The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  Can I help you? You seem a bit lost.

  I…

  The girl in the pink sweater moved by the niche, releasing a pair of blue silk panties. Tamir tried to conjure a voice different from his own and speak in as Austrian an accent as he could muster. I-I’m fine, he said. I’m looking to get something for my wife.

  She contorted her mouth into a smile, but her expression seemed contrived, stiff. I’m sure you’ll find something. There aren’t enough men in the world who buy their wives these kinds of things. Good day, sir.

  Outside, lightning tore the sky and thunder erupted over Mariahilferstrasse like an air-to-surface missile. Tamir turned his head to look outside for a moment, but didn’t see anything. When he turned to look back at the opening between the dangling clothes, she was no longer there, nor was the opening. He turned away, found the passage back to the C&A store and went back out to the street. But he didn’t head back to Café Cinema, not yet. He headed back to the 7th district where he had come from, but took a slightly different route and reached Café Nil from Neubaugasse.

  The place was spacious and nearly empty. The walls were colored white and green, and green wooden beams supported the ceiling. The wooden chairs were simple. They were tucked under heavy stone and metal tables. Arabesque latticed brass lamps and glass lamps decorated in Arabic calligraphy hung from the ceiling. Despite the stylized lamps, the place was not overborne by the usual heavy, ornate aesthetics of Moroccan restaurants. Potted plants rested on the windowsills instead of large metal finjans or gold-plated plates. Tamir leaned back and absorbed the pleasant simplicity. He understood why she might like this place. He couldn’t ascertain the origins of the waiting staff. Perhaps from the Southern Sahara— Niger, or Chad. They chatted amongst themselves in French. One of them approached him with a smile. He ordered tea, took out the poems he copied at the library, and laid them out on the table before him.

  Tamir sipped his tea and perused the poems. Sumerians and Acadians, he mumbled, Sumerians and Acadians… And the tone is always elegiac, despondent. The threat of calamity always hovers above. Cities will be destroyed, civilizations will collapse, the desert will overrun everything… But actually, she herself is from a desert tribe. On which side of the battle is she on? He sighed, paid, and went back to Café Cinema, even though what he really wanted to do was to stay there longer, a lot longer, at Café Nil with his tea and mysterious poems pervaded with an undeciphered antiquity. He could imagine himself sitting there for days on end, weeks, months.

  I was starting to think you weren’t coming back, the disinterested waitress at Café Cinema said.

  You’d have two new phones, then, Tamir said.

  Several angry messages from Yaki appeared on his screen— Where are you? What’s going on? Where’d you disappear off to? Tamir concluded that no bug was planted on his clothes. In fact, he had realized that back at the lingerie shop already; they’d never have let him roam around freely like that. I’m here, everything’s fine, he wrote. I had some pea soup with bacon which did not agree with me. I didn’t take the phone with me to the bathroom.

  That’s quite a long time to be in the bathroom, Yaki replied.

  Like I said, it didn’t agree with me.

  Fine. Next time, take it with you everywhere. Nothing interesting happened here. She spoke to someone in the lingerie shop. We don’t know who it was, but the girl from my team think it was random. I’m not so sure. She’s heading home now, anyway.

  i. Distance

  Which landscaping style is this? French? English? Tamir didn’t know much about landscaping. He strolled along a handsome artificial stream, passed by an elegant wooden bridge, and stopped in front of a pond in which ducks were wading in plump indifference. He envied their trouble-free existence. Being a Viennese duck, living in a Viennese public garden, flying further south when the pond freezes over, somewhere warm, say, Italy. Not a bad life at all. He kept on walking. When he reached the edge of the park, he crossed the park-ring and noticed a sign for a café. He almost missed the white letterings against the pristine-white backdrop of the building. Tamir read the sign: Café Prückel. He went in. The place was also bright inside— tall whitewashed walls, slightly worn out cream-colored furniture. The place was bustling and lively, and he struggled to find an empty table. Finally, he found one that suited him perfectly, by one of the café’s large windows, under a faded yellow reading lamp.

  Tamir plumped down on the couch. A waiter pranced over to take his order; he asked for a rot gespritzt— red wine with sparkling water— and beef soup with a liver dumpling. He got up, walked over to the newspaper rack, and picked out a copy of the Austrian Der Standart. He returned to his table and flipped through its pages. The prime minister of Israel visits Hungary, a headline in page three read. Tamir read on unenthusiastically. He learned that the prime minister had met his Hungarian counterpart and announced that now, more than ever, European countries must support Israel and the United States in their struggle against Iran. It is a battle of the entire Western world against dark and dangerous regimes, the prime minister told reporters. It’s weird seeing that familiar narrative written in German, Tamir thought as he sipped his gespritzter.

  The soup arrived. Tamir drew a spoonful of the thick, piping-hot liquid to his mouth. It resonated with a deep sweet flavor, Tamir thought, and mocked himself for thinking like some kind of restaurant critic. The liver dumpling melted in his mouth. What’s there to say, he thought to himself and sighed, what’s there to say. His phone vibrated in his pocket, as if to answer his question. She’s sitting in Café Merkur, Yaki reported. Alone, for now. I don’t need you very close, but you’re too far now. Come to Café Eiles and wait for instructions.

  Tamir reluctantly parted with his soup, paid, and left the café. He hailed a taxi and headed for Café Eiles. He decided that he would follow instructions this time. When the taxi passed by the opera house, Yaki wrote him that an unidentified woman has joined her. He instructed him to come to the corner of Florianigasse and Buchfeldgasse. Someone will be waiting for him there. Tamir updated the driver about his new destination. The cab driver repeated the address, and added wie der Herr wünscht. Tamir thought the literal translation would be something like, we will do, and obey. The taxi drove by the Austrian Parliament building—renovation scaffolding crowned the statue of the goddess Athena like a futuristic shroud— passed the municipality building, and reached its destination. Tamir paid. He did not forget to tip, but did forget to take his receipt. He stepped out and looked around him.

  A figure detached from a corner of a house and approached him. Only a few seconds later did he realize that it was the girl from Yaki’s team. She was wearing a pair of black jeans now, a blue leather jacket, and a brown woolen hat. The hat was pulled down over her face. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and her face expressionless. Come with me, she said quietly in German. Tamir followed her to a branch of BILLA supermarket. She pulled him into an employee bathroom stall which was unlocked. She pulled a slightly gray-streaked blonde wig out of her bag and fixed it over Tamir’s head, together with a small goatee. Her movements were skillful and efficient. She surveyed him and said that’ll do for now. He asked her what her name was.

  You can call me Marina if you’d like.

  He didn’t. They stepped out of the bathroom stall, and came back onto Florianigasse. Walk as naturally as you can, she told him quietly. If anyone comes near us, talk about something quotidian in German. There weren’t many people on the street, and the few that did pass them seemed completely oblivious to their existence. But still, they pretended to be in conversation, just to be safe. Her German lacked depth, but her accent was impeccable. Tamir thought that actually made her more credible. How many people speak with any depth of language nowadays? He thought of his students. If they so much as mustered a complete sentence in Hebrew— subject, verb, object— he would consider that an achievement. When they reached Café Merkur
, the girl opened the door to the passenger seat of a silver Honda with tainted windows waiting in the street beside them.

  Tamir got in the car. Yaki sat in the driver’s seat holding a camera with a formidable lens. The other girl’s hot, he reported. If we can’t gather good intelligence, at the very least we can get a good look. Want me to jerk you off while you’re looking? The girl who brought Tamir there said mockingly. Yaki smiled. You see, he told Tamir, we’ve got a great vibe here. He handed him a kind of small telescope. Second window to the right, he said. Good thing they sat by the window. I guess she doesn’t think she has anything to hide.

  Tamir located the window and adjusted the focus on the telescope. He saw her. She was wearing an earth-toned shirt and a dark blazer. Her hair was rolled up in a manner Tamir thought looked Japanese. She was drinking coffee and smiling, but her smile did not undermine her serious countenance. What am I seeing in her face? he asked himself. He observed attentively. Distance. I see distance. Heartbreaking distance. He moved the telescope to examine her interlocuter. It was a younger woman, wearing a white dress shirt and a dark-green leather jacket. Her face was bright and fair. There was a softness to it, a jest, a strangeness, power. Her lips curled in calculated sensuality. Her gaze was fierce, and yet elusive.

  I have no idea who that is, Yaki said. She came in a cab, so we don’t even have a license-plate number. We’ll tail her a bit after she leaves. He spoke into his collar. What about audio? he asked. The answer must have displeased him. He turned to Tamir. The arena is a bit sensitive, he explained.

  The café?

  Yes. You can’t see it from here, but there are a couple of Arabic speakers sitting by the entrance. Syrian dialect.

  You have someone inside?

  Yaki nodded.

  Tamir saw someone leaving the café. It was a tall, dark, slightly hunched man with a somewhat catlike stride. He looked both ways and pulled up the collar of his sandy-yellow leather jacket. Yaki observed him as well. He then readjusted his earpiece, listened, and turned to the girl who had brought Tamir. We’ve got a problem, he said. Parking enforcement officer.

  I can try to drag him away from here, she said. Sell him some story.

  Not a good idea, he said. I’m gonna circle the block. I’ll drop you off on the corner, and you off in Café Florianihof, he said to Tamir. Sit tight and wait for me there. Keep your wig and goatee on for now.

  The vehicle took off. The girl got off at the corner of the street, and Tamir went into Café Florianihof, which was surprisingly empty this time as well. A thinly-veiled sadness permeated the air. He ordered a coffee and absentmindedly opened that day’s Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. His eye paused on a headline in page five. German preventive-security and counter-espionage bodies are increasing their surveillance of immigrant groups in the country. He read on. Apparently, these bodies were worried about potential collaboration between local immigrant communities and global terrorist organizations. The increased surveillance was causing an uproar in Germany. Left-wing and liberal centrist parties protested the potential infringement of civil rights. His phone vibrated slightly. They’re leaving, getting into separate cabs, Yaki updated. I’m following the girl’s cab. You’re free for now.

  Tamir kept reading the article in the Frankfurter Allgemeine. He found it difficult to concentrate. The distance inscribed in her face cracked something inside of him.

  j. Low Priority

  Get the bacon and eggs, Yaki said. You think you’ve had bacon and eggs, but you haven’t until you’ve had it in Café Englaender.

  I don’t feel like having bacon right now, Tamir said and ordered a melange and a croissant. Yaki ordered a ham and cheese omelet.

  Okay, are you listening? So, the bad news is we still don’t have clearance to bug her apartment. They’ve been playing it safe ever since the fiasco in Switzerland when our operatives were caught planting a bug. Besides, this project is considered low priority. If she hadn’t met Rajai, no one would’ve so much as pissed in her direction, but we still don’t have any proof she’s anything more than just his lover. Or ex-lover. We’re in touch with the Americans on this, without keeping them too much in the know. They have a source in the embassy here. As you’ve seen, we’ve managed to have her phone tapped, but I suspect she keeps more than one. Anyway, she hasn’t said anything interesting on this phone. including the conversation you heard.

  What’s the good news, then?

  Well, it’s nothing of too much intelligence value…

  And yet?

  Marina tailed the girl from Café Merkur… By the way, Café Merkur makes decent hummus.

  So, her name really is Marina?

  No.

  Alright, so who’s the girl?

  Her name’s Milena. She’s part Slovenian, part Hungarian.

  Uh huh.

  She studied psychology and sexology in Ljubljana, then lived and worked in Bratislava, and now she’s in Vienna. 33 Zieglergasse.

  Fascinating. I see you’ve done some serious collection work.

  Not really. Marina saw the name on her mailbox and I googled it. She has a website.

  Really? Why does she have a website?

  She’s a dominatrix. I hope you know what that is.

  Tamir knew very well what that was. So, you think she’s using her services?

  Or they’re just friends. Anyway, it’s not very interesting.

  Right, Tamir nodded, but thought it was actually quite interesting.

  k. Light of Reason

  That evening, Tamir sat in a bar named Torberg on Strozzigasse. He drank a beer from the Bavarian Traunstein brewery, then had a Hendricks Gin and tonic infused with a decoratively-sliced fresh cucumber. Its taste was purifying. He laid out before him another poem by Alma Strandläufer. He figured out that Flamingo Reed writes about Sumerians and Acadians, while Alma Strandläufer writes about a different set of topics. The gin cleansed the walls of his mind, and the poem was received like a guest of honor in a spic-and-span lounge:

  The house is empty. Souls wander aimlessly inside

  like ghosts.

  The house is dead. Souls retire from it

  to the dried, bone-strewn lake,

  to the great Phoenician sea,

  where wrecks of ships float in the Cypriote foam,

  Aphrodite drowns again

  and again.

  Only you, among the ruins, like scutch grass,

  await the rain.

  Who awaits the rain? Tamir asked himself. Is she writing about herself? Yes, she has to be…

  Tamir sipped his gin. His mind felt illuminated, clear as an emerald. Perhaps when Descartes spoke about the natural light of reason, he was drinking gin. Tamir knew what he had to do.

  l. Letters

  The Viennese afternoon stretched leisurely. A grayish glow sizzled through the window of Tamir’s apartment. He left both his phones at home, walked out to the street, and looked both ways. He was aware that he didn’t possess the means to ascertain if he was being followed, but assumed that he wasn’t. The Viennese chill easily penetrated his clothes, revitalizing him and imbuing him with a sense of vagrancy. He went north on Lederergasse until Skodagasse, turned right and reached Alserstrasse. He quickly spotted a corner shop, one among many, that sells cellphones and assorted accessories. He bought a simple Nokia phone and a SIM card, and purchased a small amount of credit. He asked the Turkish vendor where he could find an internet café. The vendor directed him to a café nearby. He reached the place five minutes later, walked in, picked a free computer station in the far corner of the café, logged onto Google and found Milena’s website. He scrolled through the picture gallery. Yes, that’s her. She was clad in black and red leather clothes in one of the images, purple latex in another, a long Gestapo leather jacket and black panties in another. She held whips while men whose faces were covered in black leath
er masks crawled at her feet, stood bound to crucifixes, or sat spread-eagle on gynecological examination chairs.

  Tamir dialed the number on the screen using his Nokia phone. She answered in a benevolent, metallic voice. He asked if he could set an appointment for today. Now, even. She said it’s his lucky day— she’s free from now until 7 p.m. She asked if he saw the rates on her site. Yes, he did. No one would reimburse him for this, of course, receipt or not. 270 euros an hour. Steep. Does he have any special requests? He said he wasn’t sure. Basically, he just wants to lie back and see her displayed above him. He didn’t know how to say displayed in German. Or towering. Or looming. He settled for standing— standing above me. She said yes, gladly, and that she’s curious to meet him. He said he’d be there in thirty minutes. He paid for his time in the computer station, left the café, found an ATM and withdrew money. A lot of money. As he was doing so, as a kind of conditioned reflex, he expected to see a message on the screen informing him that he’s exceeded his credit. But no such message popped up. Only then did he recall the inheritance money recently credited to his account. The matters had dragged on for a long time, since his father left no will before he died. Well then, he thought to himself, I’m going to pay a Viennese dominatrix with German reparation money. He contemplated the matter while shoving the handsome stash of notes into his wallet. His father was dead, but here he was, very much alive, living a slightly peculiar life, but a life nonetheless, breathing the cold, foreign Viennese air. He hailed a cab and rode to 33 Zieglergasse.