The Celestial Gate

by Avital Dicker

  The wind sucked Yam in and belched him out into the air. Aloft, he twirled around and found himself stuck to the ceiling.

  “Ill-mannered,” scolded the Indian. He extended an exceptionally long arm and pinched Yam hard on the shoulder. “I don’t know what’s going on down there on Earth, but here we just can’t keep up. Women with rotund bellies are everywhere, waiting for their baby to be born. Everyone is pregnant. And the number of twins and triplets makes you wonder if God is running some kind of promotional deal – two-for-the-price-of-one or buy-two-get-the-third-one-free. Add to that the fact that life expectancy has doubled and you can understand why I’m up the creek without a paddle.”

  The Indian continued spewing angry words until he was completely out of air and began to shrink. “Take it easy,” Yam replied. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but your reaction is a little over the top.”

  The Indian extricated four long arms from his body, sighed and then inflated back to full size.

  “If it’s not too much to ask, please lift a finger. Go ahead and push the button!” he boomed, waving his four arms in every direction. “This is where you push the button to choose the family you want on Earth. You have to choose one of three options. Come on, we don’t have all day. Get on with it!” he roared irately and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief to wipe the sweat that was trickling down his furious ruddy cheeks. “Just press the button, for crying out loud it’s not brain surgery,” he groaned. “The day has only started and I already have a headache.”

  That was more than enough for Yam. He pushed the button. The room began to spin, the Indian disappeared, and darkness enveloped him like a soft blanket.

  The next thing Yam heard was the sound of birds chirping. Color had returned and arranged itself in his line of vision and the image before him slowly came into focus.

  He was in a forest. The hot steam rising off the rocks and the thick clouds of dust that hovered in the air testified to the heavy mid-summer heat. He looked around, but other than a drowsy fox roaming lazily on the lookout for its next meal, the forest seemed deserted. A rustling sound came from a path at the bottom of the hill. The fox whipped its head around toward the direction of the noise, sniffed warily, and swiftly disappeared between the pine trees.

  Two boys were approaching at a run. The first was around eleven years old. Beads of sweat were dripping down his rounded cheeks and he had a panicked look in his eyes. The boy glanced nervously over his shoulder at his older brother who was rapidly closing in on him.

  Yam heard a man’s voice from a distance yelling, “Wait until I get my hands on you!”

  That must be their father, Yam smiled to himself, grateful that they couldn’t see him.

  The little boy, startled by his father’s voice, stumbled on a rock and fell to the ground with a shriek.

  His brother – a scrawny fourteen-year-old wearing a blue baseball cap – soon caught up with him, sneering triumphantly.

  The little boy covered his head in resignation and tried to suppress his tears. Yam was sure that this wasn’t the first time his older brother had used him as a punching bag; it looked like he was used to being slapped around.

  Yam observed the father, who was striding toward the boys as fast as his short, stumpy legs could carry him. His hands were laden with bags, and beads of sweat dripped down his bald head. With a sigh of relief, he dropped the heap of plastic bags that also held an orange cooler bag and a straw mat fraying at the edges.

  The contents of one of the bags scattered all over, and a bottle of cola loudly burst open, spraying sticky fizz everywhere.

  Yam watched the father – his big belly wobbling, his face flushed with fury – as he yanked the older boy off his sobbing brother with a thick arm and slapped him hard across the face. The older brother burst into tears.

  The father lifted the pudgy younger boy who was still splayed on the ground, wiped the dust off his teary face, and then slapped him too. Now both boys were wailing.

  The father turned away from them and sat down wearily on the threadbare mat, only to spring back up immediately, sounding off a foul curse.

  Yam stared, amused, at the brown cola stain on the seat of his pants.

  A heavy woman emerged from the trees and awkwardly plodded their way. Her waist was buried in rolls of fat she had only barely managed to squeeze into a floral dress that was clearly several sizes too small. She was holding a year-old baby in one arm, and with the other was dragging along a toddler of around three, who lay down on the ground, stamping his feet in a tantrum. The baby started to cry too.

  No, thought Yam. No way. He wanted nothing to do with this family. Two exhausted parents and four children. It seemed highly unlikely that a fifth child would receive an enthusiastic welcome. It looked like they were barely surviving as it is. And besides, who wants to have a picnic in the forest in the middle of summer? That’s torture, not recreation. No, they were not right for him. He was absolutely sure he didn’t want them.

  He again pushed the button he had been handed by the Indian and was grateful when the scene around him faded.

  Back in the room, the Indian was moving about boorishly, throwing punches with each of his four burly arms. He extended one beefy fist and hit Yam on the back of his neck.

  “Ouch!” Yam yelped, rubbing his head.

  The Indian’s turban swayed fretfully on the enormous man’s head, and he folded all four arms across his chest.

  With his many fingers, the Indian tapped on the blackboard in the center of the room where the rules were displayed. “You should know the drill by now. Before you make your decision, you are obligated to watch each family for a full half-hour. And the first and most important rule is that you don’t get to decide if you’ve seen enough. Now, I’m sending you back; that is my job!” The Indian’s eyes flashed with anger, and he puffed out his cheeks.

  “Wait,” cried Yam and shielded his head with his hands at the sight of the four arms waving in front of him again. “Stop. Listen for a second. That father hits his children. Besides, they already have four children, including a baby, and it seems they’re not coping as it is.” Yam found refuge behind the armchair. “I honestly think they don’t want another child.”

  “Idiot,” the Indian waved a long finger. “Do you really think that after just two minutes you know everything there is to know?” he roared, continuously deflating and inflating.

  Yam stood up straight. “Do not hit me again,” he said in a quiet, threatening tone and his eyes turned black with anger. “It’s against regulations.”

  The Indian ignored him and launched a fist at Yam again. But this time, Yam deftly grabbed the arm that was coming his way. He stood within a few inches of the Indian’s face, “I didn’t like them. Got it?” he said silently and with emphasis.

  “Abuse!” called the Indian.

  “You started,” Yam asserted, fists still clenched.

  “You souls! You’re arrogant – all of you. You never bother to look properly at the depth of your possibilities and choices and then you complain, ‘It’s The Draw’s fault,’ ‘It’s heaven’s fault.’ You blame everyone but yourselves.”

  Yam’s pupils became the color of granite. “Explain to me how I’m supposed to know the whole truth about a family when all you’re showing me is half an hour in the life of people I don’t know anything about and this is all I have to go on to decide if I’ll live with them for a whole lifetime? I have to choose among three families I don’t know and go to a country I didn’t choose and live a whole lifetime there. Where’s the logic in that?” Yam reddened in anger.

  “‘Where’s the logic?” the Indian mimicked sarcastically. “This is God’s plan, not choose-your-own-adventure. What do you want from me anyway?” he shrugged. He inflated again to such a size that he filled almost the entire room, squashing Yam into a corner.

  “Well, even God makes mis
takes,” Yam refused to be intimidated by the Indian.

  “So talk to God. Go on, I dare you. I’ve been trying to catch him for several eternities. His diary is full until the next century.”

  Yam folded his arms across his chest. “I really don’t need lectures from you. Do your job and show me the next family.”

  With all his arms on his hips, the Indian shook his head and looked at Yam with scorn. “Idiots. You never learn.” He smirked and whistled to himself with annoyance. “That’s it, I’ve had it with you all. I’m requesting a transfer. I’ve had it with this job. I’m too old for this.”

  “Amen,” answered Yam. “You’re the absolute worst clerk I’ve ever had.”

  He pushed the button for the second time and breathed a sigh of relief as the room and the Indian disappeared.

  When the picture focused and cleared again he was in a nightclub. The dance floor was packed with cute young girls in tight-fitting dresses and high heels, and men wearing leather jackets and stonewashed jeans. Electro-funk was pumping out at full volume in the background.

  At the edge of the dance floor, the long bar was crowded. Some people were engaged in conversation while leaning against the thick, dark wood countertop, and others were ordering drinks. The men were eyeing the girls, who in turn were checking out the men.

  A skinny blonde girl was behind the bar, her long hair tied into a ponytail with a black band. She was plainly dressed in dark jeans and a white tank top. On her right arm, at the top, right near her shoulder, Yam noticed a butterfly tattoo.

  She’s gorgeous, he thought.

  The girl worked briskly, without a moment’s rest. Her body was in constant motion. She poured drinks into glasses, took orders, gave out change and, smiling politely – safely buffered by the thick wooden countertop between her and the customers – evaded the steady stream of pick-up attempts.

  A good-looking young man came out of the kitchen, his hands stacked with trays of clean glasses. He stopped for a moment when he saw the attractive bartender.

  Yam could almost sense the young man’s eyes traveling down her back, all the way along her spine. She didn’t turn her head, but the corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile.

  The young bartender put the trays of glasses behind the bar and began to fill glasses with beer. They worked in almost perfect tandem together. Every few minutes, when he thought she was too busy to notice, he sneaked a glance at her. Yam noticed that the girl was pretending not to see him but it was clear she was basking in his attention.

  “Are you new?” she asked eventually, without looking at him. “I’ve been working here for a month,” he replied with a broad smile.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” she said, handing a customer two glasses of beer with white foam on top.

  “But I saw you,” he whispered in her ear. “I happen to know that your name is Amalia.”

  He crossed from one end of the bar to the other, passing through the narrow space behind her, his body brushing but not touching hers, his invisible breath tingling her neck. Yam noticed Amalia’s sudden stillness. Her body flexed and her breathing deepened. Seemingly their shift was over because, a few minutes later, the two of them walked out of the club, and Yam followed. The music was replaced by the sound of the waves, and the headlights of passing cars on the coastal road cast a dim light on the two figures whose laughter echoed in the stillness of the night.

  Yam strained to see. On the beach, he spotted the white tank top he knew she was wearing and next to her, the man’s long shadow.

  The laughter had stopped, and the silence was broken only by the sound of the waves.

  “I can’t take my eyes off you,” he said, and Amalia smiled at him with sparkling eyes. “Would you allow me to paint you?” he asked.

  With one swift motion, Amalia pulled her top over her head. “Maybe.” She laughed and kicked off her jeans onto the sand. “Coming?”

  Yam watched as the girl dove, launching herself headlong into the white surf. The young man jumped in and caught her. Whooping and laughing, the line between child play and adult play blurred.

  Covered with seawater, they came out of the water and ran elated onto the warm sand. Yoav grabbed her by the arm and pressed his lips against hers. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he moved his wet body closer to hers.

  “And you’re a painter,” she giggled, as her fingers drew the shape of a crown on his back.

  “One day, I’ll be famous and you’ll be the most expensive painting on exhibition,” he whispered, his lips covering hers as she closed her eyes.

  Yam longed to see more, but the scene began to fade, and he found himself once again face to face with the Indian and his four gesticulating arms.

  “I hardly saw anything!” protested Yam, frustrated.

  “Time’s up,” the Indian gloated with a smirk while peeling a clementine. “Besides, up here we maintain a strict policy of confidentiality,” he added with a hint of malice.

  “I don’t need to see anymore; I know what I want,” said Yam, his entire being yearning for one more blissful moment with the two of them there on that beach.

  “So innocent. How touching,” said the turban-wearing Indian mockingly.

  Yam squeezed his eyes shut. He would not let the fat, annoying Indian unhinge him.

  “It’s in the regulations,” the Indian affirmed, “Right here in Clause 314, Article C,” he waved the book in front of Yam’s nose. “Believe me, I’d love to be rid of you as soon as possible, but unfortunately I’m obliged to offer you three options. It’s mandatory, which means that I have to show you three families. Otherwise, I could face disciplinary action.” He sighed in frustration and wiped his sweaty face with a handkerchief.

  “Protocol states that I am obligated by the guidelines to recommend that you consider your decision very carefully. You know that life expectancy on Earth has risen to eighty-five. Who knows? There’s a chance it could even go as high as one-hundred-and-fifty in the near future. That’s a very long time to live on the primitive planet they call Earth, with humanity’s quarrels, lies, and greed,” he coughed and spat out a small clementine seed.

  “Childhood might be a relatively short period, but it’s the most fundamental time because it shapes and defines you and affects the rest of your life. Family is important, so you should choose carefully and it’s not necessarily the first pretty face you see,” he smirked. “But if you think you’re so smart and you know it all, then sign this waiver here, and here, and let’s wrap things up.”

  A hologram in a black frame opened itself up in front of Yam, and a long finger poked through it, “Go on, hurry up, please.” The Indian’s dark eyes gleamed with aggravation.

  In general, Yam fully trusted his gut feelings, but he had to admit that the Indian might be right. It can’t hurt to watch the last family, he thought. The insufferable Indian was right; after all, childhood is the most significant period of one’s lifetime. He really didn’t feel like going through another painful childhood. He’d gone through enough of those in previous incarnations.

  “OK. I will see the last family,” he said, ignoring the irritating triumphant smile spreading across the Indian’s face.

  Darkness fell once again. This time, when the picture came into focus, Yam found himself in a vast living room. The room was large and bright, and a view of the sea was framed by the white sill of a large, wide window.

  A large flat-screen TV was hanging on the white wall opposite the window. It was on, though the sound was on mute. The screen showed two stern middle-aged men in the midst of what seemed to be a heated discussion.

  It was clear that a lot of thought and money had been invested in the design of the house. Yam thought that if he chose this family he would probably have no financial problems in his next reincarnation.

  A man and a woman were seated stiffly on either en
d of the white sofa in the middle of the room. From his position, he was unable to see their faces, only the backs of their heads. The man’s brown hair was cut close to the scalp and streaked with silver. In contrast to the man’s severe cut, the woman’s curly, chestnut hair spilled unkempt over her shoulders. A tense silence hung in the air.

  The man finally turned his head to look at the woman. His profile reminded Yam of a Greek god: a straight, aristocratic nose, slightly snub at the end, and eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

  Something else was now showing on TV. The two men in suits had been replaced by images of houses in ruin, military helicopters, and uniformed soldiers covered in dust and dirt, running and opening fire in every direction. I wonder where this latest war is, Yam pondered; there’s just no end to them.

  The woman turned her head. Her curls fell over her eyes, and she absentmindedly swept them away. “I can’t go through it again,” she whispered, her hunched shoulders trembling.

  “I know,” replied the man, his voice tender. “Just this one final time and no more.” He laid a box on the table.

  The woman stared at the box. Yam now had a clear view of her profile. She had a long, narrow nose and pallid lips. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes but admired their strikingly round shape. The man stood up and went to the window, gazing out to sea, his back to her.

  On the box, it said in big bold letters: “The Fastest & Most Accurate Pregnancy Test – 98% Accuracy.”

  The woman got up and rested her hand on the man’s shoulder. They stood together quietly for a long time. Then the woman dropped her hand from his shoulder and picked up the box from the table. She quickly disappeared behind the bathroom door at the end of the hallway.

  The man didn’t move, and his hand continued to tap rhythmically against the window frame.

  Yam’s heart went out to this couple.

  A few minutes later, the woman reappeared, pale. She placed the test tube in the middle of the table and perched on the edge of the sofa.