The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  Israeli? the waiter asked in Hebrew.

  What? Tamir was caught off guard, realizing a second too late that he uttered the word ‘what’ in Hebrew.

  I knew it, the waiter smiled, I have a knack for spotting Israelis.

  Oh, yeah, hi, Tamir mumbled, a bit embarrassed. He didn’t like meeting Israelis abroad. But there was something unusual about this waiter. His accent seemed a bit off, but Tamir couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Where do you hail from? he asked.

  What?

  Where are you from in Israel?

  Acre, the waiter said.

  Interesting, Tamir said, we’re practically neighbors. Where in Acre?

  Actually, nearby Acre, the waiter said. I left when I was young. I met an Austrian tourist when I was working in Tmarim Beach. Things just rolled from there.

  Tamir looked at him in silence. He could think of a few options. I used to know the area a bit, he said.

  Oh, no one knows this place, the waiter said.

  Try me.

  It’s a little south of the city. A settlement… An illegal settlement. It’s not there anymore.

  Tamir’s heart started racing. He glanced up and locked eye with the dark-eyed waiter. His mouth opened and closed. Finally, he managed to say the words: anta min Arab al- Ghawarneh?24

  The waiter’s lips quivered slightly. I-I didn’t think anyone knew… he said in Arabic. How do you know Arabic?

  I visited there as a child, Tamir said, ignoring the question. There were two girls there… he examined the waiter. They’re probably slightly older than you.

  What are their names?

  Dallal and Sa’ira.

  Twins?

  Yes, could be.

  I remember them. The Zaidani family. The parents… died. They were about seven or eight years older than me. I don’t know whatever happened to them after the settlement was demolished. My family moved to Makr.

  I see.

  They were very pretty. Especially Sa’ira.

  No, especially Dallal, Tamir said, as the image of the sweet, black lakes of forgetfulness came flooding back to him. They taught us a song, he said, and his lips starting moving, as if of their own will: the hoopoe forgets, the heron takes flight, the kingfisher submerges, the pelican sleeps tight, the ibis hides in the thicket, the pigeon sits for all to see… his voice faded. He fell silent.

  Only the stint remembers, but the stint flies out to sea, replied the Austrian waiter from the shanty settlement of the Arab al-Ghawarneh that had once lain on the mouth of the Na‘aman.

  Herr Ober! Someone called over. I’ll get you your coffee and cake, he said, as if pulled back to the surface from the deep; he detached from Tamir and sailed away like a somnambulant ship back to the bustling expanse of the café.

  p. Austria Vienna

  On the way from Café Sperl, as he walked swiftly down Stiftgasse towards the 8th district, Tamir’s phone vibrated. Keep going, Yaki wrote, reach the bar you sat in.

  Tamir turned let on Burggasse, right on Neubaugasse, and proceeded until he reached Strozzigasse. Yaki was waiting for him inside the Torberg, at the corner of the bar, sipping a beer. He had a morose expression on his face. The plot thickens, he said.

  Tamir ordered his favored Hendricks Gin, with tonic and a fresh cucumber. Behind the bar stood a man and a woman, preparing drinks and chatting with three people who gave the impression of being regulars. They were discussing the differences between Irish whiskey and Scotch whiskey. Yaki nodded to them, and said he already know those guys. They always sit in the same place, always yakking about the same things. It’s almost always about alcohol, or the how Austria Vienna are doing.

  Austria Vienna?

  Their soccer team. Do you even live on this planet?

  Are they any good?

  Not really. Probably a bit better than Israeli teams.

  Fascinating.

  Anyway, it’s good they’re talking so loudly. That leave us to talk privately.

  Where’s Musa?

  On his way back to Israel. He said he’s got a matter to take care of.

  So, it’s us alone again?

  He’s sending the bull-terrier in his stead. The conversation on the bar indeed shifted to soccer and Austria Vienna.

  You know, said Yaki, once a week they show soccer at the Hummel, in the back room. The one that’s always empty. That night, it’s always packed. It’s almost exclusively men, drinking beer. They’re fascinating to observe. They react with… restraint. Even the broadcasters in the studio. It’s all kind of second-gear. And they’re all a bit sad. Even when their team wins.

  Wow, Yaki, you’re really showing me the hidden side of Vienna.

  You know what’s fun about watching Austrian soccer?

  No.

  That you don’t give a shit.

  q. The Banks of the Na‘aman

  The following day, Oz arrived. Yaki instructed Tamir to come to the small square in front of the Franz Ferdinand Guesthouse.

  Be there in fifteen minutes, he said.

  Giving out orders suits you, Tamir replied. You’re a natural.

  I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment.

  You shouldn’t.

  The place was nice, chilly and desolate, except for two schoolboys who sat in a distant corner. On one side of the square were modern-looking structures, and on the other were typical elegant 8th district houses. The trees above them billowed in the light breeze, barren and branched. Oz wore a dark brown coat made of some synthetic material. He didn’t have a yarmulke on. A waiter approached them and told them that they didn’t serve tables outside during winter. Yaki answered that it’s fine, maybe they’ll come inside soon. The waiter looked at them unimpressed, and scampered back inside. Oz asked for an orderly report. Yaki described recent events. Oz asked some questions regarding the surveillance arrangements. Yaki answered. Oz asked Tamir if he had any other insights. That’s what we brought you here for, isn’t it? he glanced sideways at Yaki. Because certain individuals thought you might have insights.

  He’s the one who figured out the poems, Yaki said.

  Oz frowned and didn’t reply.

  A cold wind blew through the square. Tamir tightened his scarf around his neck. He felt like having a large cup of melange and a big desert. Perhaps a kaiserschmarrn.

  Yaki suddenly sat up in alert and listened to his earpiece in silence. She’s on the move, he said. She’s getting into a cab.

  They waited. It’s cold, Oz said, looking around sourly at the empty square; he didn’t look like he was particularly bothered by the cold.

  How’s your German? Tamir asked.

  I don’t know a single word. Don’t wanna know, either.

  It’ll probably help you blend in.

  I don’t need to blend in. I’m a businessman on a business trip.

  What are you selling?

  Fromage blanc. Their low-fat cheeses are crap.

  I’m more into fatty cheeses.

  I can tell.

  She’s sitting in a place called Fromme Helene, Yaki said.

  Helene the Pious, Tamir translated for Oz who contorted his face.

  Yaki smiled. I ate there once, he said, the food’s mediocre, but the place itself is nice.

  I’m sure it is, Oz said dismissively.

  I’m going to use the restroom, Tamir said, got up and walked over to the inn, accompanied by Oz’s distrusting gaze. It was very warm. The floor and walls were covered in chestnut wood panels. The chairs were dark brown, as well. The tables were covered by fresh-pressed white tablecloths. Only one of the tables was occupied; two people dressed in suits sat and drank beer. Their eyes rested on Tamir momentarily, before quickly losing interest. Tamir took out his phone— he was careful not to mistake his own with the phone Yaki had given him— opened
a browser and googled the Fromme Helene restaurant. He saw its location. He figured that even if Assaf would see that he conducted this search, it would seem innocent enough: he just wanted to be informed and know where it was that she was sitting. He took out his Nokia phone which he had purchased on Alserstrasse and dialed the number on the restaurant’s website.

  A polite female voice answered. Tamir asked to speak with a woman sitting in the restaurant. He said her name was Alma Strandläufer. The woman asked what she looked like; Tamir tried his best to describe her without sounding too poetic. She’s very sensual, he said, thinking to himself that Austrian women could hardly ever be described as sensual, so she’d be easy to recognize. The woman on the phone laughed and said she thinks she knows who he’s talking about. A few moments later, the voice Tamir had remembered from the audio recording sounded in his hear, but while the voice in the recording was angry, the voice he heard now was measured, probing. He felt he was hearing that distant voice which had washed over him once at the edge of the thicket.

  Hello, who am I speaking with?

  Mrs. Strandläufer?

  Who’s asking? her German sounded finely honed, but her accent was German, not Austrian.

  Or al-Darija, perhaps?

  She fell silent, but didn’t hang up the phone. He could hear her breathe on the other side of the line, and imagined he could hear her heart beating, as well.

  Who are you?

  Tamir didn’t know how to answer the question, but his lips moved involuntarily. I am the one who reads forgotten languages, Sumerian, Acadian…

  She fell silent again. For a moment, he thought she would never utter another word ever again. What do you want? she finally asked.

  Wait there for another hour or so. When you leave, tell your taxi driver to turn from Josefstädterstrasse right onto Piaristengasse. After he turns, tell the driver to stop for a moment. Get out, stand up against the wall…

  I know how to lose a tail.

  Okay. Then, have the driver continue to your apartment. After another car passes, walk down Piaristengasse until you see the Maria Treu Church.

  I know it.

  Excellent. Go inside, and sit on one of the benches. I have to hang up.

  He went back out to the square.

  That took a while, Oz said.

  Is she still there? Tamir asked.

  Yes, Yaki answered.

  Okay. I’m going to Hummel, if you two don’t mind. It’s right around the block. You two are tough guys, but I had a desk job in the army. It wouldn’t help anyone if I caught pneumonia. If anything interesting happens, text me.

  Yaki nodded. Oz seemed preoccupied and didn’t even raise his eyes to look at Tamir. Tamir went down Bennogasse, turned left on Josefstädterstrasse, reached Hummel, put both his tracked phones into the pocket of his jacket, hung it on a coatrack, and left the place. He knew that if he went back to Josefstädterstrasse he might enter the field of vision of whoever was staking out Fromme Helene, probably the taciturn girl from Yaki’s team. Instead, he turned left on Albertgasse, then right on Florianigasse, walked down to Lederergasse, and turned right. He was cold without his coat on, very cold. When he reached the back entrance of the church, he stopped for a moment, observing this crude and dark blight on the city’s refined urban landscape, before slipping inside.

  The church was not heated, but was still much warmer than the bleak outside. It was empty, except for a woman in a gray sweater who was kneeling before one of the frontmost benches and seemed to be absorbed in prayer. Tamir walked slowly along the church’s wall before reaching one of the brown-marble columns towering on either side of the alter. He wedged in and tucked himself behind the column. The marble was as cold as ice. The prayer muttered by the woman in gray reached his ears faintly and disrupted. Scrubbing sounded above him. He looked up and saw someone polishing the pipes of the organ. A moment later, the first notes reverberated through the spacious church. He seemed to have arrived exactly on time for organ rehearsal. Tamir didn’t recognize the piece that was playing. It sounded Baroque, but rather dark. He lost himself for a moment. His gaze lingered on the silver organ, and by the time he had turned his eyes back to the main hall of the church, she was already there, sitting on the edge of one of the benches.

  Her head was covered by a slanted reddish, wooly beret. She wore a dark wool coat. He couldn’t make out her eyes. He strode over carefully. Suddenly, a man appeared beside him, stealthy as a leopard. Tamir didn’t see where he had come from. He turned to face him, and immediately recognized the sandy-yellow leather jacket of the man who had come out of Café Merkur. He politely but assertively asked Tamir to stand still; he swiftly and somewhat roughly frisked his body, and upon feeling satisfied that he posed no danger, nodded to the woman and allowed Tamir to progress. When he reached her, she ordered him to sit on the bench in front of her, not beside her. He complied. He turned his body halfway back, his head turned to face her. Hello Dallal, he said in Arabic.

  She looked at him. He couldn’t decipher the look on her face. I know who you are, she finally said.

  Yes, it’s me.

  You’ve grown up.

  What can you do?

  You didn’t try to kill me then, by Yaffa, so I assume you’re not here to kill me today.

  But you almost shot me then.

  Almost.

  Yes.

  Maybe I’ll finish the job today.

  He sat in silence. It was as if the pounding of his heart drowned out his thoughts, and yet, it sounded faint, almost expiring. That wouldn’t be wise, he finally said.

  She surveyed him solemnly. The darkness of her eyes seemed to suck in the scant little light floating in the gloomy space of the church. He noticed a silver necklace around her neck with a pendant dangling from it. He couldn’t make out its shape, swallowed in the shadow of her cleavage. You were a soldier then, she said. What are you now?

  A teacher.

  Well, that’s an improvement. What do you teach?

  Philosophy.

  Philosophy can be bourgeoise blather, and it can also be… She stopped, as if changing her mind. Sometimes it can truly touch… things.

  Yes. It can be illusive. He didn’t know how to say ‘illusive, so he said it in Hebrew. She shifted in her sit. I haven’t heard Hebrew in a long time, she replied in Hebrew. I thought I might’ve forgotten it by now.

  I remember your Hebrew wasn’t that great, so…

  When? Something sparked in her eye. Ah, yes, I didn’t know if you remembered that.

  That’s not true. You knew.

  I might have known.

  Some things are hard to forget.

  They sat in silence. He felt he could see the tamarisk thicket creeping across the floor of the church, spreading between the benches, and covering the alter.

  Where did you go after Paris? he asked.

  I was a teacher too, she said, reverting back to Arabic. She smiled momentarily, almost absentmindedly. I taught Arabic literature in Leipzig University. It was still East Germany back then. I was relatively safe there. She closed her eyes, as if recollecting. I thought I could infect my students with my love for Arabic literature, for May Ziadeh, Kamal Nasser, for Kanafani’s prose. There were a few good years, but then… After they opened up to the west, the students became absorbed with their own petty, comfortable little lives, lost their curiosity, and… lost their passion. I tried to reignite that passion, but I never stood a chance. They didn’t get me. I was… from another planet.

  Yes, from another planet, he mumbled, partly to her, partly to himself.

  So, I take it you’re not alone here, since you asked me to lose a tail.

  No, I’m not alone.

  And why would you tell me that I’m being followed?

  I wanted to meet you.

  Why?

  Because… he de
liberated. He didn’t quite know why himself. Some things need to be clarified, he finally said.

  Clarified?

  Yes. I need to know a few things about you.

  You need? Why should I even talk to you? How do I know this isn’t a trap?

  You don’t.

  She observed him silently. An exacting stillness rested on her face which suddenly seemed completely foreign to him, distant. The girl is gone, swallowed up in the thicket, morphed into this illusive, puzzling woman of whom he knew nothing about. Only in the very pits of her pupils did he perceive to have seen something; black ibises were torn from the heart of darkness, marsh flowers drowned in the dense gloom.

  He breathed with all his might, forcing the words to come out his throat. You simply have to believe me. He spoke in Arabic again.

  But what’s in it for you? So far, men who’ve offered to help me have always asked for something in return.

  I’m not asking for anything in return.

  Perhaps that’s even more dangerous.

  Is she soft? Is she vulnerable? Is she even here? He tried to see her. To really see her. She tilted her blue beret, which now covered her eyes, precluding Tamir from seeking out her gaze. The angle of his head made it even more difficult. Why did you flee to East Germany? he asked.

  I didn’t see any other solution. I didn’t trust your men.

  Did you trust Rajai?

  I never trusted him. He would sell the last fish in the net for a cigarette.

  Tamir figured that must be some kind of Bedouin fishermen expression. But you’ve been passing him intelligence all these years, haven’t you?