by Dan Sofer
The car had reached the end of the line. Salvage what you can, then move on. He left the dead chassis behind.
He placed one foot in front of the other. In his dreams, the faster he crossed the bridge, the further the grassy bank had fled. Had fate played a cruel trick on him, or had he simply been facing in the wrong direction?
By the time he reached Shimshon Street, the empty feeling had settled into an inner calm.
Irina opened the door. She wore a loose pajama T-shirt and shorts. She studied his eyes for answers to unspoken questions. He stepped into the soft lamplight of the living room. Samira and Shmuel turned hopeful glances toward him. He plopped down on the couch, and their hope subsided into disappointment.
Irina joined him on the couch. “We’re sorry about your family,” she whispered. The rabbi’s children were probably asleep in their beds. She smelled of soap and the rabbanit’s sweet deodorant. The T-shirt fell below one pale shoulder. The large fairy eyes drank him in.
“We’re all family now,” he said.
A loud knock on the door startled him. Who came calling at the rabbi’s house at this hour? The knocking came again—bang-bang-bang—and threatened to wake the household. Irina gripped his arm. The specter of his former slave drivers loomed in his mind too.
Moshe approached the door, peered through the peephole, and opened.
Avi stood in the doorway, his hair a mess, his tie loose, the dress shirt creased. He shot Moshe an angry look and barged inside.
“Where is she?”
“Keep your voice down. The rabbi’s kids are asleep. Where is who?”
The intruder prowled the living room, his forehead glistening. He sent fiery glances at Irina, Shmuel, and Samira on the couches, and circled back to Moshe. “Where are you hiding her?”
“Hiding who? What are you talking about?” Moshe dared not hope.
Avi seemed to age ten years in an instant. He held his head in his hands. “Galit,” he muttered. “She didn’t show up at the chuppah. Nobody knows where she is.” He drew near again. “Swear to me you don’t know where she is.”
“I swear it.”
Avi clenched his jaw. Moshe thought that his ex-friend was going to hit him again, but he just skulked out the door and into the night.
Oh. My. God. Galit had backed out of the wedding. Had she finally come around? There was only one way to find out. He made for the door.
“Moshe,” Irina said. “You said you didn’t know where she is.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I have a hunch.”
CHAPTER 64
Dr. Stern launched up the stairs to the fifth floor. In another ten seconds, the Medical Genetics Institute would close for the evening. The vague message on his phone had confirmed his suspicions: Mr. Eli Katz was no ordinary man. His genome held the secret Dr. Stern had chased for decades. Soon he would hold in his hands irrefutable proof for his suspicions.
Academic papers. Clinical trials. FDA approval. The future rolled ahead with clarity. A Nobel Prize would be nice, but he didn’t care for fame or fortune. The discovery was its own reward—a milestone in human progress that would change humanity forever.
He burst through the door of the stairwell and onto the hospital corridor, collided with a cloaked nurse, and dashed toward the doors of the Institute. Lights still burned inside. He opened the door and charged toward the lab, stopping only when he reached a long, rectangular office. Computer screens, microscopes, and other specialized machinery covered the counters. He caught his breath.
A podgy technician wearing a blue sanitary shower cap folded a white lab cloak. “I was about to leave,” she said.
“Dr. Stern,” he said, by way of introduction. “I got your message.”
“Never mind,” she said. “False alarm. I should have let you know.”
His heart dropped into his shoes. She had seemed so certain in her voice message. “What do you mean?”
“The protein spread was bizarre.”
“Yes?”
“Unlike any known human protein. The sample was contaminated. Bacteria, probably.”
“Is your equipment sterile?”
She removed the cap and reached for her bag. “Yes. Of course. The contamination must have occurred at collection. You’ll have to retest the subject.”
“Retest? No, that won’t be possible.” He did not elaborate about his complex relationship with Mr. Eli Katz. He glanced at the white strips with the waves of blue suspended by clips on the shelves. “Let me have the results. I’ll double check myself.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I destroyed the sheet. Standard procedure for contamination.”
“And the remains of the sample?”
She gave him an apologetic grin. “Destroyed too.”
“Don’t tell me: standard procedure.”
She nodded. “I have to go fetch my daughter. Turn off the lights on your way out.”
She shuffled past and left him in the empty lab.
Dr. Stern exhaled his frustration. Back to square one. The director of the Institute was an old friend. He’d have a word with him about changing procedures.
“This isn’t over, Mr. Katz,” he swore to the empty room. “Not even close.”
CHAPTER 65
The Old City of Jerusalem looked like a shiny gold ring in a box of black satin. Moshe walked along the edge of the Haas Promenade, a bouquet of red roses on his arm. He had picked the flowers in Liberty Bell Park on his way.
Pairs of lovers, young and old, sat on the steps and benches in the soft glow of distant streetlights, enjoying the romantic night skyline. None noticed him as he passed.
On the barrier wall, toward the end of the Tayelet, a lone woman dangled her legs over the edge. She wore an elegant white dress.
Moshe sat down beside her and swung his legs over the wall.
They stared at the mighty timeless walls of the Old City, ablaze in spotlight.
“You’re late,” she said, a tear in her voice.
Tears of regret or joy?
“I got here as fast as I could.”
He held out the flowers.
She accepted his gift and breathed in their scent.
“Did Savta Sarah get to you?” he asked.
She gave a short, sad laugh. “I was hiding in the Bridal Room,” she said. “Wedding night jitters.”
“Oh.” She had overheard his argument with Avi. She knew the truth.
“I didn’t mind the late nights,” she said. “Your dreams were mine. We were one person. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth.” She wiped her eyes. “Until the day before your birthday party. Avi came by the house. He said he couldn’t keep silent any longer. He told me about you and Sivan. I never imagined that he could have made that up. I was in shock. Then I was furious.” A short, bitter laugh. “You know me. I had already invited everyone we knew. Cancelling was not an option. But afterwards, you were going to pay. It would be your farewell party and good riddance.” She shuddered, as though reliving the anger and hurt of that time.
“A farewell party it was,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
She turned to him, her eyes damp. “Can you forgive me?”
“Hmm.” He made a show of thinking it over, then smiled. “There’s nothing to forgive. It wasn’t your fault.”
She gulped air and wiped her eyes again.
“Although,” he added, his voice brimming with incredulity, “Avi—of all the men in the world?”
She took her time answering. “He was around when I needed him,” she said. “And I knew that you never really liked him.”
Moshe nodded. “Got it.” She had let Avi move in to get back at her dead, cheating husband. The female heart—yet another mystery that he would never comprehend.
She gazed at the ancient golden city. “When you showed up again, I thought I was going crazy. I couldn’t believe that it was really you.”
Moshe chuckled. “Sometimes I’m not so sure myself.”
&nb
sp; She shot him a quick glance loaded with suspicion.
Time to put her doubts to rest. “Listen to me,” he said. “It’s me. And it’s always been you. Only you. I don’t care if we’re apart for two years or two thousand years, I will always love you. And I will do anything to get back to you—so long as you still want me—even if I have to rise from the grave.”
She searched his eyes for the truth. He reached out and wiped the tears from her face.
“No more crying, OK? This is a new life. A fresh start.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. Her hair rose in the breeze and caressed his cheek. He inhaled the sweet scent of jasmine. He was getting his old life back but nothing would be quite the same.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said, and he stroked her hair. “One day at a time.”
CHAPTER 66
Two weeks later, Eli placed a crutch under his shoulder, slid off the hospital bed for the last time, and prepared to face the world.
His palms were clammy and his stomach ached. He had wanted to escape the hospital from the moment he had awoken from his coma. Now that the day had arrived, he hesitated.
The casts had come off. He hardly felt any pain. That morning, he had tied his own shoelaces for the first time. Dressing was easy—the real challenges lay outside. The world had changed since his accident. Or, more accurately, he had changed.
He took a step forward, leaning on the crutch. Then he took another.
Dr. Stern looked him over and frowned. “What’s your name?” he said.
Eli laughed. “Still Eli Katz.”
“Are you sure?”
“Doctor!” said Eliana, the busty, energetic nurse.
“Just asking.”
“We got you a little something.” Eliana presented him with a white box tied with a red ribbon.
“Thanks. You shouldn’t have.” Eli felt his eyes moisten. The hospital team had become his friends—no, his family—over the past few weeks. He accepted the box clumsily, his one arm clamped over the crutch. He placed the box on the bed and undid the ribbon. A tray of Ferrero Rocher and a paperback: The Man who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. That would be from Dr. Stern.
A chain of motorcycle keys and a folded wad of black leather. Eli shook out the jacket. Long gashes marred the sleeve and bisected the flaming chariot emblem on the back. Did I actually wear this? No wonder they thought him insane.
He tried on the jacket.
“Thank you all. Really. You’ve been wonderful.”
He limped forward on the crutch and shook hands with the line of well-wishers. The nurses, Liora and Nadir. His physiotherapist. Moti the Clown hugged him.
Dr. Stern handed Eli his card. “Call if you need anything.”
“See you around.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.”
Eli wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.
At the end of the line waited a girl in a white cloak.
“I’ll carry those,” Noga said. He handed her the chocolates and book.
She locked his free arm in hers and escorted him down the corridor.
After Oren’s passing, Eli had studied the papers in the manila folder. According to the documents, he was a regular guy in the prime of his life, not a broken prophet on a godforsaken planet. Life is short, Eliana had said. Oren’s death had demonstrated that only too well. But he didn’t have to live out his days alone. With luck, he might share them with the girl in the white cloak.
As he read and re-read the papers in the folder, he became increasingly convinced that they told the truth. For the first time in his life, he felt compassion for the sad little boy who had constructed a fantasy world from the fragments of his shattered life. When that world came crashing down, he called Noga on the phone. After a lot of convincing—and three bouquets of roses delivered to her door—she had appeared at his hospital bed, a hesitant smile on her lips.
“You take care of each other,” Eliana called after them.
“We will,” they answered as one.
Noga squeezed his arm and smiled. She pressed the button for the elevator.
Eli put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and his fingers brushed against a piece of paper. He unfolded the yellow square.
A telephone number and a name. Yosef Lev.
The name pulled him back in time. The Mount of Olives. The bearded man by the white car. He had called the ambulance and must have left his details with the paramedics. Eli had been on his way to meet him. The Thin Voice. The End of Days.
Or had he? Delusions stuck to his mind like gum to the sole of a shoe. He had scraped as best he could, but his mind was not yet spotless.
“What is it?” Noga asked.
He crumpled the note and tossed it in the waste bin.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 67
A happy thought woke Dr. Sandler from her slumber.
Today her oldest daughter, Ester, would step under the chuppah. When she looked at her, she still saw the bubbly toddler who had insisted on boarding the El Al flight from New Jersey to Tel Aviv on her own two feet. She had adjusted well to their new lives in the Holy Land. A week ago, the medical school of the Hebrew University had accepted her application, and she would follow in her mommy’s footsteps.
She yawned and listened to the chatter of morning birds.
She had met her for coffee last night at Café Aroma on Jaffa Road—their last heart-to-heart before the big day. Ester had shared her hopes and dreams for the new chapter in her life. Her eyes grew large when she talked of her betrothed, Lior, a quiet, kind-hearted Israeli. She had chosen well. Dr. Sandler’s heart warmed to see her so happy.
Her recollection darkened. A disturbance had interrupted their get-together. What was it? Oh, yes. The Arab youth at the door of the coffee shop.
Dr. Sandler treated Arab patients every day at the Emergency Unit of the Hadassah Medical Center in Ein Kerem. Over the years, she had picked up enough Arabic phrases to manage a basic conversation and help her patients feel at ease.
The Arab boy at Café Aroma was definitely not at ease. His forehead sweaty, his eyes glazed over, and the straps of a blue backpack tight over his shoulders, he struggled with the uniformed guard. She had thought to get up and intervene when…
Oh, no. No, no, no!
She opened her eyes.
Clear azure skies. She lay supine on a gravelly bed.
She clambered to her feet. A small patchy field of dirt. A low wall of rough-hewn stones. Where am I? And where are my clothes?
A savage migraine pounded at the back of her eyeballs. She covered her nakedness with her arms. She stumbled forward over stones and pebbles.
She had to get to the hospital. Ambulances were on their way. She needed to oversee triage and direct the interns. She had sat with Ester right at the door. She might be in one of those ambulances, or even…
She froze. Leafy trees whispered in the morning breeze. The rounded ends of Jewish tombstones poked over the wall. She panted. Her heart raced. Tears burned down her cheeks. My Ester. There would be no wedding today. Or ever.
The urgency of the hospital faded. Her hand moved to her head by force of habit but found no head covering. A road of black asphalt passed nearby. Is this real?
She staggered forward. A table stood at the side of the road, surreal and out of place, like a painting by Magritte. A white tablecloth flapped in the breeze. A gray-haired man in a tweed suit slouched on a chair. The doctor approached with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances.
“Ester,” she cried. “Where is Ester?”
The man yawned. “My name is Boris,” he said in Hebrew with a heavy Russian accent. He handed her a square of fabric that unfolded into a gauzy white cloak like a disposable hospital gown. Dr. Sandler turned aside and donned the gown. She accepted a disposable plastic cup of water and two white Acamol tablets.
“Thank you.”
“Name?”
Dr. Sandler
told him. The man filled out a form.
“Where is my daughter?”
The man said nothing.
As an observant Jewess, she believed in life after death, but in a vague and general way. Bright light. Long tunnel. A welcoming committee of dear departed souls. Pearly gates. She had never imagined the afterlife to be so, well, like life, complete with Russian bureaucrats and ballpoint pens.
“Sign here.” The Russian pushed the sheet of paper toward her and held out the pen.
“What is this?”
“For your food and shelter.”
Food and shelter. That didn’t seem right, but she was in no position to argue.
She took hold of the pen and leaned over the table.
“No!” a distant voice yelled. A man ran toward her. “Don’t sign that!”
Boris watched him without expression.
Running Man had dark hair, kind eyes, and an earnest smile. “Come with us. We’ll help you, and you don’t have to sign anything.”
“Us?”
Running Man pointed down the road. “Around the corner. The others came out on the other side.” The others? Hope quickened in her heart. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Moshe,” he said. “Welcome to the Afterlife.”
“You,” Boris barked at him. “Stay out of this!”
Moshe ignored the Russian. He handed Dr. Sandler a thick white robe of soft cotton, the kind she had enjoyed at the Bellagio spa after a convention in Vegas.
Dr. Sandler chose the spa option and donned her new robe.
Moshe walked her down the road and a second table came into view, decked in blue and white, with Stars of David and matching helium balloons. A tall woman with short blond hair waved and smiled.
“I was in your shoes a month ago,” Moshe said. “You probably have a lot of questions, and we’ll answer them as best we can. But first, have some breakfast.”
The tall blond gave her a warm smile and shook her hand, then handed her a pair of spa slippers and a paper cup of sweet mint tea.
Dr. Sandler cupped the tea in her hands and picked a rugalah from a platter of the chocolate pastries. Questions queued in her mind. She licked her fingers and dropped the empty cup in a small garbage bin.