The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan
Cases like the Butcher came up once in a century. What further use would they have for him, waiting and watching? Betraying his Arab brethren? Making more enemies, like the one in Gaza?
Mona's dimpled hand caressed his chin. She purred like a well-fed cat, eager, ready to take him in, make another baby.
He rolled over, looked at her. Saw the pretty face, cushioned, like a piece of gift glass.
She closed her eyes, pursed her lips.
He kissed her, propped himself up, hiked up his nightshirt, and prepared to climb atop the mountain.
Mona parted her thighs and extended her hands toward him.
Then the phone rang in the sitting room.
"Oh, Elias," she murmured.
"One moment," he said, climbed out of bed, and went in to answer it.
He picked up the receiver. The ringing had wakened the baby. Covering one ear to blot out its cries, he placed the other against the phone.
"Daoud? Chinaman here."
"Good evening."
"I'm at French Hill. Got an assignment for you, interrogation."
"Yes," said Daoud, smoothing his shirt down, suddenly alert. "Tell me."
"You know all those confessors that have been crawling out of the woodwork since the Butcher thing closed? Finally we've got one that looks promising-for the Gray Man. Old plumber in gray work clothes, marched into Kishle a few hours ago, carrying a knife and crying that he did it. They would have kicked him out as a fake, but someone was smart enough to notice that the knife matched the pathologist's description. We hustled it over to Abu Kabir-blade fits right into the wound mold. Guy's an Arab, so we thought you'd be the one to handle it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"When can you be here?"
The baby had gone back to sleep. Daoud heard a sound from the bedroom, turned and saw Mona, filling the width of the doorway. A plaintive look on her face, like a kid begging for goodies but not expecting any.
Daoud calculated mentally.
Mona clasped her hands across her pendulous belly. The nightgown rippled. Her earrings shone brightly in the candlelight.
"Ninety minutes, maybe less," said Daoud. Then he hung up and pulled off his nightshirt.
The best disco in Tel Aviv: huge, tropical motif, silk ferns and papier-mache palms, green-and-black velvet walls and aluminum-rainbow ceiling, strobe lights, a high-tech German sound system that could make your ears bleed.
The best drinks too. Russian vodka, Irish whisky, American bourbon, French wine. Freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice for mixers. And food: barbecued lamb ribs at the bar. Fried eggplant, steak on bamboo skewers, shwarma, shrimp, Chinese chicken salad.
American rock, all back-beat and screaming guitars.
The best-looking girls, going crazy to the music, making love to every note. Scores of them, each one a perfect doll, as if some horny Frankenstein had invented a Piece of Ass Machine and turned in on full-force tonight. Firm breasts and jiggling tushes, hair tosses and glossy white smiles turned multicolor by strobe flashes.
Hip-thrusting, wiggling, as if the dance were sex itself.
Avi sat smoking at a corner table near the bar, by himself. Wondering if it had been wrong to come.
A slim brunette at the bar had been making eyes at him for five minutes, crossing and uncrossing silver lame legs, sucking on a straw, and letting one high-heeled slipper dangle from her toes.
But a hungry look on her face that made him feel uneasy.
He ignored her, ate a shrimp without tasting it.
Another guy came over and asked her to dance. The two of them walked off together.
Twenty-dollar cover charge, plus drinks, plus food. He had thought this would be the way to wipe his head clean, but was it?
The noise and drinks and laughter seemed only to make everything worse. Emphasizing the difference between good clean turn-ons and what had happened to him. Like putting what had happened into a picture frame and hanging it on the wall for everyone to see.
It was crazy, but he couldn't help feeling branded, couldn't shake the thought that everyone knew about him, knew exactly what the fucking pervert had done to him.
Those eyes. Bound and gagged, he'd looked up into them, seen the grin, known the meaning of evil.
I'm saving you, pretty one. Thank me for it
Another girl sat down at the bar. Strawberry blonde, tall and fair, not his usual type. But nice. She spoke to the bartender, lit a cigarette while he prepared her something lime-green and foamy in a brandy snifter, a piece of pineapple stuck on the rim.
She smoked, drummed her fingers on the bar top, bobbed in time to the music, then started looking around. Her eyes fell upon Avi. She checked him out, headoo toe. Smiled and sipped and smoked and batted her lashes.
Nice lashes. Nice smile. But he wasn't ready for it.
Didn't know when he'd ever be.
Frame it and hang it on the fucking wall.
Everyone knew. Though the secret sat like a stone in his chest.
Last night he'd awakened, smothered by the stone, cold and damp and relentless. Struggling against dream bonds, unable to breathe
Pretty one.
The strawberry blonde swiveled on her stool in order to give him a full front view. Lush figure, all curves. Red brocade shorty jacket over black leotard. Low cut. Healthy chest, lots of cleavage. Long, shiny hair that she played with, knowing it was gorgeous. Maybe the color was natural-he wasn't close enough to tell for sure.
Very nice.
A flash of green strobe light turned her into something reptilian. It lasted for only a second but Avi turned away involuntarily. When he looked again she was bathed in warm colors, nice again.
He smoked.
She smoked.
Big-shot Lover Boy.
Everyone had nice words for him-Sharavi, the Arab, even old Shmeltzer.
Far as they knew, he'd slept through it all, dosed up on heroin.
Didn't know the maniac had let him come out of it, didn't know what the fucking shit had done with him.
To him.
Making him the woman. Calling him pretty one, cursing in German as he played out his filthy
The agony, the shame. After the fucking shit left, he bloodied his hands freeing himself, dressed himself before they had a chance to find out the truth.
The next day, he'd driven all the way to Haifa, found a doctor up on the Carmel, and using a false name, told a lame story about bleeding hemorrhoids which the doctor hadn't even pretended to believe. Cash up front had stifled any questions. Ointments, salves, the blood test results back yesterday.
Everything normal, Mr. Siegel.
Normal.
The secret intact. He returned to Headquarters a hero.
If any of them ever found out, they'd never look at him the same.
He wanted desperately to put the memories out of his mind, but they kept returning-in dreams and daydreams, filling empty moments, dominating his thoughts.
Filth. He wanted to remove his brain, dip it in acid.
The strawberry blonde had gotten up, was walking toward him.
Leaning low. Giving him a tease-glimpse of nipple before tugging up her top.
Really a gorgeous one.
She posed, smiled, tapped a foot, and made her chest shake.
He felt a warm stirring in his jeans. But vague, removed, as if it were happening to someone else's body.
He said nothing, did nothing.
She looked confused. "Hey. Do you want to dance?"
Avi looked up at her, trying to collect his thoughts.
"Hey," said the girl, smiling again, but hurt. "I didn't know it was a life-or-death decision."
She turned to leave.
Avi stood, took hold of her.
"It's not," he said, twirling her around and putting on a smile of his own, the one the South African girl had called devilish, the one they all went for.
Keeping the smile plastered on his face, he squired her onto the dance floor.
On the fourth day, Daniel went home and slept until evening. When he awoke, Shoshi was in the room, sitting in a chair by the window, big-eyed, silent, picking at her cuticles.
Far away
He remembered Ben David's visit, yesterday. The disquieting feeling of waiting for a comparative stranger to tell him about his own child.
I won't tell you she's perfect. She's shaken up-traumatized. Expect some sleep problems, maybe nightmares, appetite loss, fearfulness, clinginess. It's normal, will take time to work through.
What about addiction?
No chance. Don't worry about that. In fact, the heroin turned out to be a blessing. She was spared the gory details. All she remembers is his grabbing her suddenly, holding her down for the injection, then waking up in the ambulance.
Hearing the psychologist talk about the abduction had made him want to cringe. He'd suppressed it, thought he'd done a good job of hiding his feelings. But Ben David's look was penetrating. Appraising.
What, Eli?
Actually, what worries her the most is you-that you'll never be the same, that it was all her faut. you'll never forgive her.
There's nothing to forgive, Eli.
Of course not. I've told her that. It would help if she heard it from you.
"Motek?"
"Yes, Abba?"
"Come here, on the bed."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. I'm a tough guy. Come on."
She got up from the chair, settled near his right shoulder.
"How's the dog, Shosh?"
"Good. The first night he cried until morning. I put him in my bed, but last night he slept well. This morning he ate everything I gave him."
"And how about you-how are you sleeping?"
"Fine."
"No bad dreams?"
"No."
"And what did you eat for breakfast?"
"Nothing."
"Why not?"
"I wasn't hungry."
"Dieting?"
A tiny smile formed on her lips. She covered her mouth with her hand. When she removed it, the smile had vanished.
"No."
"What then, Yom Kippur? Have I been here so long that I've lost track of time?"
"Oh, Abba."
"Not Yom Kippur. Let me see-a boy. You want to look skinny for a boy."
"Abba!"
"Don't worry about what the boys think, what anyone thinks. You're beautiful just the way you are. Perfect." He lifted her hand to his lips, touched the palm to his unshaven cheek. Feeling the warmth, capillaries brimming with life-blood. Exulting in it.
"Smooth or scratchy?" Old game.
"Scratchy. Abba-"
"Perfect," he repeated. Pause. "Except, of course, for the way you treat your brothers."
The smile again, but sad. Fingers twisting her hair, then touching the wings of the silver butterfly.
"Have you done your homework?"
"There is no homework. School's out in two days. The teachers let us have parties. And they're wild animals."
"Your teachers are wild animals?"
"Mikey and Benny!"
"Oh. What species?"
She stiffened, pulled her hand away. "Abba, you're being silly, treating me like a baby and trying to avoid the subject."
"And what subject is that?"
"That I was stupid to go with a stranger-all those times you and Eema told me about strangers, and I went. I thought he was a rabbi-"
"You cared about Dayan-"
"It was stupid! Retarded! And because of it I hurt you, hurt you badly-your shoulder, your hand. It was all my fault!"
She tore at her hair, her little face crumpled. Daniel pulled her down to him, tucked her head under his neck, felt her fragile body convulse with sobs.
"I won't lie to you, Shosh, it was a mistake. But even mistakes turn out well-because of you, an evil man was caught before he could hurt anyone else. All part of God's plan."
Silence. "You killed him, didn't you, Abba?"
"Yes."
She sat up, stared out the window for a long time. Daniel followed her gaze, over the domes and spires of the Old City. The sun was setting, casting rosy shadows across the wilderness of Judea. Rose dappled with soft blue. He wished he had an artist's memory
"I'm glad you killed him. But it was still stupid and now your hand is ruined."
"It's injured, not ruined. It'll get better. I'll be fine."
"No!" Shoshi shook her head furiously. "In the hospital-I heard a doctor talking in the hospital. He said it was ruined-you'd be lucky to get any use out of it."
She began to cry again. Daniel clasped her to him, started crying too.
He held her, tried to absorb her grief. Waited until she'd calmed and took her chin in his hand, stared into her huge wet eyes. Smoothed back her hair, kissed tear-streaked cheeks, and forgot the pain.
"I'm not ruined, Shosheleh. I'm very, very whole. Please believe that. Abba doesn't lie to you, does he?" A shake of the head.
"Then believe me, please, sweetie. I'm whole, complete. No man could be more complete. Do you believe me?"
