Lies from the Attic

by Tamara Avner

  I am left alone in the dark room, groping my way to the door. On the reception desk, where the office girls sit chewing sugar-free gum from seven am to seven pm, lies a big fat folder, held tightly intact by a standard rubber band. You sloppy little hypocrite. Top Secret, do not remove from the office without approval from MP Chief.

  It takes me one second to leave his office through the window and all of two seconds, even less, to be back in my Rishon apartment, in my very own bathtub, dipping my head deeper and deeper in the water and count off as slowly as I can until I almost suffocate. Then I come jumping out of the water like Glen Close in Fatal Attraction. Suddenly, everything is crystal clear, as obvious as the signs the disciplinary NCO insists on posting all over the base. I can see the writing on the wall, all right. Finally, a moment of clarity and I know exactly what I need to do. Exactly.

  One evening, as I was making my rounds between Oded’s house and his office, I ran into Bruno, the security guard working at Oded’s office building. It was pretty late and he stepped outside the building and asked me if I was looking for anything. I told him I was waiting for someone. And what do you know? Sometimes you say something without having any idea of the effect it might have on someone else in the world, someone you haven’t met in a long long time. The butterfly effect. The mistress might be onto something with all her spiritual mumbo jumbo.

  Because suddenly, out of nowhere, out of the motherfucking blue, comes Nicolai Gurvitz. Not only that, he’s looking dapper in a pair of tailored pants and a jacket he bought at a men’s clothing store down at the Malha mall. Even the little swastika tattooed right above his elbow was out of sight. So there we were, shooting the breeze with this security guard Bruno, who gets a measly 2500 shekel salary from these cheapskates and has to spend his mornings handing out newspapers to make ends meet.

  So we’re chatting away, about life in Israel and what it’s like working as a security guard at an office where nothing ever happens, where the most interesting thing that happened to him in the eight months since he’s been working there was that someone got stuck in an elevator and it took like twenty minutes to get him out. He’s there from nine in the morning to eleven at night. After that, the building is locked down and anyone who stays behind does so at his own peril. He has the key to a side exit leading to the underground parking lot and he has a master key that opens almost every office in the building, which he keeps on his person at all times. There is, however, another copy of that key in a safe located at the accounting firm’s offices on the first floor. He’s got the code to that safe stowed away in a secret hiding place that no one will ever guess. He never saw any burglars or thieves while he was on duty. He’s been living in the suburb of Gilo, in a four room apartment on the second floor, right on top of the supporting columns. A newcomer from Uruguay, only five years in Israel.

  A lovely young man, our Bruno is, and wet behind the ears.

  I haven’t seen Oded in quite some time, since that annoying laconic text of his. Stalking isn’t cutting it for me anymore, I’m starting to feel like a blind hen pecking away in the backyard.

  He hasn’t been taking on any military court cases recently – I don’t know if it’s because he’s lost interest, because he’s too busy or because they won’t let him, on account of his unlawful conduct. One way or another, there are no more occasions for me to be alone with him in the same room.

  So I head back up to the office building where his eighth floor office is and I wait.

  I finally spot him, leaving with a client. I keep my cool and start crossing the road. He only notices me when I’m practically right next to him. I can feel how much he’s attracted to me. I can feel it in every hair follicle on my body, in each and every filament.

  He asks his client to give him a moment alone and the client steps inside the building.

  There we are, standing in front of the entrance to his building and you’d never believe what happens.

  Have you ever heard about brainwashing? Have you ever heard about mind-controlling aliens completely taking over someone’s brain, soul, heart and intellect?

  “What’s going on, I haven’t been able to reach you for… quite some time”.

  “Rakefet, please. I’ve told you a hundred times…”

  I can feel his entire body trembling, dying to lunge at me and have his way with me, but no go, the brain is controlled by some external influence.

  “So, you moved out?”

  You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz when the house starts spinning all around Dorothy? That moment when all hell starts breaking loose, the moment before the long journey home?

  “Gila threw me out. Rakefet, please, it was a one-time thing, you’re being impossible, you’ve lost it completely…”

  Cross that. You heard the man. Alien mind control is a picnic compared to what he’s been through.

  One-time thing my ass, I tell him. He can just go ahead and stick that one-time thing deep in my ass and take it out all chunky, just the way he likes it.

  “Rakefet, I’m begging you, you’re leaving me no other choice, I am demanding that you stop harassing me like this”.

  Oh, no no no. Did you get that? Because I’m not sure I got all that. I swear, I’m not sure about anything anymore. “Harassing him”. He says that right to my face, for the whole street to hear. All of Jerusalem, compact together, surrounded by mountains, the olive trees and the water wells, the honey and the sting – they all heard him swearing at me and dumping me like that right in the middle of the street. Me. I’m harassing him. After everything I’ve done for him. After everything we’ve shared.

  He turns to go and then turns around again to look at me.

  “And what is it with that grin? You look downright insane”.

  Oh, shoot. All those buildings are whirling around me again. And the sidewalk is all funny again, squirming under my feet, and there’s that strange noise coming from everywhere at once again, and inside me – uncontrollable, coming in and out of me – that air inside my head again, whistling around in my brain.

  What happened then? You ask. Thank you, that’s very kind of you.

  He called Bruno the security guard, who was so stressed out he didn’t even recognize me, and Bruno called the cops. That’s what happened.

  The cops, the fuzz, the heat. Stick the tip of your index finger hard into your ear and give it a good scratch. You heard me.

  He called the cops and they came and took me to the Police Headquarters at the Russian Compound, where some Romanian chief inspector politely asked me never to come near him again. He called the cops. On me. Of all the people in this fucked up world, he just walked all over me, making sure to add a good hard twist with the heel of the shoes he bought in Italy for 250 Euros or more, after breaking free of his mother’s karma and getting the very first pair in the very first store he came across.

  As I was leaving the Russian Compound, some beggar woman approached me, asking for the traditional 18 shekels. “Charity saves from death”, she told me. I had no spare change in my wallet so I took out my check book and wrote her a check for eighteen thousand shekels. Let’s see some of those life-saving powers in action.

  I came home exhausted and defeated. I went into the bedroom, picked up Zvika’s box and threw it hard against the opposite wall. It was beat up pretty bad to begin with and for a minute it seemed like it might finally give in, but it remained intact, just a little bruised.

  I was at a loss. What to do with so many contradicting pieces of information?

  Way back in the 1980’s, Aner told me that Zvika was injured down at the Suez Canal, was sent up north and then killed himself in some clinic, after writing a bunch of deranged and depressed letters. Then I got the documents from the Lustigette, confirming beyond a doubt that the cause of death really was suicide.

  Then, the coroner’s lecture made it clear to me that he couldn’t possibly have committed suicide. I even checked, an AK-47 is twenty-four inches long, so someone els
e had to pull the trigger. After that came Yoash Dagan, who said that he was shot accidentally while they were unloading weapons from a truck, but Haim Plotkin convinced me that it was suicide nonetheless, after not being able to stand the ignominy and shame he brought upon himself by eating all the candy he got in the mail all alone. As the famous IDF adage goes – you eat alone, you die alone.

  Each of these versions made so much sense to me at the time that I was utterly perplexed. Suicide was the official claim. But that didn’t add up with the location of his entry and exit wounds, nor did it explain his desperate cry about the vengeance of the Jews in that letter he wrote Aner, probably on the day he died. Then again, if he was shot to death, how could his Casualties officer not know about it and why would his death certificate say suicide?

  Aristotle did say – everything they tell you is true. And Korzybski said the exact opposite – it’s all lies.

  But sometimes, the lie is so good, so blunt, like a good dirty joke, like a good old story that’s beyond questioning. I wanted to know what happened but I was at a dead end. I just couldn’t accept having to take everything I discovered about Zvika’s death, all this uncertainty, this tangle of truth and lie, to my grave like so many shrouds that would not come undone.

  Still, as we all know, the universe works in mysterious ways and only the lord above holds all the answers, as Haim Plotkin could no doubt tell me. While his old nemesis, Yoash Dagan – the rivalry between these two was yet another unsolvable mystery – would have replied that even god almighty was ignorant of that, as he was of so many other things.

  That was the second to last time I saw him. Advocate Stenger that is.

  I later read in the paper that he was arrested and released the following morning. Concerning what happened after that, I might tell you about it in a little while, if I can muster up the strength to recall it and if you can muster up the strength to listen. That’s what landed me here.

  At this point, I was already at home on forced leave.

  The prison commander suggested I take a vacation. He noticed that my mind wasn’t really focused on prison matters lately. What’s more, the fire that broke out just like that in the reception cells, burning down all the inmates’ personal records, drove him berserk since now he had both the MP Chief and the Deputy Chief of Staff breathing down his neck. He found me some replacement with closely cropped hair and Sinead O’connor eyes who was positively thrilled about taking over my office, reorganizing all the little things it took me years to get just right and covering my walls with all her colorful posters and signs that she made herself. Right outside the door, she placed two big potted plants that looked like a pair of guard dogs. She turned my two clerks into “chief assistants to mental health team-leader”. That’s the actual title she found for those girls. What an idiot.

  “I think a forced leave is in order. You look exhausted and you better finish taking care of that arm of yours”, he said, indicating my bandaged arm.

  “What’d’ya mean? Did I do something wrong?”

  “Look, we’ve been getting complaints”.

  “What? From whom?!”

  “The disciplinary NCO said you backed into his car, just because you refuse to park facing outwards. And that’s just one example, Rakefet”.

  “So, and…” I answered indifferently, waiting for some more substantial allegations.

  “You’re hardly ever here. You’re driving around all the time. And that’s just one little example”.

  Outside his window, two inmates were walking back after performing their base maintenance duties. They stopped next to one of the flowerbeds they have been toiling over since that morning and idly shared a lazy joke.

  “Your uniform is all dirty. People can’t even breath next to you, when was the last time you took a shower?”

  I looked back towards my office, then back at him, then at myself, trying to figure out what was wrong with my uniform and, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t even remember when I took it off last.

  “And that’s just one small example, Rakefet”.

  “So, and…” I wanted him to say something already, anything, something substantial, before the shit hits the fan… Out with it, damn it.

  “And go take care of your arm, what’s your deal with that arm? And that’s just another example”.

  I picked up the leave forms that he had ready on his desk.

  Actually, at this point, I could really use some R&R from all the psychos around me and I gladly accepted his offer for some down time at home. I also never cashed out all the sick leave days I accumulated and it would be a shame for them to go to waste.

  Next thing you know, I get a call from the Deputy Chief of the Mental Health Department, offering me sessions. “Sessions with who?!” I yelled at him. I can give sessions to each and every psychologist and psychiatrist in this army and they would never reach my level. He told me I sounded unwell. Big surprise, I told him, it’s because I am unwell. Because suddenly everybody’s lying, suddenly all the people I trusted are turning a cold shoulder. I hung up the phone in his face.

  I spent most of the time smoking in my apartment. I smoked everything I could get my hands on and slept the rest of the time. If you could call the time I spent in bed sleeping. But still, a little Clonazepam, a touch of Risperdal and I was okay for most of the day.

  I’m trying, okay?

  This isn’t easy, with the winds in my brain blowing like a typhoon I can barely think clearly for a second.

  So don’t you rush me. Give me a minute and I’ll tell you everything down to a T. Have I left anything out so far? I don’t think so. By the time we’re done here, you’ll know the whole thing, so hold your horses.

  Chapter 6

  The hardest thing for me was the new hollow look he had in his eyes. What bothered me most was the fact that he denied everything that happened between us, that he pretended not to remember. I hate people who don’t remember. You have to remember. You have to remember every last bit. It felt as if he picked me up, turned me upside down and shook me down to my core.

  I had to find out… Find out? I had to get to the bottom of things and fast. Time was running out and I had to strike out at the serpent’s head. I had no choice. So far I’ve been nothing short of ladylike, letting her carry on her relationship with him as if I didn’t exist. How long could I keep sacrificing myself on the altar of my relationship with my beloved just to satisfy my curiosity and my desire to know what made him tick? How long could I keep sitting there, taking it and taking it, being the mistress’ mistress? Like the good girl that I am, I bided my time, waiting patiently for things to clear up, for him to leave Gila, who never meant anything to him anyway. I kept quiet and quiet and quiet again when he went in and out of the mistress’ house, in and out of his and Gila’s house, in and out of my body, hoping for the moment when he finally mans up, realizes what he has to do and I could finally get some rest. Well, all I got was a big fat loogie right in my face, knocking me down to the floor and sending me off to the police station like some common criminal. How long can you withstand these interrogations, how long are you going to keep risking life and limb defending him, with all his leftist sedition and his alienation, how much more can you take and take and take without bursting?

  I was on a blind, impromptu stakeout, waiting for Oded to come out of this bar that he sometimes frequented on Thursday nights, listening to the radio list the names of soldiers who died in a botched Border Police ambush. Suddenly, my eyes pick up Aner Schwarts leaving some gay bar right off of Lilienblum Street in Tel Aviv.

  Aner stumbled out dead drunk, draped on the shoulders of some kid who was way too young to support the weight of Aner’s years.

  I got out of my car upset and eager for a fight. Finally, something to latch on to before I say goodbye to this cruel world. To my surprise, he spotted me right away, calling out to me from across the street with the slurred stutter of someone who had one drink too many, “Rakefet, Rakefet Aurba
ch, there you are!” He sounded as if he has been looking for me for years and had no idea how to find me.

  I crossed over to him and as I came near he started throwing up. The young man at his side slid from under his shoulder and vanished faster than the roadrunner being chased by the coyote. Aner turned around and, with his back to me, threw up some more on a pile of cardboard boxes that were scattered on the sidewalk, next to the wall of the building.

  When he finally finished, he wiped off the sides of his mouth and the little goatee he had sticking to his face like a tiny wig with some wet wipes he got from who knows where. Finally, he straightened up, wiped his mouth one last time and looked right at me.

  “Wow, what happened to you?” He asked, looking at me with disgust.

  “What?” I patted the disheveled, stained and wrinkled uniform I had on.

  “You used to be so sweet… What happened to you? Did someone beat you up? You look like you could use a serious makeover, Rakefet”.

  “Wha’d’ya mean?”

  “Well, maybe you are the same Rakefet after all”, he answered, earning himself an offer he couldn’t refuse – a ride home. I wrapped my arm around his waist and, occasionally pricked by his nipple piercing right through his tight T shirt, I led him to the Fiat the army had issued me for that week.

  We drive up to a penthouse in Neve Avivim. We walk inside a lobby paved with luxurious Italian marble and take the elevator up to the thirteenth floor.

  After about ten minutes of Aner helplessly trying to get the key into the keyhole, I snatched it from his hand and threw the door wide open. The lights switched on automatically and a glowing strip of silver running the length of the little corridor led us straight to a wall-sized picture of a pair of luscious lips right in the middle of the silvery-white living room that could have easily housed an entire family, with plenty of room for guests.

  Aner sat down on one of the bar stools in the open kitchen and pointed at a wide side-by-side refrigerator.