 7:00 that evening. I got there a couple of hours in advance, just to be on the safe side.

  Someone had left a newspaper on the table. I read it from end to beginning. The headline showed the face of the soldier who had been in captivity for almost three years. The ISA intercepted a call of Yihya Sidawi’s deputy coming from the underground in Hebron. Targeting him would not be a difficult operation. It didn’t involve secret agents, betrayals, and lies. When they realized that the soldier was not with him, they smashed the building with a quarter-ton bomb that flattened a square mile of land and killed five, including two innocent people. That’s what happens when the ISA totally loses its patience.