Three Envelopes

by Nir Hezroni

  Lying in this barrel is death itself. Waiting.

  The only person who knew its location died nine years ago.

  No one else knows the location of the barrel.

  Except for one person.

  One person who watched Federico Lopez’s lips closely as he dropped to his knees, engulfed in flames, and tried to shout something into a charred phone. The noise of the raging fire made it impossible to hear a thing, but Lopez repeated the same two words with his burning lips. Again. And Again. One more time.

  “Bolivia, Uyuni.”

  “Bolivia, Uyuni.”

  “Bolivia, Uyuni.”

  One person who spent the last nine years in the Loewenstein Hospital Rehabilitation Center.

  One person who opened his eyes today.

  1 YEAR AGO

  The room in which I’m imprisoned is painted in a smooth, white acrylic paint. 2 white fluorescent lights cast a white glow around the space. The room’s floor isn’t white. It’s made of some kind of pale green rubbery plastic and my white bed is fixed to it with 8 large bolts, 2 bolts for each of the bed’s iron legs. If the bed wasn’t bolted to the floor, I’d be able to drag it under the fluorescent lights, reach up, dismantle the steel mesh protecting them, break one and be able to use the sharp glass.

  I don’t make a sound when I walk barefoot across the rubbery green floor.

  It seems like I’ve always been here.

  I have no recollection of what happened before I got here.

  The room’s heavy metal door is also painted white. At head height there’s a small opening in the shape of a square measuring around 20 × 20 centimeters and fitted with 3 thick bars. Visible through the opening is a corridor that stretches to the edge of my field of vision. The room in which I’m imprisoned is at the end of the corridor.

  I sit on the bed, bare feet resting lightly on the cool and rubbery green floor, and listen to the echo of the footsteps clicking in the corridor, amplified by the confined and lengthy expanse. I hear the heavy shoes of one of the caregivers and the light and more rapid steps of a patient. They’re approaching the room in which I’m imprisoned. Any moment now a key will turn in the lock of the white door, the tumbler will click twice, the door will open, and they will appear in front of me.

  I close my eyes and massage my temples with my fingers in wide circular movements.

  The door opens. I open my eyes. There is a caregiver dressed in blue overalls, with a girl in a light blue dress by his side. The caregiver ushers the girl in. He doesn’t budge from his position at the open door. He’s scared of me. 2 beads of sweat are trickling down his cheeks. The girl enters with quiet steps. The rubbery floor of the room absorbs the clicking of her shoes. She appears to be about 6 years old.

  The caregiver steps back and closes and locks the door. He remains outside the room and peers in through the barred opening.

  The girl has no hair.

  She tucks her elbows into her sides, the palms of her hands are facing up, and she walks toward me. I look into the roots of the light hair she once had before the radiation and I see her damaged DNA.

  When the human body is subjected to radiation, the gamma rays that are released bombard the water surrounding the DNA molecules within the cells. DNA is a molecule surrounded by water. It loves water. And the gamma rays strike the water around the DNA, releasing electrons. A water molecule is 2 atoms of hydrogen combined with 1 atom of oxygen; but the moment the gamma rays slam full force into these water molecules and send the electrons flying, the water molecules become free radicals—and they don’t like that. They want to revert back to their original configuration and become water again, and that means having to steal electrons. And they steal them from the nearest molecule around—the DNA. They ravage the DNA like a pack of ravenous hounds on a piece of flesh. The DNA of the girl in front of me, with the palms of her hands facing the ceiling, was broken as the result of a rather unsuccessful dose of radiation that missed its target—a grade 4 astrocytoma.

  I look at the girl and sense her cell division process.

  “What grade are you in?” I think.

  She thinks back to me: “Second grade. Our teacher’s name is Tamar.”

  She smiles at me.

  “I’ll fix you,” I think.

  “I know,” she thinks back and walks toward me.

  I place the palms of my hands on hers and close my eyes.

  I’m standing in the middle of the room. Barefoot on the cool plastic floor. If he sees me here, he’ll approach. He won’t be scared. I’m not close to him here. He’ll think he’s safe.

  I’m facing the door. My 2 hands are behind my back, my blood pooling into and filling the bowl I form with my interlocked palms. I bit into them just a few minutes ago, on the insides of my wrists, tearing through fine veins with my canines. If I had a small razor blade it would have made things a lot easier.

  2 seconds. That’s all I need. Even less. The moment he steps in, I’ll swivel quickly and empty the contents of my hands into his eyes. 2 seconds of confusion and I’ll have the keys. After that, everything will be simpler.

  The bowl I’ve formed with my hands is overflowing now and blood is dripping behind my back into a small puddle on the floor behind me.

  I don’t have much time left.

  I fill my lungs with air and scream.

  “Guard!!”

  He’s lying on the floor. I force his head back until a cracking sound is heard and his body goes limp. I exit my white cell and lock the door behind me, leaving the guard stretched out on the green floor—dotted with dark red spots of blood.

  My clothes have no pockets, so I hold the bunch of keys I took in my left hand and walk down to the end of the corridor, dotting the floor with drops of blood from my hands as I go. I have no idea of the time. I think it’s night, but I’m not sure. The fluorescent lighting is always the same. I’m looking for the medical clinic so I can bandage my wrists. I’m not supposed to be familiar with the building—but I am. I turn right at the end of the corridor, walk past 2 doors and turn right into the third room that serves as the clinic. I retrieve pads and bandages from a large shallow drawer and a tube of Polydine from a small cabinet on the opposite wall.

  There’s a large round object covered with a white dusty sheet in the center of the room. After dressing my wrists, I lift the sheet to reveal a spherical container filled with a clear liquid. The glow coming from a white light at the bottom of the tank illuminates the preserved body inside. The body is curled up. I can’t see the face—only the hairless skull and the line of the back with its strangely protruding vertebrae. The creature doesn’t appear to be human. Swimming slowly around it in the clear liquid are purple jellyfish. I stand in front of the tank and the creature suddenly raises its head and opens 2 black eyes without irises. I stumble backward and my hand strikes a metal tray containing a number of medical instruments that fall noisily to the floor. I quickly cover the glass again and hurry out of the room.

  I continue down the corridor. Several children are dreaming in one of the rooms to my left. I shake my head to rid it of their dreams and turn left into another white corridor with 2 red stripes painted along its length. At the end of this corridor there’s a heavy metal door with a large metal strip across its width. I know that when I push the metal strip and open the door everything will change. A big wave is approaching; it will be here soon. I start running faster and faster down the corridor. The whispers of the patients and caregivers are burning in my head.

  I reach a large door. Above it is a white sign lit with red letters—EMERGENCY EXIT. I push against the big strip of metal across the width of the door and it opens onto the cold and rainy street.

  I’m standing on wet asphalt.

  I’m free.

  I open my eyes.

  I have no idea who I am.

  I’m lying on a bed that’s covered in a white sheet bearing the words Loewenstein Hospital in pale blue.

  Next to my bed is a small w
hite cabinet on which I see a binder filled with papers and a pencil resting by its side. I want to record this dream before I forget it. It’s important. My hands don’t move. They ignore the instructions from my brain to take hold of the binder, tear out a page, pick up the pencil, and record the dream.

  I go over the dream in my head several times, memorizing it. I’ll put it all down on paper when my hands are working again. And when I get out of here, I’ll buy a big notebook and record everything in an orderly fashion. Until then, I’ll have to remember it all by heart.

  In the meantime, I close my eyes. And open them again. It’s the only movement I can make right now.

  MORNING. I DON’T KNOW WHEN.

  2 white coats are standing over me. One is a doctor and the other a nurse. They are speaking and I hear them. They don’t know I’m awake. I don’t open my eyes.

  “You probably won’t have much work with this one.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A John Doe. He’s been here for almost nine years. He was admitted on January 12, 2006, Spent a month in ER after a suicide attempt then transferred here. No one knows who he is and no family member has ever come looking for him. He requires the regular treatment—turning, washing and nourishment through a feeding tube. He’s breathing independently. His face was an absolute mess when he got here. We have no idea who he is. He’s already undergone eight reconstructive plastic surgery procedures.”

  “Is there brain activity?”

  “Yes. Otherwise they’d have switched him off a long time ago. He undergoes an ECG every month and the findings are normal. There’s brain activity but he’s locked in his own head.”

  I again try in vain to remember who I am and how I got here. But it’s not my first priority. First I need to regain control of my body. I keep practicing whenever the doctors and nurses aren’t around. I can already move the fingers on my right hand a little. I’ve been working on it now for several days.

  They’re keeping me alive without knowing who I am. It’s nice of them but there’ll surely be budget cuts soon and they’ll stop feeding me. No one will know. I have to get the hell out of here.

  The doctor leaves the room and the nurse stays behind to take care of me. When she bends over to adjust my catheter, I peer down her shirt. I can move my eyes now, too. At this rate, I’ll be able to stand up in just a few weeks.

  NIGHT. 3 WEEKS SINCE WAKING.

  Sometimes the doctors and nurses on the ward mention the date and then I know how long it’s been since I woke up. Today marks exactly 3 weeks. I can now move both hands and my range of motion is gradually increasing. I work on it mostly at night when the rest of the ward is asleep—and by that I mean the duty nurses. The patients on the ward are asleep all the time. Some wake, but anyone who does soon leaves the ward and moves to the rehabilitation department. I remain here with the living dead. I refer to them as “zombies” in my thoughts.

  In the meantime, I recount to myself when I wake up every day everything that has happened since I woke for the first time.

  When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll work on moving my feet and flexing my stomach muscles.

  MORNING. 5 WEEKS SINCE WAKING.

  I don’t have much time left here. I heard the duty nurse speaking to the shift manager. She tells her that something doesn’t add up with my muscles, which should have atrophied like those of someone in a coma but haven’t. She thinks I should be examined by a doctor. Both approach my bed and the head nurse uses a hypodermic needle to prick my arms and legs. I remain motionless.

  “He’s full of life,” the head nurse says, and they both laugh.

  “Could they be involuntary movements that occur while he’s dreaming?” the duty nurse asks.

  “Maybe. But any conscious person would jump up screaming when jabbed like that.”

  They both laugh again.

  I remember the conditioning I did with hypodermic needles when I was a kid. It hurts the most when inserting the needle into one’s belly button or jabbing the tip against an eardrum. The rest is nonsense. I remain lying there motionless while the head nurse uses a piece of gauze dipped in rubbing alcohol to wipe away the droplets of blood caused by her jabs. The smell reminds me of something. I recall the image of a preserved body suspended in an aquarium filled with yellow liquid. I can’t place it but the fact that I’ve regained 2 memories pleases me. Others will surely follow. I try not to smile until the 2 women return to the nurses’ station on the ward.

  Left alone again, I work on my legs and flex my stomach muscles for several hours. In the evening I retrieve a pile of pages and a Pilot pen from under my mattress. I’ve collected the pages over time from the various reports left next to my bed, and a doctor once left the pen on the shelf by my bed. The pages contain a record of all the dreams I’ve had that I remember, some even from before I woke up. I also write down everything that happens to me every day.

  NIGHT. 5 WEEKS AND 4 DAYS SINCE WAKING.

  I sit up in bed and put my feet on the floor. The dressing gown wrapped around me is open at the back. It flaps at my sides. I remove it and place it on the bed. Naked, I step quietly, dropping down on all fours as I approach the nurses’ station.

  I go into the doctors’ room and quietly open the doors to the lockers there. In one I find a pair of pants and a shirt and I put them on. Another locker contains a pair of sneakers. I put them on. I’m not wearing socks or underwear—there were none in any of the lockers.

  While scouring the room for other useful items, I see a stranger looking back at me from the mirror. It takes me a second to realize it’s me. I don’t recognize myself. I’m unshaven. When I get out of here I’ll find a place to shave. As long as I’m still here, there’s no way I’ll remember who I was before I came to this place.

  I get down on all fours again and go back to get the pages from under my mattress. I fold the pages, slip them into one of the pockets in the pants, and then crawl back the same way on all fours toward the exit.

  I leave the 4th-floor ward and take the emergency stairs so as not to meet anyone in the elevator. At the ground floor, the doors open and I walk through the lobby. I wave to the guard and wish him a good night. I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s a little hoarse.

  There’s a big stretch of lawn outside. I look back at the large building. Fixed on the roof above the 8th floor is a large steel menorah alongside a large sign reading, LOEWENSTEIN HOSPITAL—FROM THE CLALIT GROUP. I follow the path next to the grass and then onto a small and quiet street with private homes. I may break into one of them later to find something to eat. I’m hungry. I haven’t ingested any food by mouth for almost 9 years. I keep walking until I get to Jerusalem Street. I stop before crossing the road. A bus drives by. The trail of wind in its wake causes me to move a little.

  # Boom #

  A series of images hit me all at once: I’m lying on the road, my shopping bags scattered across the tarmac next to me. The basement I once built and my creations down there, The Organization, the missions I carried out for them, their betrayal, my home. The table of the Last Supper in my basement. Federico Lopez ablaze, speaking into his burning phone with burning lips.

  Bolivia, Uyuni.

  Bolivia, Uyuni.

  Bolivia, Uyuni.

  I know exactly who I am. I know exactly where I need to go right now.

  I break into a run.

  EARLY MORNING. 5 WEEKS AND 5 DAYS SINCE WAKING.

  I’m standing in the basement of the residence I left 9 years ago. My Last Supper creation is still there. Resting on the table among the dishes is the last page from the journal I once kept and then handed over to the law firm. I tore out that last page. I’ll use it in a year’s time when my plan is put into action. I slip the page into an empty binder, which I then place in my backpack. It’s a shame I had to destroy The Man in the Aquarium. My apartment above me is empty. A family is living there now but no one is home. It’s Friday and they’re probably away somewhere. I wipe away the sweat that has ac
cumulated on my forehead and arms on my walk here from Ra’anana. I ran initially, but my body couldn’t take the pace after 5 kilometers. I drank water from a faucet at a gas station and walked the rest of the way, getting to know the reduced capabilities of my body. I have a lot of work to do to get back into the shape I was in 9 years ago, when I jumped into the road in front of that bus on Ibn Gvirol Street. Getting into the apartment wasn’t a problem. I know that the locking mechanism on one of the windows works only if you slam it shut. They hadn’t slammed it shut.

  I went straight down into the basement through the trapdoor in the floor of the closet. I passed through the area of the basement where the storage cabinets and bathroom are and went into the control room. The rooms are dusty but I don’t clean them right away. Despite the pitch-black darkness of the basement, I remember the way by heart. Once in the control room, I flip the power switches and the basement comes to life with a buzz. Fresh air starts to flow through a ventilator, the batteries begin charging, lights go on, and there’s water pressure in the faucet in the bathroom again. I’m pleased with the way in which I built the basement. 9 years have passed and everything still functions well. I go over to the basin, open the faucet and allow the murky water to flow into the bowl until it clears. I piss and flush the toilet.

  I undress and place the clothes I took from Lowenstein Hospital in a trash bag. I stand in front of the mirror and examine my body, going over the scars caused by my encounter with the bus 9 years ago.

  I walk over to the basin. The water pouring from the faucet is clear now. I drink and then collect water in my hands and wash down my body with soap and water a number of times. Water collects on the bathroom floor and I use a squeegee to drag it to the drain.

  I turn on the backup computer in the control room and hope it connects to the Internet router in the apartment above me. It doesn’t. They must have disconnected the cable in the utility cabinet or switched service providers. I need to find out what’s happening with my bank account but I’ll do so from elsewhere. I guess there’ve been numerous technological changes during the 9 years in which I slept. I have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll acclimatize here in the basement for a few weeks until I’m fully fit and then I’ll leave.