Three Envelopes

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Three Envelopes Page 2

by Nir Hezroni


  He must start dealing with moving, Amiram mused. Avner’s right, he can’t afford to take any risks at all. He’ll speak to his wife tonight. She probably won’t like the idea, but it has to be done.

  The host of the program ended the argument by abruptly hanging up. “And now let’s listen to ‘If You Go’ by Idan Raichel, followed by a news update.”

  Amiram pressed on the lighter button in the car and, while waiting for it to heat up, reached for the box of Marlboro Lights in his shirt pocket, took out a cigarette, and slipped the box back into his pocket. He withdrew the lighter from its socket and directed its glowing red end toward the tip of the cigarette in his mouth. His lips could feel the heat of the metal coil. Even if he hadn’t taken his eyes off the road in that second, he still wouldn’t have been able to see the thick steel cable, painted black, that had been tied to two thick-trunked cypress trees and stretched across the road.

  The front end of the jeep struck the cable and the back end was catapulted into the air, causing the vehicle to somersault and land on its roof in a ditch by the side of the road. The cigarette flew out of Amiram’s mouth and the lighter was thrown from his hand. The seat belt saved his life; but because the old Land Rover was not fitted with an airbag, his head slammed hard into the steering wheel and Amiram lost consciousness. He remained strapped in the seat of the overturned vehicle, its engine running and its wheels pointing skyward, still spinning.

  * * *

  A figure dressed in black emerged from the ditch by the side of the road and quietly walked over to the steel cable. The person released one end of the cable and crossed the road to untie the other, cheerfully humming. After rolling up the cable and inserting it into a backpack, the dark-clothed figure then walked casually over to the overturned Jeep, looking up and down the road to make sure no other vehicles were approaching.

  At closer range, the figure looked like a young man. He peered into the jeep and waited for a moment, stroking his beard. He then reached out and removed the Jeep’s key from the ignition. The engine went silent. The Jeep’s wheels stopped spinning. The man switched off the vehicle’s lights, removed the pistol from the unconscious driver’s belt, and emptied his pockets. Wallet. Cell phone. He removed his ID card from the wallet and looked at it.

  “It’s really very good,” he said to himself.

  The bearded man then sat on the ground in front of the open door of the overturned Jeep, crossed his legs, and stared with interest at the unconscious passenger.

  * * *

  Amiram didn’t know how long he’d been lying there like that, upside down in the Jeep. But what he did know when he came to was that something was wrong. His head was throbbing, both from the blow it took on the steering wheel and also due to the fact that he was strapped upside down in his seat. How had the Jeep flipped like that without him crashing into anything? He had indeed been fiddling with the lighter, but there was no car coming in the opposite direction at the time and there had been nothing on the road. He was sure of that. His reflexes kicked in.

  Hand to the right hip.

  The gun wasn’t there. It must have been thrown aside by the force of the crash, he thought.

  His cell phone wasn’t in his pocket either.

  Amiram groped around in the dark for the release mechanism of the seat belt. He pressed down on the button, taking another blow to his head as he fell from the driver’s seat onto the roof of the overturned vehicle.

  He noticed after freeing himself that the Jeep’s door was open. He crawled out of the vehicle, freezing in place at the sight of the bearded man sitting in front of him, legs crossed and a gun in his hand.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Hi. I’ve come to get you. Take these handcuffs. Use one pair to shackle your legs and then tie your wrists with the other pair. Drink this when you’re done.”

  NIGHT. APRIL 1992

  It’s raining and we’re stuck in an endless traffic jam on our way home from up north. The windshield wipers squeak monotonously.

  Squeak

  Squeak

  Squeak

  Squeak

  The lights of the cars around us are reflected in shades of red and white on the wet pavement. The traffic ends when we come upon an accident—2 smashed cars and a few police vehicles. Their lights reflect blue-red-white on the wet road. There’s an ambulance alongside them. Its lights are revolving red. A paramedic in a light blue uniform is leaning against the side of the ambulance and smoking a cigarette. 4 bodies covered in white sheets wet from the rain lie neatly on the road next to the cars—3 large adult bodies and 1 small body of a boy.

  Or maybe a girl.

  I wake at 1:30 and go to the fridge.

  I measure the level of the water in the bottles and notice that someone has added water or something to one of them. I empty it into the kitchen sink, wash it well with dish soap and refill it to the level the water was at before I went to bed.

  The next day at school I’m sitting at recess and reading a chemistry book. Yoav, David, and Amir from my class come in and shut the door. “The nerd’s got his nose in a book again,” Yoav says, and he grabs the book and throws it out the classroom window.

  “Go outside and bring me back my book,” I say.

  “Screw you,” Yoav replies.

  These 3 boys have been bullying me ever since the start of middle school. I didn’t care much about this until now but the book I’m reading is very interesting and I want to finish reading it without interference, so I decide to put an end to it. I remove a pencil from my pencil case and begin to sharpen it. Yoav laughs, “Now the nerd’s going to do his homework.”

  I put the sharpener back in the pencil box, close it, put the pencil case in my schoolbag, and attack Yoav. He manages to turn his head slightly so the pencil misses his eye, but pierces through his cheek and comes to a stop against his tongue. He pulls the pencil out of his cheek and screams.

  I quietly say that if any of them reports me to the principal, I’ll probably be suspended from school for a week or 2 or maybe even for good, but if that happens I’ll come back and find them one by one and ram the pencil through their eyes and into their brains. And it’ll come as a surprise and they won’t be able to turn their heads in time. Maybe I’ll sneak into their rooms at night while they’re asleep.

  “Go get my book,” I say to them before they leave the classroom.

  Amir runs out and returns with the book.

  I continue reading. I’m already on page 106 and there’s an explanation there about reactions in theoretical chemistry. Halogenation, for example, is a reaction in which a halogen atom is added to an organic compound.

  The bullies and the rest of the kids at my middle school keep their distance and don’t bother me anymore.

  MORNING. JULY 1993

  I don’t feel well today and I’m staying home. I have fever: 38.6 Celsius.

  Mom asks if I can manage on my own and I say I can. Before she heads off to work she leaves me a plate of schnitzel and mashed potatoes in the fridge. I don’t eat it.

  I read a book for 2 hours and then take a piece of shoulder of beef out the freezer.

  I thaw the meat in the microwave and eat it raw. I dip my finger in the pool of blood that collected on the plate and smell it. The smell seems familiar but I can’t tell why. It is like a mix of earth, mildew, and decay.

  I imagine the piece of meat when it was a living muscle along the back of the cow and still performing the operations a muscle should.

  Flexing and relaxing.

  Flexing and relaxing.

  Flexing and relaxing.

  I go over to the medicine cabinet and find a sterile syringe. I thrust it into my thigh muscle and it slides in all the way up to the green tip without any resistance. I leave the needle in my leg and walk across the living room. Flexing the muscle and then relaxing again. Getting used to the stab wound.

  And again.

  One last time.

  I then pull the ne
edle out of my thigh. A small drop of blood remains on the spot where it went in.

  Later I’ll check what happens when you jab the needle into your stomach. If I jab it into my belly button it won’t leave a mark.

  December 3rd 2016

  “Avner, are you coming to bed?”

  The voice came from over his shoulder and startled Avner. He was completely engrossed in the notebook.

  “Soon, hon.”

  Avner looked back and caressed Efrat’s hand.

  “You gave me a fright,” he smiled.

  “Were you just speaking to someone or am I imagining things?”

  “Someone from work stopped by to bring me something to read.”

  “At eleven at night?”

  “Yes, something urgent. You know how it is. Go upstairs, I’ll join you soon.”

  “It’ll be worth your while,” she smiled.

  “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Efrat went up to their bedroom on the second floor and smiled to herself. She knew her husband well—he’d spend the entire night reading through the material he received from work. She gazed out the window at the orange and lemon trees in the backyard dimly lit by the moon peeking between the clouds and went into the bathroom. Looking at the mirror she paused for a moment. Her face suddenly looked unfamiliar, like she was looking at someone else. Short black hair, black eyes, wrinkles at the edges of the eyes, this person looking back at her from the mirror looked like an older version of her. She brushed her teeth and returned to the bedroom, undressed, put on a big T-shirt and got into bed, then reached for the cable TV remote and turned on Channel 10 to watch the late night news. She missed the times when the kids were still living with them. Such a big house is a waste of space for just two people. And too quiet. Way too quiet.

  Avner placed the notebook on the table and went to look for something to eat in the fridge. He took out a tub of cottage cheese and spread some on a slice of brown bread. When he returned to the table he set the notebook aside for a moment and quietly ate the small late-night snack he’d prepared for himself. Although he would have liked a break, his well-trained mind was already racing.

  There’s something here.

  Avner flipped quickly through the pages of the notebook he’d already read. He didn’t recall seeing anything in the autopsy report about a girl’s tooth being found with the remains of the body. He needed to check that out.

  The solutions to many puzzles are found within the pages of this notebook, he thought to himself, but why the notebook was sent at all was the real mystery. And why specifically now, years after the death of 10483?

  A wry smile appeared on Avner’s lips. Now there’s a number he’ll never forget.

  NIGHT. NOVEMBER 1995

  The walls in my room are painted white.

  I’m lying in bed and looking at them.

  Brown stains are starting to appear on the ceiling and walls, and brown water has started to drip down the walls and collect in brown puddles on the floor.

  Brown drops are falling onto my bed from the ceiling, dirtying the white linen and wetting me.

  The water is hot and steam is rising.

  Vapors begin to fill the room.

  They have an acrid smell.

  The air in the room is hot and damp.

  It’s hard for me to inhale the brown fumes.

  I try to get up, but remain in bed paralyzed, unable to move.

  The water is dripping down my cheeks and leaving brown streaks.

  It’s dripping into my eyes and I can’t blink to clean them.

  My eyes are burning.

  I wake up at 1:30.

  On the way to the kitchen I hear my mother crying. She’s speaking to Dad. I stop outside their room and listen.

  “Dandush, it’ll be okay,” he tells her.

  Mom answers him. “No. I don’t want any more children.”

  “We need another boy or girl in the family,” he says to her. “We can’t remain just as we are. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “And what if they turn out like him?” she says.

  I quietly return to my room and wait for them to fall asleep. Then I go to check the door and the fridge.

  Last year’s calendar is still hanging on the fridge. Mom and Dad haven’t replaced it. But I know that it’s 1995. I’m in 11th grade now.

  Lying on the kitchen table is a newspaper with a big headline, “Rabin assassinated; Israel mourns,” and there’s a bottle of orange juice in the fridge. I didn’t measure it yesterday and I don’t know if anything’s been added to it. I take the bottle and empty the orange juice down the sink. I open the tap and watch the remains of the juice disappear in a circular motion down the drain.

  I wash the empty bottle and throw it into the trash can under the sink.

  I light a candle and stare at it and think hard about the candle going out. Sometimes, if I’m very focused, I see the flame dancing a little. Once I looked at a streetlight and thought really hard and it went out.

  I hold my foot over the flame to see how long I can withstand the pain. I could manage just 6 seconds when I was younger. Now I can leave my foot over the flame of the candle until there’s the smell of burning flesh. I focus my thoughts on something else and ignore the pain. I no longer do the exercise with my hand because Mom and Dad see the mark and ask me to explain the burn.

  “I accidentally leaned against the stove after making myself an omelet,” I reply.

  Maybe it’s good that I don’t have a brother or sister.

  I look back through the pages of the notebook and read about the trip we took to Spain over the Passover holiday. We visited the Salvador Dalí Museum in the town of Figueres. The collection at the museum included a life-size sculpture of a naked woman in a glass case. 4 blue fluorescent lightbulbs run the length of the glass case and cast a bluish-white light on the sculpture from 4 different angles.

  I copy down the text alongside the artwork:

  Female Nude

  Dimensions: 166 × 53 × 45 cm

  Technique: Painted polyester sculpture

  When I grow up I’ll have a collection of works like these in my house.

  NIGHT. DECEMBER 1996

  It begins with small movements. Things that are barely detectable. The blink of an eye.

  It takes me a while to realize that everything I do is being mirrored by the people in front of me.

  I sneeze, and the person opposite me, on the other side of the table, sneezes at the very same second.

  I can’t control it at first. It comes and goes.

  When I open my mouth to say something to someone at school he says the exact same word and we both stop, unable to understand how we can read one another’s thoughts.

  But I realize with time that it’s just me and my mirror images in the people I encounter.

  With time I learn to control it. I run my fingers through my hair and everyone near me does the same.

  I take my telephone out of my pocket to check the time, and all the people at the mall make the exact same motion.

  I’m expanding my spheres of control. My influence is getting stronger.

  When I enlist in the army, the commander doesn’t believe me until I show him how all the trainees on the base scratch their heads at exactly the same time. That’s how I make it all the way to meet the Chief of Staff.

  It happens during a long war. The situation on the front is bad. I sit in the office of the Chief of Staff, listen to my mission and say, “Yes, Sir. I’m willing to carry it out.” I understand there’s no alternative.

  Armed with a large commando knife I’m dropped by parachute deep behind enemy lines. And there, after I hit the ground and fold my parachute, I take the commando knife and drive it straight into my heart.

  And all the enemy soldiers do the exact same thing.

  I wake up at 1:30.

  My chest still hurts from the knife wound.

  I go to the kitchen, measure and replace the water in the b
ottles.

  I pour myself a glass of water and sit on a chair in the kitchen.

  Facing me, fixed to the fridge door with a pineapple-shaped magnet, is the draft notice that arrived yesterday in the mail.

  September 5th 2016

  “In one dream I see her on the backdrop of the sign at the Geneva Airport. A small girl in a long blue coat with her parents holding each of her hands. They’re smiling for the camera, but she isn’t. She gives me a piercing look from her slanted black eyes. I can’t really see her eyes behind the sunglasses she wears, but I know exactly what they look like. Then the image fades and I wake up.”

  Carmit fiddled with the teaspoon in the cup of coffee she’d ordered. She was sitting across from Elliot in a comfortable chair at the Starbucks in Hammersmith, not far from the Underground station. People in coats rushed past outside on their way home from work.

  “I think the work is starting to have an effect on me despite all my defense mechanisms.”

  Elliot remained silent. He watched as Carmit stirred her coffee and then retrieved a folded piece of paper from her backpack. Then she placed a drawing of a Japanese girl on the table between them. He leaned forward to look at the picture, which was almost as precise as a photograph.

  “Did you draw it? I didn’t know you could draw.”

  “Yes, I drew it. I didn’t know I could draw either until I picked up the pen. I’ve been dreaming about her more and more. She didn’t appear in the initial dreams. Only after a few. I dreamed at first about three angels in a large control room who were looking at some sort of giant control screen. I saw it frozen. Like a realistic three-dimensional image in front of me. It’s hard to explain, because it wasn’t an ordinary dream. It was as if I was there. For a few seconds after I woke up, too. Until the image faded. The girl’s name is Keiko.”

 

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