Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  Rachel mulled this over silently. It was a moment of quiet, cool morning air. Israel came closer and broke the silence, whispering in her ear the names of the Nephilim that had been captured. She etched them in her memory, then turned back and hastily ran down the mountain to change her daughter’s fate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Gaby was unstoppable.

  He was enthusiastic, energetic, dynamic, and didn’t stray from his script. If Mazzy had not heard him practice his spiel a week earlier, once before bed and then while shaving, maybe the initial impression would have been different. Maybe not.

  “I honestly believe that this is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for. It’s a win-win situation, and the investment will yield results in a fairly short time. Toddlers who learn sign language exhibit more gains the more progress they make. They score better on IQ tests and they build the foundation for a larger vocabulary. They play more sophisticatedly than their peers. Sign language can also be an incentive for the emergence of first words. Communication is accelerated, frustration is reduced, contact with parents improves, the children’s inner world is richer and they show more interest in their surroundings.”

  Gaby’s performance was spot on. He kept an even rhythm in his speech, so she could not cut him short, and he had chosen the perfect timing, at least as he saw it. But Mazzy’s reaction was not what he expected.

  There were moments when she was ready to strangle him. All the love in the world could not compete with such a cold, precise analysis of something that concerned their daughter. But then she realized that her reaction hadn’t really much to do with him. This time it wasn’t about him.

  “Are you done?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No chance,” she announced categorically.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe at Aurora’s day care, it’s OK for kids to speak with their hands, but in every other kindergarten and sandbox it’s going to look weird.”

  “But this will take place at home, not at day care, and anyway she doesn’t play in sandboxes.”

  Mazzy took a deep breath and steadied herself. The chasm between Gaby’s well-planned, sterile, analytical world, where kids didn’t play in sandboxes because they were dirty and full of dog poop, and her present world, where nothing was certain, had apparently reached a new peak. And it wasn’t about sign language, either. She had stumbled just as clumsily as he had.

  Mazzy scooped up Noga from the carpet and hugged her close, as if to distance her from Gaby’s influence. Noga smiled her bewitching smile and did not complain about her game being interrupted. For a moment, her sparring partner watched in silent delight; then they resumed their argument.

  “Look at her, does she look like a child who needs help?”

  “Perhaps not at the moment, but she must learn to communicate, and not just with people who know how to interpret every smile and gesture she makes.”

  He was right, of course, but it wasn’t really relevant. Yariv would have understood her, would have grasped what riled her and never tried to sell her on such an idea. Yariv wouldn’t have needed her to spell it out.

  “She is a very happy little girl who has a much richer inner world than all the kids in her play group put together.”

  Mazzy herself was surprised at how much of Izzy’s vocabulary had crept into her speech.

  “Why do you have to drag day care into every argument? I told you most of the project would be carried out at home.”

  “It’s our daughter, not a project!”

  “Come on! You know that I don’t really view it that way. Don’t hang on my phrases. You know what? Ignore the way I presented it and tell me what you think of the idea itself.”

  Their little girl was normal. She had a small problem with her speech development, that’s all.

  Gaby obsessed about her development; he checked it constantly and came to the conclusion that she was normal by all criteria, but for the unforgivable fact that Noga had not yet said her first word.

  Mazzy had asked him to be patient. They bounced around between speech therapists. One by one, the list of experts shrank. They started with the best in the field, and then went down the pecking order to ones that had yet to build their reputation. They both agreed that they were not going to try any alternative therapies. Curiously, it was Mazzy who objected to alternative treatments. She wanted to keep the girl away from that cabal of soothsayers, mystics, clairvoyants, sorceresses, witch doctors, psychics and mind readers. Noga giggled happily.

  “I need to think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  “There is. Plenty.”

  “Why is sign language different from what we’ve done so far?”

  “It’s different because it’s visible. Children will see it when she plays, and their parents will jump to the wrong conclusions. We’ll be fending off questions…”

  “What kind of questions?”

  Mazzy bit her lip. She could imagine all the smirks, teasing and name-calling. She’d had enough of that growing up, trying to invite friends home, or when Rachel attended social gatherings with her. People don’t approve of things they don’t understand. There are laws, there is logic, and this is how it should be. When there are deviations, problems arise. Then you need to explain, clarify, prevaricate and lie.

  “Mute children are very rare. People will assume she’s deaf or has special needs, some weird disease. They’ll invent an explanation and give it a name.”

  “But it has no name. If it did, there would be a cure, a treatment. This is not a disease. She simply does not talk. There is no physiological defect.”

  “If there’s no label, they’ll come up with one, because they want to understand the phenomenon. If she were deaf, they’d know what to say and what not to say, they’d know how to act around her.”

  “But she’s none of those things. If people ask, we’ll simply tell them.”

  The discussion of normality and how important it was for Noga to be normal would have to wait for another time, when they were both less stressed. She had no intention of making a decision under duress.

  “People see sign language and right away they think ‘deaf-mute.’”

  “But this is not regular sign language: it’s much simpler. Some kids use these signs unconsciously; it’s almost intuitive. They get it right away. Noga will acquire it in a jiffy, and then we’ll be able to talk to her, to communicate with her.”

  “I communicate with her.”

  “But I don’t. I can’t. You have your methods, your feelings, and the looks she sends you. You know how to interpret them. I don’t have it.”

  “So now it’s about you?”

  As soon as the words exited her mouth, she regretted them, but it was too late.

  “That was uncalled for, Mazzy. There was no need to go there.”

  “You’re right.”

  “It’s not about me.”

  “No, it’s not, but you stress me out and then I say things I don’t mean.”

  Gaby restrained himself from saying anything that might escalate the argument into a full-blown fight. He suspected Mazzy of often saying harsh words to provoke him, reigniting the fire. She was much better at arguing, and she often won. She complained that he lacked initiative, always asked her what to do and let her make decisions, and that, he knew, drove her nuts. Here he was telling her what he thought they should do, being decisive and resolute, and still she rebuffed him.

  “Since when do you care what people think? What counts is what’s good for Noga.”

  “You just don’t get it and I haven’t got the time to explain.”

  “Try anyway.”

  “You’re treating her as someone different, and she’s not.”

  “All I care about is her welfare.”

  “You see? You don’t get it. This is something I know first hand. When they stick you with a label that doesn’t fit you at all, you can’t ever shake it off.”

&nbs
p; Gaby sensed that this was somehow connected to growing up in Rachel’s shadow, but he knew he wouldn’t get a more precise explanation. Anyway, pursuing the matter wouldn’t advance his cause.

  “Shall we defer the discussion to the weekend?”

  He saw that Mazzy was angry but wasn’t sure if it was because he was too persistent or not feisty enough.

  “Yeah, the weekend is fine. What’s your work log?”

  At once they reverted to being a regular couple trying to mesh their schedules: checking their calendars and planners, leaving each other notes on the fridge.

  “I’m not sure, but if we’re going to work this out, I’ll make time. At least I can be home on-call.”

  “But they always call you on weekends when you’re on-call.”

  “Well, that’s the best I can do this week. We really need to make a decision. We’ve been dragging it out for too long.”

  Mazzy’s pager beeped and she saw it was from Sima.

  “I’ll do my best, but this case I’m on might be coming to a close. Maybe the Judge will issue a warrant for the suspect’s arrest, in which case, our weekend plans will go kablooey.”

  This sounded like an excuse, a copout or a retreat. Like their pagers rescuing them from family dinners. He also knew that he might as well be happy the round ended with a tie. It was the best score he could get right now at his home game.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rachel tried to do as she was told and not think of anything, but it was a ridiculous demand, considering her situation. Ashling was feeling her brows with fingers that operated like suction cups on octopus tentacles, as she tried to pick up subcutaneous signals.

  The names Israel had given her were the key, and like the sketch that they had been able to extract during the previous investigation, it was a specific name they were looking for. This was a puzzle that even Israel couldn’t solve. The names themselves were an unrealized potential because she couldn’t distinguish one Naphil from another. She had too few names and too many candidates.

  Ashling tried to establish a connection between the names written down and the information stored in Rachel’s head. She was positive that the answer was there and that they could decode it together.

  Aelina’s hands were smeared with blood up to her elbows. She examined the cow’s entrails in the divining bowl, checking the texture of the dark liquid.

  Ashling removed her fingers from Rachel’s brow and shook them.

  “I only have a few letters. It’s in Hebrew, which makes it a bit more complicated. It’s either five or six letters, with one repetition,” said the blind Irishwoman.

  Rachel wished her protégée had invested a little more time in studying Semitic languages.

  “What are these letters?”

  “Aleph, Mem, Resh and Samech. But they keep rearranging themselves all the time.”

  The three women looked at the names on their list. There were too many possibilities.

  “Try again,” Rachel commanded.

  Ashling chose her words carefully. Rachel didn’t know if this was a sign of trepidation, or because she was translating from her ancient mother tongue. Ashling thought in a language that few people spoke.

  “You won’t let me. You are shrinking the information.”

  “Make an effort,” Rachel said.

  The Irishwoman rubbed her palms and once more placed her hands on the coffee reader’s temples.

  “Close your eyes,” Ashling said, proving that her blindness did not interfere with her vision.

  Rachel obeyed reluctantly.

  Aelina’s divining bowl, in the meantime, began sputtering and overflowing.

  “What exactly did he tell you?” asked Aelina.

  “You’ll know when you call his name, when you look him in the eye, when you are close enough,” Rachel answered.

  “The entrails tell you what’s outside. There is a balance between the symbol and the answer. This doesn’t happen here.”

  “What did you see?”

  “An eye in front of a baboon watching an ibis that looks back at it. These are two symbols of Thoth facing each other.”

  Rachel tried to recall what she knew about the Egyptian moon god, the one that gave humanity wisdom and taught the world the skill of writing. The symbols Aelina saw in the blood and in the cow’s intestines always reflected the answer sought. But a symbol identical to the answer was the equivalent of cosmic stuttering, a mere echo.

  “So they see eye to eye. What is this eye, and what should we see in it?”

  “It’s the Udjat, the gouged eye of Horus, which Thoth restored to him. The eye is a symbol of healing, of the return to order and perfection. It suggests renewal and fulfillment or the rise of a new regime.”

  Rachel was familiar with the ancient Egyptian symbol: an eye with lashes resembling the crest and tail of a falcon, a shattered eye.

  “So, OK, suppose this fits in with the change that’s coming; what has this reflection got to do with the letters of the name?”

  Ashling shushed Rachel and increased the pressure on her temples.

  “Aleph, Resh, Mem, Samech. This is the order.”

  “Aramas?” said Rachel.

  “Yes, like Hermes, in the Greek version, or Thoth. The cult center of Thoth was the city of Hermopolis. It was he that gave humans the knowledge of magic,” Aelina explained.

  Rachel didn’t need to scan the short list of names again. She knew which Naphil it was.

  “Armaros was the angel who endowed men and women with the power to control the supernatural. But how does this help me identify him? It is still only one name and two hundred identical faces,” she said.

  “It’s the baboon staring at the ibis. Thoth’s eyes always reflect his image. If you were to look into the Naphil’s eyes, instead of seeing your own reflection, you would see his.”

  “So when you look each other in the eye, you’ll be able to tell which one is Armaros,” Ashling completed the thought.

  Rachel took a deep breath. Now she had the missing piece of the puzzle, the information that would allow her to kill God’s emissary. She had the name and the method by which to identify him in a sea of identical faces.

  She no longer felt anxious. She possessed certainty; it was not one of the names on Israel’s list. She had the key to obtaining change and peace of mind.

  There was a certain clarity in the combination of letters in Armaros’ name that kept turning in her head. She felt she had power at her disposal; it was no longer mere wishful thinking; it was the conviction of inexorable destiny.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The female detective led him in. Everyone saw her taking him in; it was her arrest and, apparently, it didn’t bother her partner even though he had the insignia of chief inspector on his shoulders.

  Barakiel had brought a hefty sheaf of documents with him; if it didn’t exhaust the detectives, it would at least delay them.

  The detective had only one page in front of her, face down.

  Barakiel accepted the new situation calmly. He assumed he was smarter than the police officers who were about to interrogate him. The chief inspector took the initiative.

  “Shall we begin?” he asked.

  The detective shrugged. Barakiel wanted to end the oppressive silence.

  The chief inspector read aloud what he had written.

  “Name: Barak Almadon. How do you want us to address you: Barry? Ricky? Barush? Barak?”

  The string of names irritated him; he cringed at the mention of each one. Trying a trick Saharel had taught him, he focused on the others’ names, which he recalled were Mazzy and Yariv. This helped him regain his self-confidence, his advantage. He knew their real names and consequently was in control.

  “I told you my name is Barak.”

  “Why do you sound so anxious?”

  “I’m tired of answering the same questions.”

  “So I have a new one for you,” said Mazzy. Barak straightened in his chair. “Whe
n did you start snatching women?”

  The itch in the wings returned. Barakiel felt it under his skin, in his ribcage. It was not as pronounced as before the play, but it was still bothersome.

  “What?”

  “Did you know these women?” Yariv continued. Barak had no time to answer. Mazzy bombarded him with more questions.

  “How long have you been following them? Did you spy on them? Did you rummage in their garbage trying to find their schedules, cultural activities, invitations to parties?”

  “What is she talking about?” Barak turned to Yariv.

  “I’m talking about Estie Shalvi-Aiello, a fourteen year-old girl; about Hagar Abizu, a lawyer; Milka the actress and and Abigail Odem, a university professor. Where do you keep them?”

  “Just a second,” he said calmly, searching through his papers and handing Mazzy a neatly collated pile. While she examined the packet, Barakiel continued his line of defense. “As you can see, I have signed affidavits, from five or six people, regarding the nights in question. In the Passover night case, I was with my friends. The same regarding the case a week ago, involving the professor, whom I’ve never met. Now, as for the incident in the theater, you already have my alibi and, if you examine the security cameras outside the ‘Saving Grace’ building, you’ll conclude that I was never there on the night in question.”

  Mazzy ignored the papers he was waving. She leaned forward and fixed her eyes on him.

  “Let me tell you something about myself. You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself, just listen. When I was a little girl, we used to play ‘Truth or dare.’ I always chose dare, because I didn’t know what they might ask me and I didn’t want to lie. This is something my mother taught me.”

  He did not react.

  “Did somebody instruct you not to say anything you’re not sure of?”

  “No, I figured it out myself. Just tell the truth. It’s the easiest thing to repeat.”

  “You don’t like lawyers, do you?”

  “I have no problem with them. Sometimes you need them, sometimes you don’t. It seems, right now, that I don’t need a lawyer.”