Zion's Fiction

by Zion's Fiction- A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature (retail) (epub)

  Max and Co. were going out for a walking meditation. They passed me on the way down. When Azulay came down the stairs toward me, I looked him in the eyes. Shame on him. Did I ask him to pay for anything for me? I’m willing to live with the consequences of what I do. No, rather, I want to live with the consequences of what I do. Sink down, hit the bottom, with nobody to care about me. Now even this was taken away from me.

  But Azulay didn’t look away. On the contrary, he looked directly at me in a really annoying way. “You spoiled-rotten piece of shit,” he said to me, aloud. “Say what?” I asked. Max kept going down with the whole troop behind him. “You spoiled-rotten piece of shit,” Azulay said again, this time more loudly. Mor and Hagit turned their heads to look at us.

  “You must be thinking you’re something,” said Azulay. Mor grabbed Hagit by that chubby hand of hers and they kept going down the stairs, in a hurry to catch up with the rest of the group. Azulay moved towards me. I suddenly realized he was quite a large man, about as tall as myself, but very broad and well-muscled, with a healthy beer gut dropping down from above his belt. “You think you’re special, huh?” he asked, and his thick black eyebrows came closer as he stared at me. “Why don’t you play alongside with Tony in Florentine, if you’re so special?”

  With Azulay standing in my way, I felt not so good, suddenly. He was one step above me, so close I could smell his sour sweat. I only wanted to sit down, maybe smoke a joint, clear my head. I had no time for him. “Don’t you have to go with them?” I asked, smiling. Azulay raised his gigantic, heavy hand and brought it down on my cheek. The sound was not pleasant. My right ear started humming, and my eyes lost focus for a second. Azulay turned away from me and went down a couple of steps in a slow, dignified walk. Then, suddenly, he started running heavily to catch up with the group, which was now way ahead of him.

  What’s going on here? Has everybody gone completely bonkers?

  When I came back to the apartment, my cheek was still smarting from the slap Azulay landed on me. I found Tony sitting on the floor watching Ricki Lake. “Come on, Ido,” he winked at me. “I’ll treat you to a beer from my private stock.” He pulled out a six-pack of Tuborgs from under the box Max used to sit on when lecturing and took out a cigar from the pocket of the black jacket he was wearing. Tony snapped the cigar’s end in one asinine bite, lit it, and gestured, in a twist of his cleft lip, to come with him to the balcony.

  The balcony has always been our apartment’s garbage dump. As part of Max’s efforts to break down Mor’s and Azulay’s egos, all those dry leaves, empty beer bottles, broken furniture, and other junk that used to fill it were all gone. Now the floor sparkled (smelling of orchids, you guessed it). Pots with flowering geraniums (that also smelled like orchids for some reason) were hanging from the ledge, lit by hidden lamps at night. To complete the setup there were two chairs and a plastic table covered in a tablecloth of handmade lace, on which stood a vase full of fresh flowers, replaced each day.

  Tony had told Max he’s done enough walking meditation in his former profession and didn’t need any more of it, thank you very much. So Max excused him. Tony used these breaks to have the time of his life.

  He asked me to open a can of Tuborg for him. Because of his hooves, he couldn’t do it for himself, despite persistent attempts. He then took it in in one swig. Finally, he let out a lengthy burp and took a drag from his cigar.

  “Howzzit going, Ido?” he asked, laying a finely filed, nail-polished hoof on my shoulder.

  “What can I tell you?” I said. “Life sucks.”

  “Behhh,” said Tony. “C’mon, tell me about it. Four hours of meditation every day, two hours group singing and dancing—and pit-bottom, round-table talks. Getting under your skin, telling you you feel bad because you’re alienated from the world. I’m just an ass, I’m not cut out for this shit. So I cut corners here and there, to make it barely bearable. That’s how you have to take it, one day at a time.”

  Tony squashed the can and let it fly in a splendid volley shot to the neighbors’ balcony. Then I opened another can for him, and he swallowed this one, too, in one swig. “So why are you staying on?” I asked.

  “You may laugh at me until forever, Ido, but something about this makes me feel good. Can’t describe this feeling—but for the first time in my stinking life, I’m being taken seriously; they listen to me. Maybe they’re a little overenthusiastic, but they really care about me. For the first time I matter to someone, and not just as horsepower.”

  Tony spoke real plain, but everything he said went right into your heart. That’s why they liked him on TV. More precisely, that’s one of the reasons. The other reason, of course, was that he was a talking donkey. Since the accident, Tony’s become a ratings buster—and Max realized this real quick and took advantage. TV stars and producers from Channel 2 would beat a path to our place begging Max to allow Tony to appear on their shows. However, Max didn’t actually need this publicity. He’s acquired a lot of following anyway. Therefore, even though he didn’t need money either—he’s rounded up some heavyweight contributors—he demanded incredible sums of them. As he explained to me, hitting their pockets was the best way to bust their egos. Those producers would come out of their meetings with Max with their cheeks wet, having gone through whole boxes of tissue, their souls pure as a baby’s smile and their pocketbooks much lighter.

  That memorable Florentine episode, with Tony as the spiritual donkey who makes Iggy see the light, was a hit, a bombshell. Busted all ratings records. The bank account of the Insights of Love LLC expanded accordingly.

  I, too, liked Tony. There was something easygoing about him. He wasn’t as fanatic as the rest of them. After a chat with Tony, a small joint, and a few beers, life seemed like something I could cope with.

  The Coast Guard has arrived. That’s how I called her privately, in my mind, in my long sessions with myself: the Coast Guard. It started on the beach: “Ido, put on your sun screen!” “Ido, don’t take off your hat!” “Ido, don’t go into deep water!” “Ido, don’t talk to strangers, because who knows what kind of maniacs you can see today at the seaside, now that the country is not what it used to be twenty years ago; then you could walk the streets without any worries. Just read the paper. Only yesterday they killed someone because of an argument over a deck chair.”

  “But Mom, you wouldn’t let me go to the beach twenty years ago, either.”

  “Okay, what’s the matter with you, sweetheart? You were little then.”

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Resting, learning, healing myself.”

  “Over here?!”

  “Yeah, over here. What’s wrong with over here?”

  “This is my place, Mom. I moved here to get away from you. You can’t just barge in without invitation. This is a place where people live, it’s not the Carmel Forest.”

  “My place … and who pays your rent? Never mind. It’s not any business of mine. Besides, I do have an invitation. You never call home and you’ve received another notice from the army. You’re bound to end up in the stockade. So I called here to tell you. Max answered, and we talked a great deal. A very nice boy, Max is. I was highly impressed by his views. He invited me to come visit. He said maybe he could help me become a whole person again. Shame on you for not letting me know what’s going on in your place. I could have started working on myself a long time ago.”

  “Enough with it, Mom!”

  “Enough with what, Ido?”

  “Stop with it already.”

  “Stop with what, Ido?”

  “Stop with this game. It’s stupid and it doesn’t fool me any longer. I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Of course you know. Wouldn’t have thought you didn’t. Big secret…. What do people come here for? Purification, meditation techniques. Making the world a better place. Becoming whole again….”

  “People, yes. You? No. You’ve come here for one reason only: to keep an eye on your little Ido
’leh, lest he regrow the wings that you clipped. Keep me close and small underneath your apron. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

  “Listen, sweetheart, it’s not at all like that. Things change….”

  “What things? What change? Nothing changes. Well, perhaps things change, but you don’t. An equation with zero unknowns. The Soviet Empire may have collapsed, but you’ve remained the same: never let up, not for a moment. Help! Save me! The Polish Secret Service is after me!”

  “Enough with the histrionics, Ido. You’re making yourself a nuisance. People here are trying to concentrate on their meditation. You’re a nuisance to me too. I’m in the middle of the Third Cycle, the crucial one. Why don’t we have this conversation later on? You find me during suppertime, we’ll sit down over a dish of rice and celery and talk about your anger and frustrations. Okay, sweetheart?”

  “No supper, no nothing! Get out of my life, right now, this moment! You know how much I hate celery!”

  “You haven’t changed, Ido. You’ll always be mother’s little spoiled boy. Ommmm Shaaaanti, Ommmm Shaaaanti, Ommmm Shaaaanti, haiiii!”

  Mother closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began chanting mantras in ancient Indian. These were not my mother’s words. Could it be the aliens messed with her head?

  I was left alone with a deep sense of betrayal, a burning disappointment with life and one huge question mark: Et tu, Mommy?

  Disco time. I pulled out the disc already in the player, threw it minus its box into the drawer that already was a disorderly mess of discs. None in its original box. Pulled out the Pixies disc from the Deep Forest box and put it in. Turned the volume all the way up to help them with their evening meditation.

  Lay back on my bed, hitting the wall with my feet to the beat of the music. Happy as a clam. Really. Got everything I needed right here in this room. No reason to go anywhere else. In the top drawer I had a carton and a half Winston Lites, so I won’t get stuck with nothing to smoke. In the middle drawer there were two boxes of Hogla tissue paper, should I wish to cry (Cry? Crying is for cunts!). In the bottom drawer I kept two dried bushes, courtesy of my friendly neighborhood dealer. Crumble half a leaf into your cigarette, it helps you go through the day. In the closet there was everything needed for munching: two giant bars of milk chocolate with raisins and nuts, Pringles, and three family-size bottles of Coke. On the bedside table there was a carved wooden box from India, which always had a few bills inside to pay for this partying. Where did the money come from? I didn’t know, I never asked. But the footprints of Tony’s polished hooves were quite obvious. Like everything else done in this cult, Tony always came and went, moved and shook, got everything organized.

  And there was, of course, my phone: pretty, small, black, lying quietly in a corner.

  I went through my address book and couldn’t find anyone whose life I could telephonically ruin. But this gave me an idea. I went through the drawers until I found my old phone book. Opened it on D and called Doron. Mali answered. She didn’t recognize my voice; it’s been a long time.

  I didn’t say who’s talking. I asked for Doron and got him.

  “Hey, you worm, what about the MAG? Ready for inspection?”

  “Ido! You blob of organic fertilizer, why don’t you ever call?” Doron enthused. “Howzzit with you, you piece of nothing?”

  “All’s well,” I said. “I’m in Tel Aviv, doing nothing in particular.”

  “I’ve left a million messages with your mother, even sent you an invitation to our wedding. We’d said we’ll remain friends for life.”

  “So we said, but….”

  “No buts. You’re coming over for a visit with us right this week.”

  “Tell you the truth, Dori, I didn’t want to come to yours and Mali’s wedding. It would have been awkward.”

  “Awkward how? We never kept secrets from each other. What’s the fuss, ha ha, did you screw my sister or something?”

  “No. I mean, not your sister. Mali. In our end-of-service party. Remember how we both disappeared? Mali took me to some fortress by the sea. There was this nice sand on the floor, and she screamed and scratched my back when I fucked her. Lucky for me, she didn’t have long fingernails. Then she wanted some more. We did it slow that time. She smiled and looked me in the eyes as I nailed her. She then said size does matter. I screwed your wife, Doron, and she told me you have a small pecker. Like I didn’t know, after three years of taking showers together.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “See you ’round, Dori. I just thought you should know.”

  I hung up. Just as it seemed things were going downhill all the way, it turns out I still have it in me. Besides, I only did my friend a favor. Dori deserves better than this Mali. Come on, I don’t even know under what rock he’d found her. I left the room in high spirits. Everything’s going my way today.

  My happiness was temporary, quite temporary. As I opened the door, I saw Osher in the meditation hall. Suddenly an idea came to me. Holy rage filled me, a desire to take revenge burned in me. I improvised freely, not thinking at all.

  “Hello! What’s my girlfriend doing here?”

  The small crowd in our living room shook off their meditation trance all at once. They all turned toward me, gawking. Osher opened her eyes and turned toward me too.

  “I’m no longer your girlfriend, Ido. I may do whatever I want to. Get used to it.”

  “That you’re no longer my girlfriend, I already know. What I’m wondering about is why?”

  “Ido, get out. You’re interfering with the community’s search for light,” said Max calmly, majestically.

  “Search for light my ass. Search for my girlfriend, you had to say,” I said to him. “I know this was what you wanted from the start.” I turned to Osher. “How long has he been ‘guiding’ you?”

  “Almost from the beginning, but I never came out to the living room. Didn’t want you to see me. Didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “Of course you didn’t want to hurt my feelings. You were fucking Max.”

  “Ido, stop this crazy nonsense. You know that is not true,” said Max. His voice wasn’t all that calm now.

  “No fucking way I stop. I’ve just begun.”

  “Ido, not in front of everybody. It’s disturbing to them. Let’s go out, talk about it like two civilized people.”

  “Contrariwise, in front of everybody. Why the fuck not? It’s only me you screwed with? You screw with them as well. They have a right to know.”

  “That’s true, we have a right to know what you were doing with Osher when you sent Mor and me to clean up everyone’s apartments in this bloc.” Azulay got up. He demanded an answer, and he looked threatening.

  Max tried to reply, but other voices joined with Azulay’s. They demanded to know more stuff: what he did with all this donation money, who did he sleep with other than Osher. Other than Rabin’s assassination, they accused him of everything. Max’s protestations were drowned in a sea of accusations and charges.

  The snowball started rolling, and it will be very difficult to stop it now.

  I opened the bottom drawer to take out a joint I had ready in my emergency stock. Moving around there, my hand hit something else. It was the gun I’d bought the other day from Recoil, having received my Ministry of the Interior permits. Ozz had patted my shoulder, saying in his most serious and authoritative voice, “This is some serious piece, boy, don’t you fool around with it, do you hear me?” I wanted to tell Ozz I wasn’t going to fool around any, just stick the muzzle in my mouth and fire a shot into my brain, but you can’t afford to joke with the likes of Ozz. They don’t have even the slightest sense of humor. It’d be a waste of time. They won’t get the joke, and you’d only come out the fool for it. Besides, they always know lots of people in the police, the border guard, the security service, and God knows where else; you could get into lots of trouble that way. It really never pays to joke with Ozz-like persons.

&nb
sp; How glad I was that I wasn’t tripping when I came to the store, ’cause I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself trying to outsmart a fool like Ozz. I just smiled and said that I’d take real good care of my gun.

  It was time to give up and admit I wasn’t all that good in this. At any rate, I did achieve one objective: I’d burned my bridges behind me. The way I’d messed up the cult, it’d take them a lot of time to fix it. I could forget about working for Gross, which wasn’t a great loss, let’s face it. Dori was no longer my best friend for life, as we’d agreed, and I’d proved to Osher that I was a jerk. Now there was no chance in a million years that she’ll come back to me.

  The serene harmony and the singing that used to dominate the living room were replaced by shouting. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but any number of people were speaking out loud, interrupting each other. Through the music that still filled the room some words filtered out: “betrayal of trust,” “charlatanism,” “fraud,” “end of the road,” and other stuff like that.

  That’s it, this is final. As I’d planned in advance, I had ruined everything, and there was nothing important left to say. I picked up my faded jacket and wore it. I stuffed the Jericho into one pocket, and put two joints, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter in the other. Closed the door behind me, moved quickly down the stairs. Got out to the street and started walking. After two blocks I realized I hadn’t taken my notebook. I felt I needed a notebook and that it’d be a horrible mistake to shoot myself in the head without jotting down a few words first. I didn’t have anything important to say to the world before leaving it for good, but I felt I mustn’t blow it. Like Mother always says about weddings, “You do it once in a lifetime, so you’d better do it right.”

  I went back upstairs to get my notebook. When I came in, Max was sitting on his cube with everybody surrounding him. I’ve never seen the place so chock-full of people. They kept up the shouting, but when they noticed me in there, they all fell silent, looking at me. There were really a lot of people there.

  I went into my room and got the violet copybook Osher had given me for my birthday a couple of years ago, together with a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which I could never read through. She wanted me to express myself, but the copybook remained blank, except for this little dedication at the top of the first page, in Osher’s neat handwriting.