The Critical Offer

by Yitzhak Nir

  “For four days, then I’m flying to Boston to rescue one of our ships whose captain is hospitalized.”

  “Are you fit to travel this evening?”

  “For you, always: day or night, foggy or bright - any time is right!” He laughed.

  “Okay, thanks. Will you be driving?”

  “Negative. In Tel Aviv it’s either on foot or by cab.”

  “Good. I understand that you’re in a good mood, Adam. I need to see you. Come to my place this evening, at twenty-one thirty, alright?”

  “Aye, Aye, sir!”

  “See you then, Adam.”

  From above Adam’s apartment, the black dragon continued to watch Li-Lan for a while longer. After its tireless operator didn’t find any other object of interest in the rapidly darkening city, he silently returned it back to its lair, on the rooftop of the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China.

  A Diagnosis

  March 14th, 2025

  “We have a growth.”

  Without any preamble and without embellishments, Dr. Haim Zimmerman pronounced those three horrible words with calm, pretentious simplicity.

  Just like that? We have a growth? A voice in Gershon’s head screamed… Aha, some kind of a growth, like a house pet that we’ve both brought home? Some lovely little growth, huh? ‘We have a growth’… You say that so easily, you contemptible man… his brain whispered incessantly, but his lips remained sealed. He continued to sit immobile on the chair, staring at the gray tie and yellow shirt of the urologist, who had raised a pair of black-rimmed, thick-lensed spectacles onto his bald head.

  His heart began pounding heavily. He didn’t even attempt to remain calm, but it was unnoticeable on the surface, perhaps apart from the scar that had slightly reddened and swollen.

  He was not built for a life without action, without solutions, and immediate ones if possible.

  …Do I have to put on a show for this Zimmerman? He’s my doctor, he’s screwing me up and I have to play it “Mister Gershon Shalit, head of the Mossad”, blah, blah, blah?... But before he managed to mull over what he was thinking and feeling, he blurted, “And what does that mean, doctor?”

  “It means that you have cancer.”

  “Cancer? Where? A small one or a big one?!”

  “Prostate cancer. And you’re in a good place in the middle,” the doctor attempted with arrogant dryness to lighten the atmosphere in his clinic, which had thickened with alarm and anger.

  His heart thumped. Its beats increased, as it had at every crisis or big moment in his past. That familiar, fearful dryness in his throat and mouth also reminded him of almost-forgotten hard times. His stomach contracted and a sharp pain returned and attacked him from his back down to the toes of his left foot.

  So what do I do next? he thought, his brain still refusing to digest the news, despite the long nights during which he had prepared for it and knew it would arrive. In his usual way, he refused to live with the news itself even for a moment, to digest it, concentrate on it, take it in and internalize it.

  Suddenly, as though detaching himself from his body, he momentarily floated above the scene up to the height of the light fixture on the ceiling. It was a trick he had invented for coping with distressing situations: “A man escaping from bad tidings…” he told himself silently, paraphrasing the Hebrew title of the famous book by David Grossman …Sure, Grossman could write a novel about it… and he almost smiled.

  But this time he knew that there was no dream to wake up from and no author to document it.

  So that’s it. I have cancer… he repeated to himself. …I knew it…

  All at once he felt that the tension in his legs and back had dissolved. Long weeks of fretful waiting and hiding from others his thoughts, dreams, fears, hopes, requests and expectations while mumbling the Sh’ma Yisrael prayer before falling asleep every night. All his tension slackened and disappeared at once. His back also stopped hurting and his leg ceased shaking and resumed its normal functions.

  But then true anxiety began permeating his consciousness, together with the realization that his life was going to end.

  Suddenly in a sharp, uninvited flash of memory, he saw his mother as she lay dying of pancreatic cancer. But now I’m the one who’s sitting here… He shook himself. And I have cancer! And this little doctor, with his Napoleonic strut and his arrogant, affected calm makes me want to escape to the street, to the evening air, far from the fear and anger in this room…

  But he just continued sitting opposite the urologist in silence, sunken in his thoughts and immersed in self-pity: So this is it… you, Gershon Shalit, eternally healthy, are ill like anybody else and might even be dying… He cogitated ironically to himself. …But I don’t want to be like her! Just not to suffer like her!...

  Suddenly he began regretting the life he was about to leave and all the things he hadn’t managed to accomplish. The self-control that he had developed into an art form collapsed all at once. He felt devoid of suggestions and frightened. …And what about love-making? What will happen with Li-Lan and me? Is that it? Treatments, radiation, hair loss… These uncontrolled thoughts burst in his brain, and he felt his heart rate speeding up again. The ancient scar swelled and reddened and cold sweat began pouring down his back. …So it seems that the prayer taught me by the Chabad rabbi just in case: Sh’ma Israel: Ha’shem is our Lord, Ha’shem is one… really doesn’t help… he thought irreverently. And in order to push away the panic, he became angry. That familiar anger restored his sense of control and maybe pointed to a course of action, whatever it might be.

  He was filled with anger at the physician. He did not care if it was dysfunction in his own body and not in that of the messenger, despite his arrogant declaration: “We have a growth…”

  “So why did I have to wait two months before you informed me of the diagnosis, doctor?” he spat out in a dry, hoarse voice. “Would you like to be treated like that ‘if and when,’ doctor?”

  But Zimmerman was used to all kinds of reactions from his patients, so he didn’t appear to be strongly affected by this angry outburst.

  “Mr. Shalit, calm down. We are dealing here with healing the body, not the mind. And in answer to your question, there are many options, but you will decide.”

  He had already risen from the chair behind his elegant desk, pulling himself up to his full five feet two inches and turning to examine the medical books arranged on the elegant bookshelf set into a fashionable alcove in the wall. “I will send the material to your secretary,” he added drily.

  Send your materials to hell. And those are all probably empty book covers! he reflected resentfully, fixing his stare on a brightly colored plaque depicting a cross-section of the male urea-genital area, trying to locate the prostate gland, his right hand feeling for his pubic bone. He knew that from that moment on, his life would never be the same.

  “Me, doctor? Why do I have to decide? For what purpose did you study medicine for so many years, damn it!” he yelled, refusing to become accustomed to the feeling of anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach, rising to his gullet and parching his throat and lips. Then he directed his anger onto himself:

  ...All my life I’ve dreaded having a heart attack like my father. And what didn’t I do to prevent it? Everything I could! So now, without any warning, the real problem begins twelve inches lower down? Prostate cancer! An old man’s disease! Shit, what a shame, what a fuck!.. And he began licking his lips absentmindedly.

  “Mr. Shalit, there’s a bottle of water on the desk. Please help yourself. My secretary left at half past six. Would you like me to make you a cup of coffee?”

  ...I don’t want to be here for another minute... the thought crossed his mind.

  “Good idea, doctor. Black, please. No sugar.”

  Gershon got up from his chair, poured himself a glass of water and took it with
him to the bathroom, drinking it while crossing the red Persian carpet that covered the entire floor of the doctor’s ornate guest room that served as his clinic as well. He ignored the piano, the coffee table and the many oil paintings hanging on walls covered in ivory-colored wallpaper that had been hung many years before.

  “We’ll talk when you return,” the doctor threw after him.

  Yeah, sure. We’ll talk…

  “Shit!” he spat out silently, “I have Marwan, Adam and Dahlia arriving at my place at nine p.m., and I’m stuck here with this bloody little growth…” he muttered to himself angrily as he continued to the doctor’s toilet.

  While washing his hands at the small sink in the guest bathroom, he peered at his face in the mirror and was suddenly alarmed: his mother stared back at him as she had looked in the Netanya hospital thirty years before - grunting, groaning, twitching, opening her protruding eyes and staring silently, questioningly, terror-stricken. What was she staring at: At me? At herself? At the large air conditioning vents in the ceiling emitting a dull growl? Was she still conscious? Did she know that this was it?

  She lay there, her shrunken body barely occupying half the bed, her face swollen and round, cold and wrinkle-free. And that ancient bald head of hers, which had caused him so much suffering in his childhood, was now covered by a scarf printed with colored teardrops. …Maybe some Florence Nightingale had covered her head with it...

  “What did she have in the end, doctor?” he had asked then. Was it the lupus that killed her?”

  “Perhaps, but mainly pancreatic cancer.”

  When he kissed her cold cheek, observing her totally relaxed body, he forced himself to say: “I love you, Mother.”

  “So now it’s my turn, eh?” he told himself in a deep voice. Afterwards he rinsed his face, wiped it on his shirt sleeve and returned to the elegant desk of Dr. Zimmerman who stood waiting for him behind his chair. They resumed their seats.

  On the desk one cup of coffee was placed in front of him. Gershon felt detached and strangely calm. At least the uncertainty had disappeared...

  “Mr. Shalit, as I explained to you at the beginning, we were a bit late: We now have metastases in the lymph nodes and the bones,” he began, examining the MRI images. “I suggest, and of course you can ask for a second opinion,” he added, “immediate radical removal of the prostate, a series of chemotherapy or radiation, and most probably a bone marrow transplant later on.”

  “Okay, doctor, hold on! How much time do I have?”

  “Mr. Shalit, we aren’t talking years here, but there can be surprises. We have made much progress recently.”

  Yeah, sure. We are dying and you’re progressing… he smiled ironically to himself.

  “I suggest arranging the schedule with Ms. Dahlia Haikin, if that’s acceptable to you, sir.”

  “Whatever you say. Dahlia will deal with payment. But regarding the treatments, I will be the one to decide, doctor. Good night!” he replied in anger veiled by tiredness, restoring to himself some calm and a sense of being in control.

  ...We now have metastases in the lymph nodes and bones… He resentfully, soundlessly mimicked the urologist. Then he got up and left the room without shaking the physician’s hand. The latter locked the clinic door behind him, totally unaffected by his patient’s abrupt exit.

  Guanxi

  March 14th, 2025

  They were having their weekly meeting.

  The embassy’s chief security officer sat authoritatively in the chair opposite him, his legs parted, menacing fists on his desk. “Sit!” he ordered. He gave Chun a long look and waited.

  “Speak!” he said finally.

  “Sir,” Chun began hesitantly, “since installing the system we have already located two consulate employees attempting to break into a vehicle, identified a security guard getting drunk on the beach and one secretary stealing fruit from a stall without paying. I suggest we pass on the information to the Israeli police and the ambassador.” His lip movements caused his glasses to vibrate and a light film of sweat formed on his upper lip.

  The CSO fixed him with a steady gaze, listening without moving a muscle.

  “And what about the senior embassy officials? Are they all behaving themselves?” he asked.

  Silence fell. Chun hesitated. …At this stage I’m keeping Li-Lan and her aged suitor to myself… He reminded himself of the decision he had made a while ago.

  “It appears that they all know what is expected of them. But, sir,” he continued submissively, “I suggest that we continue tracking them.”

  “Nice. Good work, Chun. I will report to the ambassador. But regarding the police, don’t you dare contact them! We will deal with those individuals ourselves. The ambassador has already given the order to send all four of them back to Beijing. They will be dealt with, there…” he said, smiling maliciously. “Well, then, Chun, you are dismissed. Continue to inform me of any irregularities in the behavior of consulate and embassy personnel!” He rose and showed Chun to the door.

  Chun Chang returned to his room in a good mood and again stared at his eight sophisticated screens. …Good. I’ll keep Li-Lan to myself, and as for her old geezer, I’ll make sure to get him out of the way later on…

  It was a clear, windless spring morning. His screens showed routine scenes as captured by the white dragon’s bored cameras: the seacoast, the dunes, the coastal road, cars, residential towers and other uninteresting scenes. He turned his bored gaze to the split screen where he could follow what was happening in each of the embassy’s offices. He lingered at Li-Lan’s office, but was disappointed to find it empty at that hour. So he sat there bored and frustrated, ruminating about his plan and his difficulties in carrying it out.

  He decided that the time had come to move on:

  …Someday my dragons will discover something really big. With a little luck I’ll be able to profit from it and defect to America, like many other successful Chinese... He had borrowed the Hebrew terms commonly used by Israelis, ‘Yeridah’, defecting from China and ‘Aliyah’, immigrating to the United States, in order to describe his dream.

  On his desk he found a tourist brochure with a photograph of the Great Wall of China, and started using it to outline his ideas. “I’ve arrived at the critical stage,” he whispered to himself, as he habitually did, after ensuring that the cameras and microphones in his room were all turned off. “Now’s the time to find someone who has connections with and access to the Chinese media! It’s important that they be close to The Party and to governmental and economic systems,” he continued. “If I don’t manage to uncover and effectively market something big, my efforts will have all been in vain. I don’t trust a single soul here in the embassy,” he concluded, whispering decisively and soundlessly.

  In China this type of relationship is called “Guanxi”: a network of spider-webs, which people weave together with ‘spiders’ like themselves. Their give-and-take relationship is based on a mutual exchange of favors. In order to build an effective Guanxi, one has to feed ‘spiders’ close to him, who in turn will feed more distant spiders. They in turn feed their associates, who extend their immediate surroundings even further, to all parts of a vast growing network. There must be absolute trust among the ‘spider-members,’ otherwise they would drag one another down, and the whole network would collapse. His screens showed routine scenes as captured by the white dragon’s cameras: One would drag another one down, and the whole web would collapse.

  If he knew a bit more Hebrew, he would translate this to “one hand washing another.” But now he was occupied with reality, not with Hebrew-Chinese linguistics.

  …I must create an effective Guanxi like that right now, even before I have anything to trade on…!

  Afterwards he turned his gaze from his screens to his seventh-floor window facing the sea and began examining possibilities:

  …My parents? No w
ay! My friends from high school? I haven’t kept contact with them. My cellmates from prison? Maybe they’re no longer alive or have disappeared somewhere in the Chinese hinterland… He weighed up the situation without fear that anybody would detect the cynicism that had permeated his thoughts.

  …Maybe the CSO? Maybe there is somebody out there after all? A stubborn voice echoed in his brain.

  Failing to find an answer, he decided to go out for coffee, a drink he had learned to love in Israel. The café was located out of the embassy surveillance camera’s range, which was why he preferred it. But in the elevator descending to the ground floor, an idea came to him that caused him to return to his room excitedly:

  “Just one minute, just one minute, guys!” he exclaimed to himself silently in language-school Hebrew while entering his room. …Who is that gray-haired limping gentleman whom my lovely Li-Lan is meeting with? …And the apartment, who does it belong to? And who are those tough guys in the car that follow him everywhere? He continued turning over these ideas in his mind while looking westward through his large window across Ben Yehuda Street, above the roof of the nearby elementary school and beyond Independence Park with its steel Seagull Monument, beyond the blue-green sea…

  Since he had nothing else to do, he switched on his personal computer. It was a large Mac that combined computing, graphics and communications capabilities, all available on one huge, flat and spectacular touchscreen.

  “Let’s have some fun with you two, my beauty and Mister-Limping-Gray-Head,” he whispered, not before rechecking that all the surveillance equipment in the room was turned off. His eyes were shining excitedly behind his glasses. He selected the most accessible option, namely Google, and addressed the screen in basic English:

  “Facial recognition software!” In seconds a wealth of suggestions appeared. He was surprised at the number of companies offering facial recognition solutions to police departments, airports, banks, etc., based on comparing security camera videos with available databases. “Wow, great! A piece of cake!” he crooned to himself, feeling his adrenaline rushing. And since in China talent does not go to waste, he did not waste any time either.