A Savage Flower

by Judith Weinstock

He was to join the Israeli army. Study in Jerusalem.

  The gray pages, one page after another, of his desolate life there, in Antwerp, never provided him with any great joy. Not that it had been difficult, or bad. He just never managed to find anything fascinating about it.

  Henri then moved to study in London. He broke up with his Michelle, and must have found new experiences for himself.

  He hopped by to see Leo for a quick goodbye, a see-you-later-buddy-yeah?

  And left.

  The girls from his high school class also dispersed one by one to their adult lives, some here and some there.

  Leo-Eyal didn’t miss any of them.

  But in Israel, it would be different.

  He decided.

  A new clean slate. To be etched by a new different life. So he felt. Knew, even.

  His Grandma and Grandpa left him a great deal of inheritance. Leo didn’t calculate exactly how much, but realized that he could definitely count on Horowitz & Sons, the lawyers who cared for the family’s business matters for many years. He received a hefty monthly sum, and an organized quarterly report of the company’s management, and rightfully deduced that money would never be an issue for him.

  That knowledge sufficed him.

  Money and property no longer concerned him.

  Thus, on an exceptionally dreary October morning, twenty-two year old Eyal left his childhood home in the Zurenborg neighborhood, and flew out to Israel. To Jerusalem.

  After an obedient military service in the adjutancy - the army bored him - he enrolled for philosophy and law studies at the university, and socialized with students like him, Jerusalem-enchanted-foreigners from near and far Jewish diasporas.

  Everyone seemed to him to be searching for the path.

  Like him.

  Yearning for something that they couldn’t name.

  Freedom of the soul, perhaps. He thought sometimes. To emancipate it, carefree and liberated, from the shackles of body and matter.

  But he didn’t know how or where to.

  And couldn’t find meaning or purpose.

  Eyal and his friends teamed up for nightly wanderings through their Jerusalem apartments, night dens and dimly lit pubs, a brief contact with random female students here and there, which never ripened beyond a couple of meetings.

  Eyal began thinking of a change. Perhaps London. Boston.

  And then he met Dori. Professor Doron Sadeh. And David.

  His world opened wide.

  11

  Professor Doron Sadeh is the one who had brought him to the Caesar’s group of the chosen few.

  Eyal stuck with Dori ever since his first class in the department. He had arrived early at the large lecture hall for philosophy and law, finding rows of empty seats.

  Here and there in the back rows were a few female students busy with reading. With his new-student anxiety he chose a spot on the side, obscured by a wall on the third row.

  He saw the empty rows filling up.

  On his row, near the aisle, an older student sat down, he assumed him to be around fifty years of age, fair-haired, donning a light blue shirt, short-sleeved, fair-eyed. The hall was already full, the seats bursting with students, when the fair man near him suddenly rose up, and with a light skip, almost a jog, swallowed the distance to the lecturer stage, skipped over the two steps up to the podium, said, “Good morning, I’m Professor Doron Sadeh,” and ruled in a tranquil, warm, almost friendly voice:

  “The lie of court houses.”

  Silence ensued.

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes silently gaped open.

  “Everyone knows that it’s a lie. The defendants. The parties. Lawyers. The judge. The innocents lie. The guilty ones lie.”

  Eyal clearly saw that Professor Sadeh was enjoying every minute of it, becoming filled with intoxicated joy by the students’ astonishment. And he continued to rule decisively:

  “There is no point to the life of a trial. A lot of energy is invested into it to no avail. The world of law is a masquerade.”

  It seemed to Eyal that Doron Sadeh, who fell silent for a moment, was scanning over the rows of silent seated students, basking in his victory. The magic was working.

  “I am here to take you to a fascinating voyage within the masquerade. We will join in and don our own masks. We will remove others’ masks, and delve into their exposed figures. We will learn together how to discover what’s behind them. What drives them. What currents feed the life of a trial. We will discover the mask of justice and the mask of law. They are not identical, of course.

  And if you’re ready, then we’ll embark on the voyage together. It’ll be anything but boring.”

  He winked.

  At him. At him alone. Eyal was certain.

  He had a warm gaze, a smile of I’m-totally-with-you-

  and-you-can-count-on-that.

  Eyal, who had been Leo of Antwerp up until a short while before, answered him in his mind:

  And-where-have-you-been-all-this-time-I-have-waited-for-you-for-so-long.

  Doron Sadeh prowled for these students. The captivated ones. Found them in each and every group. The exposed. The lonely. The ones searching for the path.

  And he waited. Sent implying looks, and waited. Sometimes he’d cast a joke out into the space of the hall, and while the entire class was cheering him on, he’d look straight into the eyes of his prey with a smiling gaze, as though saying: You and I know the real depth of this witty remark.

  Eyal was the perfect prey.

  He began walking up to the podium at the end of lectures. Hesitantly asking for clarifications, returning to the subject at hand, asking for further details, if possible.

  Then he moved on to practical help. Volunteering to carry books. Bag. Escorting Doron to his office. Making hot drinks. Invited to have a coffee with him, and his heart’s joy knew no bounds. Felt that he’d found a mentor. An omniscient guide.

  For the first time in his life, he’s not alone.

  He was invited to Doron’s home. Met his spouse (the temporary one, as it turned out), Stella. Round, smiley, and as unimportant as an extra shelf in the bathroom.

  She stalked Doron’s nuanced movements, the nearly-unnoticeable batting of his lashes. And swiftly acted accordingly. Leaping up to make tea, bring cookies. Quietly and humbly retiring from the room, leaving the two to discuss matters in which she had no part.

  And the discussions fascinated Eyal.

  Eyal opened up to Dori about his Antwerpian past. He had never felt that freed.

  He told him about his Grandma and Grandpa who had raised him in their massive home, about the family’s successful suitcase business, the Jewish school he had entered back in kindergarten, leaving only once he’d completed 12th grade, after fourteen years.

  He told him about his girlfriends, Danielle and Elsa, from whom he had derived pleasures, in order to continue along his path without any specific sufferings.

  About him and Henri at the school swim team.

  The swift shadow of pleasure in that crammed boarding home room, when Henri’s hand glided to his secret places, this he kept to himself.

  Dori was very attentive, nodding his head, occasionally asking something, sometimes answering Eyal’s questions.

  They used to drink whisky together, and Dori too then slightly unlocked the doors to his world.

  He told Eyal about Dana. His excelling PhD student. The lovely hours they were spending at her apartment.

  Dori spoke about her with a smile. With slight affection. Yes. Dana. Sweet. Nice. Very. He nodded, smart. She’ll soon finish and be on her way. Another will come, he winked.

  He too isn’t a native Israeli.

  He and Stella had arrived to Jerusalem from Boston, already a couple, after his studies and teaching in his area of expertise, the philosophy of law.
He was always intrigued by the ethics of law.

  But he didn’t feel that they had acknowledged his worth, over there, in Boston.

  He wasn’t promoted as he had rightfully deserved, what with his acquired reputation, vast experience, broad education and depth of spirituality.

  Perhaps because I’m Jewish, he said. They already had too many of us, he chuckled. Until he’d had enough of the Bostonian academic life, and accepted the teaching position in Jerusalem.

  And of course, there’s also David.

  They had immigrated almost at the same time. David, who was his admired lecturer and spiritual mentor, was the one who had instigated the huge change in Dori’s life. Already back in Boston.

  After having started to pick his group of chosen few back there, David was the one to make Jerusalem their mission.

  We shall found the perfect group in Jerusalem, David declared. Only the fitting will be awarded membership.

  The rightful place of the spirit is Jerusalem.

  Dori and David immigrated to the city almost at the same time, Stella dragging along, as expected. Dori had gathered, both there and here, the worthy members.

  And Eyal was deemed worthy.

  Not immediately. Not right away. He aspired to be accepted, wished to be found right by them. But realized the terms had yet to ripen.

  Eyal heard the tales of David from Dori. About his hidden and revealed powers. About the group’s elevated members. About the Gatherings.

  He dared not speak out his wish. The thought that began gnawing at him. His yearning to belong. Be accepted.

  He occasionally met David at Dori and Stella’s home, a deep reverence muting him. Dori and David spoke in what seemed to him as a secret language.

  With a glass of whisky in his hand, he reduced himself to an invisible molecule. David never spoke to him.

  Things gradually became clearer to him.

  Money. Need a lot of money. How great is it when members can share in the expenses. Because there are a lot of expenses. The assemblage of a worthy and purified group entails hefty budgets.

  And Dana.

  David and Dori talk about Dana.

  Dori recently took her, his presentable PhD student, to a conference in Italy. Now Dana’s starting to burden him.

  Dori doesn’t like overly-long relationships, he explains to Eyal.

  And despite what everyone thinks, he’s never made any relationship official. Not even with the veteran Stella at his side.

  Even Stella?

  And children? Eyal wonders.

  Dori and David laugh. Dana is mentioned with mockery, with sarcasm and with a growing frequency.

  Their laughter grows guttural.

  And one evening, during a whisky-drenched conversation, somewhat worn-out and exhausted, about Dana and her affairs, David’s eyes suddenly fixed on Eyal through his thick lenses, his gaze suddenly becoming clear, he indicated with his head towards Eyal and then at Dori, and asked: “Are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking?”

  David and Dori looked at Eyal. Then at each other, then back at him.

  They smiled, nodding.

  Eyal knew Dori’s Dana. Beautiful, tall. Cool. Condescending.

  “So what do you say, Eyal?” Dori asked him.

  Eyal was confused.

  Asked: “About what?”

  He didn’t get it.

  “You and Dana, what do you think about that?”

  Eyal didn’t think anything about it. And then, he did. Only then did he get it.

  He was finally arriving at the shores of the Promised Land.

  12

  The derelict office complex in Jerusalem’s industrial area hadn’t prepared Eyal for what welcomed him once the tottering elevator spewed the two of them out into the top floor.

  On an open rooftop, with a chilly Jerusalem night spread above, a long hall had been built, its windows shut, a nearly-invisible door at its side.

  They took off their shoes, laid them by the row of shoes near the wall, opened the secret doorway, and were swept into another world.

  Their footsteps were swallowed by cushioned rugs, deep, entirely covering the floor.

  The dim lighting didn’t allow for seeing the faces of the people present there, and a heavy scent of incense clouded the air. The walls were covered by rows upon rows of strange portraits, their facial features resembling characters from other worlds, making Eyal ponder their purpose, and a melody of string instruments dispersed odd sounds into the space.

  At the center of the hall was a heightened stage, cushioned too, and on it stood a magnificent-looking armchair.

  It was with delay, and only when the eyes reconciled with the darkness, that he realized it was David, with all of his grandeur and stature, sitting on the armchair.

  And smiling.

  At him. At Eyal. Directly at him.

  Eyal lost Doron among the shadows, and reacted with a hesitant smile back at David, very embarrassed.

  He noticed blurry men and women, sitting tightly together on the rugs cushioning the floor, tilting their heads up, towards David, then towards him, the new face in the room, and then back to David.

  The smell of incense, the candles, the portraits, the music, the lights-no-lights, made him dizzy, he swayed and nearly fell over.

  “Brothers and sisters!”

  David’s voice suddenly boomed. A deep and pleasant bass, somewhat reminiscent of soul music.

  The melodic sounds drifting through the air ceased immediately. Everyone stood up at once, holding hands with one another.

  “Eyal has found his way to us.”

  David’s voice then became soft, warm. Accepting.

  He pointed at Eyal, spreading out his hands with a grand welcoming gesture, then indicated with a slight nod of the head to the people standing holding hands, and their clear voices began letting out a faint chant.

  Eyal couldn’t understand the words, but realized that they were welcoming him, and felt choked-up.

  Him.

  They’re welcoming him. They’re swaying left and right with a slowly-intensifying chant, their heads as though touching one another, and they’re all singing to him.

  To Eyal.

  They’re glad that he has reached them.

  The chanting stopped, and by David’s gesture everyone sat back down in unison. Eyal joined them too, sitting among them.

  And David spoke to them.

  To him.

  With a faint voice, their necks stretching out in order to hear.

  The voice soothed. Trickled towards him, filling his body with a sense of pleasance the likes of which he had never experienced.

  “Everything is fine now, Eyal. You have arrived. Your journey here was tough, but now you are among us. Within us. You are protected. You do not yet need to try to understand.

  I will provide you with answers.

  Know this, Eyal. You have found refuge here with us. Any help that you require will be provided to you.

  I will be a Father and a Mother to you.”

  You’re home, Eyal.

  Finally.

  He belonged.

  13

  And when he was given the Dana mission, Eyal took it on straight away, with the enthusiasm of an eager combat-soldier.

  He began with slight flirtations. Pleasant ones. Gestures like shall-I-bring-you-a-glass-of-wine, Dana?

  And drinking together in pensive silence.

  Dana wasn’t even sure that he was indeed flirting.

  She was used to admirers, though in recent times, she noticed, their numbers had decreased.

  Only when she realized that Eyal indeed intended on deepening their acquaintanceship did she properly observe him, and what she witnessed satisfied her.

  Moderately. No need to exaggerate.
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  She wasn’t swept away by a surge of love, and she surely wasn’t overcome with wild passion. He was kind of alright. The kind with which her mother would rejoice.

  Not that she really cared.

  And still, in her imaginary questionnaire of mothers to their future sons-in-law, she noted with a slight tone of sarcasm that almost all of the boxes could be ticked.

  Education - yes

  Intelligence - fair

  Height - yes

  Looks - reasonable

  Family - no, but that’s not a disadvantage

  Money - maybe

  And so it happened that for the following few months, Eyal would come over to her place, entering her exceptionally neat apartment with ready-made meals from famous restaurants, wine, Leonard Cohen CDs, herb pots, little gifts.

  Dana started enjoying these visits, at the end of her work day. The attention. The hours devoted solely to her.

  Ever since her long affair had ended with Dori, Professor Doron Sadeh, she had been treading over a pretty arid path, with few milestones highlighting it. Work-books-home. No man included.

  She found herself preparing for Eyal. Shampooed, perfumed, in a casual colorful dress. Fragrant sheets on her bed.

  Not love-sick. Not eaten away by burning passion. But definitely ready for him.

  And nothing.

  She and Eyal sit at the carefully-set dining table, digging with their chopsticks.

  Fastidiously presenting their mouths with micro slices of fish, drinking wine on the couch, watching movies.

  When they part he hugs her, and kisses her too, sort of quickly. And Dana begins to wonder.

  Yes or no.

  And when it finally arrives, it hits them like a thunderstorm.

  One minute they’re sitting on the couch having a civilized discussion, Leonard Cohen serenading “Suzanne” to them, and then, without any hint or prior warning, he decisively lifts her from the couch, presses her body to his with surprising force, buckles her thin torso with a pair of strong, muscular arms, and drags her, for lack of a better word, like a caveman, just like that, straight to the patiently-awaiting sheets. There he loosens his grip, and forcefully tosses her onto the bed.