by Dan Sofer
Opening the door of the call center, she almost collided with Alex. He must have heard the accusations on the radio, because he looked pale and tense.
“It’s all a lie,” she said.
His eyes widened. “What is?”
“What they’re saying about Rabbi Yosef and Moshe.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I heard. It’s terrible.”
“I hope they pull through,” she said.
He pulled her close and stroked her hair. “I hope so too.”
CHAPTER 56
Ahmed steeled himself to face his worst fear.
At the opposite side of the circle of chairs, Samira listened with interest to each speaker. She sensed Ahmed’s eyes on her, met his gaze and gave him that warm, encouraging smile. Basking in that smile, he could brave anything.
He fidgeted with his song sheet. The heavyset man beside him folded and unfolded his tanned arms, muttering to himself and smelling of soap.
People passed by the window in the door, fellow Society members on their way to lunch. Perhaps the session would end early and save Ahmed the torment. Would his fellow Society members guess his evil deeds? Would his guilt show on his face?
Two seats down, a bearded man with olive skin stood. “Mustafa is my name,” he said. Ahmed had trouble understanding the strange Arabic dialect.
“Three young wives,” Mustafa said, “ten olive groves, and a hundred head of sheep I had. Broke bread with Abd Al-Malik, the great caliph, when he visited the walled city.” After bragging about his wealth and connections, however, he started to sob. “Then I awoke in this land of terrible sounds and devil-wagons. I hid in tunnels beneath the road for a week, scavenging and stealing, God forgive me. Then a young man found me in the trash bins and led me here. A thousand blessings upon you all, my daughter.”
When Mustafa sat down, Soap Man stood and jabbered away in a foreign tongue.
Samira looked about the room. “Does anyone understand him?” She repeated the question in Hebrew and then in English.
“Romani!” Soap Man said. “Romani!”
Samira motioned for the distressed man to sit. “We will find someone who can speak with you, sir.”
The comforting tone of her words seemed to calm him and he sat down. Samira smiled at Ahmed and her eyes glittered.
Ahmed’s turn had arrived. He glanced at the door for salvation. A man passed by the window and glanced at him—the balding older man he had seen with Moshe Karlin. There was no escape now.
He rose to his feet and a dozen pairs of eyes set upon him.
“My name is Ahmed,” he said. His voice sounded strange to own his ears. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans. Samira nodded, encouraging him. In the other faces he found understanding and acceptance. “I died ten years ago. My life was not special. But my new life is. I thank God, Who led me here, for the people I have met and the experiences I have had.” Samira swallowed and her eyes glittered again. He was talking about her, and she felt the same way about him. “I hope,” he continued, “that in the future—”
The door flung open. The balding older man who had appeared at the window stormed into the room, and he had eyes only for Ahmed.
“Murderer!” he yelled.
Ahmed stiffened. He knows!
Samira turned to the source of the commotion. Others rose and shifted out of the man’s path as he shoved a chair aside and cut through the circle toward Ahmed.
“Murderer!”
“Shmuel,” Samira cried. “Wait!”
Shmuel clamped two beefy hands around Ahmed’s neck. Ahmed fell backward, his chair slipping away. The old man landed on his chest, winding him and pinning him to the floor. The hands tightened about his neck. Ahmed couldn’t breathe.
“Murderer!” the balding man cried again, raining spittle on Ahmed’s face. He struggled but the man was too heavy and furious.
Then the man was yanked back, his hands slipping from Ahmed’s neck. He sucked in air and scrambled to his feet.
“Let me go!” Shmuel kicked and flailed but Soap Man and the Mustafa held him back. “You killed us,” Shmuel yelled at Ahmed, tears in his voice. “You blew us up. On the bus. You ruined our lives!”
Samira turned to Ahmed, her eyes wide with disbelief. “No, Ahmed. This is not true. Tell him.”
Ahmed opened his mouth to lie. He wasn’t a murderer. Some other boy had pushed the button, not him. He wanted to see her warm smile again, but he had lost it for good.
So he ran for the door and fled.
CHAPTER 57
That evening, Yosef slunk into the grocery store on Emek Refaim Street and kept his head down. After the exhausting hours of PR work, he never wanted to step in front of a video camera again. Daylight was fading by the time he headed home, but Rocheleh had insisted that he stop by the local grocer for odds and ends, as many stores would close tomorrow for Election Day. Fortunately, his wife had not been exposed to the slanderous reports on television.
While he selected zucchini from a tub in the vegetable section, a fat woman in a wooly shawl fondled the sweet potatoes in the next tub and gave him sharp looks. Did she recognize him from the mug shot on Channel Two? Her eyes seemed to shout, “Drunken pervert! Shame on you!”
He bagged his zucchini, selected two cartons of three percent milk, and waited in line at the till. The scanner beeped as Gavri swiped the barcodes. Yosef sank his head further into his shirt collar, a feeble attempt at avoiding conversation with the chatty store owner. He wanted to crawl into a hole and hibernate until the next millennium. The embarrassment caused by the accusations accounted for only part of the heartache.
The gloves will come off, Rabbi Emden had warned him, and off they had come. Yosef had expected a reprisal. The rabbinate had lashed out at him before—they had terminated his teaching job at Daas Torah Primary and he had felt the full force of their political maneuvers at the Ministry of the Interior.
But this time the betrayal was personal. Rabbi Emden had stood by him in his darkest moments, when Yosef had opened his heart and bared his soul. The media had not revealed the identity of their source, but only one “close friend and confidant” had heard his sacred confessions.
Yosef could absorb the financial and political blows; he could even forgive them. But now Emden had turned their years of emotional intimacy into a political weapon. Yosef had never imagined that his spiritual mentor would stoop so low, and the loss of his dearest friend and confidant hurt like a jagged tear in his soul.
Yosef stepped forward as the checkout line progressed and Gavri scanned the barcodes. Beep. Beep.
Having his good name dragged through the mud on television and losing his spiritual guide had seemed like enough of a beating for one day, but the afternoon had delivered the knockout punch to Yosef’s peace of mind.
No matter what the world threw at him he had found comfort in the Resurrection. Over time, a pattern had emerged. Like Moshe and Samira, the growing mass of returnees had suffered tragic and untimely deaths. The Resurrection allowed them to pick up their life stories from that abrupt intermission and read all the way to the happy ending. From Hannah and her seven sons in the Hanukkah story who, rather than betray their faith, had died as martyrs at the hands of the evil Emperor Antiochus, to the victims of terror today, the Resurrection was turning those rivers of bitter tears into the sweet dew of fresh life. The returning dead not only validated ancient Biblical prophecies, they demonstrated God’s justice.
Then, that afternoon, Shmuel had staggered into the call center, broken and shaking, and Yosef’s rosy theology had crumbled to dust. Why would God revive a suicide bomber—an intentional mass murderer—along with his victims? What was the Resurrection if not compensation for the righteous? Or had Yosef misunderstood even that? And so, at a time when he most needed guidance, Yosef found himself lost, under attack, and utterly alone.
Yosef placed his groceries on the conveyer belt of the checkout counter.
Gavri weighed the vegetables and scanned th
e other items.
Beep. Beep.
Yosef placed a fifty-shekel bill on the counter.
“Ready for the big day tomorrow, Rabbi?”
Yosef gave his questioner a suspicious glance. Was this a sarcastic hint at the rabbi’s political demise or a good-natured ice-breaker? The fat woman with the evil eye waited in line behind him, and he’d prefer to avoid further public ridicule.
“It’s in the voters’ hands now,” he said.
“Voters?” Gavri seemed to have tasted salt in his coffee. “Who cares about the elections? Tomorrow, the Messiah is coming.”
Yosef’s breath caught in his chest. “He is?”
“Sure. Everybody knows.” Gavri waved the fifty-shekel note at him. “I think, Rabbi, that since you became a politician, you lost touch with the people.” The store owner chuckled at his own joke.
Was Gavri pulling his leg? “What messiah?”
“No one knows his name or where he’s from, but tomorrow morning he’s going to make his big announcement.”
“Where?”
“At the Kotel. Where else?”
Yosef turned to the shoppers behind him in the line. They nodded their heads. How had Yosef not heard of this? He had spent hours calling rabbis throughout the city in search of the Son of David, when the tidings of the Messiah had waited for him at the corner grocery store.
Gavri dropped the change into Yosef’s hand, the tinkle of coins sounding like the rain of jackpot money at a casino. “Thank you, Gavri!”
“You’re welcome, Rabbi. Next customer.”
Yosef stumbled out of the store like a sleep-walker. The long-awaited Messiah would appear tomorrow at the Western Wall. Nothing else mattered.
CHAPTER 58
In a parking garage beneath Jaffa Road, Eli pulled on a black leather jacket and a pair of matching riding gloves. The winged Harley Davidson emblem gleamed in the cool fluorescent light on the matte black chassis of the Sportster Iron 883.
Once settled on the leather seat, he placed the black helmet over his head. One long stay at Shaare Zedek had sufficed, and Noga had insisted on the safety equipment. But tonight he was not going to think about Noga. Tonight he was going to forget all about her.
He squeezed the clutch, lifted the shift lever to neutral with his boot, and thumbed the starter. The V-twin engine growled to life. He clicked the remote, and the gate of the private parking bay rolled upward. Easing back on the throttle, he launched up the ramp and onto the street.
He slowed briefly at the light, then tore along King George Street. On Emek Refaim, revelers buzzed between the neon signs of Burgers Bar, Kaffit, and the Magic Carpet. The distractions he sought tonight would require a double dose of adrenaline, so he gunned down Pierre Koenig toward Talpiot.
Noga loved Eli Katz, so he had held his delusions below the waterline of his consciousness, and waited for them to drown. But just when that part of his mind had stopped struggling, Noga had changed her mind. Now she wanted Elijah back.
Did she expect him to switch his identity like clothes? She had piled on her arguments like cement bags, weighing him down again with the fate of the entire world until, last night, he had collapsed under the load. To hell with Elijah. To hell with the Redemption. He wanted out.
When she stormed out of his apartment with her suitcase that morning, he had waited for her to return. Let her cool off; she’d come crawling back soon enough. But she didn’t. Fine. Her choice. Let her waste her life trying to save humanity if she liked. He was done with mankind. Good luck to her and good riddance.
On a seedy Talpiot street corner, a dozen young women in short skirts lined up at the door of a nightclub. A yellow mushroom cloud filled a poster on the wall. The sign above the door read Hangar 17, and the pulse of the dance beat within reverberated on the street. Bingo.
Eli pulled up on the sidewalk, took off his helmet, and got in line. The girls chatted, all makeup and perfume. A brunette glanced at him and smiled. He returned the smile, and followed them past the bouncer and inside.
Purple light flickered to the beat of trance music in the dark hall, illuminating figures on the dance floor and gallery like lightning. The dancers raised their arms and swung their heads. Smoke billowed at their feet and the sweet scent of alcohol wafted in the air. In a corner, a couple kissed. They had the right idea—live for the moment.
He placed his jacket and helmet on a bar stool and hit the dance floor, weaving among the couples. Some of the dancers had dressed up. One guy had an axe wedged in his hat. His partner had an arrow through her head. Strange. The country had celebrated Purim months ago.
At this point, he remembered that he didn’t quite know how to dance. During the many years of obsessing over messiahs, apocalypses, and computers, he had not picked up that skill, so he improvised. He lifted his arms in the air and shifted his feet, closed his eyes, and moved his shoulders.
He opened his eyes to discover that a tall blonde was dancing with him. A star exploded on her black T-shirt. She had tied her hair up, the ends sticking out of her head like sunbeams. Her green eyes flashed at him. She had a very pretty smile. She leaned in to say something but her words got lost in the music, so he waved for her to join him at the bar.
“What are we drinking?” He had to shout to be heard.
“Breezer,” she told the bartender. “Peach.”
“Make that two.” Eli had never had a Breezer before but tonight he was eager to taste something new.
When the drinks arrived, they clinked the bottles together and took their first sip. Rum. Very sweet rum. There was a time when rum was his drink of choice, in an age of sea travel and discovery—but he decided not to follow that reverie.
“What did you say on the dance floor?” he said.
“What are you dressed as?” she said.
A definite pickup line. He glanced over his black shirt and jeans. He’d have to make something up. “What’s the theme?”
“The End of the World.”
He laughed. “I like it.” With all the zombies and weirdness lately, the theme seemed oddly appropriate. The bar managers had a sense of humor.
He said, “I’m a prophet of doom,” and she gave him the thumbs-up. He took another sip. The sweetness was growing on him. “How about you?”
“I’m a supernova.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
She held his gaze and smirked. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Oh, crap. Where had they met? “Sure I do,” he said. “Remind me anyway.”
“Café Aroma. On Emek Refaim. You were the big tipper who got away.”
She took a long swig from her bottle and he remembered. The waitress with the intelligent green eyes had sat down at his table and busted him for using The Magic to pour another cup of coffee from the empty milk pot.
He had brushed it off as a magic trick and offered to teach her the secret. When she rushed inside to fetch his check, he dropped a fifty on the table and disappeared. Seconds later, the Thin Voice spoke to him—he remembered that clearly—and the next day he had landed up in Shaare Zedek.
A shiver traced his spine. That really happened, didn’t it? He took another sip. “I owe you a private lesson,” he said, taken off guard by his own audacity. He glanced at the bottle in his hand. This is great stuff.
The green-eyed girl held his gaze. “I’m not working tomorrow. Election Day.” Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “I’ve got all night.”
Eli knew an invitation when he saw one. “Tell me,” he said, flashing his charming smile. “Do you like motorbikes?”
CHAPTER 59
“Let me get this straight,” Sarit said to Noga. “Your hot, rich boyfriend took you on an amazing cruise, and now you ditched him because… because he didn’t agree with your thesis? See—that’s the part I’m not getting.”
Noga slouched on her friend’s puffy couch. “It’s more complicated than that. I’d show you the data but I left my laptop at his place.”
&nbs
p; She had not made an inventory of her belongings before storming out of his apartment. When the golden elevator had opened on the lobby, she had stayed inside, waiting for him to call the elevator back up, fully expecting him to come running after her.
Ten minutes later, she fished clothes out of her suitcase, changed out of her pajamas, and dragged her suitcase through the lobby and down Jaffa Road until she collapsed in a sobbing heap outside Sarit’s apartment in Nachlaot.
On the couch, Noga told Sarit the details of her research results, Hannah’s theory, and their adventures in the West Bank. “The key to peace in our time has just landed in our lap,” she said. “We have to tell someone.”
She still remembered the anger in Eli’s eyes. I’m done with humanity. She felt as frightened as she had that day in the hospital when the comatose patient had grabbed her arm and spouted his deranged claims.
“OK, so you want to go public with your research and win the Nobel Peace Prize or whatever. Still, I don’t understand—why did you leave him?”
“Because he didn’t want to help.”
Sarit laughed. “Noga, you’ve got to admit that your plan here does sound a little, you know.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“A little what?”
“Loony? Nuts? Insane? Ah, yes—crazy, I believe that’s the scientific term. Certifiable. Stark raving mad. Wasn’t that the reason you broke up with him months ago—because he wanted to announce the End of Days?”
Noga sucked in a deep breath. “What if he was right all along? What if we did meet for a reason and he really is Elijah, and together we were meant to find the Ten Lost Tribes and announce the Messiah? Dead people are walking the streets, for Heaven’s sake—is this any less believable?”
Sarit slapped the arm of the couch. “I told you he was for real!”
“You were joking. I didn’t believe him either, even after I saw his apartment. You should have seen it—he had this room full of mementos from the last thousand years.”