The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  The taxi entered the city. Tamir cracked open the window, and a cool breeze caressed his cheeks. An inert grayness extended over the restful streets. The sun was nowhere to be seen. For some reason, that instilled Tamir with a sense of tranquility. The boulevards stretched before the cab, broad and long, awash with calm and orderly traffic. The taxi stopped at a red light, affording Tamir the opportunity to observe cyclists and pedestrians at their natural pace. They seemed poised. At home, he always felt a certain chaotic disquiet permeating the air, interwoven among the people, percolating into their being. During the classes he taught, he used to sometimes feel that the civility imposed on people is but a thin veil, worn and damaged from all of the violence, frustration, and disquiet stirring beneath it. A repressed violence rasped in the air, against the institution, against academia as a whole, against education, against liberals, against Tel-Avivians, against seculars, against observants, against Ashkenazis, against Mizrahi intellectuals, against Arabs, against language, against complexity, against poeticism, against beauty. Tamir gazed at the enchanting streets of Vienna, and his heart expanded. He felt a cautious joy sneaking into his void, empty heart.

  e. Green Mist

  The apartment he was assigned in Lederergasse was quite nice: high ceilings, broad windows; light-colored walls in the living room, blue-tinted walls in the bedroom; two underwhelming couches, somewhat ironic knock-offs of Rococo palatial furnishing; and a vermilion sofa which exuded an almost exaggerated jubilance. There was even a bureau there, with an IKEA-style executive chair. Bureaus always made Tamir comfortable, even if he wasn’t intending on writing, even if he had nothing to write about. If anyone asks, Assaf told him during his briefing, it’s an Airbnb apartment. Tamir asked if it in fact was an Airbnb apartment. That’s what the neighbors believe, Assaf replied. In the city registers, it’s listed under the name of a person who ostensibly lives in London. Looking around him, Tamir was grateful that the apartment did not look like another one of the many identical Airbnb apartments he had stayed in during his travels, more often than not designed in a style one might call ‘functional’— in other words, uncomfortable— designed according to a peculiar aesthetic code which could make any sojourner feel detached and alienated.

  He unpacked his things and took a shower, then put on a black sweater, a crimson scarf, and his favorite blue jacket, and went out to grab a bite to eat. He read up on the city on the flight over and in the hours prior; it had been a while since he last visited Vienna, and he needed to brush up. He was now walking south on Lederergasse, and stopped to look at a curious building which stood out conspicuously against the elegant nineteenth century houses lining the street. The building looked like a formidable fortress. It was built of small, faded red bricks, and towered like a primordial giant. Tamir was intrigued. He turned into a dark narrow passage, and only when he emerged in a wide hall did he realize that he had entered a church— and a nice church, at that. When he came out of the other side onto Piaristengasse, he saw that its façade was actually white and quite refined, but he was more interested in its gloomy, disheveled posterior. It opened something different in the handsome space of the city. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. From Piaristengasse, he turned right to Josefstädterstrasse. He strolled leisurely, basking in the crisp cool weather, the restful movement of people who seemed to be gently sailing, the bookshops, the patisseries, and chocolateries. He crossed Albertgasse and entered Café Hummel.

  Unlike other Viennese cafés, Hummel wasn’t particularly fancy. It was not adorned by furniture that looks like it’s been there unchanged since the nineteenth century, nor by moldy, grouchy waiters. Tamir carefully examined the ochre couches and the cream-colored walls, the chandeliers which seemed to spurn flamboyance, the pasty display case, the apple strudel and the coned punch cake, boasting a brilliant pink exterior. He paused to look at the newspaper rack displaying German and Austrian newspapers, as well as the well-known Swiss Neue Zürcher Zeitung, the French daily Le Monde, and the British Times. He surveyed the café’s patrons, whose average age was by no means young, paying attention to the way most of them seemed to shelter behind their tables, reclusive, absorbed in their newspapers with inscrutable countenances, while others engaged in light conversation. The manner in which their Viennese diction smoothed the edges of their German, affording it an almost Yiddish quality, was music to Tamir’s percipient ears.

  He grabbed a local newspaper and sat down in a corner table. A waiter approached him and asked if he would like to see a menu. Tamir’s rusty German creaked and groaned as he struggled to make his order, but as he was speaking, he felt like he was slowly rediscovering his rhythm. He knew what he wanted. He asked for a fiakergulasch and a glass of cloudy beer. He used the German term, and the waiter corrected him that in Vienna, the beer is called zwickelbier. Fiakergulasch is a coachman goulash. That name, which Tamir came across once in a Joseph Roth novel, always appealed to him. A waitress with a blue streak running through her hair placed the beer on his table. He sipped it, and immediately felt his quality-of-life shooting up. It was indeed cloudy, a cloudiness of caressing, green mist, of soft rain scarves, of reclining gods and giggling goddesses.

  Tamir looked around the café. Unlike cafés in Tel-Aviv, there was no music playing in the background. Just the stifled murmur of conversations carried through the air. These people sure know how to talk quietly, Tamir reflected in awe. The goulash was served to his table. The chunks of meat were plated appetizingly, emitting a strong, almost intoxicating roasted aroma. Beside them, a reddish-pink sausage cut and shaped like a flower peered its head from the sauce, like a strange carnivorous plant; a floral-shaped pickle waded in the thick sauce as well, and placed on top was a delightful fried egg. Tamir placed a chunk of meat in his mouth and closed his eyes, immersing himself in the deep, rousing flavor of tradition, of skill, of the good life. He tasted the pork sausage and let out a deep-seated Jewish sigh.

  f. Black Rain

  He reached Café Eiles a little early. The scene was bustling with verve and animation, a verve springing from true devotion to pleasures of the palate and to relaxation. Strange paradox. Tamir sauntered between dimpled red sofas, under a brass chandelier. The soft light coming through the large windows endowed the place with a kind of brooding melancholy, and the acoustics compressed and flattened the manifold conversations rolling around the tables, scattering them across the large space as faint echoes. Tamir found a niche in the rear part of the café; he sat and observed the businessmen in suits conducting meetings, the elderly Viennese women stuffing their mouths with plum-streusel cakes, the students hunched over their laptops, the man in a velvet jacket sitting two tables over from him, slowly turning the pages of a copy of Die Presse. The waiter placed Tamir’s melange on his table. He sipped it. It was good.

  The coffee here’s not bad. Café Weimar also makes a decent brew. So does Café Schopenhauer. In places like Café Jelinek, though, I’d probably go for tea. This might sound strange to you, but it’s actually not that easy to find a really good cup of coffee in Vienna. That’s why coffee aficionados like myself have it hard here. But I’m not complaining.

  Tamir smiled as he surveyed the man who sat down in front him. His eyes had receded slightly behind blue eyeglass frames, the pale tone of his face had grown even paler, and his body thickened— but besides that, he hadn’t changed much. Tamir immediately recognized his restless, fiery gaze. Of course, he was no longer wearing Palladium shoes and a polo shirt; those had been replaced by an ash-gray shirt and a black jacket he now impetuously slung over the elegant hanger set by their table. You blend in well with the landscape, he said to Tamir. You look a bit droopy. Fits the mood.

  His Hebrew— with its slightly crass diction, just as Tamir had remembered— resounded against the sonic landscape around them, but was still subsumed by the general indistinct murmur. The acoustics in the room were utterly engulfing. Tamir assumed that was why Café Eiles was select
ed to host their meeting, rather than a café such as Hummel where someone could listen in.

  Hello Yaki, Tamir said.

  Yaki nodded, reached into his briefcase, took out a device which looked like a small transistor radio, and placed it on the table between them. If anyone’s feeling the urge to eavesdrop, this little bugger makes it all but impossible. I can’t honestly say I understand the mechanics of what it actually does, but I’m told it’s quite effective. Yaki signaled to the waiter who walked over in an exaggerated gay strut, and ordered a large mocha coffee and a schnapps.

  We’ve come a long way since the restaurant in Jish, wouldn’t you say? Tamir said.

  Ah, yes, Jish… Yaki sighed. So, you’re still in Tel-Aviv, right?

  Yes, but I prefer the cafés here. Say, whatever happened to ‘Ali the Yellow after I discharged?

  Oh, his daughter eventually died—cancer, after all. After we withdrew from South Lebanon, he sort of just faded away. Hard to blame him, really.

  And how did you end up here?

  The unit became a pretty dreary place after the withdrawal. There was no more action. We became small and insignificant almost overnight. We both know perfectly well that it was you guys who obtained the bulk of the intelligence. Agent work just became kind of passé.

  And yet, you’re here doing agent work, aren’t you?

  Yes, well, at least here I’m stationed in a city like Vienna. If you’re gonna play spy games, at least do it in a pretty setting, right?

  If you ask me, this city is too refined for a guy like you.

  That’s where you’re wrong. Believe me, you look around and you think this is a city for old ladies sipping whipped coffee, but behind this tame façade there’s… Well, you can live well here, if you know what I mean.

  You mean things that cost a lot of money and happen really late at night?

  You can do it in the afternoon, as well.

  I see… Do you have an address? My romantic life has been faltering lately.

  I gather that things in academia aren’t much better, either.

  Tamir didn’t reply. What could he have said?

  Yaki glanced at his watch. Okay, so, listen. This is the way it’s going to work. We’re tracking her. We’re going to bug her place, as well. We’re waiting for an opportunity— and for clearance, which we don’t have yet. You see, the people giving the OK need to be convinced that it’s important enough, and then send over an expert to actually do it. Besides, we try to be as gentle as possible. The police and the homeland security office here are quite sensitive to these types of operations. But anyway, we’ll try to also plant a bug on her bag, her coat… Now, listen, you’re free to walk around the city, but try not to stray too far from the center, in case we need you on short notice, even though I can’t say with certainty that this is the only area she hangs out in. Now, take this. He pulled out a cellphone from his briefcase and handed it to Tamir. From now on, this is you. You talk to us only through this. It’s safe. Even so, we’ll send you messages to the weather app which you can only access with a password. Whenever you see on your screen that there’s a weather update, go in and put in the password. If something really urgent comes up, then I’ll just write you directly or call. Just so you know, I was instructed to take your regular phone from you, but I’m not going to do that— both because I trust you, and because it’s bullshit. If you wanted to talk on the phone, you could just buy one in any corner shop, right? They don’t think very highly of you back in Israel, do they? What did you do to earn your reputation?

  Oh, it’s a long story, and not a very interesting one.

  Yaki looked at him intently. I’m trusting you, but you better not fuck up. I’m not this nice when I get pissed off.

  Of course. You can relax.

  Now, listen, you are not trained for field work, so we’ll try to keep you out of it as much as we can. If I happen to invite you to join a stakeout, you do exactly— and I mean, exactly— as you’re told. You don’t stray by so much as a hair from your exact instructions, clear? The last thing I need in my life right now is that jackass Oz gloating, saying I told you so. Besides, she can never see you, because she’s seen you before.

  Obviously. So, do you speak German? Or just enough to order a mocha and schnapps?

  I didn’t have a choice. It was hard at first, but an assignment’s an assignment. He downed his schnapps in one gulp. Is there anything you wanna ask me?

  Have you seen her yet?

  Yes.

  How does she look?

  Yaki stared at him for a moment. He pulled a tablet from his sapphire-blue leather briefcase, typed in a couple of things, and handed it over to Tamir. Hold it facing the wall, he told him, don’t turn it towards the room.

  Tamir grabbed the tablet and lowered his eye to glance at the screen. The picture was sharp, in high resolution. Her gaze was slightly turned and her hair covered half of her face, but it was her. Yes, it was definitely her. What was it about her that always sent a subdermal tremor running through his body? He handed the tablet back to Yaki.

  She’s hard to miss, huh? Yaki remarked.

  Yes.

  Listen, Yaki went on, I remember last time we met that you had a thing for her.

  What thing?

  You were very focused on her, you wanted to know everything about her…

  It was an intelligence thing.

  Tamir, cut the bullshit.

  He stared at Yaki in silence.

  Anyone can have his fantasies, that’s fine, but I hope you realize that whatever this thing may be, it’s nothing more than a fantasy. It’s… It’s like a comic book. You know what I mean? You were a kid, you heard something over the radio, you became enamored, I dunno, but that’s as far as it goes. It’s just a story, a legend.

  A phantom.

  See? You’re better with words than I am.

  So, why are we talking about this now?

  What do you mean, why? I need to hear from you that you understand that what we have on our hands is an intelligence objective— no more, no less. Not some goddamned freedom-fighting heroine, not a princess in a tower— an intelligence objective.

  Yes, yes, that’s clear.

  Is it?

  Yes, it’s clear.

  I insisted on bringing you here against Musa and that bull-terrier Oz’s will, and everyone else involved, for that matter. Don’t make me look bad. Don’t ruin the show I’m running here.

  Who am I to spoil shows…?

  Okay. Other than that, is everything clear?

  What’s the password for the app?

  BlackRain8491, Yaki said.

  g. Hidden Ground Water

  A gentle, thin rain came down on the city. It caressed Tamir’s face as he strode down Florianigasse. The city appeared pensive and gloomy beneath the shroud of rain. He felt an indistinct mixture of utter despondency and a sort of physical exhilaration, not merely physical, a kind of spiritedness which does not stem from happiness. Black Audi cars whistled past him. He entered a place called Café Florianihof. An eerie silence prevailed inside. The walls were lined with unsettling pictures of black, decaying tree branches. Tamir glanced at the images and felt that there was another city beneath the city, the upper city hovering above him like a scarf in the wind, while the lower city spreads like a dream map over the base of his consciousness, a map he cannot reach. He ordered a sacher sausage and a Sturmspritzer. He had always wanted to try that drink, semi-fermented wine mixed with sparkling water.

  The smartphone Yaki gave him vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw a weather notification pop up on its screen. He went into the app and typed in the password. It was an audio file. He plugged in his earphones, partly because Assaf had instructed him so— never to play audio files without his earphones, and to make sure no one but him could see any video files he might recei
ve— but mostly as to not disturb the sanctified silence in the café. Only a handful of solitary men and women were seated at the tables covered with pristine tablecloths, reading newspapers or laboring over laptops. One young woman was writing in a blue leather-bound notebook, or, more accurately, suspending the pen in her hand above the unblemished paper. She leaned her chin on her hand, and her eyes wandered aimlessly across the café. Vienna is the city of the lone and dejected, Tamir thought to himself, and cafés are their stomping ground. But he knew he was actually thinking about himself.

  He played the audio file. It was a conversation between a man and a woman. They spoke in English. The woman’s voice was quiet, relaxed, a bit distant, but not cold. Her accent was decent, more American than British, but a foreign cadence crept through it like a warm easterly wind blowing through a well-tended northern garden. He thought he recognized the voice, but he wasn’t sure. Was it her? The voice was different than that of the girl who had bandaged him on that fateful night, and different than the voice he had heard over the radio all those years ago— J2 to J1, why did you change the frequency? I hear you, over. And yet, as soon as he heard that voice through his earphones, he felt that pull, that familiar force pulling down, down to effervescent, hidden ground water.

  The conversation revolved around poetry. The speaker complained about a typo in a poem she published in a literary journal called Naked Words. Tamir understood from the course of the conversation that her interlocuter was the journal’s editor. He apologized for the error, and admitted his editor must have thought the name Lagash was erroneous, assuming the author had meant Lagos, the Nigerian city.