by Iddo Gefen
If it hadn’t been for his mother, I would probably have filed these events under my long list of bizarre military experiences. But two weeks after he disappeared, his mother showed up—a shriveled woman wrapped in a scarf and red coat, who walked through the gate one morning dragging a suitcase almost as big as herself. She approached each and every soldier on the base, asking in her heavy British accent if anyone had seen her son. She spent the whole day under the blazing winter sun, moving frenziedly from room to room, locker to locker, searching with trembling hands for the precise point in time and space in which her child had disappeared.
* * *
The image of her searching for him behind the green dumpsters has been haunting me for years; resurfacing intermittently at random moments in my life. A few years ago I even hired a private investigator to try to find out what happened to him. I was hoping the attempt alone would grant me some peace of mind. The only revelation was a fine from a small library in one of the kibbutzim up north. Six overdue books, all by South American authors. I tried reading some of them in the hope of finding a clue—but there was none. And still, oddly enough, this discovery offered some kind of comfort. It reinforced my secret and irrational thought that maybe Korczak had existed as a kind of transcendental man, in the physical sense, and that the outburst of violence on that night had frightened him out of his lanky, awkward body and returned him to his original form—a consciousness that lived only between the lines of books that he read.
The Girl Who Lived Near the Sun
1.
IN THE MIDDLE of Neptune’s central bus station, Grandma called me for the third time in a row. In a moment of weakness, I decided to answer, and within seconds a wrinkled and scowling six-foot-three hologram appeared before me. Before I could utter a single word and without any pleasantries to speak of, she got straight to the point. “What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you coming back to Earth?” she scolded me. The people around me turned their gazes toward the small holographic woman. I quickly turned down the volume.
“Honey, this is no laughing matter,” she proceeded. “It’s been a year and a half now that you’ve been traveling all over the solar system, without popping by to visit your old grandma even once. You know I won’t be around much longer.”
“I promise this is the last planet. A few weeks and I’ll be eating your matzo ball soup,” I replied. She snickered.
“A few weeks? What’s wrong with you? You’re starting college in ten days for heaven’s sake. Your friends are already into their third year and you don’t even have a schoolbag yet,” she said, and fell silent, knowing that one more sentence like that and I’d hang up.
“So how’s the weather?” she asked, trying to change tactics. I replied that all in all it was fine. Gas storms every now and then, but nothing serious.
“And tell me, have you decided what you’re going to study?”
“IR.”
“What’s that? Speak louder.”
“IR. Intergalactic relations.”
“Why would you choose that?”
“I met a few guys here who studied it. Sounds like an interesting field.”
“Hmm. Interesting, I’m sure,” she said. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?” I asked, immediately regretting it.
“That until they send an Israeli ambassador to the Andromeda galaxy, it’s a useless degree. Call your father, he’s a smart man. He says you should study psychological engineering. That’s where the world’s heading. Soon people will start paying a fortune to reengineer their traumas.”
“He never said that to me,” I claimed, and she jumped at the opportunity. “Of course he didn’t. He’s afraid you’ll think he’s trying to influence you,” she said, arms flailing. “Back in my day, parents still had a say in the matter, but today all I keep hearing is how they have to let you kids make your own mistakes. That it’s the only way to get life experience. But you know what happens then? You kids get lost. You make so many mistakes that you find yourself on the other side of the solar system, alone.”
I was quiet again, this time with a certain measure of guilt. Grandma leaned in, placing her virtual hands on my face, stroking it from billions of kilometers away. “What can I say, bubele, you can’t keep putting your life on hold like this, it just doesn’t work that way. You’re not the only person in the world who has questions, believe me. The problem is that no one has the guts to tell you you’re not going to find the answers. Not even on an abandoned asteroid.”
The loudspeaker announced the bus’s imminent departure, and I jumped at the opportunity and told her I had to get going. She folded her arms across her chest and gave me a worried look. I told her I’d call when I could and not to get worried if I didn’t answer, because there might not be a good signal there.
“What am I going to do with you, my dear boy?” she said. “Just make it back in one piece. And take sunglasses, would you? The sun’s awfully strong over there.” I smiled. Her figure faded and disappeared among the dozens of passengers boarding the public space shuttle. I picked up my bag and followed them.
2.
I FOUND AN available seat in one of the back rows. A burly man with a Hawaiian shirt sat down beside me, taking up more than his share of seat room. Blue lights flickered on in the aisles of the space shuttle, which started cruising toward the center of the solar system. The driver turned on the radio to one of those nostalgic stations that liked starting every other program with Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust.” I closed my eyes, nodding on and off. I’m not sure how much time had passed, but when I woke up again I saw the dark side of Venus out the window, and realized it was too late for a change of heart. I leaned back, closed my eyes again, and tried to conjure the face of the girl I was on my way to see.
* * *
I’d met her three months earlier, in one of those tacky space parties on the Rings of Saturn. I always hated parties, let alone the kind with a space suit dress code, but the two Australians I used to hang with back then managed to drag me along with them. I didn’t even try dancing, just sat alone at the bar trying to sip their disgusting local beer through the straw attached to my helmet, getting more and more annoyed by the minute. I spotted her sitting two barstools away, flirting with the bartender, telling him she was from Israel. I mentioned that I was a fellow Israeli, and she said it was hard to miss. We got to talking about how even a 0.5 G-force turned the lamest dancer into a music video star. And how anyone who’s never visited Titan didn’t know what a crazy view meant, and how Israelis in space always insisted on walking around in sandals even when it was minus seven degrees outside.
* * *
I thought the conversation went well, because she laughed at least four times. I counted. I asked her when she was planning to return to Earth, and she said it wouldn’t be anytime soon. She told me she’d been living on a small planet by the sun that she bought for a song from some old man who had built an underground condo there just to find out he couldn’t live forty-nine million kilometers from the sun. She said she knew that sounded far, but it was actually as close as one could get. So she emptied her savings account and bought the planet off him. Also a private atmospheric system from the Space Depot, one of those advanced systems with a tropical weather feature; after three months of renovations she indeed lowered the temperature to 51°C, which isn’t ideal, but the place was still cheaper than a two-bedroom apartment in Petah Tikva. I asked her whether Hebrew was the official language on her planet, and she laughed, saying she had invented a special language only the inhabitants of the planet could understand. I don’t really remember the rest, because right after mentioning Petah Tikva, she tried to kiss me, our helmets bumping into each other.
She was heaving with laughter, said she probably had too much to drink, and put her head on my shoulder. I don’t know how long we sat there like that, but at some point another girl appeared, announcing their ride was about to leave. Before I could wrap my head around the
situation she was already up on her feet, saying she had to get going. I asked for her number, but she didn’t own a holographic phone because there was no signal on her planet. She told me that if I ever happened to find myself in the area, I was more than welcome to pop by for coffee. It was only after she had already left that I realized I didn’t even get her name.
* * *
It wasn’t on the space shuttle’s route, but apparently the driver was in a good mood because he agreed to make a little detour. I took my bag and got off at a deserted stop. The first thing I felt was an onslaught of sun rays, like the incessant flash of a camera clicking away. I quickly took my sunglasses out of my pocket. It provided only partial relief. I looked up at the sky, painted a bright purple just like she had described to me at the party. I didn’t dare look directly at the sun, but a quick glance revealed it was much larger than it appeared from Earth. The bus pulled away, and I looked around me but there was no house in sight. There was nothing but blue sand dunes, and an indistinct smell reminiscent of caramel.
Before I could get my act together, I already felt the horrific heat on her planet. Sweat poured out of me, soaking my clothes. I started trudging along the small surface, no more than a few kilometers in diameter, so minuscule you could actually see the ground curving into itself. I continued on my wretched walk, quietly cursing myself for insisting on this visit. I lowered my backpack and took out a bottle of water. I was about to open the cap when I tripped on a large stone. The bottle fell and rolled into a crater.
“For fuck’s sake,” I hissed. It took me a moment to notice the staircase winding into the ground. I quickly descended the stairs. The heat abated with every step, until the temperature became almost bearable. At the bottom of the pit I found the bottle, and myself standing in front of a small dark door devoid of any sign. I was dripping onto the doormat and tried to wipe myself dry, without much success. I took a deep breath and knocked twice.
3.
IT TOOK HER about two minutes to come to the door. Her black hair was pulled into a high ponytail speckled with blue sand. She was wearing a faded white tank top and brown shorts. A thick sleep mask pulled up to her forehead was covering half her left eye. She let out a gaping yawn.
“Say, aren’t you tired of trying?” she asked in English, her tone something between grumpy and desperate.
“What? No,” I replied in English. “I mean, I …”
“What’s that accent? You Israeli?” she asked in Hebrew.
“Yes.”
“So why are you speaking English, dummy?”
“Because you did.”
“You’re not the sharpest pencil, huh?” she said and sighed. “At least you didn’t come in a suit.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, and couldn’t snap out of the shock. “Wait, let’s start over. Remember me?” I stuttered with a smile.
“Yes,” she answered, and I’m fairly certain I felt a fleeting surge of optimism. “But I’m not selling the planet,” she announced, and took a step toward me. “I’ve already told you and the others thirty times now, I’m not selling. Am I being clear?”
“What are—”
“Yes or no,” she raised her voice. “Do you understand the sentence ‘I’m not selling the planet’?”
“Wait, but …” I tried to explain.
“Listen, you’re starting to get on my nerves. Do you understand or not?”
“No,” I said.
“Too bad,” she replied and slammed the door in my face. I knocked again, but she wouldn’t open. I found myself explaining to the door that I didn’t know who she thought I was, but my name was Golan. And that we had met at that lousy party six months earlier, on the Rings of Saturn. I heard her footsteps approaching.
“It’s just that you said if I happened to find myself in the neighborhood, I should stop by. And, well, I was in the neighborhood,” I lied. It took her a few more moments to open the door. “God, I can’t believe it,” she said, staring at me. Without a giggle to alleviate the tension, without an apology. I stood there, about to die of embarrassment.
“Okay,” she finally said. “If you were stupid enough to come all this way, at least have something to drink before you hit the road again.”
She waved me in, gesturing at a chair in her small kitchen, and started to fumble through her messy cabinets for glasses. The kitchen was open to the living room, or more accurately, a large couch by a hallway leading to the bedroom. The walls were made of blue rock and the living room ceiling was riddled with small holes, allowing the sun to filter through and light up the entire house. The bedroom was crammed with books and had only one hole in the ceiling. She explained reading was the only thing left to do on a planet with no signal. A large basket stood by the front door, filled to the rim with dozens of sunglasses and ski masks in different colors.
“Sorry,” she said, handing me a glass of tepid water filled less than halfway. “The homeowner association is very strict around here about water usage.”
I assumed that by homeowner association she meant herself, but I was afraid asking would bring on another insult. I downed the water in one gulp.
“Wouldn’t you rather drink something cold in this heat?” I asked.
“I would,” she said. “That’s why I keep the water in the fridge for myself.”
The rest of the conversation was nothing to write home about. Long stretches of silence and pointless questions that didn’t interest either of us. After half an hour and a stingy water refill, I picked up my bag and headed toward the door. A brief goodbye was accompanied by an official, rather ridiculous handshake.
“Where did you park?” she asked as we stood in the doorway. I told her I had come by public transport. “You’re joking, right?” She groaned, slapping her forehead. “Public space shuttles stop here twice a year.”
I smiled and told her not to worry. That I’d been traveling for so long, I was used to waiting a few hours in the sun. She looked at me and sighed again. “I wasn’t being funny. The next space shuttle will arrive in four months. And that’s best-case scenario.”
I hesitated and told her it wasn’t a problem, I’d just make a holographic call to one of my buddies to come pick me up.
She sat down on the chair, biting her hand nervously. “There’s no signal on this planet.”
I didn’t know whether to stay in the doorway or step outside. I started calculating how long I could live off the food and water in my backpack. A couple of days. Tops.
* * *
After a few minutes, she got up. “You can sleep here until we figure out a solution to this shitty situation,” she said, pointing at the couch. Then she went to her room and came back two minutes later with a pair of square-rimmed sunglasses and jeans. I was left alone in her house, trying to understand how I had gotten myself into this mess. I lowered my backpack, slipped off my shoes, and lay on the couch. I tried to fall asleep, but the heat permeating through the walls kept me wide awake. I still hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask her name.
4.
THE FOLLOWING PERIOD was marked by dire attempts to leave her planet. I spent hours on the sprawling dunes near her house, searching for a signal so I could text someone to come rescue me. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending the next four months on her boiling planet. Four months of nothing but dodging the sun and her nervous glares.
We barely spoke. I slept on the couch and she’d slip in and out of her room with a grumpy pout, closing the bedroom door behind her and then storming back out. Every once in a while we’d sit together at her kitchen table, eating cans of peas and corn or crackers with jam, sometimes just an energy bar with too many raisins. We never ate anything nice. In each of these meals she’d put a single glass of water before me, advising me to drink slowly because that’s all she had to offer. I brushed my teeth without water. Showers were obviously out of the question.
When I wasn’t eating or sleeping, I spent my time outside. We had an unspoken agreement to a
void any interaction that would only exacerbate our frustration. I soon realized that unlike Earth, her planet didn’t rotate on its own axis. The sun never set, but remained fixed in the same spot in the sky, distorting everything I thought I knew about the concept of day and night. The only refuge I found was under a boulder located by one of the dunes, which provided me a rare meter of shade. I spent hours on end leaning against the boulder, counting minutes that gradually lost their meaning. Every movement, every action was insufferable. The raging sun allowed for nothing but thoughts, and even they were a struggle to produce, flitting in disjointed fragments. Mostly as fears. Of returning home, to the same spot, going back to the rat race I’d spent a year and a half trying to outrun. I stayed for hours, maybe even days by that boulder, nodding on and off for unknown periods of time. I started feeling as if the shuttle would never come. That I was going to stay there, in the same spot, forever.
* * *
One day, waking up abruptly, I found her lying beside me, sprawled out on the sand, this time with white sunglasses. She lay there silently, without a hint of shade or apology. I considered her for a moment, and then looked around me. The purple sky was painted green streaks, turning alternately blue and red, constantly changing colors.
“I think I might be losing my mind,” I said.