An Unexpected Afterlife_A Novel

by Dan Sofer

  Sivan scratched her neck. She had somewhere else to be. There was no sense in detaining her any longer. “I guess we’ll call it a day,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”

  She asked him to let her know if she could help further, and then walked away toward Emek Refaim.

  Moshe and Irina made for the rabbi’s house in gloomy silence. So close and yet so far. The darkest moment of night is right before the break of dawn. He had read that in one of the rabbi’s books. They could try again tomorrow.

  Rabbi Yosef answered the door to their knock. “Where have you been? Savta Sarah’s called twenty times.”

  “What happened? Is she OK?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Moshe dashed to the rabbi’s phone and dialed Savta’s number. Ambulances blared in his imagination. The four boys ate Savta’s goulash at the dinner table and eyed him with concern. He gave them a brave grin. The number rang and rang. Oh, no. Poor Savta. He tried her mobile. This time, she answered.

  “Moshe,” Savta cried, breathless. “Where have you been?”

  “Are you OK, Savta?”

  “Get yourself over to Ramat Rachel now!”

  “Ramat Rachel?” The neighborhood in South Jerusalem had a hotel and an event hall, but no hospitals.

  “The wedding is starting.”

  “What wedding?” Again, the universe slipped from under his feet.

  “Galit and Avi’s. They brought it forward. They only told me half an hour ago. They must have figured out that we’re in cahoots. I’m on my way in a cab. I’ll see what I can do to hold things off.”

  Moshe put down the phone. Irina and Rabbi Yosef stared at him. He stared back at them, like a stunned fish.

  “Rabbi Yosef,” he said, his voice strangely calm. “Can you give me a ride?”

  “Where to?”

  “Ramat Rachel,” he said. “I have to stop a wedding.”

  CHAPTER 59

  Irina fastened her seatbelt. She watched, alone in the back seat, as events hurtled out of her control.

  Rabbi Yosef started his car, and they pulled off into the night. Moshe sat in the passenger seat, silent and tense.

  She should never have looked for Galit. Ever since their meeting last night, conflicting emotions had been colliding inside her. She had not believed the accusation of infidelity, not for a moment. She knew Moshe better than that. The one person she had not known well enough, though, was herself. The ticket to his reconciliation with Galit had dropped into her hands, and her first impulse had been to shred that ticket.

  Fortunately—for Moshe, at least—she had been unable to keep the secret for long. She simply could not lie to him. Destroying his dream in order to fulfill her own—what would that make her? By the afternoon, she had confessed, and now she tagged along as Moshe tried to use that ticket to hurry back into his old life and out of hers forever. The wedding was her only hope.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked. The engine gurgled and groaned as gears changed within the rusty beast.

  “I don’t know. Tell her the truth, I suppose, before it’s too late.”

  Part of her cheered him on; the rest hoped that he would fail.

  “Ramat Rachel,” Moshe said. “That’s where we got married. That bastard Avi is trying to rewrite the past.”

  Irina and Avi shared an enemy: the past. The mound of memories that stood between her and Moshe.

  Streetlights flew by. Rabbi Yosef changed lanes, weaving between cars, racing against time. Moshe turned the radio on and a cassette played. A soothing bassline of synthesizer chords. A drumbeat like a fast ticking clock. An electric guitar jangled to the rhythm of a young, breaking heart, and Cyndi Lauper sang of love, separation, and devotion.

  The song seemed to speak for Irina. If Moshe fell, she’d catch him; she’d be waiting. Time after time.

  Life had given her this tumultuous week with Moshe. Life might grant her more. Either way, Moshe would be a part of her forever.

  The groaning of the engine had become a scream. Smoke billowed from the hood. “Oh, no!” Rabbi Yosef said, and he pulled over to the side of the busy two-lane boulevard.

  They got out. Moshe walked around the ruined car. He tried to flag down a passing car or a taxi. None stopped.

  “I’m sorry, Moshe,” the rabbi said.

  Moshe put his hands on his head. He had tried so hard. He didn’t deserve this.

  “How far is it?” Irina asked.

  “Not far.”

  “Then run.”

  He stared at her. Hesitation flickered in his eyes. He didn’t want to abandon them on the side of the road.

  “Go on,” she said. “We’ll be fine. Go and get her.”

  He inclined his head in thanks. Then he sprinted down the street. He turned left and disappeared behind a wall.

  “Good luck, my friend,” she whispered. “And goodbye.”

  CHAPTER 60

  The lab technician at Shaare Zedek had to work fast.

  Her colleague was on maternity leave. A week of blood work had accumulated in the laboratory fridge and, in half an hour, she had to collect her daughter from ballet class.

  She pulled a set of vials from the batch holder, scanned the bar codes, and slipped them into the microcentrifuge. Her fingernails clicked on the counter as the machine hummed and cells separated from the serum. She stopped the machine, added a drop of Laemmli buffer to each tube, and placed them in the slots of the heater. Then she pipetted the stained proteins into an acrylamide gel, which she placed in the electrophoresis apparatus. While the gels ran, she scanned the next batch of tubes and loaded them into the centrifuge.

  Multitask or die—her motto at work and at home. In her kitchen on Friday mornings, a tray of chicken would brown in the oven while onions sautéed on the stove and schnitzels bubbled in a frying pan for her children’s lunch. She used timers in both arenas to great effect. She could do with bar codes in the kitchen too.

  She retrieved the gel sheets from the apparatus and moved them to the computer monitor. Each transparent strip displayed the characteristic blue smudges of protein electrophoresis that resembled a child’s tie-dyeing experiment.

  She scanned a bar code and recorded the result on the keyboard of the lab computer.

  Scan. Record. Click.

  Scan. Record. Click.

  Scan. Record. Hello!

  The blue patterns on the sheet—the spread of proteins and enzymes—were unlike anything she had ever seen. She double-clicked for more details on the sample and found the referring doctor. She picked up the phone and dialed his number. Her fingernails clicked on the desk yet again as the phone rang on the other side.

  Pick up, Dr. Stern. I don’t have all day.

  CHAPTER 61

  Galit smoothed the fabric of the wedding dress over her hips in the mirror of the dressing room while her mother fussed with the lace of the veil.

  She had worn the same dress at her first wedding. She had floated down the aisle on a cloud of joy to join Moshe under the chuppah. She had never imagined that, eight years later, she’d wear that dress again. This time around, a very different kind of butterfly upset her stomach.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  After tonight, there was no turning back.

  “There,” said her mother, her eyelids puffy from lack of sleep. “You’re good to go.”

  “Thanks, Ima. Sorry about the short notice.” Her parents had changed clothes on the eleven-hour flight from Newark and rushed straight from Ben Gurion Airport to the wedding hall in Ramat Rachel.

  A crack appeared in her mother’s smile. “I still think you should have waited for the appointed day. You’ve been dating for two years. What’s another week?”

  Her mother was right. Galit could have married Avi any day during those two years. Why had she held out? Avi loved her. He worshipped her. But he was no Moshe. Despite everything, a corner of her heart still belonged to Moshe. When he had returned from the grave, those dormant emotions had erupted
.

  Avi had brought the wedding date forward. Had he sensed her doubts?

  “It’s complicated,” she said. The sight of Moshe had raised her memories of the good times too. His dreams and drive had inspired her and given her hope. Together, they would conquer the world.

  Her mother knew her only too well. “Who cares,” she said, “if that cheating good-for-nothing is back? Who does he think he is?”

  Right again. Galit detested liars and cheaters. When Avi had told her about Moshe and Sivan, her love had turned to hate. Moshe had betrayed their shared dream of conquering the world and turned to conquering other women. He would tread that path alone. God might have given him a second chance, but she would not. Cheaters didn’t deserve second chances.

  “I’m sorry,” her mother said. She dabbed at Galit’s eyes with a tissue.

  “It’s OK,” she said.

  Outside, a trumpet played a jaunty wedding song. Time to face the crowd. Time to put Moshe behind her. She sucked in a deep, brave breath.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER 62

  As Moshe reached the hilly parking lot of the Ramat Rachel Hotel, he heard the festive sound of a trumpet and his heart fell. Am I too late? The hotel sprawled upward over the tiered hillside. He had no time to catch his breath from the climb; he pushed on.

  He raced between rows of parked cars and launched up a stone staircase to the grassy knoll between the hotel building and the event hall. The chuppah stood at the edge of the green patch, overlooking the Judean hills, now shrouded in twilight. A white carpet ran between the rows of empty chairs dressed in white. White sheets and pastel nosegays adorned the wedding canopy. No sign of bride or groom. Had he missed the ceremony?

  A wave of déjà vu disorientated him. Memories of his own wedding ceremony. Galit floated in his mind like a beautiful ghost in a white dress. Her ecstatic smile and adoring eyes through the diaphanous veil.

  “It’s a disgrace,” said a voice. Moshe spun around. Savta Sarah wore a beige suit and matching hat covered in lace. She scowled through thick layers of makeup, like war paint. “No chopped liver,” she said. “Or smoked salmon. And they call themselves caterers!”

  “Where is Galit?”

  Savta pointed to the tiered garden behind her. “Up there. The bridal chair.”

  Moshe sprinted along a path of irregular rock slabs. He dodged manicured bushes and colorful flowerbeds. A clarinet played “Pretty Woman.”

  He entered a green patch lined with food stations. He cut through the press of mingling guests in collared shirts and evening dresses. A woman with nebulous brown curls gasped and pointed at him—Galit’s cousin. He dodged the waiters with their trays of Riesling and finger food.

  No bridal chair. No Galit.

  He continued up another set of steps to the next tier. A clump of women hovered around a wicker couch draped in white sheets and cushions. He parted the crowd of women and stopped dead. The bridal chair was empty.

  He scanned his surroundings for a white dress and panted while the clarinet rose an octave for the chorus.

  “The bride,” Moshe asked the women. “Where is she?”

  Blank stares and shaking heads. He had to find her!

  “You!” said a familiar, whiny voice. Zohar Raphael sauntered over, a wineglass in hand. The celebrity hairdresser had not changed out of his low jeans and tank top. He jabbed a finger at Moshe. “What are you doing here?”

  Moshe wished he’d keep his voice down. “Where is Galit?” he hissed.

  “Come to cause trouble, have you?” The finger waved from side to side. “Oh, no you don’t. Girls!” he yelled. “Meet Moshe, Galit’s cheating ex-husband. He doesn’t belong here.”

  A small army of petulant women mobilized behind their megalomaniac commander, brandishing miniature kebabs and heavy designer handbags and eying Moshe with extreme prejudice.

  Moshe retreated to the reception tier, hoping to lose Zohar in the crowd. He ducked sideways and took cover behind a uniformed chef, slicing slivers of entrecôte for a line of hungry guests. Moshe surveyed the enemy territory. Zohar led his platoon of angry women through the crowd to the other side.

  The delicious scent of roast meat reached his nose, but he had no time for distractions.

  His gaze shifted and his breath caught in his throat. Beyond the leaves of a shaggy bush, a man in a tuxedo engaged in a hushed conversation with a rabbi.

  Moshe stepped through the foliage, squeezed between the bushes, trampled a patch of yellow gerberas, and emerged on the stone pathway. He marched over to the groom. “Where is she?”

  Avi turned to him. His eyes widened, and his lips parted. His face drained of color. “Get away,” he croaked. “Get out of here.”

  Moshe turned to the rabbi and offered his hand. “Moshe Karlin, Galit’s husband. Yes—she’s already married. You can’t let this—”

  “OK, OK,” Avi said. He stepped between Moshe and the rabbi. “You win. I’ll take you to her.”

  Avi led the way, leaving the befuddled rabbi on the rocky path. He stomped through the hotel lobby, the lapels of his tuxedo flapping. He opened a door labeled “Bridal Room” and closed it behind them. Gift-wrapped boxes, stacked chairs, and wheeled partitions littered the chamber.

  “Where is she?”

  Avi stuck out his chest. “Did you think you could just waltz in here and ruin my life?”

  “You rotten liar. You told her I cheated with Sivan!”

  Avi’s face softened. He hadn’t expected Moshe to know that.

  “What if I did?”

  “You knew that wasn’t true. I love Galit. Always have, always will. You stole her from me.”

  “Can’t steal from a thief.”

  The Hebrew proverb made no sense in the argument. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the thief,” Avi yelled. “You stole her from me!”

  “You’ve gone mad.”

  “Hangar 17. The night you met her. Newsflash—I spoke with her before you even laid eyes on her. The beers I bought—they weren’t for you and me. You just took them from me, the way you took her too.” His chest heaved.

  The information threw Moshe off balance.

  “All I could do was watch,” Avi continued, his voice breaking, “while you charmed her and danced with her. At your wedding. Your daughter’s birthday parties. I kept thinking, ‘What if I hadn’t saved his life? All this would be mine.’”

  Moshe had not known about any of this suffering. But the call to pity would not make him give up all he held dear.

  “You saw her first—is that what are you’re saying? Are we in kindergarten?” Avi had no answer for that, so Moshe plunged on. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop blaming others. Get your own life. Stop turning Galit against me with your lies.”

  “I didn’t have to turn her against you.”

  “What are you going on about now?” Moshe had no patience for another sob story.

  “You turned her against yourself.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You were never home. You worked late for months on end. You only cared about your precious company. You had no time for Galit. You were never around for Talya either.”

  The nerve! “Why do you think I worked so hard? It was all for them.”

  “No. Not for them. Face it, Moshe. You did it to prove yourself, to please those old photos on the wall. You cheated on her, all right. Just not with Sivan.”

  Moshe opened his mouth to speak but found no defense. Zohar had told the same story. Moshe the neglectful husband. Moshe the absentee father.

  “She doesn’t want you,” Avi continued, smelling blood in the water. “She told me. I didn’t think you needed to hear that, but you’ve given me no choice. Whatever love she felt for you died with you.”

  The words winded Moshe like a lightning punch to the solar plexus. His deepest, darkest fear had been realized. Galit had fallen out of love. She was better off without him.<
br />
  Moshe had accused Avi of blaming others for his own problems, but he himself was no different. The fault lay in his own actions, all along. Far in the past. Beyond fixing.

  “You’re dead,” Avi said. Not a threat; a diagnosis. “Now, for Galit’s sake, stay dead.”

  Avi straightened the lapels of his jacket. He turned his back on Moshe and left the room.

  Moshe stared at the cracked tiles of the floor. His breath came in short, halting wheezes. He had no right to be there. He didn’t belong. He staggered through the hotel lobby, his head down, his mouth dry. He passed the gardens and the buffet. He hobbled down the steps of the slope, through the parking lot, and into the dark night.

  In the distance, the trumpet played a new song.

  CHAPTER 63

  Moshe strolled along Hebron Road. Cars whizzed by in the night and blew exhaust fumes in his face.

  He had failed in his old life. Failed at home. Failed at work. He had failed in this new life too. A Karlin never quits, his father had said. This Karlin had. Who said he was still a Karlin, anyway? Had he shed his heritage along with his body? The thought did not console him.

  The cracks of the sidewalk pressed through the soles of his shoes. Television screens reflected off apartment windows. Stars glittered in the heavens above.

  He was a single dust mote lost in an infinite cosmos. If he lived a thousand lives, would he grasp even one iota of that mystery?

  An emptiness filled him. Not hunger, although he had skipped dinner. An emptiness of the soul—the desolation of a man who has nothing left to lose.

  The past had always been a safe shore, a haven in stormy seas. Now the ropes had severed, and he drifted out to sea. He floated on the formless ocean. Unfathomable deep below, unreachable stars above. He might perish on that wet desert. He might sail off the edge of the world. Then again, he might discover a new horizon.

  So this is how Irina felt. A clean slate, at once terrifying and liberating.

  The dark hulk of the rabbi’s white Subaru lay abandoned on the side of the road. Moshe laid his hand on the hood. The billowing smoke had dissipated. The metal had cooled.