Eshkol Nevo - World Cup Wishes

Excited by the possibility that the mystery of Shahar Cohen was close to being solved, we decided to take action and drove down to Mitzpe Ramon. When we reached the town, after having to stop five times because the engine of Churchill’s Beetle kept overheating, it turned out that the girl from the prosecutor’s office hadn’t misled us: yes, there really was a vet in Mitzpe Ramon, and yes, even though there was no trace of an accent in his speech, he called himself Ricardo Luis. But a few days earlier, he’d closed up his clinic — and vanished.

This is Mitzpe, the locals explained placidly. Things like that happen here all the time. But we’d had enough. After that miserable trip to Mitzpe Ramon, we decided once and for all to declare Shahar Cohen a myth. A symbol. An ideal. We stopped trying to find him and started using his name in our conversations the way you use a joker in a card game.

Why didn’t you come on Friday?

I went out for a drink with Shahar Cohen.

Where are you? The match starts in two minutes.

Sorry, Shahar Cohen held me up.

How many were injured in the terrorist attack?

Shahar Cohen and five others.

With time, and with the use of the name Shahar Cohen in even more contexts, the Shahar Cohen label moved so far from referring to the real person who inspired it that we almost forgot there’d been such a person, and that he’d once been our friend. That’s why, when he suddenly walked into the living room during the shiva, even Amichai couldn’t hide his shock. He didn’t say a word, but his eyebrows rose in astonishment.

Bro, I heard what happened and came right away, Shahar Cohen said, leaning over and crushing Amichai in a hug. Then he went from one member of Ilana’s family to the other and hugged them too, the way you hug people you love very much, mumbling, what a tragedy, what a terrible tragedy, and he even shed a tear.

Then he sat down, straightened his light-coloured tie, smoothed his dark suit and asked a few questions about Ilana. At first, he directed them to Amichai, but when he realised that he’d get no answers from him, he turned to the others. He wanted to know exactly what had happened. What was the chain of events that led to her death. And he wanted to know what kind of person she was. The people in the room answered quite willingly. In great detail. They laid out their complaints to him too, as if he represented the government or the law, and had the power to right the terrible wrong. Or at least give it meaning.

We followed the exchange of words. And tried to reconcile all the stories we’d heard about Shahar Cohen over the years with this new person wearing good clothes and speaking in such a moderate, measured way.

So how are you? Churchill asked, the first to break (if he hadn’t asked, I would have. The suspense was unbearable).

I … I’m good, Shahar Cohen said in an ingratiating stammer, as if he were uncomfortable talking about himself.

And where … I mean what … what are you doing these days? I asked.

Business, he said offhandedly.

What kind of business? I persisted.

International, he said, and looked with embarrassment at the people in the room again, as if he wanted them to see that he was being forced into speaking against his will.

I didn’t want to let him off the hook. I had no intention of missing the opportunity to find out what had really happened to him. But then a huge delegation of relatives from Kibbutz Givat HaMacam burst into the living room, and for a long time, the room buzzed with ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ and the noisy moving of chairs in order to provide all the heavyset kibbutzniks with places to sit.

When the tumult died down a bit, Shahar Cohen leaned over to Amichai and said, I brought you something, but it’s downstairs in the car. Can you come out with me for a minute?

We waited expectantly for Amichai’s response. Since the beginning of the shiva, he hadn’t moved from his permanent place on the black plastic chair closest to the kitchen. At night he slept on the living room carpet and even vetoed suggestions to put a mattress under him. But to our great surprise, he didn’t turn down Shahar Cohen’s suggestion. He got up and went out with him.

We followed right behind them, curious but worried. From the way Amichai was walking, it looked as if his legs couldn’t carry the weight of his loss and he might collapse at any moment.

Shahar Cohen led us to his car, and contrary to what we might have expected from an international businessman, it was just a Subaru station wagon. He opened the boot, revealing an impressive sight: dozens of small, red inhalers were arranged in small, white cardboard boxes. They reminded me of Ventolin inhalers. So what do you do, import medical equipment? I asked.

You could say that, Shahar Cohen said with a phoney smile. There’s laughing gas in those inhalers. It’s a big hit now at parties in Europe. It’s just starting to come into Israel.

He took one of the inhalers out of its box and said, I buy one like this for two dollars in Lubliana and sell it for fifty shekels in Tel Aviv.

And what … what does it do? What kind of an effect does it have? I asked.

Try it, he said. And handed me an inhaler.

Thanks, I apologised, but I have asthma.

I’m more into natural substances now, Ofir hurried to say.

I’d love to, Churchill said sadly, but I work for the prosecutor’s office now and … we’re here in the middle of the street … and … this business of yours, it’s not completely legal, is it?

Amichai reached out and took the inhaler.

Take three short drags, Shahar Cohen explained. Wait a little while. Then take a long one the fourth time, deep into your lungs.

Amichai did what he said. We waited with bated breath for the results, but even after a long minute, we couldn’t see any change in the mourning wrinkles of his face.

Shahar Cohen didn’t miss a beat. How do you feel, a little dizzy? he asked and Amichai nodded. That can happen the first time, it takes the brain a while to get used to the substance. Take another few of these and try again in two hours. It’ll definitely work in the end. That stuff never fails.

Amichai accepted another few inhalers from him and nodded in thanks.

Shahar Cohen took out a business card with gold edges and drew a circle around one of the phone numbers written on it. That’s my private number, he told Amichai, and surprised us by getting into his car. Call if there’s a problem. And you guys, he said to all of us through the window, don’t be pricks, keep in touch.

A few days later, we called him to complain that Amichai still wasn’t laughing.

A metallic voice message informed us that the number had been disconnected.

A few months later, there was a picture in the papers of someone who looked exactly like him, and the caption said that a vet named Ricardo Luis had been convicted of dealing in illegal medical equipment and was sentenced to two years in prison.

But then, six months later, Amichai received a postcard from Sydney, Australia. Shahar Cohen had written to him in the crooked handwriting we remembered from high school, saying that he was thinking about him a lot and hoped he was good. He ended the card with, tell the guys I miss them. See you soon.

The second time Amichai got up from his black plastic chair was when Sadat came in.

There had been a terrorist attack that day. The third that week. And the visitors who streamed into his house brought not only their condolences, but also updates on how many were injured and how the hunt for the terrorist was going.

That’s why, when Sadat arrived — shoulders stooped, cheeks sunken, eyes frightened — the instinctive reaction of the people in the room was to straighten up like a military squad on alert.