Until Sweet Death Arrives

by Amnon Binyamini

  IN PRAISE OF THE NOVEL

  “The main character of this novel is a veteran researcher in a large daily newspaper who insists on exposing, both above and below ground, the most bizarre and outrageous corruption cases. This almost costs him his life. That story is thrilling, but the real story in Binyamini’s book touches a place that is deep and painful for all of us. This courageous journalist, Nahum, shows symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease at age 55, just when his career is at its peak. The authentic story of his illness is entwined with the plot in a fascinating way, to the extent that this word can be used when it comes to this terrible disease that erases the brain slowly but surely.”

  Yaffa Raziel, literary critic of the newspaper, Al Hasharon, 2003

  “The description of Alzheimer’s disease is sensitive and painfully real.

  This book is amazing in describing the sense of helplessness, loneliness, and shame that envelops the patient.

  The story of the disease is woven into a riveting plot, which made it difficult for me to put this book down.”

  Retired Judge Sarah Frisch, 2002

  “I finished reading this book in one evening! Its story was fascinating and swept me away. Its flowing style held dramatic tension to the end.

  The presentation of coping with Alzheimer’s disease is astonishing in its truths.

  Daily life with this disease is associated with pain, grief, helplessness, and ongoing depression. But the author’s approach to the subject does not repulse or frighten the reader; it fascinates, arouses interest, and stimulates, making the reader desire to continue trying to understand what the patient and his relatives are going through.”

  Yael Goshen, director of the Alzheimer’s Association in Israel, 2000

  Until Sweet Death Arrives / Amnon Binyamini

  All rights reserved; No part of this book may be reproduced, reprinted, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any other current or future means without the prior written permission of the author or his representative.

  Copyright © 2017 Amnon Binyamini

  Translation from the Hebrew: Rivka Rubin

  Contact: amnonbin1@gmail.com

  1.

  August 1999

  Apart from its size, the bed at the far end of the large room resembled a baby’s cot in every respect. Strips of plaited wool were twined around the yellow wooden bars fixed to the frame. Brightly colored toys hung from the ceiling, including a row of clowns that jumped and spun on their string to the sound of a merry tune. On a shelf near the bed was a little music box with a loose, worn-out spring that could no longer make music.

  A man and woman in their late thirties and an older woman were leaning over the yellow bed, an expression of concern on their faces. It was obvious that they had been standing there for some time. The younger woman took a big plastic block from a box of toys next to the bed and waved it enthusiastically up and down; then she opened her mouth wide and said, “Block, see the block,” pronouncing each syllable with great care. They stood waiting for a response, but nothing happened. The older woman broke the brief silence that ensued.

  “Give me your hand,” she said intensely to the unseen occupant of the bed. “Here’s my hand; take my hand. Wave hello.”

  They stared down with fixed smiles on their weary faces as they gradually retreated into silence, now and then stealing hopeful glances at the bed. The older woman was the most active of the three and soon initiated further attempts at encouragement

  “Give me your hand… show that you understand… give me your hand…wave hello.

  The words seemed to sap her strength. She rested her whole body against the yellow wooden bars and waited. The seconds ticked slowly by. Nobody noticed that the clowns had stopped spinning overhead. All of a sudden, the older woman became alert; the hand she was holding stirred weakly on the floral sheet. This was all she needed.

  “Look, he understands! Can you see?” she shouted.

  The younger woman raised her eyes and said, “Mother, I don’t think he understood. It was an involuntary movement…didn’t you notice?”

  No, she did not notice. She did not notice. She neither heard nor saw the two people facing her. She was totally focused on the hand that had just stirred a little and now lay inert on the hard mattress.

  “He understands… I told you… he understands.” She took the limp hand gently and held it to her heart. It was not the hand of a child; it was a man’s hand and it shook with an uncontrollable tremor.

  2.

  January 1992

  Nimrod left the Tel Aviv District Court with a triumphant smile on his face. In spite of the long hours he had spent in the courtroom, his meticulously combed hair was unruffled. Coal black, it lent an air of jaunty youthfulness to his round face. Although the ordeal was over, his lawyer had instructed him to keep his expression serious and dignified, which included his behavior outside the court room. He parted from the lawyer and walked towards the elevators. Reporters and photographers packed the fifth floor corridors and lights flashed in his face, capturing his photogenic image from all angles. He calculated the distance between himself and the nearest elevator; but at the sight of the staring, curious crowd blocking his way, he swung towards the stairs, pushing past the microphones being shoved at him on every side.

  “The ‘not guilty’ verdict wasn’t absolute. What have you got to say about it?”

  From the corner of his eye, Nimrod spotted the young reporter. She was like a jackal on the scent, he thought as he tried to outdistance her; but she was on his heels.

  “You promised you’d have a statement for the press after the verdict. Now’s your chance.”

  This time he could not ignore her, she darted in front of him to block his escape, aiming the microphone at his throat. Nimrod had time to notice her refined face and to admire her persistence. He stopped for a fraction of a second before sidestepping her and continuing down the stairs, leaving her wide-eyed with surprise that her prey had managed to slip away. However, when he reached the ground floor, Nimrod found himself trapped by another bunch of media people.

  “I’m a TV reporter. Do you have any plans for the future, after the tough times you’ve been through?”

  Not bothering to answer, Nimrod pushed his way across the lobby. Daylight to his left signaled a welcome end to his race against the media’s obsessive prying into his affairs. He pressed on without uttering a word. As he approached the entrance door, a pleasant chill assailed his nostrils, giving him the sense of impending freedom from the mob, reminding him of the serenity he had lacked in the past months.

  Suddenly, he was stopped by a tall security guard. “There’s no exist from here.” Nimrod heard the young man’s bored voice. He evaded the guard, spun the metal turnstile that was the last barrier to his freedom and in no time at all found himself outside the building.

  A roar of laughter burst from him. He made no attempt to suppress it. On the contrary, he wanted to go on laughing and laughing. Passersby stared at him in amazement. They saw a man standing in the middle of the road, wiping away tears of joy while emitting roars of laughter as if he were there alone. Nimrod wanted to share his intense joy with the whole world. A pedestrian suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and Nimrod clasped his arm and shouted wildly at him, “It’s over… it’s over!

  Between shouts, Nimrod peered at the stranger’s face. He expected to find him surprised by the extraordinary incident, but he revealed no shock. Nimrod put his mouth to the man’s ear and yelled, “Do you hear?! I
t’s over!! It’s over, d’you hear?”

  A black metallic object brought Nimrod to a sudden halt; his silence was more piercing than his recent roars of laughter. The stranger had produced a microphone from nowhere and was now holding it to Nimrod’s yelling mouth.

  “I’m a crime reporter for the radio. I wanted to ask you…

  Nimrod did not wait to hear the end of the sentence. Recovering from his momentary confusion, he quickly turned and tried to hail a cab. Stealing a backward glance, he saw a bunch of people with a variety of microphones and cameras closing in on him He waved a desperate hand towards the road in the hope of stopping a car and making a quick getaway.

  When he heard a familiar voice at his shoulder, he did not slow down, but turned his head to listen.

  “Remember me? I’m Nahum from Today newspaper. I’d like you to answer the following questions: How does it feel to leave the court after misleading the judges? Do you have any idea who murdered Eviatar?”

  These words hit home. Too hard. Nimrod came to a standstill. He turned to face the reporter and studied him from head to toe. The man was about fifty-five. Tall, erect. Grey hair, large green eyes. Firm and confident, he stood facing Nimrod and waited for an answer. He radiated determination, having succeeded in shaking Nimrod’s confidence. In a flash, Nimrod shed the armor of silence he had carried until now and, raising his head, allowed his words to flow.

  “One – the feeling on leaving court is wonderful. Two – I have no idea who murdered Eviatar.” He shot a furious look at the reporter standing before him, before continuing, “Because of irresponsible journalists like you, people have to suffer. You spill innocent blood. You, the media, do whatever you please. You, Nahum, because of your malicious articles, have brought me to this miserable state. You’ll hear from me yet. You and the damned newspaper you represent.”

  It was an unexpected moment. The hunted became the hunger. The attacked became the attacker. The group of reporters who had managed to catch up with Nimrod were stunned. They looked from Nimrod to Nahum, expecting the latter’s face to flush with embarrassment at the insult he had just received. Contrary to their expectations, Nahum stood calmly unimpressed by Nimrod’s words. He fixed his eyes on Nimrod’s black quiff, his thoughts drifting to that grey morning when he had sat in the editorial office of Today, typing an article for the current topics column. While Nimrod stood glaring at him with hatred, Nahum’s thoughts returned to the beginning of the whole miserable affair.

  Somebody had stormed into the office on that winter morning, saying, “I’m looking for a reporter… I need a reporter right now…a reporter’s my life insurance!”

  Nahum looked at the agitated man, stopped what he was doing and, after a brief hesitation, handed the uninvited visitor a glass of water. The man put it down without drinking. Nahum waved him to a chair, but he refused to be seated.

  “I can’t sit…first bring me a reporter,” he said.

  “I’m a reporter,” said Nahum, speaking quietly to calm the man , who regarded him for a moment and then let out a sigh of relief.

  “At last. Now I feel safe.”

  Nahum was concentrating on his impressions of the stranger: about forty, short and slender, a sparse beard on his cheeks, small eyes obscured by thick lenses. The stranger sat down and, snatching the glass from the desk, swallowed the contents in one gulp. The water seemed to restore his strength and he launched a verbal onslaught.

  “He’s going to kill me, there’s no doubt about it; he’ll kill me…all I did was tell the truth…what else could I do? You tell me, when the court summons you to testify, can you refuse?”

  Nahum nodded his agreement that this was indeed the correct way to act under the circumstances even though he did not have the faintest idea what the man was talking about. The visitor’s eyes brightened at Nahum’s encouraging response.

  “They were quarreling over a hundred and fifty thousand shekels.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  The stranger pressed on with his story without replying to the journalist’s question.

  “I live in Ra’anana, in a roof apartment. About a year ago, two of my neighbors in the building came to see me. One of them, Nimrod, said, ‘The neighbors say you’re a university graduate. We want you to write a document for us.’ I wrote the document – it was an IOU – according to Nimrod’s instructions,” the stranger said, after which he continued in agitation.“Apparently, Nimrod owed his neighbor a hundred and fifty thousand shekels. I forgot the incident until about a year later, when I was summoned to testify in court concerning Nimrod’s debt. When I went and told him about the summons, he gave me an apathetic look and muttered, ‘You never wrote that document! I never visited your apartment! Don’t forget!’ and slammed the door in my face.”

  The man stopped talking for a moment to pour some water for himself. He stared at the glass as if it were a magic lantern that would fulfill his heart’s desire and then, without drinking, he continued. “I met Nimrod in court after stepping down from the witness box. I had told the truth, which was that I did indeed write the IOU. Nimrod began to laugh loudly, ignoring everybody in the courtroom including the judge, who furiously told him to stop.”

  Nahum was beginning to show signs of impatience, but the uninvited visitor was too absorbed in his story to notice this and carried on talking.

  “About two weeks ago,” he said, “I ran into Nimrod in the lobby of our building. His eyes burned when he saw me. He didn’t show any anger, didn’t shout; he simply placed his mouth at my eye level and gave a loud laugh. The echo of his laughter filled the stairway, but not one of the tenants had the courage to stick their nose out because of Nimrod’s rumored connection with the underworld. When he stopped laughing, he said so softly that I could hardly hear him, “Because of your testimony I had to pay two hundred thousand shekels including costs and lawyers’ fees.’

  “What worried me most,” he went on, his face turning dark red, “were the sentences he spoke straight afterwards: ‘If you didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have lost two hundred thousand shekels.’ He repeated this several times and started laughing again. If you’d heard his laugh, you’d understand what I’m talking about.”

  Nahum wanted to end the conversation. He advised his visitor to go to the police and began arranging the papers on his desk in the hope that he would be left in peace.

  “I went straight to the police, but they explained that they didn’t see any threat in that encounter and, therefore, refused to call Nimrod in for questioning.”

  “So, what do you want of me?” Nahum snapped at him with obvious impatience, looking at his watch.

  The visitor looked hesitant, clearly finding it difficult to say what he wanted. Finally, he gathered enough courage to stammer, “I’m asking you to publish the story in your paper, including the police refusal to investigate the matter. If it is read by the public, with a detailed description of Nimrod, he won’t dare to touch me. My life would be insured.”

  Nahum relaxed in his chair. Now that he understood the meaning of the eccentric’s invasion of his office and his real purpose, he was more at ease.

  “What’s your name?” he asked after a silence during which the fellow’s imploring eyes never wavered from his face.

  “My name is Eviatar.”

  It seemed to Nahum that, for some reason, the man had difficulty in speaking his own name.

  Other journalists began to crowd around Nimrod and Nahum on the sidewalk. Now that he had expressed his anger at Nahum, Nimrod decided to stop running. He walked slowly around Nahum. As he did so, his anger returned.

  “You dirtied my name in your newspaper without mercy and look what it got you in the end. Justice was done in the courtroom. Justice was done. Justice…”

  Nimrod repeated the sentence over and over as he circled around Nahum. The journalist’s attention wavered. His thoughts were e
ntirely on Eviatar and again he was carried back to that dark morning of their first and last meeting.

  Eviatar’s small eyes were wide open, observing Nahum with pathetic hopefulness. The journalist hesitated for a long time before speaking.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Nahum finally replied. “If he made a criminal threat, the police will handle it. If there’s no basis for a police investigation, this newspaper isn’t the address.”

  Eviatar remained seated, apparently refusing to absorb the meaning of Nahum’s answer. He continued to talk to the journalist, avoiding eye contact, withdrawn into himself.

  “A week ago,” he said, “I met Nimrod on the stairs again. He informed me that his plan would go into action in the next two weeks. When I asked him what plan he was talking about, all I got in reply was that hair-raising laugh. Before we parted, I gathered the courage to tell him I’d hidden a letter in a safe place.”

  Nahum answered dryly, “I’m afraid you didn’t understand me. The paper can’t be used as a tool in a personal fight.”

  This answer began to seep into Eviatar’s consciousness. He rose from his seat, fixed his eyes on Nahumn and said, “He’s going to kill me… Consider me dead.”

  Nahum saw Eviator to the door. He tried to persuade him that the two of them should go to the police and bring a complaint against Nimrod for his threats, but Eviator was not listening. He strode to the elevator and Nahum heard his voice echoing through the corridors, “Consider me dead…”

  3.

  The police broke into Eviatar’s apartment after one of the neighbors complained about a stench. The Abu Kabir Institute of Pathology established that he had been dead for two days. The Institute of Forensic Medicine determined that the cause of death was heart failure.

  Nahum would have known nothing of this had he not come across the laconic item during his routine scan of the daily press, reporting the discovery of a body in a roof apartment in Ra’anana. The address captured his attention.