by Dan Sehlberg
‘There.’
Eric turned toward the flaming light. He hadn’t noticed until now that someone was sitting over there — a figure hunched by the fire, which was sheltered from the wind by the wall of the ruin. As he came closer, he recognised the man. Samir didn’t look at Eric as he approached. Instead, Samir kept staring blankly into the flames. Eric stood still, hesitant, barely a metre from the sitting man. When Samir spoke, it was in barely above a whisper.
‘Shalom.’
The Hebrew greeting was unexpected. But there was nothing sarcastic in his tone; instead, he sounded resigned. Eric answered cautiously, warily.
‘Shalom.’
From the crackling fire, pungent white smoke cast ghostly veils over the otherwise clear night.
‘Sit with me.’
Eric sat down and dug his hands into the warm sand.
‘I’m sorry. If you only knew what …’
Samir interrupted him.
‘I’ve never been to Scandinavia, so I know very little about your world. But I lived in France for many years.’
Eric didn’t say anything, and Samir went on.
‘Like Lebanon, it’s a part of me. And I read in French, almost exclusively. No other country has such a rich literature. So many authors. Beautiful stories that come to me at all imaginable times. Like now, when I look at these stars, a book by Le Clézio — Wandering Star.’
‘What is it about?’
‘A young Jewish woman named Esther who flees the Nazis in southern France. Her journey leads her to Jerusalem. When Israel is declared a state, a Palestinian woman named Nejma has to flee to a camp where the situation is horrible. One girl goes to the place of her dreams; the other goes to an eternal nightmare. The sense of not belonging, of vulnerability — I see myself in it. It’s not one of his best books, but the two women’s stories, where the salvation of one is the ruin of the other, are very beautiful at times.’
Eric thought of the group of people waiting hopelessly at the large gate in Erez — especially of the little boy with the candy. Samir gestured toward the horizon.
‘In the book, Le Clézio writes about Jerusalem very beautifully. He writes that it is a city where there cannot be war. Where those who have wandered around without a homeland can live in peace.’
Eric couldn’t help himself.
‘But you tried to detonate bombs in the city — to kill innocent people.’
Samir’s cheeks were red with the heat.
‘I was against it. I’ve seen enough death, but Ahmad was relentless.’
He met Eric’s gaze.
‘He is very dangerous. A fundamentalist.’
Eric sighed.
‘Religion is a curse.’
‘You talk like an atheist.’
‘I am an atheist.’
Samir was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, as if he were afraid someone might hear.
‘How can you live without an anchor? Without a keel? How can you waste your existence?’
‘I don’t.’
‘But you don’t believe in anything.’
‘I believe in science. If you’re asking about a higher power, it has to be science.’
Samir shook his head.
‘There’s no opposing force there.’
‘No? The church has always condemned science.’
‘Maybe Christianity has. But science has always been important to Islam. The Quran urges us to seek understanding of the symbols of Allah in the world. Natural science is considered to promote our understanding of Allah.’
‘I have complete respect for your beliefs, and for everyone’s beliefs. I just haven’t been able to find myself in all of that.’
‘You are there, believe me. There are one-and-a-half billion Muslims in the world. There are just as many interpretations of Islam. Everyone has his own way.’
‘Including madmen like Ahmad Waizy?’
‘There are extreme examples everywhere. Fundamentalism isn’t part of Islam; it’s part of humanity. The very reason we need religion is to counteract these forces. Read the Quran. Let something spiritual in. Or read the Bible, the Torah, whatever works for you. But don’t live without a keel.’
Eric let sand run through his fingers.
‘I’m sorry I tricked you and lied to you.’
The fire snapped, and a few small, glowing slivers of wood flew up like wild fireflies. Samir nodded thoughtfully.
‘I wanted to talk to you tonight because I have thought a lot about your coda.’
‘My coda?’
‘You can see our initial conversation as a symphony. We followed the rules of a sonata: a main theme that was varied in different forms — the Mona virus and program code. We could have stopped there, in harmony, but then you introduced a coda … a completely new melody.’
Eric shook his head. He didn’t understand. Samir held up his hand.
‘I’ve always loved the coda in classical music, when the sonata takes on a new shape at the end, and the melody changes. The composer lets us get a glimpse of an alternate world just before he brings it to an end.’
‘I still don’t understand. What was my coda?’
‘Just before Ahmad arrived, you said that you were going to tell me something I would never believe. Something about your wife. That was your coda.’
The wind hissed around them. Eric looked into the fire.
‘And now you want to hear the rest of the piece?’
Samir nodded and then lowered his head, waiting for the truth.
‘To start with, I’m no secret agent or Mossad spy. I really am a professor of IT from a college in Stockholm.’
There was no reaction.
‘You know about Mind Surf, so I don’t have to explain my research. A few weeks ago, I finally got the system to work. The experience was indescribable.’
Samir turned his head and looked at him.
‘What does this have to do with your Jewish wife?’ There was a bitter tone in his voice.
Eric clenched his hands in the sand.
‘She got to try the system.’
He had gone through this monologue so many times. He had practised it, dreamed of it — the moment when he would tell the creator of Mona about Hanna. But you could never prepare yourself for reality.
‘Using Mind Surf, she went to TBI’s website. The computer was infected by the virus, and Hanna got sick.’
‘You think that Mona was what made her sick.’
This direct statement took him by surprise. He had expected Samir to wave off such an absurd idea. Now he didn’t know how he should continue. He looked down at his hands in the yellow sand.
Samir asked, ‘So why did you come here? To avenge her?’
‘To plead with you to give me hope. An opening. The doctors can’t get the illness under control. I’m going to lose her. She’s all I have. All I love.’
Samir sat motionlessly, staring blankly straight ahead. Then he chuckled.
‘Here we sit, you and I, two men meeting in a desert. We find ourselves on two completely different journeys. I’m already in hell. You, at least, if hope wins out, are on the way to saving your beloved. Le Clézio’s Wandering Star. The Muslim and the Jew. But neither of us is carrying a weapon.’
He laughed. It was a dry and empty sound.
‘All we have is our iPods. I guess we should call ourselves iPod cowboys.’
The fire was about to go out, and the darkness was creeping closer. Eric knew now that he was not going to receive any miracle medicine from Samir. It had been a hopeless and desperate dream, a story he’d told himself in order to keep going, a reason to keep moving. He got to his knees so he could reach into his pocket, and he took out the small, creas
ed colour photo of Mona.
‘Here.’
Samir took the photo, and, in the faint light of the fire, Eric could see his eyes widen. He held it in both hands.
‘She looks good in colour. She …’
He stopped short. Then he closed his hand around the photograph and looked at Eric.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘The Mossad gave it to me. They interrogated me about you, and they gave me the picture.’
Samir looked past him, far off into the night.
‘Do you know how Ahmad learned that you were a traitor?’
‘No.’
‘From the Mossad.’
‘That’s strange. I thought …’
‘Not from the Mossad itself. They told the prime minister, Ben Shavit. And he told one of his closest friends — a man in the Knesset. That man is our man. Or, rather, Ahmad’s.’
‘He has a man in the Israeli government?’
Samir nodded softly. Then he straightened up.
‘You have to go back to being imprisoned. Mohammad is waiting for you by the tunnel.’
Eric lingered for a moment. He somehow felt degraded — degraded and betrayed. His hope was gone, and the hatch down into the tunnel felt like the gates of hell. He stood up. Samir held up the small photograph.
‘May I keep the picture of my daughter? It would mean a lot.’
Eric nodded. ‘It’s yours.’
Then he turned around and started walking toward the tunnel opening.
At a quarter to three in the morning, Heron 158 registered a weak signal that matched the archived identification code. Seven hundred and twenty-two metres above ground, the drone stored the co-ordinates 31°20’39.55’N 34°18’11.13’E/31.3443194°N. Two minutes after the drone made contact, the communications centre in Ashdod sent a memo to military intelligence. At eight past three, Daniel Lewin, the captain of the elite force Sayeret Matkal, got the go-ahead and the target data. He had been waiting at the Bahad Zikim army training camp, along with a hand-picked task-force group. The camp was just a few kilometres from the Gaza border. As soon as Lewin hung up, he went to wake the helicopter pilots.
Near Khan Younis, Gaza
Eric was back in the dark cave. The stink of urine was more apparent than it had been earlier — maybe it served as the group’s toilet when it wasn’t being used as a cell. He was half-sitting, leaning against the rough wall. About half an hour before, he had heard a faint rustling on his left. It was some sort of animal or insect. A rat? Or a scorpion?
He had told Samir the truth. Was that wrong? If Samir told Ahmad Waizy, would that change anything? Hardly. Ahmad already knew everything. Would he ever see Samir again?
He shifted. He heard the rustling sound again.
Sweet, wonderful Hanna. How was she doing? Had she gotten worse? Had Jens tried to reach him? He could picture Hanna before him with her mass of hair, blonde and slightly curly. Nowadays there were white strands in it; he loved them.
He was startled by a scraping sound. There was another creak, and the door to the cell opened. He sat stock-still in the dark. A faint light found its way in behind the silhouette at the door.
‘Eric?’
It was Samir’s soft voice.
‘I’m here,’ Eric whispered.
‘Watch your eyes — I’m turning on the light.’
There was a click, and the room was bathed in light. Eric looked around. The light was coming from a bulb that hung from the ceiling by a black cord. The room was smaller than he’d thought, and it was oblong. He saw large cracks in the wall; it wouldn’t be hard for rats to come and go through those. The rough floor was full of paper, plastic bottles, and dirty scraps of fabric. Samir stooped and came through the door.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m alive.’
Samir shoved a greenish-brown rag aside with his foot and sat down softly next to him, tailor-style.
‘Allah is testing you.’
Eric smiled weakly.
‘I’m sure he is.’
Samir gazed at him with a sad look in his eyes.
‘I’ve enjoyed our discussions.’
‘I have, too. They’ve been very rewarding.’
‘I’m glad you came here. I just wish things could have ended differently.’
‘Me, too. But it’s not over yet.’
‘You’re quite right. The night is long, and only Allah knows its secrets.’
Samir grew silent. Eric said nothing; he just looked at the man who was sitting less than fifty centimetres away from him. After all their discussions, they knew each other, at least on some level. Samir extended his hand and grasped Eric’s wrist.
‘Your fate is not in my hands. I’ll try to talk to Ahmad — maybe I can convince him to hand you over to Hamas. It’s not great, but it’s the closest thing you can find to an authority here in Gaza. Better than a bullet.’
Eric felt infinitely alone. Samir gazed into his eyes for a long time. Then he turned Eric’s wrist over, opened his hand, and placed a small, flat object in his palm. When Eric looked down, he saw that it was the iPod — his own iPod. Samir had held onto it when the guard had knocked him down.
‘A cowboy needs his iPod.’
Samir lowered his voice.
‘I put Tchaikovsky’s seventh symphony on it for you. It’s a perfect composition. I think you’ll like it. Maybe it can even give you your love back. Remember my family … my story.’
Samir let go of his hand and stood up. Eric remained on the floor.
‘I promise.’
Samir raised a hand to say goodbye.
‘Insha’Allah.’ He went back out the low door, and left the light on. Then came the creaking sound again as the bar was lowered on the other side. Eric looked at the small silver player in his hand. Tchaikovsky. A fantastic composition. But he had no headphones, so he couldn’t listen to it. He pulled his legs up close to his body again and tried to remember some of Tchaikovsky’s themes. Strangely, he had never heard of the seventh symphony. He thought of the fifth instead. It was reminiscent of Beethoven’s fifth, but Tchaikovsky was not as rule-bound. He summoned up the primary theme first. It was in an unstable E-minor, and then D-minor, eluding the strong, leading tones, but finally overcoming the darkness. He hummed to himself, his voice sounding thin and hollow. The bass fell an octave or so. The second movement was more like classic Tchaikovsky, complicated and colourful, with prominent wind instruments. He heard a clatter outside the door, and then the creaking again as the bar was lifted. The door opened, and he smiled toward it.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have any headphones, but I’m doing my best to remember Tchaikovsky.’
‘Not much to remember — a homosexual mongrel ruined by cholera and vodka.’
Eric’s stomach clenched as he made eye contact with Ahmad, who ducked into the cell.
‘Who were you talking to? Samir Mustaf? I thought I saw him coming from this direction.’
Eric looked reflexively down at the iPod, for a second too long. Ahmad smiled.
‘Did you get a present?’
Eric clenched the player. Ahmad leaned calmly against the wall and looked around.
‘This place is pretty dirty, but unfortunately there was nothing better to offer. We hadn’t counted on having to lock you up. The fact is, we had prepared a much nicer space for you. But things changed.’
Eric didn’t answer.
‘So Samir has been here looking after you? Did he give you a farewell gift? I don’t get why everyone walks around with those things in their ears — it’s idiotic. You miss everything that’s going on around you. You don’t take in the details. Details are everything.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘I don’t like
talking to a man who won’t look me in the eye.’
Eric raised his eyes.
‘What am I going to do with you? First of all, I’m going to let you have this night. I don’t believe in doing things in haste. Tomorrow morning, you and I will talk. I’m not going to hide the fact that it will be rough for you. You see, it’s important to me that I learn all the facts. And I have to be sure you’re telling the truth. In my world, there’s only one way to make sure of that.’
Eric couldn’t keep looking into those burning eyes. He looked down at his pale hands again. In the light, he could see that they were full of scrapes, and that two of the knuckles on his left hand were covered in dried blood. Ahmad moved, and something gave a click. It sounded like a weapon.
‘Hold out your hand. No, not the one with the music thing. The other one. The empty one.’
Eric’s heart was pounding in his chest as he slowly and shakily extended his arm after a moment’s hesitation.
‘Open your hand. Hold still.’
Something fell through the air and landed heavily in his palm. He looked at the small object — a matte grey top on shining copper. It was a bullet.
‘I can give presents, too. It might feel like a threat right now, but after we’ve spoken for a few hours it will become your most precious possession. This little piece of lead will be worth more to you than pure gold. When it finally comes, you’ll welcome it with open arms.’
Ahmad straightened up.
‘You have a long night ahead of you. Be sure to make peace with your God.’
Turning out the light, he left without saying anything more. The door closed, and the bar was put back in place. The dense darkness had its own symbolism. The cool iPod lay in one hand; in the other was the bullet. Infinite music and infinite silence.
Ahmad Waizy walked briskly through the tunnel and looked at his watch; it was three-thirty in the morning. He knew where to look: Samir Mustaf often went out to get fresh air between shifts when he was working. Ahmad swung up onto the ladder and climbed quickly up the bent rebar rungs. The hatch door was open, and he boosted himself into the darkness. It was windy — a hard wind full of stinging sand. He made a face and turned his back to the wind. Then he caught sight of the solitary silhouette that was outlined against the campfire. It was Samir, standing still with his head bent. The old ruin was probably protecting him from the wind. In the faint light, Ahmad couldn’t tell what he was doing; maybe he was crying. Ahmad hunched his shoulders and walked toward the glowing point of light. Samir was wearing only pants; his thin upper body was pale, and his skin was pulled tightly across his ribs. They stood still for a long time, side by side. The glow of the fire still gave off a faint warmth, a mild caress along his legs. Samir broke the silence.