Lavi sipped his chocolate milk, but the omelette stuck in his oesophagus and wouldn’t go down. After a long moment, when he saw that his father was waiting for an answer, he cleared his throat and mumbled, “The army is sending it.”
“I don’t understand why they don’t do that screening during the summer vacation,” his mother said, “instead of taking you out of school.” Her voice came from the kitchen where she was labouring over the wheatgerm juice.
“This is also a learning experience,” his father said in a satisfied voice, “and if Amos’s son is going, despite his exam results, then our Lavi definitely can.”
That’s what he said – “our Lavi”. For a moment he lowered the financial pages and smiled at him, actually smiled. And at that moment Lavi knew that he had to go, even if he hadn’t been called up. Even if it was five days in the field. Even if Eitan, Amos’s son, was a head taller and four times broader than he was, and had been preparing for the tests since he was five years old.
When the day came he packed his fleece shirt, his thermal gloves, the waterproof watch with the compass, five pairs of boxers, special woollen socks and a copper brush he had no idea what to do with, but his father told him he needed. He also packed some energy bars, a sleeping bag and anti-mosquito spray. On the morning of the big day, his mother hugged him with both arms and his father got up long before he did and made him sandwiches which he wrapped in cling film. Apart from the protein omelette there were tahini, hummus and salami sandwiches, and one with chocolate. In the car Arieh Maimon talked about his own tests for the elite combat unit, about the eggs he stole from the kibbutz, and about the kibbutz boys he met later in the unit who became his best friends, and to this day didn’t know about the eggs. They drove and drove, and Lavi hoped they would never arrive, not only because he had never heard his father talk so much, but also because he didn’t know what he would do when they reached their destination.
When they saw the sign with the name of the base on it, Lavi told his father he would rather go the rest of the way alone. Arieh Maimon didn’t argue. It was two more kilometres to the base itself, but he realized that Lavi wanted to arrive alone, like a grown man, not like a boy whose father has driven him. Lavi took the waterproof bag with the state-of-the-art backstraps and stepped out of the car. Arieh Maimon watched him as he began to walk.
After a kilometre and a half, Lavi looked back and saw that the road was empty. He walked back to the intersection and tried to thumb a ride. Three cars passed without slowing down. He took out an energy bar and sat down on the side of the road. He had five days to get through. He was in no rush.
Nofar had waited for him in the alley and looked with awe at the backpack he was carrying. “Wow.” He showed her the fleece shirt, the flashlight and the gloves, and she brought a jug of water from the ice-cream parlour so he could put the watch in it and see whether it would keep working. “I found you a beach with a camping site, and there’s a bus every hour on the hour.” Once again he had wanted to ask her to go with him, and once again he hadn’t.
The first night on the beach he didn’t sleep at all. He was afraid that someone or something… The following nights were better, and he no longer jumped at the slightest sound. The people on the beach were nice. Maybe they thought he really was eighteen, or maybe they didn’t care. In the tent next to his was a large Russian whom everyone called Landlord, because he’d been on the beach long before the others. On the second day Lavi asked Landlord where he was from before the beach, and what he did, and the looks of the people around them made him realize that the question was not such a good one. Then someone with dreadlocks told him that you don’t ask people on the beach where they were before the beach. But Landlord didn’t care, he told Lavi that he’d had a start-up company, made millions, and then decided to leave everything. Then he laughed a huge Russian laugh that made his moustache vibrate, and Lavi thought that if bears could laugh, they would laugh like that.
On the third day Lavi woke up and found Landlord sitting on the beach. He sat down beside him and saw that he had a large tattoo on the back of his hand. Landlord saw him looking and said, “It’s the sun.” When he showed Lavi the tattoo close up, it really did look a little bit like the sun. Landlord’s hand was very large, and three prominent veins crossed it like three huge rivers.
“I did it myself when the army stuck me in the Ural Mountains so I would remember that there is such a thing as the sun. Because in the Urals, there is no sun.”
Lavi tried unsuccessfully to imagine himself in a place that had no sun. He knew where the Ural Mountains were because a map of the world hung right in front of him in class and he always remembered such things by heart. But he hadn’t known that there was no sun there, only that they were purple and stretched from Kazakhstan, which was green, to the Arctic Ocean, which was turquoise. Landlord rubbed his tattooed hand with his other hand, and the sun was crumpled for a moment, then returned to itself. “Now I have lots of sun,” Landlord said, “now it’s coming out of my ass.”
“And what’s that?” Lavi asked, pointing to the letters under the sun in a language he couldn’t read.
“My name: Vladimir.”
“But you said your name is Zev.”
“Yes, but there they called me Vladimir.”
On the fourth day Lavi had no more energy bars left and he went to the shopping centre on the promenade to buy something. He was about to order himself a pizza when he suddenly saw a grocery store. Surreptitiously, he went inside and looked at the shelves. The eggs were in the back, next to the milk and bread.
Five days and three stolen omelettes later, Lavi boarded a bus in one beach city and took it to another beach city. His skin was scorched from the sun because on the last day he hadn’t applied sunblock. And so he appeared at the door to his house sunburnt from marches, exhausted from night navigations and saturated with sand and sweat. His father looked at him questioningly. Lavi shook his head. The embrace was a total and utter surprise. “Never mind, boy, at least you tried.”
23
THEY SAY THAT WITH A CAR, it hurts the least. He didn’t want it to hurt. From what he understood, if you do it with a car it doesn’t distort your face too much. He didn’t want to look bad afterwards. He googled pictures of people who had died that way, but what he saw didn’t satisfy him. He didn’t understand whether those dead people looked bad because of the carbon monoxide, or because they’d been ugly when they were alive. In the end, it didn’t really matter very much, the picture they’d put on the news was the one he’d left with his PR guy anyway. That was the most accessible one, and there were no copyrights to worry about. He looked wonderful in it: mischievous green eyes, a mysterious half-smile, even his hair was perfect. He felt a thrill of excitement whenever he imagined hundreds of thousands of that picture in the newspaper, with the caption that would be printed in mourning black: “Avishai Milner’s suicide note: I’m innocent!”
He didn’t know exactly when he stopped planning her death and began planning his own. After all, he had been a vegan for sixteen years. He continued practising yoga even in jail. He couldn’t destroy sixteen years of living right only because of a lying bitch. And there was also the matter of TV: every time he imagined her death, it ended with those sympathetic reports, with sad music that would be played when her face appeared on the screen. But that sad music was his. And the face that looked out at everyone from the screen, noble and tragic, was his face. That death was his death, he wouldn’t let her take it away from him.
He worked on that note for almost two weeks, from the moment he was released on bail. Sometimes the best way to kill a rumour is to kill yourself – that was his opening sentence. He wasn’t sure about how to continue. Every morning he woke up filled with energy and sat down to work. He wrote, erased, rewrote, polished. He hadn’t felt such joy of creation since he’d worked on his first album. Even when he got stuck, he didn’t give up. With the humility of a sales clerk, he appeared at his post every
morning to begin his day’s work. Finally, the note was so beautiful that Avishai Milner was sorry that he couldn’t print up thousands of copies. He wanted all the birds in the city to hear his swansong. One sleepless night, he even sat down and set the final verse to music. When he finished there were tears in his eyes. He knew: he had never before written anything so beautiful.
Now he had no choice but to turn to more practical matters: when and how. The afternoon was preferable because the news editors would have time to prepare a long enough report for the evening broadcast. The place had to be meaningful: first he chose the ice-cream parlour where the blood libel had been fabricated. Then he considered the amphitheatre where he had been crowned the winner in that wonderful finale. There was no parking near the ice-cream parlour. The amphitheatre had a huge parking area and it would be a picturesque place in which to die. But a brief Internet search showed that Eliran Vaknin would be performing three shows there that week, and just the name of his singing rival was enough to eliminate the place once and for all. He decided to do it outside the ice-cream parlour.
The only thing left was to choose what he would wear. Black was flattering, but if his face looked greyish the general effect might be too gloomy. Blue was better. There’s something aristocratic about blue. After a long shower he locked the front door and set off on his way. He laughed joylessly at the parking ticket resting on his car. On the way, he felt his hands shaking on the wheel and remembered the note in his blue shirt pocket. The thought of the note calmed him. He tried to think about his parents and his sister. He spoke to himself in the second person, as he always did when he was excited, “Avishai, are you sure?”
I’m sure.
If it had been a game, he was no longer playing. If it had been a story he wanted to tell everyone, a hoax, well that story was on its way to becoming reality. He had good reason to say that. He wasn’t pretending. It was really true – Avishai Milner was found dead at the entrance to the ice-cream parlour where he had been unjustly accused.
“Avishai Milner was found unconscious in the early-morning hours at the entrance to the ice-cream parlour where he was accused.” An anonymous caller alerted the police. He gave them the exact address. Perhaps it was a passer-by. Or a shrewd agent who had recognized the potential for a comeback. And perhaps it was Avishai Milner himself.
24
INTERNATIONAL DAY for the Elimination of Violence Against Women was a windfall for the catering companies in the capital city. Various government offices held a variety of events to celebrate the day, and apart from speeches and speakers, each event had napkins, refreshments and soft drinks. The President’s residence, for example, ordered thirteen trays of feta-filled pastry. The previous year they had forgotten to mark the day, and the public outcry was enormous. The social secretary was fired and replaced by a determined young woman who, earlier, had arranged for two battered women and one female professor to be present. The day before, in a moment of brilliance, she decided to invite a fourth guest, a sort of national hero, the brave girl who had fought back in the alley.
Lying in bed, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, the social secretary suddenly had another idea – she sat up and texted her assistant. We need a large poster saying “WE ARE PUTTING AN END TO IT!”, with an exclamation mark! And on the morning of the event, everything was in place – the poster, the battered women, the refreshments, the female professor – and the young girl, a bit shy, who stood in the corner with her sister and her parents. While waiting for the President to appear, Nofar’s father eyed the feta pastries. But his wife whispered in his ear that it wasn’t respectful, the President hadn’t arrived yet. And so, silenced, reprimanded and, most importantly, hungry, the father remained standing beside the spotless white tablecloth, hoping the President would make an appearance quickly.
Nofar’s father didn’t know it, but at that precise moment, as the President stood at the door to the hall, straightened the knot of his tie and peered at the loaded trays, he too was experiencing the pinch of sharp hunger pangs. He hadn’t eaten anything since morning. To take his mind off the pain in his stomach the distinguished President focused on his speech: a sharp condemnation of any form of violence against women. We are all mobilized in the struggle against it. His fingers, the fingers of a good grandfather, moved along the words printed on the page. Thirty years previously those fingers had moved in the same relaxed manner on the backside of the head clerk at military command headquarters – Ruthie or Rachel, something with an R, he couldn’t remember exactly – but the backside he remembered quite well. She made and served him coffee – back then, he still drank it with three sugars – and when she turned around, she seemed to be offering him her backside as well, so he reached out and partook. She froze, began to cry and fled to the outer office. He followed her and found her beside her desk, sobbing. As she stood there, trembling with fear, she seemed the picture of enchanting helplessness. How she wept when he pawed her in the outer office, on the desk, which he would later take with him to his next post. A mahogany desk he had confiscated from the home of the most notorious murderer in the West Bank. A genuine antique. An hour earlier, on that very desk, he had finished writing the draft of his speech for the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. “Let’s get started,” he said in a thundering voice to the social secretary, and she told her assistant to announce to everyone that the President would be there in another minute.
But where was Nofar? The battered women were sitting in their places on the small stage. At the polite distance of two seats away from them sat the distinguished female professor. The slide show revealing the horrifying statistics had already begun behind them. The photographers and journalists were seated in their assigned places like obedient dogs. Only the girl had vanished as if the earth had swallowed her up. Her embarrassed parents were still standing in their place, but she was gone. The social secretary went over to investigate, first with a smile, then with increasing anxiety – the event had to begin, and quickly. Eyes searched everywhere, but they found not even the smallest trace of the girl to fasten on to. Phones were pulled out – the father and mother called her at the same time – to no avail. Her phone was switched off. She had switched it off in a panic twenty minutes earlier when she learnt from a quick look at social media that Avishai Milner had tried to kill himself. Because of her.
She fled to the lavatory. Where else could she run to. But instead of escaping to the lavatory adjoining the hall, which had been searched half a dozen times already, she ran off to a lavatory that was farther away. She turned right in the marble corridor, through a small yard filled with well-trimmed roses, straight into a spacious hall where a large photograph of the signing of the Declaration of the State hung on the wall. In the presence of those formidable people, Nofar felt particularly vile. A wave of tears flooded her. Avishai Milner had tried to kill himself. Because of her. Miraculously, someone had found him in his car. She pictured the face familiar to her from her nightmares, now lifeless. How could she shake the honourable President’s hand when her own hand was covered with the blood of Avishai Milner?
She would leave and confess. Right now. They would definitely put her in jail. Her body began to shake. She had to go back to the hall and ask her parents quietly to drive her to the police station. But before she did that, she had to call Lavi and say goodbye. With trembling fingers she turned on her phone, ignored the twenty unanswered calls from her parents and punched in his number. When he answered, instead of speaking she burst into tears. He was frightened. Asked her what happened. Asked again, and when she couldn’t reply he said, “Where are you? I’m coming.” In the end, choking on her tears, she told him she was at the President’s residence, that Avishai Milner had tried to kill himself, and that she was going to the police now.
“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was remarkably authoritative, which surprised her and, even more, surprised him. “But,” she sobbed, “but—”
Instead
of the rest of the sentence, a series of small, uncontrollable sobs escaped her lips. It was too much. Someone could die. Every such thought evoked additional sobs. Her face was wet and red from so much crying and she didn’t know whether he was still on the line.
He was on the line. Of course he was. And he seemed totally unmoved by the entire business. “Don’t you see that he’s only trying to break you? A stunt for the media? You really think that someone so in love with himself would be willing to say goodbye to himself and die?”
“But how… how do you know? How can you be sure?”
From his room on the fourth floor, Lavi took a deep breath. He wasn’t used to lying, and now, like a child learning to ride a bike, he had to focus completely on maintaining his balance. “I know because I was there when it happened. I saw everything: he did it in front of the ice-cream parlour and he himself called the police. If that’s what attempted suicide looks like, then I’m steamed broccoli.” When Nofar didn’t reply he added quickly, in a nervous whisper, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow in the alley, okay?” And then, once again in the most authoritative voice he could muster, he said, “Don’t do anything before we talk about it tomorrow.”
He hung up and crossed his fingers in the hope that it had worked. In the lavatory of the northern wing of the President’s residence, Nofar sat on the toilet and tried to calm down. It’s all right that you cried, you already know that they love to photograph you with red eyes. Take a deep breath and go back to the hall. Come on, open the door.
But when she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat. Not because of the face that looked out at her from the mirror, swollen from crying and the colour of eggplant, and not because her hair was unkempt and unattractive. What horrified her was not the Nofar in the mirror, but the one beside her, almost identical, but prettier. Maya.
Liar Page 11