Martyrs’ Crossing (10 page)

“Coffee, by any chance?” he said. Irit knew he needed the hourly fix.

“Right.” Her tone was sullen, but she went. She wanted him to let her go home. That's why he was keeping her here. This was one of the sorry things that constituted his life's daily amusement. He couldn't help it, it did. He enjoyed this petty toying. He suspected she did too, in her negative pouting way.

He opened Lieutenant Doron's file. So the boy was handsome. A handsome, open face. He looked nice. For a fleeting second, Yizhar thought, I wish I had a son like that. But he quickly folded up that thought and put it away. Futile fantasy. Business, business. Yizhar wondered about the boy's character. Doron came from a good Labor family with a father who had been a career officer. The father grew up on a kibbutz, fought in the '67 war, died of his wounds years later. Good man, good fighter, faithful army stock—Yizhar hoped the boy was made of the same mettle. How would a boy like this react to what had happened? With too many feelings, probably. But army loyalty would dominate. He thumbed through the rest of Doron's papers: copy of identification card, a résumé with very little on it other than army, army, army, a Xerox of an old photograph of the father being decorated, medical reports—a boy in the pink of health.

Inside the checkpoint file was yesterday's report from one of Yizhar's Bethlehem men. Someone down there was scribbling on the walls:
FIND THE SOLDIER,
the scribbling said. A couple of angry guys with a can of spray paint. Another report came from Ramallah: the same graffiti on the walls near the checkpoint. Using stencils. Stencils, hmmm. And stencils in Jenin, also, before today's big demonstration there. The same stencils, he could see from the Polaroids his men had taken. Stencils, hah! That degree of uniformity could mean the long arm of the Authority, trying to milk the dead baby for everything he was worth. Or it could just be some fundamentalist jerks attempting to rile up the rabble.

But Yizhar wasn't worried. He was indifferent to violence. Sure, since the kid's death the
shabab
had seriously upped the slingshot ante—and the Authority's policemen were backing them up with gunfire. But fortunately, those guys didn't have what they call “muzzle discipline” in the army. Which is to say, they couldn't shoot straight, so they didn't inflict much intentional damage. Mostly got their own guys in the back. The violence could escalate many notches before it would crease Yizhar's brow, despite all the complaining and whining of the usual politicians. He knew that the Israelis could keep things reasonably in check. As long as Doron behaved. If the soldier fucked up, then things could spin out of control, although even in that case, it was hard for Yizhar to imagine losing the reins of this thing. And headquarters had already warned Doron not to talk to anyone but Yizhar. That was the first thing they told him: keep a low profile.

•  •  •

I
RIT BROUGHT IN
his Nescafé, plunking it down on its usual spot with particular vehemence. He watched the milky brew slosh from side to side in the cup. He needed a pick-me-up—he'd been working too hard on itty-bitty cases. The little things bothered him. Like crumbs at the bottom of a box of cereal, they couldn't satisfy a man's appetite. Yizhar was itching for something big. With Israel's usual bad luck, this Hajimi thing could turn into a manhunt for the soldier, a sort of
fatwa,
which was not a tiny thing. Yizhar looked forward to the fray. If the Palestinians decided to make an issue of the child, they'd go looking for Doron—the Authority might join the hunt, along with the child's family, freelance terror artists, other factions, who knew? And the Chairman probably
would
make an issue out of it, since the Palestinians, Yizhar had noticed over the years, had a natural flair—was that the word?—for drama and p.r., if not for negotiating or self-government. Everyone would be trying to find poor Doron, Yizhar's little lamb.

Yizhar let his eyes stray over the pictures on his desk. Like everyone else in the army, he had the famous photo of the three exhausted generals walking side by side the day the war ended, on their way to claim the Old City of Jerusalem. He also had a more recent snapshot of himself bringing in Farouz Gara, an infamous freelance terror artist from the Hebron area. But dearest to his heart was the group photo of his old company. Fresh faces, bright eyes, everything you expected to see in young soldiers. There was Yizhar, second row, third from left, standing, second in command. He had his rifle barrel shouldered. Fourth from left, Shimon Gertler, bright-eyed too, a shock of hair falling over one eye. Yizhar's commander. It was a fierce company, but when Yizhar looked at it, he didn't see a group of men. He just saw Yizhar and Gertler, as if their two faces had been circled with red crayon. A mere memento, people thought, just like the other photographs sitting there on the desk of a middle-aged officer. But Yizhar knew its historical significance. Let others think it was a simple souvenir. He picked it up to scrutinize it more thoroughly. He and Gertler looked like brothers.

Irit worshipped Gertler.

“That's Shimon Gertler, there, next to you, isn't it?” she'd asked him once, when he came upon her examining the picture one evening. She pointed with a purple nail.

“Yes,” he said. Didn't she know the story, he wondered.

“He was such a hero,” she said.

“He's a naturally brave man,” Yizhar said. He looked at Shimon. Shimon was smiling, unlike the rest of the company, who had on their manly, brave faces, himself included. He and Shimon had just come from giving the boys a big pep talk: the country, the challenge, the menace, And We Shall Prevail. After all, he and Shimon had been in charge. They said what they had to say. The boys went into battle that afternoon, fateful day for all of them.

“Poor fellow,” Irit said.

“People don't usually say that about someone who's been prime minister,” he said.

“I know,” she said, looking at the picture again, tenderly. “But still.”

Yizhar recalled that conversation in detail: the tender voice, from beneath the bluish sheen of mascara. Oh, she knew, she understood.

His gaze wandered from the picture he held in his hand to the surface of his old metal desk. The desk depressed him. It was the only desk he had ever heard of that was rusting. The turned metal edges and the rolling parts of the drawers were orange, and flaking, like the fenders of an old car. This was where he was supposed to work, and interview people, and appear to be important. It was something that no working person would ever dream of complaining about. My desk is rusting. Your desk is rusting? What?

He took a sweet sip of coffee and ran a finger over a rusty spot. The dust came off like pollen on his fingertip.

A knock, and Reuven popped his head in.

The sergeant's whole entire large body followed slowly through the half-open door. God, he was a presence. When he stood in front of it, the door was barely visible.

“What,” Yizhar said, looking up briefly.

“I'm leaving,” Reuven replied. “That okay?”

“Why not?” Yizhar said.

“You okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The Hajimi thing . . .” Reuven looked at him, his head cocked to one side—like a friendly dog.

“Yes?” Yizhar said. It always took Reuven a long time to get to the point. Yizhar realized he was still holding the company's picture in his hand. Well, he'd just have to go on holding it. To put it down now would surely spark Reuven's slow-burning but inexorable curiosity.

Ah, damage already done. Here he comes. Reuven lumbered toward the desk, and came around behind it. He looked at Yizhar to see if he would be stopped or scolded, then peered over Yizhar's shoulder.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. The picture was a familiar one to Reuven, who spent about half of every working day in Yizhar's office. “Gertler.”

Yizhar put the picture back down on his desk.

“Irit's got a thing for him,” Reuven said.

“Does she?” he asked.

“She's weird.”

Reuven was so insightful.

“Lots of women like him,” Reuven went on.

“He was always very attractive,” Yizhar said. “Especially in uniform.”

“Hunh,” Reuven replied, picking up the picture. He held it up to his face, almost touching his nose. He turned it this way and that, like a faceted jewel. “You know, it's funny. You can smell a drunk, just by the way he looks. Something about the eyes.”

Reuven was not an articulate man, but he had instinct.

“Yes,” Yizhar said.

Reuven put the picture down.

“You'll manage Hajimi, too, Colonel,” Reuven said.

“Thanks so much, Sergeant,” he said. But all irony, in fact, all subtlety, was lost on Reuven. Like everyone in the army, Reuven knew almost every military story there was to know, whatever there was to know of it. There had been rumors about Gertler's case, on the outside, but on the inside everyone had what they thought was a pretty firm grasp of the
facts.
After what had happened to poor Shimon, Yizhar was left with the results: Gertler was a shell of a man, a general who failed at the most important moment in the battle. It had been Yizhar's first experience packaging problems for Israel.

“Well,” Reuven said. He looked around the room, then back at Yizhar. “Don't work too late.”

“Don't you worry, Sergeant,” Yizhar said.
“Hakol b'seder.”
Everything's okay.

•  •  •

I
RIT CLOMPED OUT
at seven-thirty. It was always good to see her go, although tonight, he felt a little wistful about that stripe of white flesh. Maybe he wasn't being generous enough. Something about her little line of nakedness, her one bolt of daring, seemed vulnerable, and maybe not so unappealing. Maybe that little stripe was a highway that led in to her inmost being, and Yizhar was always looking for a way in to anyone's character.

He closed up the files, and put his keys and his electronic identification card into his pocket. Dinner from the Thais down the street, he thought. Outside in the cool evening air, the hush and murmur of nighttime put him out of sorts. He was exhausted and the streets sounded like sleep—the gentle buzz of generators, the hum and sputter of old lightbulbs in flickering signs, the quiet, insistent rumble of police vans patrolling the streets, the sound of tires on newly laid tar—but he was not sleeping. When he walked down King George, he noticed that the big clock at the Hamashbir department store was off by an hour, even though it had been almost five months since the time had moved back. One year, they hadn't bothered to change the clock at all, just waited until the time moved forward again. Oh, Jerusalem, Yizhar thought. What did an hour matter?

In front of the pharmacy on Jaffa, under the impassive gaze of the winged Assyrian lion that was carved into the cornice of the Generali building, a bomb squad wearing extreme protective regalia inspected parked cars. As if flesh could be protected from fire and dynamite by thick plastic shields. Yizhar shook his head. He and the Generali lion were old midnight comrades, two cynical ancient beasts. At night, when the blinds of his office windows were open, the creature looked in on him from a safe distance.

A rush of steam blew out into the street as he entered the Thai shop. Garlic. He breathed it happily. The boys behind the counter were most certainly not Thai. Still, nice feeling in here, he thought, and so good not to be in The Building. He usually ate his depressing meals without ever leaving his desk. Irit fetched yellow cheese sandwiches or tuna from a place up the street. Sad little sandwiches in plastic wrap, with a Diet Coke. Yizhar walked over to the counter. Three woks were burning up on the black stove behind the boys. Steam fogged the open kitchen. The cooks kept throwing new things into the woks, rushing in and out from some secret place in the back. In the corner, a man with a rifle over his shoulder sat on a stool, eating stringy stuff. At least Doron hadn't
shot
the child. Yizhar ordered a noodle dish to go.

Most colleagues would tell Yizhar that this assignment was a solemn one: Doron's future was riding on it. Yizhar's too, possibly. Israel's international reputation. But Yizhar was a fatalist, because he had learned on the job that this was the safest, wisest approach. He knew about destiny: how it came in different guises, and not usually with a drumroll. Sometimes with the honk of a horn just before impact. Sometimes with the whistle of the artillery shell before it hit. Sometimes, just a shout or a phone's insistent ring.

He paid and took the poorly wrapped package from the cashier, who
was
Thai. With the steaming bag in his hand, he walked quickly back up Jaffa. Three soldiers passed him heading in the other direction, down to Zion Square. Yizhar could imagine Doron walking with them, a nice boy, good soldier, whatever that meant. But to Yizhar, he was just a figure in the big game. Whatever happened, it was not Yizhar's personal responsibility. It was fate, and fate would pull the boy out of it or it would let him drown and Yizhar was just an instrument, too. His role was incidental.

The correctness of an action lay in its outcome, a Gertler motto. You could claim that the outcome was the result of your masterly strategy, your brilliant cover-up, your clever ruses, your unpredictable subterfuges, but in fact, it was all preordained, and your little part in it was mapped out beforehand, and really, you had little or nothing to do with the end result no matter how deep you were in it. Destiny was destiny, and no other thing. Character did not play a part in it, Yizhar believed. Good actions were as useless as bad ones. He had known this ever since Gertler's breakdown. The man fell apart in war, fell absolutely apart, and then went on to become prime minister! Fate was fate.

This is what happened to your thinking when you lived in Jerusalem, even if you weren't religious—and Yizhar had never prayed in his life and never would. You became a fatalist, and superstitious. You went along with the master plan. One thing Yizhar did not believe in was going against the tide. He did not see value in vain gestures. That was Daniel Yizhar's religion, so-called, of which you had to have some kind if you were going to survive in this hateful city. If you weren't going to wear black bloomers and homburgs and bathrobes and stockings and sidecurls, or run around screaming about Allah and blowing up buses and yourself, you still had to find some ground to stand on with the Lord, and Yizhar's ground was soft and he could dig a trench in it and let the Lord pass over on his march toward the end of everybody, including this nice young soldier, who probably would normally have been out eating Thai food with his girlfriend in Zion Square if only he hadn't let a baby die in the rain somewhere outside the ancient floodlit walls of this holy place.