by Dan Sofer
“Don’t worry,” said the devil on his shoulder. “Avi won’t even let you through the door, never mind start a mutiny.”
Moshe thumbed the button on the handrail and got off at the next stop.
Clal Center loomed on Jaffa Road, a hulking gray ghost. In the seventies, shoppers had flocked to the tiered corridors of Jerusalem’s first indoor shopping center and filled the consumer stores.
By the turn of the millennium, most businesses had migrated to shinier office buildings far from the crammed city center, and foot traffic along the tired corridors petered out.
Moshe walked through the open door of the defunct shopping center and passed an abandoned security desk. Not even terrorists bothered with the faded building. The jingle of the coins in his pocket echoed off the blackened windows of stores, many of which served as storage warehouses for stalls at the nearby Machaneh Yehuda street market. Everything changes, and faster than one expects.
Moshe had renewed the rental contract every three years, for the low price and the sense of continuity. His father had inaugurated the offices, and many of his happiest childhood memories haunted the corridors.
The elevator—graffiti etched in the panels, the last working fluorescent flickering—groaned all the way to the third floor.
Moshe walked down the corridor to the door of frosted glass. He touched the proud silver lettering: Karlin & Son. His first love. His firstborn.
His finger hovered over the buzzer. The ominous silence behind the door unnerved him. Did Avi know he was on his way? Had he preempted the visit and cleared the place?
He pressed the buzzer.
He shifted on his feet. His heart thumped in his chest. His mouth went dry.
He buzzed again.
Still no movement behind the glass.
Moshe slapped his forehead. Of course! Karlin & Son must have relocated. By now, the call center would fill an entire floor in the Malcha Technology Park. Avi had lobbied for fancier premises even before their expansion. He must have pushed ahead as soon as the cash had started flowing.
Moshe needed a computer and an Internet connection. He’d settle for a telephone book, if Bezeq still printed them. He made for the elevator, when a door handle squeaked.
He turned around. Avi stood in the doorway. Moshe’s chest tightened at the sight of him. His muscles braced for fight or flight.
Avi brushed his long, greasy fringe from his eyes. “Moshe,” he said, spreading his arms wide. He stepped forward and wrapped Moshe a tight hug.
The warm welcome dumbfounded Moshe. Avi held him out at arms’ length and looked him over. “I missed you, pal. C’mon in.”
Moshe followed him inside. The cubicles stood empty, the headsets on the keyboards, the screens dark. Where is everyone?
“Coffee?” Avi said. “One sugar and a splash of three percent, right?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Moshe breathed in the familiar scent of the carpet while ceramic jars of coffee and sugar tinkled in the kitchenette.
The mounted LCD television was a silent black square between framed black-and-white photographs. A man wearing an impeccable suit and tie stood outside the stenciled door of Karlin & Son. A square watch glinted on his wrist. His hands rested on the shoulders of a young boy with combed hair. In the next photo, the man sat at a desk and held a bulky radio receiver to his ear.
Hot water poured from the water fountain, or “the bubbler” as Mathew used to say.
The imposing façade of a house in Jerusalem stone filled the third photograph. Two men stood on the street corner. The bearded man in the shiny dark suit and top hat stuck his chest out, the tail of his coat brushing the cobblestones. An Arab in a baggy gown and white headdress touched his arm and grinned beneath the bushy mustache and bulbous nose.
The ghostly quiet of the cubicles gnawed on his nerves.
Avi emerged from the kitchenette. “Here you go.”
Moshe accepted the mug of coffee. “Thanks.” He sipped it. If Avi was trying to kill him, he had used a tasteless and odorless poison. “You kept the photos.”
“Are you kidding me, my brother?” Avi said. He called everyone his brother or his uncle, a habit that now annoyed Moshe. “What is Karlin & Son without the Karlins?” He pointed to the first photo. “That’s you with your dad at the opening of the office, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And there he is again with the first two-way radiotelephone system. Hard to believe we used to route cabs without computers, hey brother?”
Avi had been present at neither of those events. What he knew, he had learned from Moshe. He had called him “brother” twice in as many minutes. What was he plotting?
“What’s with the Arab dude?”
“The man in coattails is my grandfather, also Moshe Karlin. That was his house in the Old City.”
“Pssh. You have a home in the Old City? Must be worth a fortune.”
“It would be if we still had it. His parents—my great-grandparents—had to flee that home in ’twenty-nine. They returned when the violence settled, but lost it again in ’forty-eight.” Moshe didn’t have to explain the dates. As every Israeli knew, Arab mobs massacred Jews throughout the country in 1929, and in 1948 Arab armies invaded the nascent Jewish State. They expelled Jews from the Old City of Jerusalem and blew up synagogues.
“Our old neighborhood,” Moshe continued, “is now in the Arab Quarter. The guy in the kaffiyeh was my grandfather’s neighbor.”
Avi, invader of Moshe’s life, shook his head at the invaders of the past. “Let’s have a seat.”
They settled at the kitchen counter. A veil of steam rose between them. Moshe felt like a stranger in his own office. Which of them was the trespasser?
Avi said, “You scared the crap out of me yesterday.”
“I was pretty surprised myself.”
Avi studied Moshe’s eyes. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“Dying.”
“I remember the party. Then I woke up on the Mount of Olives.”
Avi leaned back on the kitchen chair. “So why did you come back? To haunt me?” He gave a nervous laugh. “Ghosts don’t drink coffee, do they?”
Moshe put himself in Avi’s shoes. How would he react if a dead friend showed up on his doorstep? He shrugged. “I’m alive. That’s all I know.”
“So you didn’t see Heaven or whatever?”
“Nothing.”
“God?”
“Nope.”
Moshe sipped his coffee. He was getting used to this sort of conversation. Whatever he had expected of his confrontation with Avi, it had not involved chitchat over coffee like old friends.
He could hold out no longer. “Where is everyone?”
Avi put his coffee down on the counter. “I let them go.”
Had his ears heard correctly? “You did what? Why?”
“Business has gone downhill. Fast.”
“But we were about to expand.”
Avi placed his iPhone on the counter. “And then this came along. Some kid made an app for ordering taxis and our drivers jumped ship. We don’t need you and your monthly fees. Customers go direct.”
Coffee spilled over Moshe’s fingers. “Ow!” He put the cup down.
“How many did we lose?”
“A trickle at first. Then the dam wall burst.”
“But they still need the radios, don’t they?” Karlin & Son provided custom dual-frequency handsets and CB radios to drivers free of charge. It was a major selling point.
“Obsolete,” Avi said. “Now all a cabbie needs is a smartphone and a data plan.”
Moshe thought of the cab he had flagged down that first morning at the Mount of Olives. The young driver had not recognized his voice. He had probably never heard of Karlin & Son.
“There’s cash for a few more months,” Avi continued, “but without a miracle, I’ll have to close the doors for good.”
Avi might as well have floo
red him with a five-kilo sledgehammer. Moshe had died all over again. Karlin & Son—his purpose in life, not to mention the decades of devotion—poof! The flame of three generations sputtered out. On his shift. Or right after. He had known that technology would be the next step, but this—he had not seen this coming. He had not evolved Karlin & Son in time. He had failed.
Or had he?
“Did you reach out to this—what is the company called?”
“Ridez. With a zee.”
Moshe groaned. A company with a typo for a name had torpedoed Karlin & Son. “Have you reached out to them?”
“Why would I do that?”
Moshe wanted to cry. “To make a deal! They want to grow fast; we have the clientele. We can partner up.”
Avi’s face went pale. The strategy, apparently, had never occurred to him. His jaw clenched. “It’s too late for that. They don’t need us.”
A dozen different pitches for cooperative ventures flashed in Moshe’s mind, but during the last two critical years, he had not stood at the helm. Avi had.
Avi pulled a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser and dumped them on the spilled coffee. His face twisted with sudden rage. “They’ve always hated us,” he said.
“Who has?”
“The drivers. They were dying to give us the finger. All but a few loyals and not enough to pay the rent.”
Moshe stared at the mess of coffee and soaked paper towels on the counter. He had failed his father and his grandfather.
Avi’s rage passed as quickly as it had arisen. He patted Moshe on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Never thought you’d live to see the end of Karlin & Son, hey, brother, never mind to rise from the dead?”
Moshe gaped like a fish, unable to speak.
Avi got to his feet. “I’ve got something for you that will cheer you up.” He strode to the corner office—Moshe’s old office.
What could possibly cheer him up? A note from Galit? Or better yet—his wife and daughter in person. Were they waiting for him in the office?
Avi returned with a white plastic bag. He pulled out a folded beige sheet. “This must be yours.”
Another parting prank from Avi? Galit had laundered the sheet. Moshe made a mental note to return it to the clothesline on the Mount of Olives.
“I thought you’d want this too.” Avi handed him a square silver rectangle on a black strap of battered leather. “It was your father’s, right?”
Moshe caressed the heavy angled frame and weathered strap of the Rolex. He never thought he would see it again. “My grandfather’s. Made in ’forty-eight.”
“So it’s real?” Avi seemed surprised. Would he have parted with it had he known it was valuable?
Moshe strapped his family heirloom to his wrist before Avi could change his mind. “This watch,” Moshe explained, “was the last purchase he made before the war took everything. He once said that he would never sell the watch. It was a reminder that…” He trailed off.
He remembered that day in every detail. The thick square of silver had felt unbearably heavy in the hands of the young Moshe, but sunlight had glinted off the glass face like fairy dust, and he had accepted the challenge. Now, the added weight of the timepiece made his arm feel whole again.
A Karlin never quits. His father’s words rang in his ears and a chill spread down his spine.
“Reminder of what?” Avi said.
“Of the life he wanted to regain.” His vision blurred and he blinked back the tears. “Thank you.”
“And then there’s this.” Avi held out a blue identity book. Moshe opened it. The card within displayed Moshe’s mug shot and official details. Across the card and in large black letters, a rubber stamp had printed the word “deceased.”
The surreal sensation Moshe had experienced at his own grave swept over him again. He pocketed the booklet.
Avi watched him closely. The watch was a peace offering, the identity card a veiled threat: Moshe Karlin is dead. Move along, pal.
Moshe held his gaze. He wanted more than his father’s watch. Much more. How much was Avi willing to give? If the tables had turned, if Avi had come knocking on his door, would he have stepped aside?
Moshe folded his arms over his chest. “So,” he said, addressing the elephant in the room, “how is Galit?”
Avi stretched his arms and inflated his chest. “You know Galit. A new malady every day. Every sore throat is strep. Every mosquito bite a cancer. No shortage of drama.” He chuckled. “Last week she threw a plate at my head, shattered all over the kitchen floor.”
“She can do that.” Moshe laughed. Another tear crept into the corner of his eye. He missed her tantrums.
“Piece of work, isn’t she? Tell me, my brother, how did you ever get her to calm down?”
Moshe adjusted the strap on his wrist. The drama had never bothered him much. In a perverse way, he had enjoyed the challenge. “Humor,” he said. “Make her laugh.”
Avi nodded. They were old friends joking around about shared experiences, only this shared experience happened to be Moshe’s wife.
“Avi, I just—”
Avi raised his hands as if to deflect a blow. “Listen,” he said. “This has been very difficult for us all. Especially Galit. And I understand you wanting to jump back into her life, really I do. I’m your best friend, remember? I miss you too. You think I want to keep little Talya from her dad?”
Moshe’s lips parted. Avi had opened a door. He had argued Moshe’s side. “If I could just speak to her for a few minutes—”
Avi shook his head and hugged his chest. “Do you have any idea what this has done to her? Seeing you, out of the blue, after two years in the ground? Give her time. A month, at least. Let her get used to the idea that you’re alive, and then, slowly, we’ll work something out.”
The display of maturity and compassion humbled Moshe into silence. He wanted to hug Avi. He had misjudged his old friend, slandered him to Irina. Avi, the eternal playboy and ugly Israeli, had changed. Moshe owed him an apology. Tears welled up in his eyes again. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t mention it.” Avi stood. Their meeting was over. He put an arm around Moshe’s shoulders and escorted him to the door.
“Call me in two months?”
“You said one month.”
Avi pointed a finger pistol at Moshe and winked. “One month it is,” he said, and he shut the door.
CHAPTER 13
By the time Moshe reached the rabbi’s home, the sunlight was fading fast. He had danced along the back alleys and streets of Jerusalem on his way back and taken far more time than necessary.
Irina answered the door in her potato sack of a gown. “I was worried about you,” she said. “Are you OK?”
“More than OK. I’m getting my life back!”
Her face glowed. “That’s wonderful!”
“Where’s the rabbi?”
“They’re bathing the kids. Might take a while.”
“Let’s go.”
She gave a cautious smile, as though suspecting that he had lost his mind. “Go where?”
“Out for dinner. We’re celebrating.”
He led her across the defunct train tracks, overgrown with grass, toward Emek Refaim and told her about his visit to Karlin & Son. The girl in the formless gown and the man in the house slippers won amused glances from passersby, freshly showered and dressed for dinner dates. Moshe would have to speak with Rabbi Yosef about expanding their wardrobe.
They stopped at Pizza Sababa on Emek Refaim, ordered slices, and sat at one of two wobbly square tables. Not a fancy meal, but within budget, and it felt good to get out of the rabbanit’s hair—and fridge—for a change.
In a month, he’d be back in Galit’s life.
He asked Irina how her day had gone. She had spent the morning at the Mount of Olives Cemetery with Rabbi Yosef, searching for another disturbed grave and hoping that the names on the tombstones would jolt her memory, to no avail.
Irina gobbled a strand of melted cheese that dangled from her slice of mushroom pizza. “How did you and Galit meet?”
Moshe took a sip from his bottle of Coke. “Avi dragged me to Hangar 17, a nightclub in Talpiot. I remember that night as if it was yesterday. Fake smoke. Disco ball suspended from the rafters. Seventies music. They played that Bee Gees song from Saturday Night Fever. ‘Somebody help me. I’m going nowhere.’”
“‘Staying Alive’!” Irina said.
“Yes! Wait a minute—how do you know that?”
Irina seemed just as surprised and delighted as he was. Her fairy eyes widened like those of a little girl. “I don’t know. I know all sorts of useless things, just nothing about me. Go on, maybe I’ll remember more.”
“I saw her from across the room,” he said. The moment had frozen in time: the shiny jeans that hugged her hips; the frills on her shirt that drew his eye from her neckline to the generous orbs below; her long, dark hair that fell over her shoulders; large eyes; red lips. “When our eyes met and she smiled I felt an electric current rip through my body.”
“Like a fairy tale,” Irina said, enthralled.
Moshe continued, “I walked up to her, through the crowd. A dozen pickup lines came to mind but I felt as though we already knew each other, so I just said, ‘You’re late.’”
Irina’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t.”
“Crazy, right? She didn’t bat an eyelid. She said, ‘I got here as fast as I could.’”
Irina giggled. “Are you making this up?”
“Then Avi arrived with our beers. I swept them from his hands with a ‘thanks’ and gave one to Galit. I found us a nice, quiet spot and we talked. We danced. We went for a stroll and landed up at the Tayelet.” Irina shook her head, so he explained. “The Haas Promenade. South of the Old City. Great view. We sat on the wall of the promenade, side by side, our feet dangling over the edge. We stared at the huge walls of the Old City as they glowed in golden spotlight, and we talked until morning. ‘So what do you want out of life, Moshe Karlin?’ she asked me. ‘To conquer the world,’ I said. She just laughed. ‘And how are you going to do that?’ ‘One day at a time,’ I said. ‘One day at a time.’ It became a running joke. ‘Time to conquer the world,’ we’d say after breakfast and head out to work.”