by Greg Chivers
I probably shouldn’t, but something about the sanctimony wakens the worst in me. It’s simply impossible not to bait them. I make a point of holding it casually, feeling its weight like a street trader assessing its value. One of them, the woman, visibly strains not to say anything. The other looks resigned. After a suitable pause to allow the conversations to die down, I raise my hand to show their treasure to the crowd, a fist-sized sphere that looks to be carved from a pale stone, or perhaps ivory. Silence greets me.
‘Some of you may recognize what I hold. The pomegranate is one of Jerusalem’s survivors. It has, perhaps, seen the fall of Solomon’s Temple. It has survived sieges by Egyptians, Greeks, Arabs, and Crusaders. It has survived the destruction of the last two centuries. If we are to believe its inscription, it is a connection to every chapter of the city’s past, but like so much about our fair city, its provenance is uncertain. Its antiquity is unquestioned, its value beyond price, but these words carved into its side – “Sacred to the house of God” – could have been added centuries after its creation …’ A pause prompts one of the curators to nod briefly in confirmation. ‘It seems to me fitting that in this place where faiths meet, we should have a reminder that so much of our own past is a mystery to us, that we can be certain of nothing, that ancient truths are not enough for our modern city. We must not draw false comfort from the past, turning always to what we think we know. Recent events offer a glimpse of the new challenges we all face. To meet them, we must find our own new direction.’
In the moments of silence after the speech ends, Amos Glassberg catches my gaze again. He sees it. The rest of the crowd are still joining up the dots, but he understands the time for peace between us is gone. He knows an election speech when he hears one. Two carefully placed journalists at the back tap notes onto their tablets with quiet efficiency. The circle of stones around the garden’s edge is a wall hemming him in; there is no way out of this arena, but he is not beaten, not yet. Smiling for the cameras that have appeared from nowhere, he raises a glass of flat Lebanese Prosecco in salute. For the time being, he is still the Law in this city.
A shriek of metal from above tears the moment. Everyone looks up just in time to see a car-sized triangle of glass tumble from the dome above. It falls silently. Even though I knew it was coming, the incongruity of the sight makes it look impossible. For a moment I watch, transfixed by disbelief. I could stand here for two seconds more and it would all be over. In that instant I see the temptation. I imagine it is something similar to what drives the Machine Cultists and the eschatologists – the desire for a pure, clean resolution that imparts meaning to everything that comes before and after. But that is not me. If I have a gift, it is to thrive on life’s messy ambiguities.
An awkward dive takes me scarcely more than a metre away from the point of impact, but it is enough. The glass smashes on the stones with a sound like a sudden waterfall. A shower of fragments pummels my back like angry fists. All around, bodies fall or slump in a crass syncopation. The tenor of the moans tells me people are bruised and shocked, not dying or dead. The fragments of sparkling safety glass littering this immaculate garden are blunt. Sybil assured me deaths were unlikely, but she dug her heels in and refused when I asked for guarantees. There are shallow cuts in the skin and holes in the clothes of the people struggling to their feet, but no gouts of blood to stain the new white stone.
My two tame curators stagger over to me, their faces etched with concern, not for their hated employer, but for my priceless burden. The touch of their hands is my cue to uncurl, and hold the ivory pomegranate aloft, showing to the world it remains miraculously intact, a perfect metaphor for Jerusalem’s endurance through the ages. Needless to say, one of the journalists is still recording.
15.
Levi
This is obviously a bad idea. Clementine thinks I’m at work, which I guess I am, just not the kind of work I should be doing the night before the job. The Bethesda Electric is full of bodies shiny with sweat and glitter – glitter on your shoulders – apparently that’s a thing now, and not just the girls either. I swear, every one of them is blonde, as though hair only comes in one colour.
Saturday night is the wrong night to be here: too busy; all the Jews want to cut loose after Sabbath, but that’s why Moshe wanted to party. He insisted, and I owe him big for the gear. I’ll be OK as long as I stay clean.
We’re in a crescent of booths facing the dance floor. There’s two bottles poking out of ice buckets on our table: something fizzy for the ladies and a paint-stripper vodka for Moshe – it’s garbage but he says this brand doesn’t kill his buzz. I’ve arranged for company for later, but he’s already got his arms around two of the more obvious dye-jobs. They’re laughing at something: I don’t know what. Moshe’s a good guy, but he’s not funny – he’s kind of the opposite; if he tries, he just confuses everybody, including himself. He’s wired different, which makes him great with the tech, but he definitely needs assistance on the social side. The dye-jobs don’t seem to care; they’ve got small, dark eyes and big, shiny teeth that look weird in the UV. I never get why people have to open their mouths so wide to look like they’re having fun. If you freeze-framed on any of these guys it would look like feeding time at the zoo.
The DJ shouts something and all the people on the dance floor throw their hands in the air, then he stops the music and suddenly you can hear everyone breathing. He’s standing in the booth clapping his hands above his head to a beat no one else can hear, uplit like an angel. The dance floor ripples like grass in the wind of the silent rhythms moving the dancers as they sway to the beats of a hundred personal music feeds, then his right hand jabs in a stabbing motion and noise blasts from the speakers. People shriek with pleasure at the impact. Moshe’s non-blondes scream and their faces glow red and green in the kaleidoscope of colour pouring from the ceiling. Too much drugs already.
‘Levi Peres, what the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you be bringing me down. Insanity! Remember? Tonight is about insanity.’
It’s only ten o’clock, and Moshe’s face is shiny with sweat and amphetamine. He reaches into the breast pocket of a crisp white shirt that no one else in the club would wear and pulls out a slim silver cigarette case. It’s a gift from me – his chemical ration pack for the evening – enough of his favourites to go totally out of his gourd in a few different ways, but not enough of anything to kill him. Not unless he takes it all at once. I’m babysitting, but the catch is, I got to pretend to be a baby.
His face softens with a kind of creepy mock tenderness as he opens the box and presents its contents to the girls. Their fingers hover like they’re choosing candy. They wait for him to pick a small white powdery pill incongruously stamped with the logo of a Japanese manufacturing combine, then follow suit. At least it’s only bounce, an MDMA derivative laced with just enough hallucinogens to make the experience feel properly religious – atheists like Moshe love that shit. He pops the tablet onto his tongue open-mouthed, raising an eyebrow at the bitterness, then stares point-blank into the eyes of one of the girls and swallows it. They copy him, then giggle. This is so stupid. I bet they’re not this stupid the rest of the week. I know for a fact Moshe isn’t.
He makes an exaggerated swallowing motion as the pill goes down, then he grimaces and his face goes all hard and serious and he slides the silver box over the table. ‘Your turn, Levi. Insanity! Remember?’
I pat the inside pocket of my jacket. ‘I’m good, man, I got my own. I’m flying here.’
‘Levi, we made a deal …’ His stare’s too hard. It’s not the drugs; they haven’t kicked in yet. He knows I don’t want to do this. He doesn’t know about my robbery in the morning. If he did know, he wouldn’t care. He wants his wingman and I am bought and paid for ten times over. I force that shit-eating grin onto my face and pick up the pill with a sticky fingertip. He watches the white dot sitting on my tongue. I close my mouth and tilt my head back in a pretty good fake swallow, forcing the tablet to
the side of my gums with the tip of my tongue. It burns like a man-made ulcer but I reckon I can hold it long enough to make it to the toilets.
Moshe pushes a tumbler of paintstripper towards me and holds another to his lips. ‘L’chaim, Levi. Drink up.’
The vodka stings but it washes away the chemical burn. The fat tablet sticks in my throat and Moshe smiles as I copy his motion to smooth it down. We’re all on his trip now. Fuck.
The sweat starts straight away. It doesn’t make any difference that I know it’s psychosomatic. It’s happening anyway. Same with my pulse: I’m worrying about it so it gets faster. Stop thinking. The girls are waving outstretched fingers in front of their faces, looking for the movement blurs that can’t be there yet, willing them into existence. Moshe’s swaying his head side to side like a cobra. Why can’t they just wait for the drugs to hit?
I can still taste that shitty vodka. ‘I gotta go to the bathroom.’
Moshe stops his swaying long enough to give me a look that lets me know he’s not out of it yet. ‘Sure. Don’t be long, Levi Peres.’ For some reason they giggle at that, and he joins in. I mean, if they’re so fucked in the head they think that’s funny, why do they even need to take this shit?
I slide out of the booth and nearly trip over one of the cigarette girls. She instinctively pushes the tray at me before seeing my face. The club gets its tobacco from me. Their own brand is a blend of cheap shit from all over, but they wrap gold foil around the filter and the schmucks in here pay top-dollar.
‘Are you OK, Levi?’ I remember her name – Chloe. I think I asked her out once. She turned me down, but she did it nice, not in an ‘I’m too good for you’ kind of a way. The way she’s looking at me now, I’m not going to get another chance.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just got to visit the boys’ room.’
She eyes my pale sweaty face. It hasn’t kicked in yet. There’s no way. ‘OK, Levi. Well … you know where it is.’
I know where it is, on the other side of the dance floor. ‘No one comes to the Electric without stepping on the dance floor.’ That’s what Big Avram, the manager, likes to say. Fucker.
I step onto the circle of illuminated floor and my brain sinks into noise. It knows I just left the sound-damping field around the booths but my pulse doesn’t, racing to keep pace with the beat. The tune’s kicking in. The beat from the speaker shifts tempo and a shiver goes through the crowd. My body wants to respond. There’s no hands in the air at this BPM count, just faces of insane concentration and fingers weaving mystic patterns. Someone’s sweat falls on me. I stagger from side to side, half falling, dodging flailing dancers. The yellow-lit stick figure of a man shines on a door a few yards in front of me like a promise.
I’m nearly there when it bursts open and a big, angry-looking East African strides out, almost knocking me off my feet. He cannons into a pack of twirling limbs, but the dancers pivot unthinkingly to absorb the impact. The only mark of his passing is they’re facing the wrong direction, away from the high priest of sound in the DJ booth. I push at the door and it swings easily. A sad-looking blond man standing next to the sinks nods at me. I don’t think anyone knows where he’s from, but everyone calls him ‘Helsinki’ and he doesn’t seem to mind. I return the nod and drop a little stack of five coins into his hand. ‘How you doing, Hel? I’m just going to need a little privacy for a minute, OK?’ I gesture over towards the toilet cubicles.
He holds his hands out to his sides like it’s none of his business what I do in there. ‘Sure thing, Mr Levi.’ Hel’s cool.
The cubicle door closes behind me and I lean back against it. It’s hard and real. I blink some colours away from my eyes. They’re like the normal ones you see after staring at a bright light but bigger, and they stay longer. The yellow floor tiles bruise the bones of my knees as I hunker down. At least Hel keeps them clean. I lean over the white porcelain bowl and open my mouth wide, reaching for the back of my throat with two fingers. I’ve never done this before, but my sister explained the principles when we were teenagers.
My gut spasms twice and I feel the rush of burning liquid rise from my insides. It reaches my mouth before I’m ready for the catch, but when it stops there’s a small white disc sticking to the web of flesh between my index finger and middle finger. It’s thinner than it was and the edges are smooth from wear – I reckon it’s maybe a third gone. So I’ve got maybe two-thirds of my brain left to get me through tonight. Could be worse. There’s a hard bang on the door and I hear Hel’s weird sing-song voice.
‘Are you all right, Mr Levi?’
‘Uh, yeah, I’m good, thanks.’ A whiff of puke reaches me from the bowl and I look down and recognize some of the flecks of half-digested noodle on my shirtfront. ‘Hel, I might need a little help clearing up.’
‘No problem, Mr Levi. What do you need?’ I open the cubicle door and he takes in the sight of me. His face tells me exactly how good I look right now.
‘How much would you want for your shirt?’
Hel smiles. There’s only so much money you can make from squirting soap onto drunk guys’ hands, so this is a good night for him. For me, not so much.
The sound hits again as soon as the door to the dance floor opens. If I didn’t already know the bounce was in my blood, the vibration in my fingertips would tell me. The glow from the illuminated floor panels throbs and fills my vision. Unwanted excitement crawls up my throat, forcing my mouth to open in a kind of yawn. The pill and I have different agendas for tonight. The tremble from my fingers becomes an involuntary movement in my shoulders and a swaying in my neck. I know exactly how stupid I look, but it takes a conscious effort of will to stop the movement. My body sags in disappointment as I step off the floor, into the damping field around the booths.
Two beefy pink-faced men in suits and short haircuts are standing in my way. They’re jabbing their fingers at Moshe and shouting: ‘This is our fucking table, shit-head. Fuck off and take your junkie whores with you!’
Moshe’s just sitting back with his big stupid bounce grin on his face. Please don’t laugh. Please don’t laugh. A noise like a leaking balloon seeps out of him. Shit.
‘Hey, Tweedledum! Nice hair! Find your own table, man! We’re gonna be here all night, or most of it. Isn’t that right, ladies?’ He looks at the dye-jobs and they crack up again, but that’s what they did before the bounce hit. I swear I don’t know how these people feed themselves.
‘Get the fuck out, pencil-neck, or I will drag you out.’
Anger breaks through Moshe’s giggle fit. ‘Who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to? We’re connected. This table is for Levi Peres.’
No, no, no. Shit, shit, shit. This is exactly what Big Avram would do to me. He’d take my tobacco, tell me we’re fully comped for the night, and then give me a table that’s already booked. It is not helpful that Moshe’s throwing my name around like I’m some kind of big-time gangster. The sound seeping through the noise fields is making my shoulders twitch and my feet tap.
‘Who the fuck is Levi Peres? Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
He’s still angry, but a slight softening in his voice betrays a sensible wariness about tangling with gangsters. I hate to disappoint. My eyes flick between the other booths. The cost means they’re mostly filled with fat old guys who don’t want to be here and younger women who don’t want to be with them, but there’s always gangsters in the Electric on a Saturday night. There! Two tables away – slicked-back hair and shark’s-tooth grin that glows blue in the UV light. I exert the necessary will to stop my feet moving and turn to the Tweedle twins. A squeak of laughter slips out. ‘Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ He eyes me like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. The collar of my recently purchased shirt jabs into my neck. I know I look like shit, but it could be worse.
‘Levi Peres, pleased to meet you.’ I hold out my hand. He looks at it and barks with laughter.
�
�You’re Levi Peres? Well, fuck me terrified. We’ll be taking our table now.’ He turns back to Moshe and grabs his collar in a fist like a bag of ham.
‘No problem. We’ll just go and join our friends at Shant Manoukian’s table.’
He looks around at the mention of Shant’s name. ‘You don’t know Shant Manoukian.’ The caution is back in his voice.
I pretend to ignore him and concentrate really hard to stop the bounce tremble creeping up through my knees. Three casual steps is enough to take me within the boundaries of the noise field for Shant’s table. ‘Shant, you got a minute?’
Shant looks up at the sound of his name. He sees me and does a little double take before murmuring to his companions and standing up. I can feel Tweedledum’s eyes on my back. Shant’s face is openly curious. ‘So what’s up, Levi?’
‘I’m real sorry to interrupt your evening, Shant, but I’m having a bad night.’
He looks at my eyes. ‘Yeah, I can see that. I never figured you for a guy to mess with your own merchandise.’
‘Long story. Anyway, I’ve just got a little misunderstanding here, and I’d regard it as a personal favour, which I will obviously repay, if you could just step over and say “Hi” to my friend Moshe, as if you were already acquainted.’
His eyes wander over the frozen tableau of Tweedledum grabbing Moshe’s shirt collar and Tweedledim leaning in for a piece of the action. He gives me a look that says he’s working out what this is going to cost me; then he laughs, shaking his head. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
He’s still laughing when he gets to my table. The beefy brothers can’t take their eyes off him, but he acts like they don’t even exist. ‘Hey, Moshe, how’s it going?’ Moshe grins like an idiot, but it doesn’t matter: Shant chuckles like he’s in on the joke. ‘The kids must be getting big now, eh? You should bring them around. Gloria says she hasn’t seen them in forever.’ Moshe focuses through the bounce enough to nod and give a vaguely sane smile. ‘Anyway, great to see you. Talk soon, yeah? Have a great night.’ For the first time, his gaze takes in Tweedledee and Tweedledim. He nods to them as if nothing was going on and walks away, shaking his head like someone just told him a great story he didn’t believe. Their fingers loosen, and Moshe sits up, straightening his shirt, staring at them indignantly. Even under the disco lights I can see the red splotches of humiliation and suppressed rage on their faces. They disappear into the crowd without a word.