Fracture Point

by T. D. Mandowsky

  “Intelligence.”

  “You’re young.”

  “Relatively.”

  “The personal security unit? Intelligence officer security? What did you do?”

  “Intelligence. The field.”

  “You can tell me. I know a little.” His chair creaked as he leaned back.

  “I have significant experience working with people,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me?” He raised his voice and hit the table. The sharp sound of his silver ring hitting the glass was unexpected.

  “No.”

  “If I ask Amit about you, what will he say?”

  There was a tense silence in the room. Ram’s frameless glasses rested on his flat bulldog nose, and his face showed no emotion.

  “What do you know?” I asked him.

  “I’m the one asking the questions here, mister,” he said. The use of the word “mister” indicated his age, as well as the discolorations on his face (probably due to many hours in the sun).

  “I was prepared for you to ask me about real estate,” I said. He smiled.

  “You have a lot to learn from your father,” Stark smiled wider. “Law, real estate, and intelligence have one rule in common: whoever has the most information, wins,” he said in a low voice, as if he didn’t want the enemy to hear him.

  “Real estate is about people,” he continued, “and I know people in an instant. Their posture, the way they talk, the sparkle in their eyes.” He stopped for a moment and stared at me. I couldn’t let myself lose this staring contest.

  “Just like in this intelligence of yours in the ISA,” he winked, pointing to his head.

  “So that’s how you build buildings,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I looked around me. Photos of pristine projects in Arnona, Rechavia, and Kiryat Hale’om covered the walls of the CEO.

  “You’ll be the shadow of my assistants, do you hear me? Don’t make a sound for three months. Just shut up and walk after them. After that, you’ll have time for questions.”

  I asked to start in a week or two because I had something I had to finish first.

  He agreed and gave me two old folders.

  “I know no one uses these anymore,” he made a face, “but the method has been the same for centuries. Read all of it before your first day here.”

  Chapter 54

  “Hello again,” she said.

  “This time is really the last time,” I told her and my smile was almost as clumsy as the thick binders I carried in my hands.

  She brought me a glass of water and sat down.

  “Tax advisor?” she asked, half terrified.

  “Nope. Real estate,” I told her.

  “Building the country?” she asked me.

  “Absolutely not. I’ve finished working for the state.”

  “You sound angry,” Daphna said as she touched her glasses lightly.

  “The country is important to me. It was nice, saving lives and all that . . .”

  Daphna nodded and motioned for me to go on.

  “But that’s not the only issue here. I didn’t give these years only for Zionist reasons. I can’t say that. I felt I needed closure. I wanted to return to the raid in the village, to tell my commander, Rubik, that we shouldn’t leave the yard we were in. If I could go back in time and tell him that, he would be alive today.”

  I waited for a response from Daphna that didn’t come.

  “I was told in the army that you save lives. I came to the army and received death and blood. I thought that the ISA would fix it and then they kidnapped Seffi Keinan right under my nose.”

  “During your first month there,” Daphna uncharacteristically burst into my words, “you stopped terrorists that were on their way to carry out attacks,” she added.

  I stopped and tried to estimate how many arrests I had made during these three years. A hundred? Two hundred? Maybe more?

  “You know there are a lot of Israelis and Palestinians who would be dead right now if you hadn’t done the job.”

  “And yet it seems that the more lives I try to save, the number of dead people in my life just continues to grow,” I said.

  Daphna nodded her head heavily; it was unclear if in agreement or not.

  “Together with the crack inside you.”

  A supersonic boom shook the windows of the clinic. This happens from time to time when an F-16 flies above. Daphna’s words were like a supersonic boom in my head, shaking every painful crack. A tear slid down my cheek and − onto my lap.

  “Why real estate?” she asked.

  “The experience I had with the store in Afula made me feel like I was building something new. Changing something that was stuck into something better.”

  “Great. It sounds like a good starting point for the next chapter in your life.”

  “But it doesn’t fulfill my need.”

  “What need?”

  “The need for closure, to close the circle.”

  There was silence between us again. The session had been going on for what felt like a long time. I knew that any moment now Daphna would announce that we would stop and continue at our next session.

  “Life isn’t a circle; it’s more like a line,” she said suddenly. “You need to let go of the past in order to embrace the future.”

  The bitter smile on my lips spread to her as well.

  “Is the future good enough?” I asked her.

  Daphna said, “My crystal ball’s in the repair shop.”

  “Then why should I wait for it with open arms?”

  “Because there’s no other way.”

  Chapter 55

  Hi. Thanks for coming. Sure, I’ll tell you everything. It’s not too much.

  The Stark Capital Ltd. accounting department asked for my diploma from the university in order to calculate the tax I needed to pay or something like that. I hadn’t been to the campus for months. On my way out, I took a picture of myself holding the degree at the university entrance. I sent the picture to my father and Sharon. “My last time!” I wrote to them.

  Yes, I didn’t send it to you.

  At this hour, it’s impossible to find a place to park at the university, so I took the light rail. To get from the Mount Scopus campus to the central bus station, there were 10 stops. At this time of day, the train is as full as the line for the Student Day Festival, but without the sexual tension.

  Traveling on the train, I sometimes happen to sit next to a student reading notes from class, and I try to see what they’re studying. Sometimes it’s an ultra-Orthodox man reading from a book with yellow pages, an Arab from East Jerusalem heading to work in the western part of the city, or an American Jewish kid who came to the Holy City for a summer program. It’s an array of clichés. This time I was sitting next to a student from the Bezalel School of Art. I knew that because he was hugging a big plastic folder with artwork. He also had a weird hairdo and a piercing gaze that looked out the window at the busy street.

  A redheaded ultra-Orthodox man who had gotten on the train at the same station as me was sitting on the other side, facing an older man.

  The train doors opened as the conductor announced that we had arrived at Givat Hatachmoshet. The older man got off the train slowly, and a young Arab woman, whose head was covered, took his seat. She immediately got up to give her seat to an old woman with a large hat with a flower on it. The hat reminded me of the one Grandma Bianca used to wear, and she was about the same age.

  We reached the Shimon Hatzadik station, or, as the Arabs call it “Sheikh Jarrah.” A hodgepodge of Arabs and religious Jews got on and off the train. I wondered if you would continue living here, or move away after your studies.

  You know, there are moments in life when I’m not sure whether thoughts create reality or
reality happens in front of us, and our thoughts are our subconscious outcomes. I couldn’t stop thinking about you the whole time. Who would have thought that I was going to see you in just a few minutes?

  The train moved forward, and I reread your message several times. I remember it by heart.

  “Hi. I hope you’re all right. If you’re in Jerusalem this evening, I’d be happy to see you.”

  So much begging, and so many tears that I shed in the blue and white cabin on the white beach.

  Do you know what I did after you sent me the message? The one where you wrote, “Give me a few days to think it over”? I’ll tell you. I threw my phone on the bed, and I ran out to the dark beach. I took off my clothes while running and dived in, spraying water all over the place and shouting with joy.

  You must still hate me, I thought on the train. But God, I promised myself, give me two months, six at the most, and everything will be okay. After I get rid of all my demons, I swear I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.

  I was focused on my phone, reading every letter separately, and two stations passed without my noticing. My heart was racing. You know what? It wasn’t “racing” − it was pounding. Every pulse was an explosion. Like Arik Einstein’s song that you love? It was playing in my head, over and over again:

  “My dream’s at your feet as an unrolled red carpet;

  Walk across it, my love, pace on runner of flowers.”

  At City Hall station, most of the passengers got off and others got on. The Bezalel student got off, walking confidently towards the Musrara neighborhood where all the artists live, except for the pale skinny guy. No, I’m just joking. Ignore it.

  The old woman with the Grandma Bianca hat stayed on the train. She was looking out the window at the city center. How is it that there are no skyscrapers here? Maybe after a year or two at Stark Capital I’ll be the one to build the first skyscraper in the city center. It’ll even have an apartment for me. It’ll be our apartment. I even thought of a name for the building: The Leroy Tower. That would be closure. No, not really closure − just a nice way to remember my brother.

  At the Davidka Station, a man with a blue jacket sat down facing me, right next to the old woman with the hat. I once had a jacket like that that I loved. My jacket was simple; I bought it in Afula before moving to Jerusalem. His jacket seemed to be more expensive − a brand-new blue Adidas jacket.

  Blue Adidas jacket?

  I wasn’t sure I was seeing correctly. He had a new beard, which was very gray, and thick. The baldness under his baseball cap made me doubt myself. And his sunglasses didn’t make it any easier – but still I could see a right crossed eye through them.

  Yihya Sidawi looked back at the man staring at him. I immediately looked back down at my phone.

  Is there a chance that he remembers my face, just from the confrontation in his brother’s house? Two years passed and, as I recall, I was not a dominant character that evening.

  The train started moving and I was thinking of you. I read your message again and again. The waves of energy flew to me from your messages. The train was heading towards the Mahane Yehuda station. Sidawi pressed his palms against one another like he was closing a deal with himself. The train stopped at the station, and I saw your curls outside the window, waiting at the bus station heading towards Rechavia. No, it wasn’t you, but she had curls like yours.

  I got up. I wanted to call Captain Billal and tell him I saw Sidawi here, so he can get the promotion he deserves. Sidawi stayed seated. If he blew himself up now, there would be nothing left of me. I would be torn into pieces in a crinkled tin package, like a can of tuna. Apparently in our beloved country there need to be people living with cracks so that we don’t all tear. He was looking down at the ground. Maybe he didn’t want to be recognized; maybe it’s just his last thoughts. Can you believe it? These could also be my last thoughts, and here I am thinking about a can of tuna.

  Life is too worthwhile to die now, I thought to myself. I wanted you to be mine and for me to be yours, and together we would overcome everything. No more ISA, no more closure needed − I threw it all into the Mediterranean. I no longer need a double soul. There will be just one of me. I will love you until you beg me to love you less.

  I was praying for the damn door to open before the train goes up in flames and becomes a whirlwind of flesh, smoke, and blood. Open up already! Come on, open!

  The door opened. A tired security guard at the end of his shift was standing there. I punched him in the face. Someone screamed. The guard fell on the ground but I had already grabbed his gun.

  I hit the magazine, cocked it, aimed it at the seat where he was sitting. He turned his head and saw the least pleasant side of the pistol. I gave in to my senses, and so did Sidawi. He could have put his hand in his pocket and exploded, but his instinct was to shield his face. Palms do not stop bullets.

  Three gunshots. I could see the three holes in his face even before he collapsed on the old woman with Grandma Bianca’s hat.

  The station was in chaos. People were running in all directions like ants when someone steps on their nest.

  Someone hit me in the right shoulder. I looked towards him and saw another guard shout something at me, but I didn’t understand. He pointed at me with his gun. I dropped the gun and tried to lift my hands in the air, but I only managed to raise my left arm. As I realized I was shot, he fired again.

  “No! Don’t shoot!” I shouted. I think I heard the next shot as well. I don’t remember what happened after that.

  I think we’ll end here, my love. Yes, Donna, you can write these lines too. Libby told me that there is something pleasant in a flowing stream of consciousness. But you should go back home now. I have another physiotherapy session in 15 minutes.

  No. No, it’s okay. Go. It’s late.

  My father will be coming soon. He’ll wheel me over there.

  Thanks

  I remember the first beta version of this book. It will stay with me forever, although definitely not because it’s a masterpiece. It will always remind me how much I’m not the author type. I wouldn’t pay a penny for that nonsense. The initial version of this book is the best proof that we’ll never get along on our own, and should always be grateful to the people who have been with us along the way.

  Thanks to my editor, Amnon Jackont, for his endless wisdom and patience. Thanks to Shlomit Lica, the first reader; to Sapphire Stein and Mattan Azulay for their time and enlightenment; to Orit Tzemach, Ganit Mayer, and Alma Cohen-Vardi for their professional assistance; and to the entire eBook Pro team for its inspiring patience and professionalism. Thanks also to Dana Feldman who helped me with the English translation, and to my beloved wife who helped me with grammar and supported me as she always does.

  For future updates on T.D. Mandowsky’s books, please visit the website

  www.mandowsky.com

  and subscribe.

  Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism:

  tamir.mando@gmail.com

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