Fracture Point

by T. D. Mandowsky

  “Go after him!” Amit shouted to me as we ran after him. I heard his heavy breathing behind me as I sped up.

  As I caught Billal’s bag and pulled him back, he sent his elbow backward and almost hit me in the nose. I kept pulling at his bag so that he wouldn’t get too far.

  “Get off me! Let me go!” he urged.

  “Just be normal for once,” I said, asking for the impossible. In the yard of the targeted house, I saw on his bag an embroidered inscription: “Unit Sports Day - A Healthy Mind in a Healthy Body.”

  The SWAT force burst into a private house. So did we. The front door was blown off. I had seen many uses of force over the last few years, but none were this efficient. Billal chased them like a maniac. I had to grab his “sports day” bag with my left-hand several times since the right one was already holding my gun.

  The house was dark, and the silence in it was the most macabre sound in existence. If there had been someone shouting in terror, it would have been reassuring.

  We carefully moved forward through a long corridor with thick wooden doors on the sides and at the end of it.

  Some cops whispered to each other.

  “Shhh!” Billal silenced everyone, as I could hear shouting in Arabic in the distance.

  The soldiers formed two columns outside the door, ready to burst in.

  Billal kneeled next to the door and put his ear on it, his hand on his gun. I raised my gun and covered him.

  “Sidawi!” he shouted, “This is the ISA. Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret.”

  The shouting in the room continued as if they hadn’t heard Billal’s warning.

  “What’s this crap?” Captain Billal muttered.

  “No!” I shouted as he got up and kicked the door open.

  I burst into the room and a herd of warriors followed me. Their flashlights were everywhere. My finger was tight on the trigger. I was looking for Sidawi. My gun’s sight stopped on the corner of the room, as two eyes were sticking out of a filthy woolen blanket. He was pale and thin, his hair long and messy, and his leg locked in a heavy chain attached to the wall.

  “Don’t shoot!” I yelled as I saw five different barrels pointing at him.

  “Captain Billal? Is that you?” He tried to see through the flashlights.

  It was Corporal Seffi Keinan − alive! I couldn’t believe he remembered Billal’s face and name after all these years. Billal definitely was not as excited as I was.

  “Where is he?!” Billal roared at Seffi, as if he were the number one wanted terrorist.

  “Who?” Seffi’s gaze was detached. He was in no hurry.

  “Who!!!?” The veins in Billal’s neck were on the verge of exploding. “Good morning, Seffi! Yoo-hoo! Hello?” He came closer to the pale, dirty soldier and waved his hand in front of his vacant, expressionless face. “Anybody home?!”

  Keinan looked at him and didn’t say a word.

  “You were kidnapped, right?” Billal talked to him as if he was eight. “Good. Now − your kidnapper. Where is he?”.

  As I walked up to Seffi and removed the filthy blanket, a wave of stench hit my face. He was wearing dirty army pants and an old t-shirt that smelled like diarrhea.

  “He . . .” Seffi said, staring at a military radio device next to him, “he heard on the radio that you were coming, and he ran.”

  Two cops approached the window to which Seffi was pointing with their flashlights down.

  “Not from here. He was in the other room,” Seffi said.

  Lucky for him, the force broke into the house while Sidawi was in the bathroom, and he escaped through the window, with no opportunity to hurt the soldier.

  Amit entered the room and put his hand on Billal’s shoulder. “Congratulations on the promotion!” he smiled. Billal threw off Amit’s sweaty hand that left a wet handprint on his shirt.

  A SWAT cop took out a huge pair of pliers and cut the metal chain as if it were made of paper. Seffi looked down at his free leg and moved it back and forth in disbelief. The soldier returned the pliers to his bag, put his hands in Seffi’s armpits, and lifted him like an infant.

  “Come on, kid,” he said. “We’ll take you home.”

  Corporal Keinan was thin, pale, and limping like a Holocaust survivor. Two cops supported him from both sides, and a third walked in front of him with his gun in the air, ready to respond.

  “Okay, wrap him up and let’s get out of here,” Billal said while writing a message to the desk officers.

  “You did it, Billal! You freed him,” I said with a smile I couldn’t hold back. He didn’t even raise his head from his phone.

  The cheap radio tape that was still broadcasting loud shouting in Arabic was still on. It wasn’t clear whether it functioned as a decoy, or as “entertainment” for both the kidnapper and the soldier who was held captive. Anyway, Billal turned his phone off and kicked it onto the wall as it shattered into pieces.

  “Son of a bitch, Sidawi,” he muttered and left the room. Amit shrugged, and we both ran after him.

  Chapter 50

  “Enough. I don’t want to talk about Liza or Donna or anyone anymore,” I said to Daphna. The silence afterward was powerful. It blocked my aggression like reinforced steel and sent it back at me like a painful shard.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry,” I told her, changing sitting positions three times during the apology. She sat there tall and stable, like a breakwater facing a stormy sea.

  Daphna took a deep breath and asked, “Why don’t you want to talk about them?”

  “I just don’t,” I said.

  “What’s holding you back?” she insisted.

  “Look, the ISA sent me here because of the incident with . . . with Leroy,” I said, and looked down in shame, saying his name.

  “Yes, but you’re one whole being,” she said.

  I didn’t let her catch my eye, despite her attempt. “The man who lost a friend is the same man who broke up with Donna.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but I continued. I told her about the job I left and about the six-figure check I got for dismantling the partnership in the store in Afula and about sleeping with Liza and about the annoying “maybe you saw me as a character I’m not” conversation with her.

  “No matter how you put it, character or not, with Liza I was able to feel . . . healthy. And that’s the bottom line,” I said in triumph.

  “Are you feeling healthier right now?” Daphna asked.

  “Well . . .” I hesitated.

  “I think the act with Liza let out hidden urges in you, or fears you ignored,” she said.

  “What urges?” I asked.

  “What was different with Liza in bed?”

  “I felt she was leading me to a light-hearted, thoughtless area. A place that gives free rein to the most natural passions. It was . . .” I stopped to think and said, “wild,” exactly when she suggested the word “savage.”

  She smiled and continued.

  “How did that feel to you?”

  “At first it was strange.” I stopped for a moment, and my fingers, patting the chair, moved more firmly in an attempt to remember the scratches on her smooth skin, “because I’m not a violent person.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “Of course not. I’m not a violent person. I despise violence. Look at what happened to me because of the war.” I pointed with my open palms at my groin.

  “Maybe something of you was left in the war?”

  “So you’re saying that the sex with Liza was . . .What do you call it? Salbimation?” I remembered the psychological term Libby had taught me.

  “Sublimation,” Daphna corrected me with a smile. “Yes, it’s controlling violent urges still alive inside you.”

  “The village.” I was full of rage.

  To hell with her and Libby and Liza. Ever
y time I saw Liza’s name on my phone screen, my lungs expanded, and my breath was taken away. She was the right person at the right time. She was my cure.

  I broke up with Donna because I wanted Liza’s honey-brown skin and her shiny hair and her flowing words without punctuation. That’s what I told Daphna. I took control of my relationship just as I initiated the trading of half the store in Afula − I did it because I wanted to break free from work and the hourly wages. Everyone wants to move forward in life, right? The secret is to overcome the timing life forces on us, isn’t it? It’s all about taking the initiative and control. The easiest thing to do is to be passive, like yesterday’s newspaper, blown all over the place.

  “When did you get this insight?” Daphna asked me.

  “Recently,” I replied. I couldn’t have done anything with half a store in Afula, but I took control of my life. I could have stayed on the job for a few more years because it was convenient. It paid a good salary, a good pension, no worries.” Daphna looked at me silently.

  “I could have continued to drag on with Donna. It would have been the easiest, believe me. But no, I initiate, I . . . take risks.” My cheeks suddenly felt heavy. I remembered the day Donna explained what “hubris” is.

  Daphna folded her glasses and gently placed them on the table near her empty cup of tea. She’s a very good-looking woman, Daphna. If she hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have guessed that she’s around 55.

  “Do you think it’s all by chance? That you broke up with Donna, left work, and sold the store − all in one month?” she asked, in a tone you use when you already know the answer to your question.

  No, it wasn’t by chance, I thought to myself.

  “Absolutely by chance, they’re different processes that happened at the same time,” I answered, and felt my lips purse.

  The air conditioner that was sending out warm, caressing air stopped blowing for a moment. Daphna looked at me the way she did. Her chin nearly touching her neck, looking at me through slightly curly hair, with two fingers from her two hands close together and resting on her lips. It looked like she was blowing on a hot pistol.

  I didn’t say anything, and she continued to look at me. I wouldn’t have liked what was going on here if it wasn’t me who was paying for this. Every session costs hundreds of shekels. It’s like seven or eight shekels a minute, and she remains silent and looks at me. Nice business plan, overall.

  “Maybe you’re simply angry?”

  What? I thought she was reading my mind for a moment.

  “Or disappointed?”

  “Me? At who?”

  “At Donna,” she suggested, “or maybe Liza, or maybe the ISA?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like it. I tried to think of who I was not angry with, including Daphna. Including this country.

  “Maybe yourself,” she added.

  “Tell me, Daphna,” I asked with a smile I couldn’t hide, “psychologically − how do I start all over?”

  Chapter 51

  The sun set into the big blue ocean, and I took a deep breath.

  I don’t know how many breaths I’ve taken since I was born. Tens or hundreds of millions − maybe even billions. The first time I actually thought about breathing was in the yoga class we had in the army, in the commanders’ course. A year later, when we left the village, I appreciated every breath, but before all of this − nothing. Breathing was obvious, something unnoticed, a side effect of the universe.

  We arrived here on this little Greek island three days ago. Dad booked three rooms in the hotel: one for me, one for Doreen, and one for him and Sharon. The whole family had never been overseas together before. When I think of it, since Mom left us, Dad hasn’t said “the whole family” because there was no such thing without her.

  A month ago I received a message from my father. “Hi Itay, it’s Dad,” he wrote, the way he always did. “Do you want to come to Greece on vacation, the whole family?”

  Since I was 18, I hadn’t really been in regular contact with Dad and Sharon, and certainly not with Doreen, my little sister.

  I looked at the message for much longer than necessary.

  “Sorry, but I have a full of schedule of exams to study for,” I wrote. Other than those exams, I had another whole seminar paper to write. The head of the faculty has heard from Leroy’s professor about the tragedy. She allowed me to submit the seminar paper to her whenever I wanted within the next two years. It was more than enough, since I had already a topic for the paper: “Long Live the Agent - The Influence of Israeli Intelligence on Palestinian Politics,” I called it.

  I deleted the whole message and wrote him a new one: “Sure. Sounds awesome.”

  The trolley suitcase still had plane tickets and some tea bags from Azerbaijan. I threw them in the trash and replaced them with my MacBook, swimsuit, and a computer charger. We sat at the restaurant on the beach after sunset, eating fish. Doreen told us about her life in Tel Aviv, and that she goes out with boys sometimes and that most of them are strange and childish. She said she goes to open stage evenings with a friend from work because they both like jazz, and since he’s not into girls, she feels very comfortable with him.

  At her new job, she sells computer programming courses for children for the American market. When she said the name of the company, “Coding Force,” she pronounced the ‘r’ with a perfect American accent. Where did she pick up her English?

  “Go ahead, give me the beginning of your sales pitch,” I dared her, while squeezing an entire lemon on my fish. Doreen was surprised. I hadn’t shown any interest in her in years, and she hadn’t shown any in me.

  She put down the silverware, leaned on the table, and recited, half singing:

  “Hi. May I speak with John? Hi, John! It’s Doreen from Coding Force! “

  Sharon looked up in surprise. Dad stopped eating for a moment. No one in our family spoke English with such confidence. I was also surprised to discover that my little cry-baby sister had grown up and become part of the hot singles’ scene in Tel Aviv.

  We spent four days on the island without doing anything special. I would wake up early and go to the beach. I would go swimming two or three times, have fish for lunch, and catch up on writing in my notebook. The rest of the time I sat on the beach watching the waves or reading a book, because that’s what Donna would do if she were there with me.

  Every once in a while, I would look at all the correspondence between Donna and me. Sometimes I saw that she was online, and I wondered if she, too, somewhere on the other side of WhatsApp, was thinking of the same simple possibility.

  Chapter 52

  It was quite dark already. My swimsuit had almost dried in the warm breeze. Soft white sand filled every skin fold in my body. I didn’t know what I was going to write to Donna, but I knew I was going to go ahead and do it. I couldn’t decide whether I should let out all my emotions in one message or just say “Hi.”

  I was angry with the ISA for welcoming my most toxic urges with open arms. I was sorry for leasing my body and my soul − too much and for too long. It would have been much simpler if I were not grateful for those years.

  While other students worked as waiters, I was in the operations room with the country’s most sensitive matters. While others learned what the evening menu was, I learned about lies and loyalty, determination and desire. If Libby were here, she would tell me: “self-conviction, of the highest order.”

  I wonder where she is right now. Maybe she’s just going into the pale, skinny guy’s apartment. I wanted to write, but my tears dripped on the notebook and smeared the letters. The image of the bicyclist lying on the ground came to me, raising his fist in the air and screaming, “Idiot!”

  You’re so wonderful, Donna. I know everyone wants you. As Arik Einstein said in the song you love,

  “But he to whom you’re his;

  His life is fi
lled with song.”

  I picked up my phone with shaking hands, wrote “Hi” again, and sent it immediately. She saw the message after a few seconds.

  Please wait for me. I’m begging. Please wait.

  Chapter 53

  Ram Stark was the owner of Stark Capital Ltd., one of the top three real estate companies in Jerusalem. Yehuda, Dudi’s father, set up this meeting for me.

  I couldn’t figure out how to operate the touch screen on the elevator in the fancy building. A man in a suit came in after me. He knew very well what he was doing, and the elevator went up to the 24th floor. I got out with him and walked up another four floors.

  When I told Yehuda, Dudi’s father, how the deal of half the store in Afula ended, he said, “Wait. Yehuda’s going to check something for you.”

  Ram Stark was ready to see me 25 minutes after our scheduled meeting.

  “Why real estate?” he asked me.

  “Because real estate is people,” I answered, “and I think I’m good with people.”

  His big chair creaked as he leaned back. There was a shining glass table between us, very different than the table I had that was falling apart.

  “What does it have to do with people? We’re talking about walls, about regulations, about toilet blockages.”

  “All of that involves people.”

  “Walls are people?” he put his hand on the wall near him.

  “Yes,” I replied. “People agree on what the wall is worth.”

  Ram Stark looked at me in silence, the way Daphna did. The same way Billal would remain silent and look at the spies he operated when he wanted them to keep talking.

  I perfected my answer: “A good real estate man is someone who can motivate people.” I wasn’t sure how to read the look on his face. It was something between boredom, contemplation, and anger. His fingers tapped on the chair, and his other hand rolled a pen back and forth like a rock drummer.

  “What experience did you say you had?” he asked softly.