by Amos Talshir
Dr. Thomas was certain that he was dreaming and did not get up. After rubbing his eyes and his testicles and finding out that they were indeed his, he rose from his seat and made his way carefully in Veronica’s wake. Suddenly, he remembered he was violating the snipers’ rules and sleepily deliberated whether to continue letting her reel him in. It was the shortest deliberation his brain had ever known. He was hypnotized; placing his hand in hers, he followed her, bent over and hiding from the sharpshooters’ sights.
Veronica increased her pace, dragging the doctor after her under the posts supporting the stand. She could find her way to the dressing rooms even in absolute darkness. Before entering the room in which the bruised Rose lay, she pulled the sleepy doctor to her, her body clinging to his bony thighs. For a long interval, she stroked his back, feeling the hump like a final identifying mark in the dark. She kissed him, thrusting her leg between his own. He moaned, but she did not feel the reaction she was expecting between his legs. She then pushed him into the room and whispered in his ear, “Do everything you can to help Rose, and I’ll make it worth your while when you come out.
“I’m waiting for you here,” Veronica said, staying to stand guard by the door. Occasionally, she peeked in the room and saw the doctor stimulating Rose’s bloodstream, as she made sounds indicating some improvement. The cardiac massage and lifting her legs up were intended to return her to consciousness. Dr. Thomas called Veronica to come in and help him. He instructed her to raise Rose’s legs while he himself gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and whacked her ribs. Rose’s body exhibited the first signs of recovery, and she moaned.
Veronica felt that the tension was about to get the best of her and left the room in order not to reveal her weakness before the doctor. She remembered she still had a bill to pay off, as she had promised. She left the doctor with Rose and closed the door after her, still managing to hear the encouraging cough erupting from Rose’s body. He’ll cure her, she thought. She had already given her body for much less important causes.
Now she was doing something truly worthy with herself. It was true that she had copied the initiative of streaking from Rose, and it was not her own idea, but courage was significant to her as well. When she had copied from others during school tests, she had been ashamed of her stupidity, but she was also proud of having the courage to copy. That was something as well. And now she was saving poor Rose, and the idea was hers, original to her. Just a minute, she asked herself, is seducing a man really an original idea? Maybe not, but doing it to save a friend took more than just courage; it was smart, too, she told herself with much satisfaction.
Veronica stood in the dark outside the dressing room and heard the signs of life coming from within. She loved herself now in a way she could not remember ever feeling before, and she didn’t mind sleeping with the old doctor in return for that wonderful feeling. Now she could already hear Rose talking to the doctor inside the room, just whispering, true, but she loved the gentle words the man was saying to her, and Rose answered him warmly, like a little girl who had found a reason to feel good. He told her softly that it was all up to her, and she had to force herself not to give up; he repeated it, like a good father who could make his girl hang in there. Veronica heard Rose replying on the other side of the door that she wouldn’t give up and would keep going for her own sake, and he told her she was a good girl. Afterwards, she heard his soft steps emerging from the room and thought she would feel terrible because payoff time had arrived. But she felt good. Suddenly, he sounded gentle and caring to her, the kind of guy who could ensure everything turned out okay; even a girl on the verge of death grew stronger when he whispered in her ear that she would be all right.
Dr. Thomas left Rose behind, as her bloodstream resumed warming up her body. The sight of her breasts, which had assumed their hot-chocolate color once more under his massaging hands, continued to hover in his mind’s eye. The sensations of the skin of her inner thighs, which he had rubbed in order to increase the blood flow, still remained in the palms that he clenched into fists on his way to the door. His body was aroused, as he had known it to be during the many treatments he had given the young women who came to his clinic. Now he would go out to the mature woman waiting for him on the other side of the door and confront himself. What an idiot he was. Why had he been such a loser with women his whole life? He should have taken the pill as they made their way toward the young patient. He could have lingered in the restrooms for a bit, swallowed his pill and let the next twenty minutes have their effect upon his wretched dick. Thomas was not surprised with himself. He leaned against the door with the promised woman waiting for him on its other side, as he knew better than anyone else that there was no point in trying to claim what she was offering. He would have no success and would only embarrass himself, as had happened quite a few times with the prostitutes he had tried to sleep with without taking the pill.
Dr. Thomas opened the door and saw Veronica leaning against the dark wall. He could still see a look of warm gratitude in her eyes. When he approached her and hugged her shoulders courteously, he saw the bafflement in her eyes, tinged with a brief expression of affection. He asked himself why he couldn’t allow himself to accept this. He could also see the tenderness and concern there that he had so desired his entire life. He told her he truly appreciated what she had done for the young woman, resting Veronica’s head against the lapel of his wrinkled jacket. Veronica tried to fondle his waist in preparation for fulfilling her promise, but he grabbed hold of her hands, stopping their motion, and whispered to her that she didn’t have to do that. Veronica shifted her head away from him and tried to understand this marvel—a man who wasn’t interested in her. He stroked her cheeks gallantly, providing the response that was supposed to keep her from feeling rejected and endow him with the chivalrous feeling he so hoped to earn honestly this time.
“You don’t have to, my dear, we’ll do it some other time,” the doctor said, thinking, Damn it, I’ve already lied many times for things that were worth less.
39.
Simon’s hair had grown very long since he had stopped shaving his head. His father said he looked like a hippie, and Simon asked what that was. He had inherited his wavy blond hair from his mother and his dark skin from his father. His teeth, green as a result of chewing on blades of grass, shone from within his smile as the two of them scanned the stands, filled with fans. Charlie noticed the change that had occurred in Simon. At his age, time could be felt distinctly. When they had first been locked in the stadium, Simon’s smile had towered over his long, willowy body. Charlie had always had the sense that Simon’s injured spine was threatening not to carry the tall, fragile body he had inherited from his mother. Since they had been here, Charlie had noticed that Simon’s body had grown stronger. Charlie was willing to tell anyone that Simon had received some measure of his muscular body and had become athletic like him. But he made do with telling it to himself, and it made him happy. Simon’s tall body had become brawny and agile, rising up to a pair of broad shoulders to which his fair curls cascaded. His radiant smile remained as innocent as it had always been, as if inappropriate for his stallion-like body. Charlie felt that this morning had created another change in Simon; internal, rather than physical.
“Let’s leave the third wish for Mom and Emily,” Simon said. “They need it most, and urgently. Rose will swim with us. Like I swam long distances with you before I was capable of it. She’ll swim with us. I can carry her, and you and I will manage. We’ve always managed.”
Suddenly, Charlie felt the way he had felt years ago with his mother. Only with his mother, not with anyone else to this day, and at that moment, he felt his heartbeat and the heat climbing to his temples. Simon made him feel that thing, which he hadn’t known if he would ever feel again. His son stood towering in the wind beside him, his long hair waving in the morning breeze, his gaze carried into the distance, making him feel what Charlie’s mother had known
how to give him: treating reality as one possibility. Seeing death hovering over the stormy sea, but hoping Dad would appear from the darkness. Knowing reality and embracing the imagination. That was how Charlie had understood the three wishes. He believed his mother had accepted it that way from Dad, and now he felt that Simon had also adopted it the way it was. Simon, too, understood that reality was only one of the options.
“Rose won’t be able to run away with us, Simon,” Charlie said.
“Dr. Thomas cured her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dad, Veronica told me and asked me to tell you what I think you need to know. Would it be enough to tell you that she took care of Rose and that Dr. Thomas cured her?”
Charlie knew very well what Simon was not telling him. That same night, he had felt Veronica getting up from her seat and leaving, but he didn’t think he should be suspicious of her and follow her around. He knew Veronica was a woman who valued independence. He had no claims on her; after all, he, too, had won her at the expense of the dead Clebber. He had already seen women on the beach in the course of his life, coming and going. One love was enough to make a woman feel miserable. He was more concerned by Simon’s attitude toward Veronica. Actually, by Simon’s attitude toward Charlie and Veronica’s relationship, and most certainly the fact that Veronica was about to give birth to his father’s child. Now that Simon knew what Veronica had done for Rose, he hoped that Simon at least liked her.
“Dad, when is Veronica supposed to give birth?”
“We’ll have to ask her. I’m sure she knows.”
“We’ll escape immediately after she gives birth. I have the perfect plan,” Simon said. “Dawn’s breaking. Let’s run on the pitch a little. We have to stay in shape.”
“Simon, let’s cool it. We’ll also let the locals calm down from the whole commotion over Rose and the resistance members being turned in.”
“That’s exactly why we should run. We have to make it clear to them, as soon as possible, that we’re not scared. Otherwise, we’re done for. Dad, we’re ‘traitor visitors.’ We can’t forget that, even for a moment.”
“What are you planning?”
“I think Veronica can help us. Her story with the doctor helped me come up with an idea that’ll get the locals off our back. We have to create a deterrence force to protect us from the locals until we get away.”
“Simon, you’re talking as if life’s a computer game.”
“Dad, people made up wars in computer games that looked exactly like they did in reality. Their success was in copying reality. The real revolution is that now, computer games are being copied into reality.”
“Like the lockdown in the stadium,” Charlie mumbled.
“Like those planes diving into the Twin Towers. You could see that in computer games ten years before the disaster,” Simon said.
“We’re copying computer games,” Charlie repeated.
“We have to attack. If we accept the locals’ aggression, they’ll kill us off one by one, starting with me, after I turned in the resistance.”
“And how can Veronica help us?”
40.
When evening came, shortly before lights-out, Veronica knew what she had to do, and yet she was slightly confused. The seduction wasn’t a problem; she was already experienced at that and felt that despite her fears and the shame that accompanied her, Simon truly appreciated her. Even the doctor had appreciated her and ultimately treated her with respect. Maybe Charlie wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but she could understand him. Although he said he understood her and that she had never owed him anything, it was true that men could be possessive about their wives even when they were in bed with another woman. Morons.
And yet, she was going to seduce a man once more, tasked with doing so by Simon, with Charlie’s consent. They said it was truly important and might save the lives of many people. The president still held on to his VIP box, enjoying the admiration of the throngs of locals. The instructions were short and clear. She was to seduce the president and lure him to a restroom stall in the VIP section, and afterward, get out of there as quickly as she could. There was one complicated thing she had to deal with: she had to bring him into the eleventh stall out of twelve, in the second row out of three. Numbers tended to confuse her, making her feel stressed out. In math classes, she had felt stupid. Her mother berated her, asking how she could remember so many dance steps but could not manage to remember numbers, and she said she didn’t need to count the steps, only to feel them. This time, she wouldn’t let them down since she had written it down on the palm of her hand: stall eleven in the second row.
The president pranced toward her in his filthy suit. He told her he had missed her and had been waiting breathlessly for his private dance lesson, and she said she had missed him even more. He said he couldn’t wait, and she said she had to pee before the lesson, because she drank lots of water due to the heat. He said he couldn’t hold back and wait for her, and therefore he would escort her to the restroom, and she didn’t believe it was going to be that easy. All she had to do, she recited to herself, was to bring him to stall eleven in the second row.
The president linked his arm with hers and strode beside her to the restroom with a regal expression. Veronica didn’t like the president and didn’t bother wondering what would be done to him after she brought him to the stall. He was a bad dancer assuming the gestures of a skillful one, touching her with an artificial stickiness and intentionally aiming for her private parts as they danced. She continued to teach him how to dance since he had granted her the title of the Republic’s National Dance Instructor, and he was a figurehead for the locals, and she accepted Simon and Charlie’s decision to hurt him. Although she didn’t really understand Simon’s explanation about deterring the locals from hurting them, she was willing to do anything for Charlie. Even get over her fear of bathroom stalls. She had never forgotten how Charlie had allowed her to go into the stall with him while he was pissing, and how he had stayed beside her when she peed in his presence. She had always been frightened of staying by herself in restroom stalls. Maybe because of those boys who would peek in on her at that boarding school far from home to which her mother exiled her. Maybe it was the men with whom she traveled the world, peeing in hotel rooms while they waited for her in bed. She tried to go without making any noise while they waited for her on the other side of the door. She didn’t really know them and certainly didn’t love them and had to focus on peeing. Only with Charlie did she manage to get over it, to be noisy next to him and feel good. Thanks to him, she wouldn’t be afraid of being with the president in the toilet, even if she really did have to pee and make noise next to him. It was all thanks to Charlie.
Veronica approached the eleventh stall in the second row. The door opened and the president, who was holding on to her arm, was ripped away from her, instantly pulled into the stall, with the door closing after him. She got out of there quickly, as Simon had instructed her to do, and returned swiftly to her seat. Several minutes later, Simon and Charlie arrived as well, and a few minutes later, a commotion broke out. Someone had discovered the former president’s body in the restroom. The screams rang out from afar. The president had been slaughtered, the rumor spread, and the stadium went into a state of emergency. The floodlights on the light posts went out, the sharpshooters kneeled in their positions, and Dr. Thomas was summoned over from his seat in order to examine the president’s body, along with two other young doctors. They stood around the body, which had shrunk even further in its suit. Dr. Thomas leaned over the body while the two young interns attempted to resuscitate it, merely increasing the flow of blood from the deep cut slashed across the president’s throat. Dr. Thomas instructed them to stop, and their bloodstained hands remained idle, awaiting the instructions of the senior doctor. He observed the dead president’s smiling face and couldn’t help but think that this was the smile o
f an aging man in the heat of flattering a woman, in whose company he found himself at the moment he emitted his last breath. He couldn’t help but see himself in the aging president’s position, following a seductive woman and finding death at the hands of her jealous husband, or assassins, or anyone else who wanted him dead. What needed to happen in order for him to find himself falling victim to the revenge of a father who thought Thomas had taken advantage of a daughter who had come to him for a medical exam, or at the mercy of a pimp whose whore had complained about him? Like the president, he, too, deserved to die more than he deserved to enjoy his old age. He felt such contempt toward himself for failing to respect even the reality of his aging, spending most of his life denying his real age. How many times had he lied, allowing people, particularly women, to guess that he was only fifty-five when they complimented his silvered mane and the hair cascading to his collar? It didn’t do him any good; his loins reminded him, day and night, that he was seventy-five years old and impotent.
The president has been murdered, he said dryly, as if declaring his own death. He looked at the cut on the president’s neck, with its precise lips, examined its depth by inserting three fingers vertically into the wound, an expression of certainty surfacing upon his face. Judging by the depth, the precise cut, and the absence of signs of skin tearing in the margins, the injury had been caused by a sharply honed pocketknife, made of quality metal, and wielded by a skilled hand that did not hesitate when stabbing and cutting. Someone who had made frequent use of such a knife before. Dr. Thomas continued to observe the president’s slit throat until his body was transported to the pitch. It was loaded onto a truck and driven to the players’ exit tunnel. The president’s blood trickled from his neck onto the grass and the bats flocked in en masse, ignoring the excessive proximity of the group of doctors.