Tel Aviv Noir

by Etgar Keret

  “It’s powerful, isn’t it?” he answered for me, motioning around. “When we spoke last night, I felt like maybe I was showing off about what a good person I was before even doing anything.”

  “You really are a good person,” I said.

  “Thanks, but you can’t know that.” He smiled.

  “You made me do a good thing. That says something about you, doesn’t it?”

  It began raining.

  “So how did the red rice work out for you?” I asked. “Can I try it?”

  His face turned red. “I didn’t end up making it.”

  “You counted on me, huh? Look what I brought.” I pointed at the pots and felt very proud of myself once again. I wasn’t just a princess; I was a good cook too, just like he’d imagined.

  “Actually, I counted on my wife,” he said, pointing behind him. I felt my eyes widen. “I wanted to do it on my own, without her help, but I chickened out. I asked her to cook and she ended up joining me for the distribution. Look at her—she’s been here for two hours, but she’s already a pro.”

  The wife with the weight issues stood there, wearing a long black dress, ladling food from large pots into plastic bowls, handing it out to the black men standing in line. Her hair was up in a bun, and she was wearing red glasses too.

  “Mika!” he called.

  The woman turned around.

  He pointed at me. “She came!”

  She looked at him, then me, then back at him. I shifted my weight between my feet. I forced a smile.

  “The woman from Plenty Market!” he called out. It was like they had a bet on whether or not I’d come.

  She opened her mouth, as if saying, Oh! and raised a spoon in greeting.

  “I’ll give her your pots. This is so great,” he said, bending to pick up the crate. “Thank you.”

  “When did you get back together?”

  He stood back up and his eyes told me I was mistaken. They had never broken up.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I apologize, forgive me.”

  He just stared at me.

  “I got the impression that—”

  “That what?” He stepped closer.

  “I don’t know. For some reason I thought you were divorced.” I put on the fleece, which was way too big for me. I hugged my arms around my body and still felt chilly. I didn’t take into account Mati’s smell, which permeated my senses. It was a cologne I once bought him. I put my hands in the pockets. There was a folded twenty-shekel note in there, probably from last winter, when I was still buying him fleeces and colognes at the mall. One store after the next.

  A few of the volunteers stood on the side, talking. One of them said, “Guys, who has a car?”

  I raised my hand, then followed Mika with my eyes, waiting for her to see my pots and be impressed, but she hadn’t gotten to them yet.

  “So why did you think I was divorced?” he asked.

  “It was a mistake. I’m sorry.” I glanced down at my heels.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “I’m just curious.”

  I was so tired. He was waiting for an answer.

  “Your order changed in August,” I admitted. “You always had a family order, and suddenly it was five tomatoes, five cucumbers, pitas. A single man’s order. I thought something might have happened. Between you two, I mean. But I was wrong.” I forced myself to smile again. “But it’s a good mistake. How wonderful, you’re married.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “We moved into a bigger place in August, because Mika got pregnant. I kept working at the clinic on 31 Bloch Street. That’s why our order changed. I never thought you’d even notice.”

  “Please don’t report me.”

  “Why would I?”

  “It could jeopardize my job, I’m a contract worker.”

  “On the contrary, we’d be happy to write a recommendation letter.”

  The drizzle increased to large drops, like somebody spitting down on us. I covered my head with the fleece.

  Somebody called out, “Car owners, wait on the side.”

  Volunteers began packing up the pots and getting the refugees into cars. I couldn’t figure out why. I took the opportunity to grab my empty pots from under Mika’s nose and hurry back to my car. I couldn’t find the Plenty Market crate, so I stacked the pots on top of each other and hoped they wouldn’t come crashing down. I had no choice; I couldn’t leave my good pots behind.

  My hands smelled of meat and garlic. Finally, I sat down behind the wheel. I saw Dr. Alex Michael and Mika cross the street in front of me and lowered my head quickly. They didn’t see me. They disappeared into a white jeep with four Africans. I started pulling out of the parking space. I thought of a warm shower. Of my pink sweatpants. Of slippers and thick socks. Maybe a movie on television. Suddenly the volunteer with the straw hat stood in front of the car. He signaled something to me and came closer. I rolled down the window. He leaned in and said, “There’s just one more to drive over.”

  “What?”

  “We’re driving the refugees over to the school for the night—the public school a few blocks away.” A moment later he began leading an African across my headlights. “You have nothing to be afraid of.” The volunteer smiled. “You’ll drive between our cars, we’ll make a convoy.” Before I had a chance to say anything, the back door of my car was opened and the refugee sat down between the kids’ booster seats. I turned to the volunteer, begging him with my eyes not to leave me alone with the guy, but he was immersed in explaining the route. “113 Meor HaGola Street. You know it? It’s very close. Turn right here, then left on the second street. Keep straight at the square, then two lefts, and the school will be on your left, across from the old lot. Everybody’s already there. Wait for us.” Then he disappeared.

  A furniture store sign blinked before me. The refugee didn’t move. Neither did I. I didn’t dare turn to him or speak, and he didn’t say a word either. I even breathed softer. After some time I got out of the car. I searched for the volunteer, the convoy, but I didn’t see anyone. The rain grew stronger. I got back into the car, not making eye contact. I turned on the engine and the heat. I thawed my fingers in the warm air. The clock showed 19:03. They were eating the first course at my sister’s. Fish. The volunteer forgot about me. The school was ten minutes away.

  I drove according to his directions. 113 Meor HaGola Street. Maybe I took a right where I should have taken a left. Moreh Nevuchim Street, Shivat Zion Road, Khakmei Atuna, Balaban, Maimon. This was my neighborhood, but I’d never heard of those streets in my life. I made a U-turn. I tried to drive back to where I came from, but found myself somewhere unfamiliar again. I made another U-turn, and only then noticed it was illegal. There wasn’t a soul out on the street, though, so no one saw. A few times I thought I recognized a street or a corner, but I was wrong. Shvil ha-Tnufa, Shvil ha-Meretz, Ha’Amal, Bar-Yokhai. Streets I’d never set foot on.

  The refugee remained silent. I could almost imagine I was alone. Maybe he was asleep, or dead.

  We passed carpentry shop after carpentry shop. Plastic factories. Closed restaurants. Workshops. Everything was dark, locked up. A group of drunks crossed the street. I took a left, then a right, another right and a left, trying to remember what I could from the volunteer’s directions, but I found myself back on a street of deserted buildings. I was dizzy. The rain got stronger. I kept driving aimlessly, not wanting my passenger to suspect I was lost.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed Dr. Alex Michael’s number. Mika picked up, and for some reason I hung up. She called back a moment later and I had to reject her call. She gave up after seven or eight tries.

  At some point the refugee said something behind me. His voice was higher than I’d imagined. I murmured something back, not looking at him, as if I had understood him and didn’t want to talk. He must have realized I was lost. Now he knew I had a cell phone too. A woman, alone on Friday night, in a revealing dress, high heels, makeup. What was I thinking?


  I saw the yellow light of an approaching taxi. I rolled down the window quickly and signaled for it to stop. I’m sure the driver saw me, but he sped off, spraying muddy water right into my face. I lowered my head and wiped my face with my sleeve. I peeked into the mirror and suddenly caught him looking at me. I glanced away. He said something again. I zipped the fleece up all the way until Mati’s smell almost suffocated me.

  I saw him moving nearer through the corner of my eye. My breath quickened. Then his head was between the front seats, near my shoulder. I clutched the steering wheel with my nails. Maybe it was better for me to get into an accident and end it all. Mom loved you, kids. Mom loved Dad. The guy touched my shoulder.

  I screamed and slammed on the breaks.

  He reached his hand out further.

  I bit him as hard as I could until I tasted blood. He whimpered like an animal. Only then did I release my teeth. I also unbuckled my seat belt. He pointed at the gas light that had turned on, then jumped out of the car and ran off.

  I didn’t even notice it turning on.

  I went out after him, yelling my apologies, but he ran much faster than I could with my heels. I was out of breath. Finally I stopped in the middle of the street. I cried like you cry only when you’re alone.

  But when I looked up I saw I wasn’t alone. The refugee was standing nearby, next to a large trash can. We stared at each other. I took a step toward him and he moved away. I pulled a first aid kit from the trunk. I pushed it to him across the sidewalk. He examined it, and me, suspiciously. I signaled to him to open it. He put a Band-Aid on his hand, watching me all the while. Once his hand was bandaged, he crossed his arms. He might have to see an orthopedic hand specialist because of me.

  I stepped closer. I didn’t know what to say. Then I gave him my pinkie for a truce. He didn’t understand.

  He pulled a picture out of his pocket. A man and a woman, a boy and a girl. He was the man in the picture. For the first time I got a clear look at his face. A big face, strong eyes. They were wearing festive outfits. It must have been a special occasion, but their expressions were serious.

  I pointed at the children in the picture. “Ethiopia? Nigeria?” I asked. My voice was still hoarse and my teeth hurt.

  “Sierra Leone,” he said.

  I didn’t even know where that was. He nodded at me as if to ask about my family. I took my phone out of the fleece pocket. I flipped through the pictures on it, reliving the scenes of my broken family. Finally I found the picture of us from Diana’s granddaughter’s bat mitzvah and showed it to him.

  He pointed at Mati and the kids. “America?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Germany?” he asked. “England?”

  “Israel,” I said.

  He turned from the picture back toward me, squinting. “Israel?” he asked, and pointed at the ground, verifying they were actually here.

  “Israel,” I said. “Tel Aviv.”

  He held up his arms questioningly.

  Well, I didn’t have an answer. Why was I here, my feet in a pool of dirt, so far from them, while they were so close. An ambulance wailed far away. I stood up and repeated, “Israel, Tel Aviv.”

  I walked back to the car and sat behind the wheel.

  He followed me.

  He slid in between the kids’ boosters.

  I got gas, using the twenty-shekel note I’d found in Mati’s fleece. I started recognizing the streets around me.

  I pulled up by Mati’s apartment. I peered at the guy in the rearview mirror, killed the engine, and got out. I saw my reflection in the windshield: a princess in fleece. I said, “Israel, Tel Aviv,” and pointed at Mati’s apartment.

  He glanced back at me. Finally he nodded.

  I knocked softly. I heard the kids running excitedly behind the door, yelling that the pizza was here, and to get some money. The door opened. The little one saw me and cried out, “Mom!” The older one stood next to him, and so did Mati, the bills waving in his hand, which froze in the air. They all stared at us with gaping eyes.

  I signaled to them to make way, and they did. I gestured to the African that the path was clear, and hoped he’d come in. I put the pots on top of the stove. He came in. Nobody said anything, not even Mati. They all just kept staring at me. I pulled out a chair and took a seat at the head of the table, signaling to the others to sit down. The kids sat on one side, Mati on the other, and the African across from me, holding his bandaged arm close to his body.

  “Go on, say the kiddush prayer,” I said to Mati.

  He sat up, cleared his throat, and began: “Blessed are You, God, king of the universe, who made us holy with His commandments and favored us, and gave us His holy Shabbat, in love and favor, to be our heritage, as a reminder of the Creation.”

  The kids looked from me to the African, back and forth, raising their eyebrows, rolling their eyes whenever they met mine.

  “It is the foremost day of the holy festivals marking the exodus from Egypt,” Mati continued. “For out of all the nations You chose us and made us holy, and You gave us Your holy Shabbat, in love and favor, as our heritage. Blessed are You, God, who sanctifies Shabbat.”

  I turned to the kids and said, “Amen.”

  “Amen,” they mumbled after me. They weren’t even listening to the prayer. I was waiting for Mati to finish too. I did my best to ignore the looks they stuck me with, sharp like nails.

  “Blessed are You, God, king of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

  “Amen!” I said quickly and loudly, indicating to the children to do the same.

  They repeated like parrots: “Amen!”

  I finally served the food. Rice, meatballs, schnitzels. So much color and aroma. I gave the African a nice portion and he nodded with gratitude. I said, “Bon appétit.”

  Those were the magic words. All at once, all eyes left me and focused on the food. Mouths began chewing, the room was filled with the pleasant sounds of forks against plates and spoons against bowls. Good food sounds. My food. Nothing could ruin their appetite for it. Not the little one’s, not the older one’s, not Mati’s. They passed the challah between them, and the side dishes, peas and meat and schnitzels moving across the table. It was like they hadn’t eaten all week.

  They didn’t even notice that I wasn’t eating. The food was hot and steamy. The African’s eyes met mine. He was sitting quietly, just like me, in front of a full plate of food.

  PART II

  ESTRANGEMENTS

  CLEAR RECENT HISTORY

  BY GON BEN ARI

  Magen David Square

  Ten years on the job taught Tycher how to put away an unsolved case with the delayed pride of a prophet. A missing detail would surely flicker in the future, shedding light on the case. It was as though he and he alone understood how time worked. But the writer’s case was different. The case had been closed four years ago, and still, whenever Tycher recalled it—spotting one of the writer’s books in a store window or online—he was submerged in the kind of dread one felt before a high school test, or in a dream whose rules changed ceaselessly.

  He couldn’t even scratch the surface of the case before it had been closed. It was a combination of lack of cooperation on the writer’s part and despair coupled with inflamed sinuses on Tycher’s. Even after the case was closed, he never discussed it, not even with his friends. Though he himself had never read the writer’s work, he was familiar with his name and knew of the writer’s popularity. Regardless of their stature, Tycher was always protective of his clients’ privacy. “Being a private investigator,” he told them, “is 50 percent investigation and 50 percent privacy.”

  Usually, this mantra won him silently nodding smiles. But the writer was different. He was neither silent nor smiling. Instead he had said, “I need you to be 100 percent investigator, and 100 percent private.”

  * * *

  When Asaf’s second son was born he invited Tycher to join him on a trip to Southeast Asia. Tycher
couldn’t spare the money or the time. As a plan B, Asaf suggested they go to Amsterdam to eat mushrooms. He regarded it as a consolation prize, in a nonchalant manner Tycher could never afford to adopt. Tycher lost his temper during the Skype call. First he mentioned something about Mika, and then he yelled that his sinuses were so badly congested, the changes in air pressure during the flight would blow up his skull.

  Asaf said: “And I was supposed to know that how, exactly?”

  Later, Tycher blurted at Asaf that just because he owned his own company and could take time off whenever he pleased, it didn’t mean everyone could.

  “You have your own company too,” Asaf replied.

  “It’s not the same thing,” said Tycher. “Yours is an Internet company, you could leave for a week and when you got back it would be exactly the same. Mine involves people. If I left for a week, when I got back it wouldn’t be the same. Some of them would lose money, some would flee the country, others would become religious, go vegan, start dating someone, die. They’d be completely different people.”

  “Just like the Internet,” said Asaf. For a moment neither of them could do anything but stare at the small square at the bottom of the screen that showed their own faces.

  They reached a compromise: Asaf would catch the train down from Binyamina and spend the weekend at Tycher’s place on Nahalat Binyamin Street in Tel Aviv, where they would take MDMA, because Asaf had never tried it.

  * * *

  In the morning, Tycher woke up alone and hurried out to get breakfast in Jaffa. He ate, took in the palm trees, feeling the sinus pressure groping its way down his cheekbones toward his gums, chewing every bite for a full minute before he could get the first drops of flavor. When he was done he picked up Asaf from the train station. While they were in the car the dealer called and they asked for MDMA.

  The dealer said, “What happened, was someone born?” And then, “Everybody has children these days. Hard times.”

  He didn’t have MD, only LSD. It came in a sandwich bag filled with Bamba, dripped over four pieces of the snack.

  “But there’s a ton of Bamba in here,” said Tycher. “How are we supposed to tell which pieces you dripped it on?”