by Dan Sofer
“I know that one,” Noga said, surprising her mentor. She had uncovered that factoid a few months ago, when she had researched the End of Days in order to better understand a cute but delusional patient she had met at the Shaare Zedek Medical Center. Her heart squirming, she said, “Elijah the Prophet.”
CHAPTER 34
A rush of déjà vu made Moshe’s skin tingle. Once again, he stood under the chuppah canopy on the grassy knoll between the Ramat Rachel Hotel and the event hall.
A trumpeter played the Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun” as the sun sank behind the buildings, casting a soft golden glow over the long white carpet that ran between the rows of chairs dressed in white. The same venue, the same band, the same bride and groom. Savta Sarah’s catering too. He might have traveled back in time to his first wedding eight years ago.
Only the guests were different. They trickled in from the buffet gardens and filled the rows of chairs. Not Galit’s extended family like last time—her parents and brother had not been able to get on a flight from New Jersey in time—but the familiar faces of the Dry Bones Society. The unfamiliar faces belonged to the many VIPs of the Upward party list. The sheer number of guests had forced Moshe to opt for a wedding hall instead of the quiet home ceremony Galit would have preferred.
Isaac Gurion settled in the front row, cocktail in hand, beside a well-powdered Mrs. Gurion, and surrounded by an entourage of assistants and bodyguards. He nodded at Moshe and winked. The well-connected politician had twisted a few arms in the Chief Rabbinate to expedite the marriage permit.
Moshe inclined his head and smiled. Rabbi Yosef shifted on his feet under the chuppah and filled the wine glass on a side table. This was the first wedding ceremony he had conducted and his nerves were showing. Rafi and Shmuel, Moshe’s witnesses, hovered at the edge of the wedding canopy. Rafi was doubling as his best man, the role that Avi had filled at Moshe’s first wedding.
Times had changed. Only two months ago, Moshe had rushed to Ramat Rachel to stop Avi from marrying Galit on this very spot. Would Avi try to disrupt his wedding tonight?
Moshe scanned the crowd for the old thorn in his side. Spotting no intruders, he glanced at his new gold watch. The ceremony should have started five minutes ago. Where was she? Galit had left Avi waiting under the chuppah—would she stand Moshe up as well? He had lost her before without warning. Would that bolt of lightning strike him down twice?
Moshe adjusted his blue suit jacket and tie and dismissed the concern. Don’t be paranoid.
On cue, the trumpeter played a new song, a traditional wedding ditty, and there she was. Galit stood at the end of the white carpet in her elegant white evening gown. She smiled at him through the wispy veil. Little Talya led the way in a frilly bridesmaid’s dress, strewing rose petals from a miniature wicker basket. Moshe blew his daughter a kiss and she smiled from ear to ear.
Galit climbed the steps of the chuppah, beaming at him through the veil, and circled her groom, the train of her dress sliding over his shoes.
For all the similarities, this wedding was different. The bride and groom were older and wiser. Moshe was, literally, a new man. But the differences ran deeper than mere time passed. He had almost lost her, he had fought against all odds to win her heart again, and the effort had thickened the tendrils of love that bound them together. They were one living organism. Nothing would part them again.
Behind the rows of seated guests, Irina stood and smiled beside her Russian friend. With his ponytail and bulging biceps, Alex had set off mental alarm bells, but when Irina had told him how her new friend had helped out at the Society and arranged for her a pro-bono appointment with a neurologist, Moshe had relaxed. Irina could take care of herself. With all his recent political activity, Moshe had had even less time to devote to her and he was glad that she had Alex’s support.
Talya sat on a chair, her legs dangling, beside a teary Savta Sarah. Moshe glanced at the rows of friends and well-wishers as Galit stopped beside him and her hand found his.
Rabbi Yosef started the ceremony, and Moshe savored the moment. This is it. This is what life is all about—moments of joy with family and friends. Those fleeting happy times drove everything he did—not the cameras or even the salary. He had to hold onto these moments and create more of them. Which reminded him—on Wednesday he was scheduled, finally, to see that cardiologist.
A large, dark figure passed behind the crowd and a sudden dread pulled at Moshe’s insides. Had he seen the hulking form of King Kong, Boris’s muscular henchman, or was the vision just a trick of his mind? Had the slave master sent his crony to exact revenge for Moshe’s disruption of his graveyard recruitment? Moshe should have seen this coming.
He squeezed Galit’s hand but she only smiled at him. His muscles tensed, ready to rush her from the chuppah to safety, while he scanned the mass of wedding guests. The oversized mobster did not march down the aisle toward them, nor was he lurking among the bushes.
Moshe wiped sweat from his brow and shivered. He’d have to do something about Boris and his slave machine, and not only in order to ensure the safety of his loved ones. While Moshe celebrated his own personal happiness, many innocents languished in chains.
He’d have a word with Gurion after the election. The politician had connections at the police, and cleaning up a criminal operation would carve another glorious notch into his political belt.
The ceremony continued without mishap. Moshe sipped the wine, placed the ring on her finger, crushed the glass beneath his heel, broke bread, danced and posed for photos, but throughout the evening the dread lingered in the shadows of his mind. Let Gurion handle Boris. Moshe had kicked a sleeping tiger once and lived to tell the tale. He should avoid a second confrontation or he could lose everything.
CHAPTER 35
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Irina asked.
The three-story apartment block on Rav Berlin Street did not look like a medical clinic, and the doctor’s name did not appear on the façade of grimy Jerusalem stone. A row of tall rustling trees created a reassuring sense of suburban calm.
“This is his private consultation room,” Alex said. He held the gate of the yard open for her. Despite the tough-guy exterior, Alex behaved like a gentleman.
They had spent a lot of time together since their first meeting at the Society last Thursday. He had accompanied her to the press conference on Sunday, and early Monday morning, he had worked with her at the Ministry of the Interior, helping applicants fill out their forms and find the right desk. Some of them could neither read nor write Hebrew. That afternoon, during their lunch break of packed sandwiches, he had offered to take her to see the doctor.
Her memory loss fascinated Alex, but not only her memory loss. His lips trembled when he spoke with her and he moved with a self-conscious stiffness, which whispered that his interest in her went beyond mere intellectual curiosity.
She smiled to herself and walked through the open gate, down the short path of flat stones, to the door of the building. Alex pressed the buzzer for apartment number one and the door clicked open. As the building was situated on a hillside slope, they had to descend a gloomy stairwell to get to the first floor. Their footfalls echoed in the dank and cramped space.
“Are you sure I can’t pay him?” she asked. She had brought a few hundred shekels and a Dry Bones Society credit card just in case. Having no identity, she couldn’t apply for an identity card and thus she couldn’t register for state health insurance. Luckily, she had not needed a doctor since her return. In fact, during the past few months she had been so busy trying to survive and, later, helping new arrivals at the Society that the idea of consulting a neurologist had never crossed her mind.
“He’s an old friend,” Alex said. “And he owes me a favor.”
Alex stopped at a door on the lower floor. No name. No number. He knocked, then entered and turned on a light.
They stood in a plain rectangular room. Sunlight seeped through slatted window
s on one side and fell on two simple chairs of steel and plywood. Pale rectangles on the walls remained where once pictures had hung. The small square floor tiles reeked of disinfectant. In the remains of an old kitchen at the back, gas pipes protruded from the wall. Irina clutched her handbag to her chest. This was not your typical waiting room.
A door opened and a short man in a white cloak and thick black-framed spectacles glared at them. A bald patch glistened on the top of his head. He waved them inside without a word.
A large dentist’s chair dominated the center of the chamber, and a tray of medical tools sat atop a long set of drawers. That’s more like it. But the unusual mix of medical equipment gave her pause. Did neurologists use dentist’s chairs?
“Sit,” the doctor said in Russian. He was not a man of words.
She made for the dentist’s chair and a layer of thick plastic sheeting crinkled beneath her sandals. This was probably the most unusual doctor’s room she had ever visited, although, to be fair, she remembered nothing of other medical visits.
The doctor sat on a squeaky-wheeled chair and searched among his equipment. Alex leaned against the wall and folded his arms. She was glad he had come with her.
The doctor leaned over her. “Look up,” he said. He flashed a light in each of her eyes.
“Alex tells me you’re a neurologist,” she said, in a lame attempt at small talk.
The doctor raised his eyebrows at her, so she pointed toward the set of drawers behind her. “The dentist’s drill,” she said. “And the chair.” She had noticed many other long, pointed tools but didn’t know their names.
Alex spoke. “Dr. V has many qualifications and many talents.”
The doctor gripped her wrist and glanced at his watch. “Both involve extraction,” he said, a crooked smile twisting his thin, chapped lips. “As a dentist, I extract teeth. Today we will extract memories. Ready?”
Irina inhaled a deep breath. Today was the day. Her first memory. Her first glimpse at her former life. She nodded.
“Good.”
There was a click and a mechanical groan. The chair shuddered as it flattened to a reclining position.
The doctor grasped a round sticker attached to a thin wire and pressed the sticker to her right temple, then attached a second sticker to her left temple. The doctor arranged her hands on the armrest and a strap tightened over one of her wrists.
“Are you sure that’s—?” she began but the doctor cut her off.
“For your safety,” he said.
She glanced at Alex for reassurance and he nodded. The doctor buckled a strap over her other wrist and did the same for both her ankles. She couldn’t move.
She said, “Is this is really necessary?”
The doctor straightened on his seat. “Old memories can be very traumatic. This way you won’t injure yourself. Breathe deeply and stay calm. OK?”
Irina drew a long, deep breath and tried to relax. She was prepared to go through almost anything to get her memory back. The doctor had dodgy rooms and unorthodox methods, but he might be able to help her.
He turned on a lamp behind her. “I will show you a few objects, and you will tell me if they look familiar. OK?”
She nodded.
He raised his arm in the air. In his hand, he held a stuffed teddy bear.
She smiled. She had almost expected a dead fish or a writhing snake. “Nothing,” she said.
The bear disappeared and he held up a poster of the Eiffel Tower. “No.” She shifted on the chair. This would be easier—and far more comfortable—with a computer and without the straps.
The next item made her giggle. He held a kinky bra of black lace in his hand, while he scrutinized her eyes. She shook her head and stifled another giggle. Alex studied the floor.
The next few objects helped her overcome her giggle attack. A knife with a long, thick blade. A photo of a dingy alleyway with broken trash bins and shattered windows. What strange things to show her.
“No,” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. None of the objects or photos had registered in her memory.
The doctor glanced at Alex and Alex nodded his head.
“We will try another approach,” the doctor said. He leaned over her and pointed beneath his right eye. “Look here. Good.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t take your eyes from mine. Don’t speak or move until I tell you.”
Hypnosis, Irina realized, with mild disappointment. The first attempts had failed.
“As you follow my instructions,” he continued, “nothing in the world can prevent you from falling into a very deep and pleasant sleep.”
This probably wouldn’t work. Had she ever undergone hypnosis? She didn’t think she was the susceptible type.
“Now, take a deep breath and fill your lungs.” He lifted his hand into the air and her lungs filled. “Now exhale.” He lowered his hand and her lungs emptied. He repeated the procedure twice, her breath deepening each time.
She swallowed a yawn. The doctor was good. She felt very relaxed.
“I’m going to count from five down to one. As I do, your eyelids will feel heavy, drowsy, and sleepy. By the time I reach the count of one, they will close and you will sink into a deep hypnotic slumber. Deeper than ever before.”
Whatever. She’d humor him. What did she have to lose?
He raised his hand above her head and pointed into the air. “Five,” he said. “Eyelids heavy, drowsy, sleepy.”
He lowered his hand a notch. “Four. Those heavy lids are ready to close.” His eyes filled her mind. Only his eyes existed. She blinked.
“Three. The next time you blink, that is hypnosis coming over you.” The hand dropped slowly. His eyes bored right through her.
The hand fell out of sight beside her head. “Two,” the voice said. “They begin closing, closing, closing, closing, closing them, close them, close them. They’re closing, closing, closing. One.”
Fingers closed over her elbow. A hand grasped her head at the base of the skull and shoved her head forward. “Sleep now!”
Her eyes closed.
She waited.
Hearing nothing, she waited some more.
Fingers clicked and she opened her eyes. The doctor stood over her. Over his shoulder, Alex watched her. They said nothing for a while. It didn’t work.
“Sorry, Doctor,” she said. “I don’t think I’m a good candidate for hypnosis.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that burning smell?”
The doctor didn’t answer. He leaned in and plucked a round white sticker from her temple. She had forgotten about the wires. A wisp of smoke rose from the underside of the pad, which had charred to black. He detached the other pad and removed them from sight.
Strange. She hadn’t felt any burning.
“Retrograde amnesia,” the doctor said to Alex. “She truly remembers nothing of her former life.” He spoke as though she wasn’t in the room.
“Will her memory ever return?”
The doctor shook his head. “This is caused by a lack of blood flow to the right temporal lobe, the seat of long-term memory. It is usually the result of head trauma.”
Alex nodded as though that made sense.
Irina spoke up. “But I haven’t hurt my head.”
The doctor turned to her. “Not now,” he said. “Before your death.”
“Oh. Right.” She had received a blow to the head toward the end of her first life. That ruled out cancer as her suspected cause of death and pushed car accident to the top of the list. Or some other violent end. She shuddered, and suddenly she wanted very much to get far away from the doctor and his dingy consultation room.
The chair groaned and shuddered toward an upright position and Alex unbuckled the leather straps, then helped her out of the chair. He escorted her up the stairwell and out of the building.
Her temples itched. When she touched them, her fingers returned with a patina of dark, crusty flakes like burnt bread. Or singed chicken.
Alex held the gate open f
or her. “Disappointed?”
“I suppose.”
He grinned. “Don’t be,” he said. He seemed to be in a good mood, despite the failed attempts at recall.
The prognosis hit her. “I’ll never get my memory back, will I?”
He gave her a sympathetic frown. “Look on the bright side. You have a new life. A clean slate.”
Moshe had said the same thing to console her on her first day. Irina slipped her arm in his and they walked to Alex’s car together. Men were strange creatures.
CHAPTER 36
Ahmed ignored the stares as he walked up Jaffa Street. He had shaken the dirt from his soiled clothes as best he could, but some passersby made faces and blocked their noses. His own nose had grown used to the stench of trash, and he wore his stiff clothes and foul smell like armor in enemy territory.
Israeli society had not always been enemy territory. He had worked among the Jews at the Rami Levi supermarket in Talpiot without fear. He had unpacked crates, mopped floors, and laid out fresh vegetables for customers to buy. Yigal, his boss, had joked around with him in Arabic, asked after his family, and let him take Fridays off. All that had changed the moment Ahmed had stepped onto a crowded bus and pressed the detonator hidden in his sleeve.
The tired façade of Clal Center loomed over Jaffa Street: two floors of large cement squares topped by thirteen more, all stained with soot. Dark bands separated the floors, windows dotted by air conditioning units. The old building looked like a prison. Once inside, he might not be able to escape. Would they kill him on sight to avenge their murdered friends and family, or torture him first? Or would they take him in as one of their own? Ahmed the killer had died. Was there hope for the new Ahmed?
The cramp in his stomach cast the deciding vote.