by Hagai Dagan
d. Rustic Grace
In the evenings they would eat together, talk a little, listen to music. They never quite found their flow, but over time, their stop-start conversations became a matter of pleasant habit. There was something coarse and simplistic about their conversations— as if they were in agreement that there was no point in wasting words on most subjects. Occasionally, he asked her questions about science, something he never knew much about, and she would explain. He liked listening to her. She spoke without embellishment, clear and to the point, every once and a while seasoning her responses with some colloquial joke, at times outright obscenities, which she somehow managed to deliver with an air of rustic grace.
She liked sitting on the balcony and drinking beer in silence, and he liked watching her drinking her beer in silence. They never moved in together— they saw no need to do so, but they slept together three nights a week. On Fridays and Saturdays, when she did not have to be in her lab in the morning, she would sleep in, waking up late and looking at Tamir lying beside her. Usually, her eyes settled on his imperious morning glory. She would place her hand on it and say: hmm. What was the meaning of that hmm? The gates of exegesis were never closed. Tamir felt there was a degree of confirmation invested in that hum, as if to say— that is the way of the world; but he also attributed it a certain sense of validation, as if to say— that is the way of the world, and it is good so. He also interpreted it through the lens of scientific inquiry, as if she was confirming his reproductive instrument was operating intact, and that she was now going to operate accordingly. And operate accordingly she did. Tamir was very fond of those slow mornings. Later in the day, they would sit on the electric adjustable bed he had purchased, reading the paper and sipping coffee.
Tamir repeatedly asked himself whether there was something limited in their relationship. Yes, there’s something limited in it, he answered himself. But is that a problem? Obviously, all relationships are limited to an extent. Did he feel any regret, a feeling of missing out? Yes, occasionally, but that feeling seemed childish to him. Grow up, he berated himself, you have a decent thing going on with her. Primordial Slavic princesses are not about to descend down from the sky— and even if they were, what would you do with them? After the fireworks die out, what would you do then? Sit around on Friday morning reading the newspaper.
They stayed together, doing things couples did when they were together. They would visit Levinsky Market, buy olives and cheeses, sit in pubs, drink beers in mutual silence. She was fond of Tel-Aviv. She said it suited her needs after discharging from the army, that she desired to live in a big city where no one knew her, free from the scrutiny of others. She told him that she used to be a heavy smoker back in those days, until at some point she had made the decision to quit, and that was that, a cigarette hadn’t touched her lips since. That’s just the way she was— she would make up her mind, and that’s that. If I ever decide to leave you, she said, it’ll be final. When I decide to do something, I just do it.
You don’t have a hesitation mechanism in your system, he said.
And you don’t have a resolution mechanism in yours.
Could be.
She looked at him for a moment. It’s going to fuck up your life, eventually.
I know. It fucks it up all the time.
They sat in silence, sipping their Belgian beer. She said she was starting to feel that Tel-Aviv no longer suited her. She suddenly realized that she missed her house in the country, with the orchard in the back.
Good God… he said, but at the same time, his mind’s eye wandered back to the woods covering the rolling hills of the Western Galilee, where children from the kibbutz went foraging for mushrooms every fall. Those woods remained ingrained in his being.
If I rent a house in some settlement out in the country, would you come live with me? she asked.
Maybe when I’m seventy…
Will you visit me?
Only if you’ll have a balcony there, where we could sit and drink beer.
Of course I will.
e. Different, Completely Different
As time passed, Tamir found himself craving the touch of a new body, an unfamiliar body. The mere idea of unfamiliarity was enough to excite him. Whoever this woman would be wouldn’t even have to be particularly pretty, or sensual; she would just have to be unfamiliar, foreign, distant, enigmatic, different, completely different.
* * *
21. Moshav — A collective agricultural settlement. In its original form, a moshav allowed for private property (unlike the fully collective kibbutzes), but part of its product was processed and marketed collectively.
7. VIENNA
He loved her winding, capricious streets; her splendid buildings, proudly-humbly erect; her gardens and parks, pervaded with such sweet melancholy; the chain of hillocks enclosing her […] he loved her mercurial, ebullient inhabitants, and her jaunty euphonious swagger […]
— David Vogel, Married Life
a. Blocked Number
Tamir was on his way to see the head of the department of philosophy when his phone rang. He was pretty sure he was about to fire him, or, in the euphemistic language of academia, decline to renew his contract. Tamir wasn’t a particularly popular lecturer, nor did he ever learn how to conceal his criticism, to not step on any toes, and to translate his academic severity into nonthreatening, pandering communication. Subsequently, ever since teaching surveys gained traction and grew in importance, he found himself under constant pressure. He would have resigned a long time ago, but he saw no alternative means of providing for himself on the horizon. Occasionally, he entertained the idea of applying for positions abroad, but he would have been considered too old by then, and he had published too little anyway. He knew he didn’t stand a chance, that he was facing a cul-de-sac.
It was too hot. A southern, protracted, unbearable heat. There weren’t enough trees on the college campus. There was nowhere to run. His phone vibrated to the sound of Neil Young’s voice, it’s better to burn out, than it is to rust. Tamir looked at the screen. Blocked number. Usually, he ignored blocked numbers. More often than not, they turned out to be insurance agents or telephone solicitors trying to hawk some crappy product. More than he found their aggressive sales tactics insufferable, it was their inarticulacy which truly irked him. More often than not, he’d start correcting their Hebrew, they’d get offended, and the whole thing would end in sour discontent. Over time, he stopped answering blocked numbers altogether. If it’s important, let them leave a message. But people rarely ever left a message. Maybe because it rarely ever was people, but rather automated, truly anonymous systems. Everyone he spoke with served to further reinforce his feeling that he didn’t really exist. A long time ago, he used to be a real person, and real people occasionally called him. But somewhere along the line, he had become a bank account, an insurance policy; incoming calls were coming exclusively from investment consultants, from insurance agents— and they always called from blocked numbers. He didn’t like answering blocked numbers. He knew there was no solace nor redemption to be found on the other side of the line. But now he was quite possibly on his way to being fired, when his phone suddenly rang. He answered
Hello, am I speaking with Tamir Binder?
He sighed. The person on the other line’s words followed the all-too familiar pattern of a sales pitch, but the style was different, more authoritative, free of the unscrupulous tone of solicitation. Still, the introduction annoyed him. He abhorred the Israeli habit of confirming the identity of the addressee before the addresser introduces themselves.
Who’s asking?
Is this Tamir Binder?
Who’s asking?
Assaf from the Prime Minister’s Office.
Of all things, he was not expecting that. He glanced skeptically at his screen again, which still read ‘Unidentified Number’. I’m listening, he said, his voice
slightly squeaking.
So, is this Tamir Binder?
Yes, this is he.
I don’t want to get into too much detail over the phone, said Assaf from the Prime Minister’s Office. We’d like to meet you as soon as possible.
It’s been so many years since he last spoke with these people, but the style and tone remained wholly unchanged. He felt the unsettling tingle of déjà vu, as if someone was sanding his skull with a thin sheet of glasspaper.
I’d like to at least have a general sense of what this is about he said. I’m quite busy these days.
That wasn’t entirely quite true. He wasn’t exactly busy. Troubled, was more like it. Numb.
It’s about a figure you used to know quite well during your military service, Assaf from the Prime Minister’s Office said in a measured voice. At least, so we think. She’s… staged a comeback.
Tamir stopped in his tracks.
Are we talking about…?
This line isn’t secure, the man cut him off. As if he didn’t know.
I wasn’t going to say a name, he replied, slightly offended. Just because he’s been out of the game for so long, doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the rules.
It’s best you simply come in.
You need to try a little harder, Tamir replied.
A pronounced silence registered from the other side of the electromagnetic range. Tamir felt he could hear the wheels turning inside the mind of the man whose real name clearly wasn’t Assaf, as he deliberated what to say.
The stint has been spotted again, the man finally said, in a very soft voice, as if trying to both utter the words and repress them at the same time.
Tamir held his breath. It took him a few seconds to steady the quiver which gripped his throat. He didn’t want his voice to quiver, that’s for sure, but he mainly failed to fathom— where had this quiver come from, after all these years? It belonged to a different era, to a different person. What does this have anything to do with him? He cast his eyes of the scene around him— the dusty public benches, the tortured grass, the mindless, glazed look in the eyes of students.
I can come in tomorrow afternoon, he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice still quivered. He didn’t know whether the person he was speaking with had noticed.
Today would be better.
That serious?
Yes.
I’m at the college right now. I have a meeting. I can leave afterwards.
Can’t you blow it off?
Tamir pondered the possibility. The head of the department would be incensed. He liked that idea. Yes, I guess so, he replied.
Great. I’m texting you a number. Call when you reach Highway 20, and we’ll upload a GPS map to your phone with instructions.
Is that how things work now?
Things work in all sorts of ways. See you later.
He shoved the phone into his pocket. The college campus was succumbing to the implacable southern fall. Ponderous, parched lawns stretched from where he was standing all the way to the main building which blocked his line of sight, its faded white concrete façade furrowed into squares like a bar of white chocolate. He couldn’t stand white chocolate. He turned his back on the building and made his way to the parking lot, where his green Opel Corsa awaited him. He recalled a recurring dream he had had a few years earlier: he is walking on the outskirts of a foreign city, on the edges of the desert. He doesn’t recognize the city, nor the desert. The only thing he recognizes is his trusty Corsa, but he doesn’t understand why its familiar green is pervaded by reddish spots. He gets in the car, turns on the engine, and soars to the heavens.
It’s been years since he last had that dream.
b. He Has to Know
Highway 20 was congested, as always. The green Corsa inched its way through traffic. A news anchor over the radio informed of Hezbollah fire towards an IDF force around Har Dov. Sheba‘a Farms, Tamir recalled, they call Har Dov Sheba‘a Farms. The minister of defense was interviewed and declared that Israel will not tolerate repeated aggression by Hezbollah towards its forces. We will not be dragged to another war of attrition, he asserted. The prime minister announced that the cabinet will convene over the coming days to make some decisions. We do not for a moment forget that Hezbollah is merely an Iranian proxy, he said. Anyone complicit in the attack of IDF soldiers and citizens of northern Israel will have a price to pay. There is a growing understanding within the cabinet, the minister of interior and member of the political-security cabinet said, that striking the client is no longer sufficient. The patron needs to be dealt with.
That’s a pretty blatant threat, Tamir thought to himself. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he heard such blunt speech. What, they’re going to launch an attack on Iran because Hezbollah fired at Har Dov? That makes no sense. Who’s the minister of interior now, anyway? Someone from Shas?22 He’s a cabinet member…? his thoughts wandered.
He was in no rush, making no effort to change lanes to gain an extra yard. He was curious, yes, and even felt a certain fire in his belly, despite trying to deny it, but that did not make him rush. It was as if he had known all along that at some point, this day would come, that it was waiting for him, that everything which preceded this moment was nothing but a protracted, enforced hiatus. So, is that what you are? he asked himself, a foolish romantic, a child stuck in a fantasy, failing to realize he’s actually just stuck on Highway 20, no more and no less, that life is Highway 20 and you’re stuck inside, crawling along the quotidian, depressing traffic, towards a predetermined end?
The Prime Minister Office’s map directed him to some address in Nahalat Yitzhak. He edged his way at the last minute to take the exit at HaShalom and turned right, followed the instructions, and parked under a multistory building built of dark glass and gray marble. The building looked fairly standard, gloomy to an extent, sealed and impassive. A message flashed on the screen of his phone: Shomron & Sharoni Communications Services, floor 8, ring the bell. He went in, nodding his head towards the apathic security guard in the lobby who didn’t even raise his eyes from his newspaper. Tamir’s eyes spied the headline which screamed from the cover page in bold red and black letters:
DARING NAVY OPERATION
CARGO SHIP MORGANA SEIZED IN OPEN SEA
He had heard something about it on the radio whilst sitting in traffic. The ship apparently attempted to transport weapons from Iran to the Gaza Strip.
Tamir went up to the eighth floor and turned into the hallway, passing by a law firm and an artist management agency. A gray-haired, green-spectacled woman emerged from the agency. Being an author in this country, she mumbled to herself in anger, but loud enough for Tamir to hear, I’d be better off drinking bleach. They feed you hope with a spoon and drink your blood with a straw. He kept walking down the hall and stopped before a small brass sign bearing the title Shomron & Sharoni Communications Services. He rang the bell fixed to the bottom of a metal numeric keypad. The intercom came to life and a female voice instructed him to look at the small screen at the bottom of the keypad. He looked straight at the screen. A few seconds later, a buzz sounded. He pushed the door open. A young security guard asked him to remove any metallic objects and pass through the scanner. Afterwards, he gave him a visitor’s badge. A person with yellowish skin, his face spirited and his body underneath his short blue t-shirt fit, appeared beside them.
Tamir. He didn’t ask, he asserted.
Yes.
I’m Assaf.
Tamir nodded.
Follow me.
Tamir thought up some alternative phrasings in his head. ‘Will you please accompany me’, for example; ‘this way, please’; or even, ‘welcome, would you kindly come this way?’ These were all literal translations from other languages, in which these combinations sounded completely natural. Hebrew permitted their composition in terms of vocabulary and grammar, but their uttera
nce would have sounded wholly artificial. Why is that? Because, at the end of the day, Hebrew was molded as a soldier’s language and the language of… For some reason, the term barbarians sprang to his mind. For a moment, he thought of his students. After all, they’re good kids, or at least they could be, but they’re trapped in the confines of this language, of this society. They don’t stand a chance. And I probably don’t, either, he lamented.
He followed Assaf. They entered a room that looked like a small conference room. Assaf told him to wait in there and asked if he wanted anything.
Do you have an espresso machine?
Yes.
Can you make a macchiato?
Don’t get carried away.
Espresso with milk, no sugar.
Assaf left the room.
A couple of minutes passed. Tamir’s mind was empty. He felt something approximating meditative serenity. The door opened and two men walked in. Tamir recognized them immediately, despite the years that had gone by. One of them was the balding, mustached, puffy-cheeked man who had intervened in his investigation at F.S.D.2 and who showed up to snatch al-Darija after she had crashed. The other person was the silent, tiny-yarmulke-wearing man who had also been present on both occasions. The formerly puffy-cheeked man had by now lost whatever hair he had remaining, his mustache grayed, and his face had become bony and flaccid. He didn’t age well. His partner grew slightly hunched, his hair streaked with silver. The former now wore a blue blazer over a light polo shirt, the latter a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. His red yarmulke was replaced by a sandy yellow one. Something had cracked in his once foreboding sealed exterior, Tamir thought to himself, but maybe I’m just imagining.
Well, did you think we’d ever meet again? The older man asked in a slightly contrived tone, neither pleasantly congenial, nor comfortingly familiar.