by Hagai Dagan
That’s what happens when ignorance dresses up as erudition! bellowed the woman.
Okay, no need to raise our voices, the editor tried to placate her. Not everyone knows…
Not everyone knows, what?! That Lagash was an important Sumerian city in the 3rd millennium B.C.E., and that Lagos is the former capital of Nigeria?! You’re lucky I understood it.
Listen, I understand this is important to you, and in the future, we will…
You have no idea how important this is to me! It’s much more important to me than you could possibly fathom! So much is riding on this!
That sounds a bit excessive…
Oh, does it! Then you simply don’t understand the power of poetry. It is irresponsible to publish with you.
The audio file concluded. The woman with the blue notebook closed it and signaled to the waitress. Tamir thought about what he had just heard. Something didn’t sit right. The sacher sausage was served to his table. On one of its ends rested a mound of fresh grated horseradish, and on its other, a pool of yellow mustard. Tamir dipped a piece of the sausage in the mustard, scooped up some horseradish, and put the fork in his mouth. The gentle smoked flavor of the sacher sausage blended immaculately with its accompanying condiments. A few seconds later, a wave of spiciness pervaded Tamir’s nose and sinuses. He sniffled slightly and took a sip of the Sturm. The lofty, light flavor was uplifting. His smartphone buzzed again. It was Yaki. Tamir answered. I don’t feel comfortable speaking here, he said, it’s very quiet.
Of course, Café Florianihof’s like a funeral home, Yaki said.
I’m glad to hear you’re pinpointing my location. I feel safe.
We always look out for our own.
Sure.
Perhaps it’s best you step outside and talk on the street.
The sausage will go cold.
You’re breaking my heart.
Tamir stepped outside and stood by the entrance to the café.
So, why is she making such a big deal about a stupid poem?
Everyone hates typos, Tamir said.
But isn’t her reaction a bit over-the-top? I mean… It’s not the end of the world, is it? How many people even read these journals?
Not many, Tamir sighed, recalling the academic journals that printed the few articles he had published. Thoughts scatter like dust in the wind, he thought to himself.
So, we haven’t learned much from this conversation, have we? Yaki asked. Perhaps only that she’s temperamental.
I don’t think so.
Why’s that?
I don’t know. I’ll look for the poem she’s talking about.
Are you serious? What for?
I don’t know. It’s good to read poems.
Is it?
Do you remember that Egyptian intellectual who said the biggest mistake Israeli intelligence made was not reading Arabic poetry after the Six Day War?
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Okay. Anyway, I’ll finish my sausage and hit the library.
h. Sorcery and Deception
It took him some time to find the right wing of the library at the University of Vienna, but he was relaxed and patient. Perhaps it was the marble colonnades he sauntered by which imbued him with ease and serenity. Even after finding the right wing, it took some time before he was given access and before he learned to navigate the online catalogue. He typed in the name of the journal, Naked Words, jotted down its location, found the right shelf, and pulled out its most recent volume. There was nothing by Dallal Zaidani, nor by Alma Strandläufer or al-Darija. He skimmed the contributors list. His eyes paused on an author named Flamingo Reed. That might be a real name, he thought to himself, but actually it kind of sounds like a pseudonym. Reed… Like the grass. But why Flamingo? Suddenly, he recalled the long walks he would take with his father around the fish ponds of the kibbutz during migratory season. There were always pelicans there, who were a tremendous nuisance since they would raid the ponds in flocks, utterly decimating whole populations of fish in minutes; but occasionally, once every few winters, flocks of pink-white flamingos would appear. They would stand on one leg in the shallow pond water, looking like an African mirage against the drab backdrop of the early Israeli winter, like an excerpt from an exotic tale, strange and absurd.
He examined the poem.
Yet again will the Acadians descend upon Lagos. The dusty prophet forewarns:
The calamity is near. A matter of days. Gilgamesh has not returned,
the gods remain silent. Only the dusty prophet speaks, his voice weary,
parched.
By dust and by smoke they shall rise, from the desert
emerge. Not by sword, nor by fire
shall the city fall, but by mirrors,
by sorcery
and deception.
Tamir already knew it was not Lagos that the Acadians will raid, but Lagash. He reread the poem. Who are the Acadians here? he thought, and who were the Sumerians? And what is the meaning of the prophecy that the city will fall by sorcery and deception? There really was something deceptive about the poem.
He went back to the computer and searched the name Flamingo Reed. A number of other journals popped up. All the poems had been published in recent years. He revisited the shelves, and picked out the journals. He sat beside a student with green streaks running through her hair, and perused the poems. Here too, tales of Sumerians and Acadians were spun. What’s the deal with Sumerians? he asked himself. He photocopied the poems. Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Not wanting to disturb the emphatic silence in the reading hall, Tamir slipped out quickly, followed by the bemused gaze of the green-haired student. For a moment, he thought of nymphs frolicking in a forest clearing.
She’s on the move, Yaki whispered. I don’t know where. I want you around. I haven’t decided if I want you on the stakeout or not, but stay close. I’m sending you a map. You can see her movements on it. Go in her direction, but under no circumstances are you to enter her field of vision, got it?
Yes.
Okay. Go. It’s not very far from where you are now.
Tamir typed in the password and opened the map Yaki sent him. He quickly headed over to the 7th district and turned onto Siebensterngasse. He walked down the charming street, passing by small cafés, bars, and boutique shops; some of the shops were peculiar, displaying only a few odd items, like a single tea pot made of ornamented fine china, or an 18th-century-Habsburg-army themed chess set. The red dot on his map stopped on the corner of Neubaugasse and Burggasse, so Tamir paused and looked at the display windows. A few minutes later, she was on the move again, down Neubaugasse, turning left into Siebensterngasse— the street where he himself was standing. His phone vibrated. Stay where you are, Yaki’s voice sounded emphatically. Wait for further instructions. Stay on the line. Tamir stood still, while the red dot moved closer and closer in his direction. There’s a place called Epos next to you, Yaki said, do you see it? Tamir confirmed. Get ready to go in, Yaki said. Go, now. He went in. Wait, Yaki instructed.
The waitress at Epos Restaurant— a comely middle-aged woman in black leather pants and a shiny black jacket— looked at him confusedly. He smiled at her and put the phone to his ear. She went into Café Nil, Yaki said. You stay in Epos. I don’t want her to spot you. Tamir sat down and ordered a melange. He looked at the screen again. The red dot rested motionlessly in what must have been Café Nil. His coffee arrived. He sipped it. It wasn’t particularly good, but he needed a caffeine boost. Or maybe an alcohol boost. No, alcohol would be a bad idea now. Really bad.
He felt alert, excited, frustrated. He didn’t like it that she was there and he was here, just a few yards away. Is this it? Is this how it’s going to be? A text appeared on his screen. She’s sitting alone reading a newspaper, Yaki wrote. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Or maybe sh
e just wants to sit alone and read a newspaper, Tamir thought. The hummus here is horrible, Yaki wrote, a crime against humanity. The falafel tastes like something left over from the Turkish period. Not Turks, Tamir wrote back, Ottomans. And they never conquered Vienna. He recalled the trivia games he used to play with Ilay in the office they shared in Department 195. Ilay was a history buff with a keen interest in the bloody history of Europe. Tamir continued to write: The Polish king Jan III Sobieski rode in with his army of winged Hussars, lifted the Ottoman siege, and saved Europe. What would I do without you? Yaki wrote. The food sucks, she isn’t doing anything, but at least I got a history lesson. I knew it was a good idea to bring you along.
Tamir grabbed a newspaper, but knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. He got up, sat down, and got up again.
Everything alright? asked the woman in leather pants.
Yes, yes, Tamir conjured a labored smile. I’m being really unprofessional, he thought to himself. I should just sit here and wait. Nothing’s happening, anyway. If I’m going to go rogue, I should at least wait for a better opportunity.
Can I get you anything else? the waitress asked.
The check, please, he said, but did not wait for it to arrive at his table. He left a bunch of notes on the table, got up, put on his jacket, wrapped himself up in his scarf, and put on his sunglasses, pulling his favorite traveling hat down over his eyes— the kind similar to the flat caps worn by urban Jews during the interwar period. He stepped out. He knew Yaki could see he was on the move, but he kept on walking. Where are you going? a text appeared on his screen. He kept walking. As he passed Siebenstern Square, Café Nil’s blue-yellow sign came into his view.
Yaki emerged from the café and strode towards him at a casual, leisurely pace. He reached Tamir, nodded amicably as if he were greeting an old acquaintance, then subtly but firmly grabbed him by the elbow and turned him the other way. Tamir could feel how tense Yaki was and how forceful his action was, but it didn’t show on the outside. Walk with me, Yaki said, talk natural, don’t make any sign of excitement or anger, and smile occasionally, he said and donned a convincing smile himself. Tamir walked alongside him. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Yaki hissed between clenched teeth.
I need to see her.
You need to see her? The only one who decides what you do or do not need is me. I thought we agreed that you’re going to follow my instructions.
We did, I am, but if I see her, that might help… the operation.
How would that possibly help?
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll have insights.
Don’t piss me off, you hear me? Don’t piss me off. You never change anything on the spot. Never. Once there is a stakeout team out, there’s only one commander in the field. You hear me?
I hear you.
Good, now get the hell out of my sight. You pull a stunt like this one more time, I’ll have you on a plane back that same day, and see to it personally you won’t be able to leave the country for a whole year, Yaki smiled pleasantly. He put a friendly arm over his shoulder and fastened his fingers on his neck, tightening his grip into an assertive choke. Tamir struggled for air, but Yaki was not quick to relent. This is the last time, he said, still smiling, and released his hold.
Nice hat and glasses, Yaki said, I see you’ve been reading some spy novels. Suddenly, he lowered his head slightly and spoke into his collar. What’s going on? he asked. Tamir didn’t hear the answer. Yaki nodded. Okay, I’m coming back. He turned to Tamir. Get away from here, but stay close. Sit somewhere, and await further instructions.
Tamir retraced his steps, turned right at Siebenstern Square, turned left at Mariahilferstrasse, went down a broad, elegant flight of stairs into a small square, sat down in a place called Café Cinema, and stared blankly ahead. A waitress approached him with a casual smile. He scrolled through the menu and ordered pea soup. He always liked pea soup, especially during winter, particularly with smoked bacon. He looked at the map again. The red dot was still in Café Nil. Café Cinema was filled with young people. They seemed to Tamir to be wholly absorbed in their experience of Viennese contemporariness. Tamir knew nothing about that experience. Perhaps he should interview one of them about the secrets of settling down. He thought about the Jewish authors who had come from Galicia to Vienna in the early twentieth century. They weren’t settled anywhere. They were at large, unfettered, grabbing onto this city with passion, sometimes in desperation, suckling on it like a recalcitrant teat, clinging on to it like castaways suddenly coming across an elusive cruise ship.
The pea soup arrived. It had no bacon in it. He tasted it— it was superb. The red dot started moving. He ate his soup and watched her on the screen. She went back to Neubaugasse and turned left. She reached Mariahilferstrasse, turned left, and stopped. She’s gone into a lingerie shop, Yaki wrote. Lingerie? Tamir wondered. He got up and paid the cashier, leaving the waitress a generous tip. A broad smile stretched across her grateful face. He then asked her if she knew any lingerie shops on Mariahilferstrasse. She looked at him bemused. He said he wanted to get something for his girlfriend. Her quizzical eyes softened only slightly; she said there was one very well-known shop called Luscinia, and explained how to find it. He asked if he could ask her for a favor.
Depends, she said.
Okay, he smiled, I’m going to leave this phone here with you— he extended her the phone Yaki gave him— keep it for me here, and I’ll come back to get it in about an hour.
Why would you do that? she asked him suspiciously.
It’s a complicated story, he said.
Interesting, she said, but the tone of her voice revealed no genuine interest. She didn’t ask what the story was. She did not flirt with him, either. Young people have lost their curiosity, he thought to himself, and I’m probably too old and boring for women her age. Fine, she said, whatever. She took the phone and placed it by the cash register.
He thanked her and turned to leave, but then changed his mind and gave her his regular phone as well. She scowled at him, but didn’t say anything. He hoped Yaki hadn’t planted anything on his clothes. He got out, went back to Mariahilferstrasse, and strode down the street before coming a across a hat and blazer shop. He went in. The prices were exorbitant, but nevertheless he purchased a purple wool hat, a gray corduroy blazer, and a teal-and-indigo plaid scarf which he wrapped around his face. The temperature was quite low, around 34 °F, so his attire did not seem conspicuous. He stuffed his old jacket and scarf into his bag. The clothes had cost him a fortune. He found the blazer and scarf quite dashing, but the purple hat he thought made him look stupid.
Tamir left the store and continued down Mariahilferstrasse, before finally reaching his destination. He figured Yaki and his men probably wouldn’t follow her into a lingerie shop. On the other hand, there might be women on his team… He peered over at the shop. It was quite broad, and adjacent to a C&A store. He walked down to the corner of the street, and turned left. He saw that the C&A had a back exit into the street. He walked in through the back exit and found himself in a corridor leading to elevators and offices. He couldn’t find the door to the store. A woman emerged from one of the elevators and turned to him. Can I help you? He revealed his face from beneath his scarf and said that he was trying to get to the C&A store, and that didn’t know how he got to where they were standing. She smiled courteously and directed him to one of the doors. He opened it and found himself standing in the store’s sales section. He looked around and saw a passage to the lingerie store, Luciana. The passage was open, except for an EAS detection system placed between the stores. He pulled the scarf over his face and crossed.
The atmosphere around him changed at once. The lighting was dimmed and soft. Brass lamps placed along the walls illuminated the space; soft silk cloths dangled from the ceiling, appearing as if they were suspended in midair, trapping in them the subtle light and overwhelming Tamir. Concealed pr
ojectors cast alternating images of women on the dangled cloths, not of typical underwear models but of serious women, contemplating, laughing, turning their heads, brushing back their hair, gathering their hair, dropping their hair, young women, mature women, lying back, standing up, sitting down, crouching. Where are the bras and panties? Tamir asked himself. For a minute, he was afraid he had reached the wrong place. Maybe it’s some kind of gallery? He looked around. It took him a few more moments to realize that the walls behind the dangling cloths were lined with stylized niches, in which underwear, bras, and all types and kinds of lingerie floated. The refined, carefully crafted silk lace panties looked like black butterfly wings. The soft cupreous light caressed and pleasured them. Tamir had to look closely to believe they weren’t in fact floating but rather suspended from transparent hangers. A perceptive saleswoman glided beside him like an ominous gust of wind. Women moved around the caressing space like nocturnal birds. Tamir almost forgot why he had entered the store in the first place, forgot to look around to check if Yaki had eyes there, forgot about the whole intelligence thing, forgot about the city of Vienna outside, feeling himself slipping into the veiled silence, into the enticing depths the store offered. Is it actually quiet here? Tamir listened. He thought he had heard a song rising from the floors, or perhaps descending from the ceiling, perhaps percolating through the fake walls, interlacing with the thick golden air. What was that song? What songs do women sing among themselves? What do they whisper to each other? In what language do the oceans sigh? Mensch, das ist mega-geil, a young Viennese woman pronounced to her friend, and the spell was broken.
Tamir stirred. He saw a girl in a pink sweater standing a bit too prolongedly around one of the niches, and suspected she might be a member of Yaki’s team. Would she recognize him? Probably not. The Viennese girls were swallowed up behind one of the dangling pieces of cloth, perhaps never to reemerge, or to emerge completely different than they had entered. The speculated song sounded once again, and the light faded into a golden gloom. Lace and fine silk entwined with the darkness. Tamir gazed into gloom, into its core, gazed and gazed. He knew what the girl from Yaki’s team did not and could not know; he knew that darkness was the fountainhead of all things, that everything emerged from the fog, always form there, and indeed, something was beginning to materialize— the contours of a human figure, a silhouette. Timeless legends started taking form among the niches, miracles were worked humbly among the undulating fabrics, resting hair, quiet, focused eyes, calm, the fiery revolving sword pushed into the background, to the depths of the lake, a hint of a cautious smile, the night sky pierced over seasonal streams, a parched winter, jackals crying to the moon—