An Unexpected Afterlife

by Dan Sofer

  Irina assumed that Moshe’s wife had not yet hit fifty.

  The streetlight flickered on. Time to go undercover. Irina waited for a white taxi to pass and she crossed the street. At a thrift shop on the way, she had bought a pair of black leggings and a sports top, and the outfit had won her more glances than usual on the Jerusalem sidewalks.

  She entered the office building and took the stairs to the second floor.

  She assumed her role as a spy with ease. For all she knew, her current persona might be her true self. Or perhaps she had been a spy to begin with? She liked that idea best.

  The pulse of club music carried down the stairwell. She entered a corridor on the second floor and stopped at the sign that read “Emek Refaim Fitness Club.”

  She opened a door and walked in. A dozen middle-aged women in gym togs hopped on a wood-paneled floor, doing their best to mimic their instructor.

  Her long ponytail of black hair swished as her body moved. Slim black leotard. Curves in all the right places. The face reflected in the mirror on the far wall had high cheekbones, large bright eyes, and full lips. Good skin, too. The girl from the wedding portrait on Savta Sarah’s wall.

  Irina’s stomach tied in a knot. The thrill of espionage fled. Am I jealous? Her legs made to leave when Galit Karlin spun around, sent her a broad smile, and beckoned her to join in the fun. No escape now.

  She dumped her plastic bag of clothes among the other gym bags in the corner and joined the back line. Hidden speakers blared an edgy pop tune worthy of a seedy dance club. A saxophone melody swirled as young women chanted, “I’m worth it,” amid the grunts of a male rapper.

  She did her best to match Galit’s movements. She gyrated her hips and waggled her bum. She raised her arms above her head and shook her bust. Her thighs burned as she performed provocative squats.

  The song segued to another fast-paced dance hit.

  A competitive urge made her push her boundaries, but, according to the mirror, she had trouble keeping up even with the grannies. As they turned and contorted, she recognized the faces of the skirted and capped women she had observed on the street. In the safe and secluded environment of the studio, the religious wives and grandmothers pole danced like MTV pros to the chorus of “All the Single Ladies.” Underneath their clothes, people were not very different after all.

  The forty-minute class left her drenched in sweat and out of breath. She had cut corners toward the end, not bending as low or jumping as high when she thought no one was looking. The older women chattered and pulled skirts over their leggings and hats over their hair.

  Galit Karlin walked up to Irina, radiant and energized, hands akimbo. “You’re good,” she said. “Have you danced Zumba before?”

  Irina understood how Moshe had fallen under the spell of those large, smiling eyes. “First time,” she replied. “As far as I can remember.”

  Galit waved goodbye as the other dancers filed out the door. “How did you hear about us?”

  “On the Internet.”

  Galit nodded.

  The two women smiled at each other in silence. What had she planned to say to her? Had she wanted to bring them together or had she come here to check out the competition?

  “Great workout, right?” Galit said to ease the silence that had grown between them.

  “Yeah. You’re in great shape.”

  Galit made a self-effacing grimace. “Thanks. I’ve been instructing for a year, so that helps.”

  Irina liked this Galit Karlin, despite herself. What had gone wrong between this lively, earthy woman and her kind-hearted husband?

  For you, Moshe. As long as you want her, I’ll do what I can.

  She said, “Your husband is a lucky guy.”

  The smile dropped. The bright eyes narrowed with suspicion, then relaxed. “I knew you looked familiar,” she said. “You’re his new girl, aren’t you?”

  “His new girl? What’s the matter with you?”

  “I saw you walking together on our street. You have some nerve, you slut! Get out!”

  “He doesn’t have another girl. He loves you. Why won’t you believe that?”

  Galit picked up a gym bag and hugged it to her chest. She turned back, one foot out the door. “Ask his good friend Sivan,” she said, her eyes dripping venom. “You’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Ahmed opened his eyes.

  Dark blue skies above. Raw earth below. A chill breeze. And a burst of intense heat as his body exploded.

  He cried out and writhed in the dirt. Then he paused, panting hard. He patted his chest, his belly, his thighs. He was alive. Naked and filthy, but whole. The vision of fire was but a dream. No. Not a dream. A memory.

  He rolled onto his side and looked about. An empty field. Leafy trees peered over a perimeter wall of rock. A mountain wind whistled through the cracks.

  He laughed. He laughed long and hard, until tears collected in the corners of his eyes.

  He had done it! He had fulfilled his mission, and now he had entered Paradise. Hasan had spoken the truth. Eternal life. Eternal pleasure.

  The images of heat and flame flickered again in his mind. The sway of the bus as it pulled off. The wary eyes of the other passengers as he staggered down the aisle. The sting of sweat in his eyes. His final meal—a double Mac and fries, a poor choice on so many levels—threatened to surge up his throat. Cold electric wires snaked along the inner lining of his jacket sleeve and pressed against the flesh of his arm. His thumb hovered over the smooth curve of the detonator button. And then, that split-second of Hellfire and excruciating pain.

  Hasan had been wrong about that—he had felt every nail and ball bearing as they ripped through his flesh.

  He staggered to his feet. Pain flared in his head and he doubled over with a whimper. He caressed his temples. Hasan had not mentioned any headaches either.

  In truth, to the last moment, he had not fully believed that he would wake from death. He had not wanted to press the button. He had not wanted to die or to drag tens of strangers with him.

  Sons of pigs and monkeys, Hasan had said. Killers of prophets.

  But the man at the back of bus number eighteen had reminded him of Yigal, his boss at the Rami Levi supermarket in Talpiot, where he unpacked crates, mopped floors, and laid out fresh vegetables for the Jewish customers to buy. Yigal had joked around with him in Arabic. He had asked after his family. He let him take Fridays off. How many Yigals had he killed that day?

  He shivered. This was Hasan’s doing. His cousin from Ramallah had visited for a few days. His mother had made Ahmed share his room with the guest. He’ll be a good influence, make a man of you. She was always saying that, ever since his father had moved out with his new wife five years ago.

  But Hasan had discovered the copies of Penthouse he had stashed inside his mattress. Ahmed had found the pile of shameful Israeli magazines in the supermarket’s garbage enclosure and smuggled them home.

  A disgrace, Hasan had said. To defile himself with infidel women. Shame on his family name. His father would hate him if he found out. There was only one way to cleanse the blemish on his family honor, only one way to purify his Jew-loving soul.

  He stumbled forward, one hand at his head, the other over his privates.

  Was his mother proud of her martyr son? Had the bulldozers destroyed their house? Perhaps now his father would think of him with pride. Perhaps now he would return home.

  That’s weird. The stony hillsides reminded him of East Jerusalem. He hobbled toward a tarred road—were there cars in Paradise?—and a folding table. The white cloth billowed in the breeze. A man slouched on a chair behind the table. He wore a gray suit. He had the pale skin of a Westerner, fluffy gray hair, and a bushy mustache. He tinkered with his mobile phone but looked up as Ahmed approached, his hands covering his privates.

  The scene reminded Ahmed of the registration desk at the voting station. He had turned eighteen six months ago and exercised his right to
vote only once.

  “Welcome,” the man said in Hebrew with a strong Russian accent. He handed Ahmed a folded square of white fabric. A thin cloak.

  Ahmed put it on and tied the paper-thin belt.

  Roads. Phones. Hebrew. Not what he had expected of the Afterlife. The man did not even appear to be a Muslim. He offered Ahmed a plastic glass of water and two white pills.

  “What is this?”

  “Acamol,” the man said. “For your head.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” The man seemed to know how things worked. Ahmed washed the pills down with the water. At least the Afterlife was organized.

  The Russian pulled a sheet of paper from a transparent folder. “Name?”

  Ahmed told him.

  He held out a ballpoint pen.

  “Sign here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “A technicality. For your housing and food.”

  That’s more like it. Infinite reward awaited martyrs. A palace. A seat at the Heavenly banquet. Despite his misgivings and half-hearted faith, Ahmed had done the deed. He had left his miserable, old life behind and stepped up for istishhad. As a shaheed, he would collect his due.

  Ahmed signed on the line.

  “Wait in the van.”

  He waved to a white minivan that idled down the road.

  Ahmed hesitated. “About the girls…”

  The man looked up from the paperwork and grinned a wide amused grin. “Your seventy virgins?” The man barked a laugh. He had fielded that question before.

  Ahmed’s spirits plummeted. “Sixty?”

  The man coughed. “You’ll find”—he read his name off the signed form—“Ahmed, that Heaven is a bit different from what you were promised.”

  Ahmed hid his disappointment. He could settle for fifty virgins. Or ten. Five would be sufficient. He would be happy with one pretty girl, if it came to that.

  He limped down the road on bare feet and climbed into the white minivan. Strangers in the same flimsy cloaks filled two of the three rows of seats. They stared at him. Young and old. Dark-skinned and light. Some of their faces looked strangely familiar. An Ethiopian glared at him from his seat beside the driver.

  Ahmed stared out the window as the engine purred and the seat quivered. His headache was subsiding. He hoped the Heavenly banquet would start soon. He had the mother of all appetites.

  CHAPTER 54

  Thursday afternoon, Eli lay on the hospital bed and stared out the window.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  The sunbeam had crept down the wall and slunk from the room. Half the day had passed and still no Noga.

  He had opened his heart to her. She was the key to his mission, the reason for his injury and pain. The Boss had sent him to her. He had felt that in his bones. Together they would trigger the Final Redemption. He could not leave her in the dark.

  “Aren’t you going to eat your food?” said a soft, sympathetic voice.

  Eli didn’t shift his gaze from the window. His lunch tray sat on the side table, untouched. He was not in the mood for a chat with his nosy roommate. Every morning and evening, Oren’s wife, children, and grandchildren filled their room with their chatter and the smells of their food and flowers. Their presence made him feel all the more alone. Why, after all these years, should that bother him?

  “You can get her back,” Oren said. He had put two and two together.

  Eli turned his head. “What makes you say that?”

  Oren smirked. “Experience.”

  Eli had to laugh. “You have no idea, Oren.”

  “You had a fight. You said something careless—it doesn’t matter. Go get her back.”

  Eli closed his eyes and focused on the rise and fall of his chest. “She’s gone. Trust me.”

  “Send her flowers. A card. Anything. But don’t delay. Never delay. Or you will lose her.”

  “Thanks for the free advice.”

  “Well, what do you know,” Oren said.

  Eli opened his eyes. Noga stood at the foot of his bed. A T-shirt and jeans. No white cloak. Her mouth sealed tight. She wore her hair back, the way she had the first time they had met. He sat up on his elbows. Had she gone to his apartment? Did she believe him now?

  Oren swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m going to go for a stroll,” he said. He winked at Eli. “Stretch these old legs.” He closed the door behind him. Eli was starting to like the old man.

  Noga drew near, reached into her shoulder bag, and with the stiffness of a court messenger delivering a summons, she handed him a thick manila folder.

  “What is this?”

  “Facts,” she said. “Newspaper articles. Official documents. All you’d ever want to know about Eli Katz.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “The Internet. The university library.” She spoke with an even, restrained tone. “Your parents died in a car crash when you were sixteen months old. You attended the Miriam kindergarten in Katamon, then Chorev Primary. You enrolled for a first degree in Computer Science at the Open University then dropped out in your second year, the year you started OpenGen.”

  “Noga, wait—”

  “You’re a real person, Eli. You were born. You grew up. You had a life. And then, somewhere along the line, you became Elijah.”

  The girl was good. But not good enough. Eli accepted the folder and placed it on top of his untouched meal. “I know all this,” he said. “All the details. You know why?”

  “Because they happened.”

  “Because I planted them.”

  “Give me a break! You can’t plant public records.”

  “You can if you know how.”

  “And newspaper reports?”

  “The parents died in a car crash. That much is true. Their little boy died later. But his identity number lives on.”

  Her chest heaved. “Like in the movie.”

  “What movie?”

  She pulled a DVD jacket from her bag. A Scottish warrior in a sheepskin cloak stood on a hilltop, beneath stormy Highland skies. He leaned on the hilt of his Claymore.

  He groaned. He knew how this must look. “That’s just a movie.”

  She read the back copy. “‘A group of immortals battling to the death….’”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “I watched it,” she said. “He leaves his wealth to a dead infant and takes over his identity. Sound familiar?” She had him on that. The screenwriters had copied a page out of his life.

  “What about my collection?”

  “Bought at antique stores. Or on eBay.”

  “But I know the story behind each piece. How do you explain that away?”

  She looked both sad and frustrated. “False memories,” she said. “The product of childhood trauma and movies like this.” She eyed the manila folder. “There’s a paper on reconstructive memory and confabulation in there too. You should read it.”

  She had him cornered. There wasn’t an argument she couldn’t cut down with that theory. It was like a self-reinforcing delusion. “No,” he said. “That’s not true.”

  “And then there’s this.” She held up another exhibit for the jury: a book. “101 Magic Tricks. I’m sure that came in handy for your ‘miracles.’”

  The Earth shuddered beneath him. Was she right? Was his entire life a comforting fiction for a lonely little orphan?

  “No,” he said. “That isn’t true.”

  She reached for his shoulder, and he flinched. He had hurt her with the truth and she had avenged her pride with lies.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. “I never knew my parents either,” she said. “My adoptive parents are good people, sure, but they weren’t my real parents.” She exhaled a long, deep breath. “They couldn’t have just given me away, right? One day they’d sweep back into my life. I was so sure of it. They had made a mistake. They wanted me back.”

  She sniffed. “The years passed, and I grew up. No one came to claim me. My parents
were stupid teenagers, or addicts. Who else abandons a newborn baby, right?”

  She wiped her eyes with her fingers. “You were right. We have a lot in common. I guess that explains our interest in genealogy…” She gave a short ironic laugh and looked him in the eye. “There’s no magic, Eli. No miracles.”

  Eli shook his head and avoided her eyes.

  She gave him a long, hard stare. Then she stood up. “Keep that up and you’ll never go home,” she said. “Dr. Stern is itching to throw you in the madhouse.”

  He said nothing.

  She exhaled another deep breath. She didn’t seem angry anymore, only tired. “OK,” she said, after another long silence. “I guess this is goodbye.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Thursday morning passed in a flurry of activity.

  First, Moshe printed the online forms he had completed on the Israeli Corporations Authority website. Rafi picked him up at 8 AM. They collected Savta Sarah and met with a lawyer friend of Rafi’s at his downtown office on Shamai Street. In his presence, they signed a declaration that the non-profit did not involve any funny business. Then they rushed to the Corporation Authority offices to hand in the application and received an invoice to pay at the post office. After that, the waiting game began. Small wonder anyone accomplished anything in this country with so much red tape.

  They raced Savta back to the rabbi’s house, where the rabbanit awaited her first cooking lesson. Sitting in the passenger seat with the window open, a summer breeze in his hair, the white buildings ablaze with sunlight, Moshe felt alive for the first time in his second life.

  The car jumped a speed bump and his stomach lurched.

  “Sorry,” Rafi said.

  The vertigo transported Moshe to the rickety bridge over the black chasm. The dream had returned last night, except this time on the grassy bank stood Galit. Her hand rested on Talya’s shoulder. He stepped onto the next cracked plank and shifted his weight forward. As before, with each step, the bank drifted further away. No! He called to them, but their stony faces disappeared in the misty gloom.