Fracture Point

by T. D. Mandowsky

  Before starting a new Billal adventure, I had to make myself some strong coffee. I sent Donna a message that I won’t make it home tonight and went to the entrance lobby of the headquarters. Luvaton was in his position, busy validating entry permits for two guests. They gave him their IDs as a deposit against receiving the entry badge.

  “It’s blurred. What’s written here?” he asked the man.

  “Avichai. My name is Avichai Keinan,” the man replied. An electrical current shot through my spine, “And the madame’s name is Ilana Keinan.”

  They received the badges and passed the electronic entrance gate. Avichai held Ilana up and put his hand on her back while they walked. Their posture was bowed, and they looked probably 20 years older than they were.

  I took off my shoes, and a wave of stench rose from them. They had been locked on my feet since the morning and I always felt that when I take my socks off, my skin will probably peel off, too. Could it be that Seffi’s parents came here because of the information Mussa provided?

  “Did you get any rest?” Captain Billal said, with his face to the exit. Captain Yunas and Bitton were arguing behind him. Bitton was dragging combat equipment that weighed half of what he weighs. Captain Billal walked lightly with his hair blowing in the wind, sipping his coffee out of a small paper cup.

  “It’s only been . . . 10 minutes.”

  “Good, sweetie.” He stopped next to me and gave me totally fake smile, “We’re leaving. Now.”

  Chapter 22

  I don’t know how to express in words how tired I felt. This was not just some regular evening tiredness. It was complete exhaustion. I wasn’t worried about falling asleep against my will, as I was already several stages beyond that. Mine was the fatigue of total helplessness.

  I looked at my watch when we were at the huge roundabout at the Gush Etzion junction. It was 6:30, a time that in the past year had become a legitimate time to either start a day of work or end it. Donna no longer had any faith in me keeping my word. Even my guilt had died down.

  I got a message on my phone that I had an email from the university. I tried to take sneak peek at it as the jeep continued on the edge of the road, nearly flattening an old man with a wheelbarrow full of sacks. I threw my phone onto the back seat so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it again. Sometimes to prevent temptation, there’s a need to burn bridges, just as Leroy broke up with his last girlfriend. He chose the most succinct break-up line ever, one that would crush her but have her back on her feet as quickly as possible. Not “Maybe in the future,” or “Let’s stay friends.” He stood before her and said, “I want something different.” He didn’t know how much pain she felt, because they haven’t spoken since.

  I heard another incoming message sound from my phone in the back seat.

  At the southern entrance to Jerusalem, I saw a green poster advertising a solo performance by Asher Zigi. The guy is a rising star. He probably makes more money than I do and actually gets to see the people he loves at the end of the day. Not like us in the ISA. Maybe I should invite Donna to another show of his.

  My phone rang. There was nothing I could do. It was best this way. I parked the car in the parking lot at the base, hardly looking in my mirrors. I knew this place too well. In the elevator I checked my phone. An email from the university. I needed to pay the last year’s tuition. “Pay in advance, get a discount,” the message read. The missed call was from Amit.

  “Good morning, Mr. Evron,” he said as always when I call him back.

  “That depends who you ask.”

  “How was it?”

  I said it was okay, and he said that he has a long day ahead so I should come to his office at 7:00 for a morning coffee.

  Amit’s clothes were dirty. He, too, had had quite a day but, unlike me, he was full of energy and excitement, looking towards a great night at work.

  “I have a few things to talk to you about.” He threw his huge body onto the chair that, surprisingly, didn’t collapse.

  “One more hour and I will have been at work for 24 hours straight, so let’s limit this to two topics.”

  Even sitting down, Amit was a head taller than me. His arms and head were completely bald but his heavy build ruled out any suspected medical condition.

  “Don’t get out of line. I’ll get straight to the point because I have no patience for your smart-ass comments. You’re now starting the last year of your contract. I’m very happy with your work and I want you to take the commander’s course. It will get you a better salary but you’ll have to sign up for another year.

  There was a heavy silence between us as he was looking at me without blinking.

  “Listen,” I said, avoiding eye contact and looking at his desk.

  “Wait, before you start, what did you major in? Political science? Nice. I don’t know when the last time you looked at the want ads and found someone looking for a political scientist. If you stay here for another year after you finish your degree, you can work four days a week. On the other days, do whatever you want − learn how to trade on the stock market, put on a drag show − it makes no difference to me. Leave slowly.”

  “It’s not that. The truth is that Donna has had enough of my night shifts,” I said, stopping to assess my position, “and I’m feeling a bit burned out. How many times can you put on a flak jacket, magazines, and train at The Academy? It can continue forever.”

  Amit leaned back and mumbled “Okay.” I suddenly thought that this may be offensive to someone who chose this as his profession.

  “What brought you here?” he asked.

  “What?” I asked to buy some time.

  “You heard the question.” He put his hand on his head. For some reason he did that a lot in one-on- one talks.

  “Because . . . it’s a job. What do you mean?” I mumbled.

  “It isn’t just a job, you know that. Why are you here?” his huge feet shook the table as he moved them.

  “Because . . .” I tried hard not to stutter even though it was such an unexpected question, “because it’s necessary.”

  “Who says that it’s necessary?” he asked. “You’re a student. You play the guitar, don’t you? What do you need this for?”

  “Because it’s important. I don’t know. My father was a combat soldier, my grandmother a Holocaust survivor. It’s important.” Amit nodded and seemed convinced.

  “You see? Do you really want to leave without transferring your knowledge to the new people?”

  I wanted to say that was unfair, but he continued, “It’s just a year. You want something different? I have a security mission for a delegation that I’m keeping for someone special. What do you say about accompanying the Israeli Jiu-Jitsu national team to the World Championship in Miami? You’ll have endless free time. Does that interest you?” Amit smiled a cunning smile.

  I lowered my eyebrows because they had shot up too high.

  “Besides that, you also get a 12,000-shekel bonus if you sign on for another year. Nice, isn’t it?”

  “Do you do this for everyone?” I couldn’t hide my smile.

  “No.” His smile disappeared, and I was the only one left smiling in the room.

  “We have a high turnover rate. That’s the way it always is with student units. I don’t know what they’re offering you guys out there, but it leaves us without a core of experienced people. Everyone here is new; 30% are replaced every year. It’s very hard to preserve professional knowledge within the organization this way.”

  “I’ve already finished my army service,” I said.

  “Itay, I need you to stay with us,” he repeated, and rapped his finger on the table. “If you and I have to work 24-hour shifts, it’s a bad situation.”

  “I’ll think about it, but even if it does happen, I’ll need the ISA to pay for me to move.”

  I was concerned because of the
phishing that I had responded to. Amit tried to reassure me and told me that they were after seniors, not field security guards like me.

  “You got it. Your hourly wage will also increase. You don’t have any other excuses,” he told me three days later.

  Donna had just put her backpack down. She looked at me curiously when I said “Excellent!” into the phone. It must have been a while since she had seen me this happy. After hanging up, I told her I was extending my contract with the unit and that I even was getting the bonus of accompanying the jiu-jitsu delegation to Miami. I felt a smile spread across my face when I told her that only veteran guards are given missions abroad. Donna wasn’t smiling.

  “How much longer will this continue?” she asked me as she emptied her university bag and got ready for another evening of studying on the wooden table with her daily tea infusion.

  “Continue how?”

  “Like this, like now. Scary operations at night, dumb procedures like coming home half an hour after you to make sure no one is waiting here for you. Now you tell me that you’re headed to accompany a delegation. When will all this end?” she asked again.

  “Not much longer,” I promised her. “I’ll finish my degree and after that, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll celebrate the end of the next academic year in Greece, just you and me. You will see.”

  “That’s the way you are,” she said. “You need the duality.”

  “That’s not it. Who doesn’t live a double life? Don’t you live a double life, running from the sushi restaurant to your studies? The work your friend from university does, the pale skinny guy who’s supposedly an artist but is actually a waiter – isn’t that a double life?”

  “That’s different,” she argued, in her “tough” stance, with her arms folded, “and you know that his name is Lior.”

  “What do you want from me? You want me to resign? To go back to helping old people put on their orthopedic tights?” A weak echo that Yemima’s sound box made told me I needed to lower my voice. “What do you want me to do?”

  “It’s okay, Itay,” she said. It was what she always said when things were not okay. “I know you; you won’t handle this duality.”

  There was a heavy silence in the room, until Donna took a deep breath.

  “You’ll come to your senses at some point, or you’ll break. Either way, you won’t be a centaur forever.”

  “You know,” I shifted uncomfortably in bed. “today at our meeting, Amit asked me what I was doing here, in the ISA.”

  “All right.” She kept her beautiful brown eyes on me. “What did you answer?”

  “I . . .” I stumbled, just like I had earlier with Amit. “I’m not sure.”

  “What was your answer to him?” She stretched and yawned, tired from her long day of studies, or from her exhausting boyfriend.

  “Umm . . .” I said, trying to recall my exact words. “I told him that I feel I need to do it because it’s important.”

  Donna was not impressed. “Honestly, I don’t think you ever had closure with your army experience,” she said as I put my hand on her stretched ribs.

  “What?” I asked, even though I heard her.

  “You heard me,” she said, smiling. I yawned because yawning is contagious, especially hers.

  “Well, maybe,” I replied. She hugged me and put her head on my chest, “but I don’t have the energy to think about it anymore.”

  Chapter 23

  The shawarma I ate at Kadusi’s has a taste of childhood. Maybe because it was just five minutes away from the house I grew up in − in Afula.

  I had wandered around for five hours, looking for a little apartment in which to invest. I saw two apartments with one agent, a smart-ass who was born and raised in Afula, and another one with some nerd who renovated it and did a terrible job − the last with a tenant who had the smell of vodka on his breath − well before lunchtime. I arrived at the last apartment on my list, which belonged to a man named Siman. I didn’t understand whether that was his first or last name, or how to pronounce it. He’s probably just another regular Afula resident. At least I got to enjoy a shawarma; it was worth making the trip just for the pita, which I had almost finished. I put on my Google Maps to see how long it would take me to get to Jerusalem.

  Then I got a call from Siman.

  “Sorry sir, forgive me. What did you say your name is? I’ll be there in a minute,” he breathed heavily into the phone.

  Siman was not that old, probably about 55, but his hair was so white and full that it looked as if the wounded dove of peace had landed on his head. His face was full of wrinkles. Wearing a plaid workman’s shirt with a collar, he stood outside the building, facing me.

  “Hello, hello,” he said, smiling a yellow smile. Siman shook my hand softly and explained that he was just coming from preparations for his youngest daughter Zehavit’s Bat Mitzvah. His Mizrachi accent, and his strong charismatic voice echoed through the stairwell. Despite his exhausted face and the ordinary story about his normal day, you could tell this was a man who knew how to tell a story.

  “Then he said, ‘Ya’acov, look me in the eyes. Consider it done.’ Done? Nonsense. Without money in your hand, it’s all ‘kalam fadi,’ he said. “Do you know what kalam fadi means?”

  “Sure, it means ‘empty words,’” I said, and his surprised reaction made me smile. We stood at the entrance to his apartment, in stairwell with an echo. Siman tried to find the right key in the dark.

  “So Ashkenazi and yet knows Arabic. Very nice,” he said, examining me.

  “I’m half Halabi,” I told him. Siman looked down at my waist; my gun was showing. I pulled my shirt over it.

  “You must work for the police or the Ministry of Defense, right?”

  “I’m a security guard, shift manager at the Mount Scopus Campus,” I lied.

  “Okay, fine,” he said, and winked as he opened the door to the third-floor apartment. “I know you guys. I had someone like you here, a tough guy, big shoulders. It’s okay.”

  I looked at my watch. I had another 25 minutes to chat with him and get out of there.

  The apartment was in a good location. He said it required a 25,000 shekel renovation. I thought it would take double that amount.

  “Listen,” I said to him at the end of the short tour of the 51 square meters of broken tiles on a floor laid in the 70s. “The apartment is fine but the price is too high for me. I’ll need a big mortgage for this. If you want to sell it to me, you’ll have to lower the price.”

  Siman’s white eyebrows intertwined. “Give me a number. What are you offering?”

  “Take 70,000 off the price and we can sign,” I said, meaning to get 55,000 off. Siman laughed.

  “You’re a really sweet boy but I already have an offer just 20,000 lower,” he said. “I’m only here with you to − how do you say it − to see if I can score in overtime.”

  We went back downstairs to the busy street. At least it was for Afula. Google Maps predicted that I’d be 5 minutes late. Siman shook my hand and said, “You should decide quickly. The prices keep going up. Don’t buy with a partner. Take a mortgage. Whatever you need. Buy alone. In the 70s I inherited a small shop down here, near Kadusi’s shawarma. Ever since then, God help me, we haven’t received a shekel from it. It’s all just lawyers and city taxes. I haven’t spoken to my brother in 20 years. Believe me,” he stopped and laughed, “I would pay you to take it off my hands.”

  “Yes, inheritance disputes are a bitch,” I said without wanting to get into it. He released my hand and we went back to our cars.

  My air conditioner sent out cold air that competed with the air coming in from the windows. My phone rang. It was Dudi from coordination calling to tell me the operation was moved up to an earlier time.

  “But drive carefully. No pressure,” he said, as office workers always say after telling you to get t
here quickly.

  He asked me what do I was doing in Afula in the middle of the week, I told him I was thinking of investing some money I had saved up for the last two years, to take a mortgage and buy a small apartment as an investment.

  “Very small one,” he said, as I told him my budget. “You should buy an apartment with someone from the unit,” he suggested, as I heard the sound of dishes banging together, implying that he was washing dishes at home or at the office kitchenette.

  “I don’t want partners. The owner here just told me about a dispute he had with his brother over a small store they inherited,” I said, trying to figure out how to end this call and put on music.

  “What? Are you an idiot?” Dudi cut me off.

  “Why?”

  “You’re going to pass up a partner’s dispute to look for an apartment? You fool. That’s how you make the most money in real estate.”

  I tried to understand what he was saying but his father, the famous Yehuda, heard the conversation and grabbed the phone from him.

  “You, boy, may be young − but listen to Yehuda. Partner disputes are a treasure. How much of the assets does he own? Half? A quarter? How much?”

  I could feel drops of spit flying at me through the phone.

  “Offer to buy his half for half price and he will kiss your feet. You have no idea what luck you have, kid. How old are you, boy? Twenty-six? Like my son Dudi? If you’re not doing anything with it, give me a shout. I’ll take it.” He handed the phone back to Dudi as he mumbled, “Dudi, take this. I don’t know how to hang this thing up.”

  I didn’t know Yehuda personally because I only met him once at a party Dudi had for the unit, at his parent’s house. But he’s a well-known real estate dealer in Jerusalem. The only things he likes talking about is real estate and bikes. When you change the subject to something else, even close to these topics, like the stock market for example, or motorcycles, he would hesitate and say “Yes,” and then get right back to his favorite topics. “In any case, regarding the project in Kiryat Yovel in Jerusalem . . .” or “Anyway, the singles in the Ha’ela Valley are amazing.”