Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  ECCLESIASTES 8:8

  It was the seventh raven to arrive since the beginning of the nightmare.

  Whenever it arrived, Mazzy calmed down, knowing it was the last one and she would soon wake up with a start. It was a bit like the song of counting sheep that Noga loved so much, “The Sixteenth Sheep.” She knew it was the recurring nightmare because the pillow was damp, her nightie drenched, and the sheets were tangled around her feet.

  And there was the background noise. Since she had come home, the noise followed her around like a haunting. A sound like a muffled human voice mumbling syllables that fell short of adding up to words.

  Noga’s nights were troubled also. The child shared Mazzy’s bed, ground her teeth, kicked, and ‘ran’ in her sleep. The first nights this happened, Mazzy had awakened her, but now it happened every night. She couldn’t let her sleep all day.

  Mazzy realized she had to go back to sleep if she wanted to function properly in the morning. There were things to do in the morning, Gaby needed breakfast and Noga to be washed and dressed. Morning noises drowned the racket in her head.

  She considered the possibility that the noise was Yariv, calling her from the grave. He had always had a big mouth, never knew when to be quiet; and where she was concerned, he was particularly obsessive.

  She was determined to ignore him, sticking to the “Whatever will be, will be,” attitude she had recently adopted to face the new reality foisted on her. But this seemingly simple routine only complicated things more.

  After a few weeks, she no longer had to report to the Commission of Inquiry and explain the events. It wasn’t clear if the conclusions had been reached by lack of evidence, or evidence that did not add up.

  The review of the Soothsayer unit after its demise stated that the hasty decision to launch a rescue operation, Izzy’s injuries and the trauma they all suffered had led to the conclusion that it was impossible, both strategically and financially, to keep Soothsayer operational. Given that the failure to rescue the abducted women was a big dent on the police’s reputation, disbanding the unit would stop reporters and the media from holding police top brass responsible.

  Even though their failure was only partial and a few of the captives had survived, nobody was satisfied. The heavy price paid by the unit and by the chief of the investigative team, coupled with the horrendous pictures from the scene released to the public, prevented any finger pointing.

  Some suggested that Yariv was the instigator, being a hotheaded trigger-happy and ‘shoot first, ask later’ type by nature. Even after Mazzy resigned, the rumors and wild stories persisted. Her loyalty to the dead did not earn her kudos or sympathy.

  Justice Shalvi did not cooperate; he issued no statement and rebuffed all questions by investigative reporters, insisting that the incident and the dead should be left alone. Estie and Leah managed to evade even the most patient and inventive paparazzi. Bereavement trumped the public’s right to know, and even the most ardent and opinionated truth seekers had to give up.

  Karina’s new single, “The Abduction from the Palace,” was a tremendous hit. Even more successful than “The Sixteenth Sheep.” Karina and her mother gave countless interviews at every mall and on every publicity tour. Somehow, by deflecting questions and supplying different answers, they were able to evade all references to her absence, abduction and rescue attempt. The interviewers and readers had to make do with generalized thanks to the authorities, family, friends and fans who enabled the star to forge ahead without looking back.

  Even after the hoopla had subsided and the ink dried, Mazzy could not find a job. She found out soon enough that there was not much demand for an investigator with ties to the world of mysticism. The simplest solution in the short run was to save money by taking Noga out of her ridiculously expensive daycare. Gaby seemed very pleased with the decision.

  Mazzy needed a few quiet weeks. Her mornings after the “action” were occupied with taking care of Noga, who followed her everywhere. At first this was fine.

  Mazzy had survived the battlefield. But the nights were still a struggle.

  Mornings began at the rehabilitation center, where she met her previous subordinates.

  The quiet part of the morning belonged to Izzy. Her condition had not improved much. She was still lying there, eyes wide open, and only the monitors and instruments proved she was still among the living.

  Noga accompanied her on these visits. The physical therapists who manipulated Izzy’s limbs would talk baby talk to Noga, but like the patient, Noga, too, continued her wordless existence.

  Mazzy would sit there with a crossword puzzle, and Noga would scribble on it. At some point, Larissa would arrive from Ashdod. Their shared experience only strengthened their connection and conversations. Only one topic was never discussed, the continuous background noise.

  Elisha would visit even earlier, coming straight from early morning prayers. Mazzy watched him accept the burden with enormous love and renewed faith. He tried to put in order the piles of books he had brought into the room, but without much success, as he refused any help from his many assistants and acolytes. He took care of Izzy with the same pious dedication with which he conducted his life, except for the functions where her modesty was concerned. The medical staff would chase him away at noon every day, and his followers resented the time he spent with the speechless woman, time which they considered ‘neglect of the study of the Torah’ and a waste of his God-given gifts.

  In the afternoon, Mazzy took Noga to the neighborhood playground, where she spread out a blanket and toys on the grass in an attempt to secure some more quiet time for herself. She tried to decipher the message she believed Yariv was trying to send her without communicating with him actively, knowing that the next nightmare couldn’t be avoided.

  Thus she oscillated between the dim murmurs of the day and the horrible dreams of the night. By nightfall she was always exhausted and fell into sleep that brought only terror.

  Gaby woke up and caressed her cheek.

  “Again?”

  She nodded, exhausted.

  “This time do you remember what happened?”

  “No. I remember only the ravens and the smell of burnt black feathers. You were not there. I wanted you to be there. I missed you in my dream, and I felt that you were close by and I was reaching out to touch you, but I couldn’t reach you, even though I knew you were supposed to be there. I was on the hill with the rest of them, and then we started to run. I was looking for you and for Noga, but you weren’t there.”

  Mazzy raised herself to adjust the pillow behind her back. Gaby stroked her and Noga seemed to be sleeping peacefully now.

  “It’s as if, when I look at her, she’s all right. Only when I’m asleep does she have bad dreams. It drives me crazy. Like those obsessive-compulsives who open the fridge a thousand times to check if the light is still on.”

  Gaby said nothing. Mazzy told him that Rachel, too, had been there and had given her fragrant warm milk to drink. It smelled like anise or licorice. She did not tell him about the murmurs and about her theory about Yariv that had taken hold in her mind.

  Gaby looked at the clock. It was three, the most confusing hour. It was hard to go back to sleep when dawn was almost breaking.

  “Am I going nuts? Is something happening to me?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Mazzy twisted a lock of hair, then put it in her mouth. Her eyes drifted down to her crossed legs and to little Noga snuggling there, like a newborn.

  “Sometimes I hear voices, unidentifiable voices.”

  “In your dream?”

  She couldn’t answer. She didn’t want to lie, and she already regretted mentioning it, since any explanation would have to include Yariv, and she hadn’t told Gaby the whole story.

  “Sometimes I feel as if I have a generator where my heart should be. Every so often there’s a power outage, and something there sends currents through my body and tries to tell me something. Maybe th
is is what happened to Rachel after she killed Shamhazai?”

  “Mazzy, nothing happened to her. We’ve been through this a thousand times. These things happen, not very often, but they happen. Call it autosuggestion, self-affirmation, magical thinking, faith healing, call it what you will, but it does happen.”

  “Not like this. It happened suddenly, and it felt as if someone injected me with something and everything fell into place. And now it’s as if somebody is grabbing me from within and trying to remind me of something. I get these twitches and flutters inside, like something is turning inside me.”

  “There are studies of such phenomena demonstrated by shamans in parts of Africa, with their ground herbs and grains that they soak or grill. They cure their patients without antibiotics or hospitals. Turns out, sometimes, that faith is enough. This is what’s happening to you. Your mind convinced your body that everything is fine, and beyond the initial trauma, the internal damage is less severe than they thought.”

  “You saw my x-rays and test results.”

  “Yes, in the ER, and they really didn’t look good, but when I examined them a few hours later, things had changed, even before Rachel arrived.”

  “They made the change.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  Gaby seemed annoyed. Or maybe it was just tiredness. At any rate, it was not the right time to tell him about the voice. Gaby got up to make the bed. She knew the conversation wouldn’t lead anywhere, because they had had several variations of it over the last few days. Neither of them broke under interrogation or volunteered new information. Tired and alienated, she hugged her knees to her body. Fear, sorrow and misgivings suddenly surfaced, unbidden. Tears rolled from her cheeks and onto the sheet. Gaby took her hand in his and held it. With his other one, he wiped the tears from her eyes. In the past, she had resented such gestures, seeing them as attempts to deny her feelings, but now, for the first time, they made her happy, without really knowing why.

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  “You mean staying up?” he quipped.

  “No. Taking Noga out of school and me not looking for a job.”

  “I don’t think this is the best moment to make decisions. You need time, and we’re giving you some. It’ll be okay. “

  “You’re not just saying that because you want to go back to sleep.”

  “No. It’s going to be okay. Even better than before, you’ll see.”

  “Before wasn’t that bad.”

  “Darling, the two things that drove you nuts are no longer here. That’s a good thing.” Gaby didn’t have to offer specifics.

  Without meaning to, he had brought home to her how monotonous her life had become. Mazzy was proud of her professional position, and her mother was famous enough to always be in the background; but now that both had been taken away from her, creating space for her to walk in, she didn’t seem able to carve out a new path for herself.

  “Unemployed and effectively orphaned, this must be the next new thing. Soon everyone will want in.”

  “You won’t be unemployed for long.”

  “So you don’t miss my mom much?”

  ‘No, especially not after what you told me.”

  “So I’ll find a new job and you’ll love me, and everything will be as it was?”

  “I love you now, and things will be even better.”

  Prolonged silence put an end to the conversation, and they each turned to their individual nightly musings.

  Mazzy continued to stare at the night, but this night was different from all other nights. She wasn’t sure how or why, but she felt something new stir inside of her.

  Noga woke up and looked at her conspiratorially. The silence that hung like a canopy over the bed made Mazzy pay special attention to the girl’s eyes. This was one of many conversations that mother and daughter conducted wordlessly with their eyes.

  But tonight was different, and the background whisper, like white, static noise, began to beat in the echo chamber of her head. Mazzy realized she was fighting for her sanity, and decided she wasn’t going to fade away without a struggle. She would learn to adjust and pull through; she had enough experience with things that took over your life.

  Mazzy ignored all other thoughts and, for the first time, tried to listen to the voice.

  Perhaps Yariv knew something. Perhaps he was seeking rest. She had to listen to him, to figure out the message he was trying to send her.

  He was not going to quit; it was time to face him.

  Mazzy held on to the night with all her might; she mingled with the shadows, traced specks of dust in the moonlight, checked the creases on the bed sheet, rumpled the edges of the blanket, traced its seams, watched Gaby’s chest rise and fall, and stared into Noga’s changing eyes.

  The voice was gradually becoming clearer, piercing through the fog of mumbles and whispers. She seemed to discern a certain thread, a pattern in the repeated sounds.

  It was a two-syllable word. Mazzy knew she was about to decode it.

  “Ma.”

  Mazzy listened again, trying to understand. She shut her eyes tightly, focusing on the tone.

  “Ma.”

  Her eyes opened wide; she could still hear the voice distinctly.

  It was a voice she had never heard before and thus could not recognize. It sounded like peals of laughter.

  “Mama.”

  This time it was loud and clear. Mazzy opened her eyes and looked down at her daughter, whose lips were sealed as she raised two expectant eyes toward her mother. Mazzy had to muster all her strength to remain calm.

  “Noga?”

  A soft smile of relief appeared on Noga’s lips. As they reached out for each other, mother and daughter, the voice became clear as crystal, playing like music in Mazzy’s head

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank all the people who made this possible; my family and friends, foreign and domestic.

  To the Ashery family, the Mor family, the Alon family.

  Noa Manheim and Rani Graff, for being the friends they are.

  To Etan Ilfeld, Eleanor Teasdale, Gemma Creffield and all the good people working in the Robot Army.

  To Ziv Lewis and Imri Zertal and all the good people working in Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir publishing house.

  To Ilan Zahler, for managing my talent for many years.

  To all my friends and colleagues through the years at The Screen-Based Arts Department, Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design.

  To all the people who opened my mind and my heart to what truly defines you as a human being, your ability to choose life – every day for the rest of your life.

  To Bill, may you continue to wag your tail, wherever you may roam.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Asaf Ashery is an author, editor, academic and screenwriter. He is also a functioning workaholic, an organic vegetable grower and a dog lover. He lives in a cooperative village in the Jerusalem Mountains with his lovely wife, Yael, and his rescue dog – Bill.

  Fancy some more Israeli fantasy? Take a look at the first chapter of The Heart of the Circle by Keren Landsman

  Out now from Angry Robot Books

  1

  The day after the murder we sat in a circle at the Basement. Their food sucks, the alcohol selection leaves much to be desired, but there are books lining every inch of the walls, the smell of wood, and music you don’t have to scream over to have a conversation. We were sheltered from the outside world, with only familiar faces around us. It was hot and damp, typical for mid-July, the air-conditioner powerless against a room packed with people wearing sullen pouts. We sat on the side couch, next to the shelves crammed with books, sock puppets and burned out candles. My shirt was sticking to my back; Daphne placed her head on my shoulder and I sniffed her curls. I wrapped my arm around her, letting her nestle in my embrace. They were all so sad, everyone saying, “We have to stop the next murder,” but no one had any ideas. I was drained of tears.

  Rhy
ming chants from the high schoolers’ protest on the street above us infiltrated the pub between songs.

  “They’re going to get their asses kicked,” someone behind me said.

  “They have to learn to fend for themselves,” came a reply. I stopped listening.

  “Your curls are tickling me,” I said to Daphne.

  She hugged me, looked up and said, “One day your beard will tickle me.”

  The first murder was agonizing. Incessant tears and self-blame. It took some time to realize we couldn’t have stopped it, that none of us could have changed what had happened. We have since developed a routine. Getting out of the house helps. Being around people helps even more.

  I touched my chin. “Beards itch.”

  Letting out a sound between a laugh and a sob, she lowered her head back onto my shoulder. Her curls got into my nose again. I stroked her hair without saying a word.

  This time we didn’t know the murdered girl. A photo of her was placed on the bar top, next to the other photos, surrounded by little candles. The faces in the various photos began to blend together. They were all smiling at the camera, heads aslant with mischievous expressions that made them look younger than they really were, all against a slightly blurred background. Brown eyes, black eyes, blue eyes. Hair in different colors, different styles. Men. Women. When the first murder happened we cried for a week in the city square, refusing to leave until the prime minister promised she would personally investigate. After the second murder, our tears were silent. The third – we stopped crying.

  There was the pathetic attempt at revenge organized by a few pyros after the first. They got caught before they reached their target. Speaking for the cameras, the spokesperson for the police Prevention of Future Crimes Unit explained theirs was a sacred duty. The bodies dangled from the gallows behind him. Daphne cursed him for a whole hour, then cried herself to sleep.

  I closed my eyes. Someone switched the music to depressing peace songs. Give Peace a Chance.