The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"No, no. I've met Mr. Brooker. Not a shvartze-a blackie, a fanatic-long black coat, black hat, big beard."

"A Hassid? Shoshi went off with a Hassid?"

"That's what I'm telling you. She'd just come by the grocery. She and her friend were baking cookies, they ran out of chocolate, and Shoshi came by to get some. After I rang her up, she left, had gone maybe five meters and this blackie steps out of a parked car and starts to talk to her. I figured maybe he was one of her teachers or some friend of the-"

"What kind of car?"

"White Mercedes diesel, made a lot of noise-"

Daniel's heart stopped. "Did you see the plates?"

"No, sorry, I-"

"Go on. What happened?"

"This blackie said something about finding the dog. It was injured-he'd take her to it. Shoshi thought about it for a moment. Then she got into the Mercedes and the two of them drove off. A few minutes later I started wondering about it-the guy was religious, but she hadn't seemed to know him. I called your wife-no one answered. I thought maybe I should-"

A voice inside Daniel screamed no. no. no! He gripped

Lieberman's soft shoulders. "Tell me what this Hassid looked like."

"Big, like I told you. About your age, maybe older, maybe younger. Full red beard, glasses. Big grin, like a politician. Let me see, what else-"

Daniel's grip tightened. "Which way did they go?"

The grocer winced. "That way. "Pointing north."She's okay, isn't she?"

Daniel let go of him and raced toward the Escort.

No! Please God. Pleasegod, pleasegod.

I should haves, I could haves. Prayers shrieked through a deafening nightmare storm. His right leg pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard; his hands were welded to the steering wheel.

Not my baby, my first baby, my little mongrel.

Precious, precious. No, not her. Anyone else.

Unreal. But too real.

Nightmares, the nightmare machine.

Silence it!

Tears flowed from his eyes like blood from a mortal wound. He forced himself to stop crying, keep his head clear.

Keep speeding, stretch the minutes.

Please, God.

A red light came on at the King David intersection; the boulevard was congested with traffic. Opposing traffic beginning to move, turning directly in his path.

He leaned on the horn. No one moved. Steered the

Escort onto the sidewalk, swerving to avoid hitting terrified pedestrians. Waddling tourists in peacock clothes. A mother and a baby carriage.

Out of the way.

Got to save my baby!

Whistles and screams, a fury of horns. Hitting the rim of the central island, then over the curb and on it.

Scraping the underside of the Escort, ripping metal, hubcaps spring loose..

More screams. Maniac! Asshole!

Off the island, skidding, swinging left, dodging cursing motorists. Filthy-mouthed taxi drivers.

Fuck you-not your baby on the altar.

A shouting, gesticulating traffic officer near the King David Hotel tried to block his passage.

Move or die, idiot.

Not your baby.

The idiot moved at the last moment.

Please God, please God.

Speed.

Making deals with the Almighty:

I'll be a better person. Better husband daddy Jew human being.

Let her be-

More traffic, endless ribbons of it, a plague of metal locusts.

Can't slow down.

Weaving through it, around it, up sidewalks, off, knocking trash baskets into the streets.

Brake squeals. More curses.

Careering, wrestling with a wild animal steering wheel.

Fighting for control.

No time to put on the magnetic flasher.

No time to phone for backup-he wouldn't do it even if there were.

Another fuck-up: Sorry, Pakad, we lost him.

Not with my baby.

Oh, God, no.

He emptied his mind, chilled it, shut out time, space, everything. Even God.

The city a glacial wasteland. Speeding through layers of dirty ice, the Escort a power-sled.

Smooth. No risks.

Onto Shlomo Hamelekh, downhill full-speed ahead.

More red lights to defy, swooshing by, oblivious to cause and effect.

Only my baby.

Coming for you, motek.

A steep drop. Up through the air and down so hard the impact sent electric currents through his spine.

Good pain, welcome pain.

Alive. Let her be alive. Abba's coming, motek, sweet little mongrel.

Willing the Escort to be an airplane, a jet fighter, flying north, retracing the early morning ride of a month ago.

Fatma's body in the white sheet.

Shoshana.

Prettiness. Innocence.

Pretty faces, bodies juxtaposed, blood sisters-No, back to the glacier!

Uphill. The Escort struggled. Go faster, fucking damn fucking car, go faster or I'll rip you apart-

Rip him apart.

Fueling himself with boiling blood. Weapons assessment: only the 9 mm. The Uzi back at Headquarters.

He had his hands.

One good one.

Speeding past Zahal Square, more close calls, hateful shouts from the ignorant. If they knew the truth, they'd cheer him on.

Only Sultan Suleiman through a scatter of frightened faces.

The Old City. Not beautiful anymore. A bloody city. Conquest upon conquest, graveyard upon graveyard.

Jeremiah lamenting.

Mothers eating babies as the Romans besieged the walls.

Blood running down limestone. Altars.

Christian Crusaders wading knee-deep in blood, slaughtering the innocence-

Not my innocent.

Shoshi.

Fatma. Shoshi. Fatmashoshi.

Torturing himself with policeman's knowledge that cracked the glacier:

His motek. Number Four-no! Amsterdam, a dry run.

The Israeli butchery replicating the American butchery. American Number Four.

Gene's voice: This one was very messy, Danny… all the internal organs-No! Abba's coming, angel.

Motek, motek, hold on, hold on. Make yourself live. Force it.

Literally skin and bones- No!

Should have been there, should have been a better daddy. Promise to be better. God allowed back: making deals.

An old Arab man wheeled a barrowful of melons across the street. Daniel sped by. A bus coming from the opposite direction kept him from swerving far enough, and his rear bumper nicked the front end of the barrow.

Rearview mirror story: Melons rolling down Sultan Suleiman. Old man lying flat, then rising, shaking his fists.

Fuck your melons. My fruit is precious. Let her be alive.

Ben Adayah empty, a clear climb: God responding. A single tour bus bumping its way down the Mount of Olives Road.

Dodging to avoid him. Idiots pointing, chattering. Fly by them, fly! Onto Scopus.

Bloody eye of a bloody city. Abba's coming!

The fucking slaughterhouse of a hospital, rosy pink, the pink of diluted blood.

He aimed the Escort at the entrance, screeched to a halt, blocking it. Took hold of the Beretta, checked the clip, and jumped out.

The Arab watchman, Hajab, on his feet. Shaking a fist.

"Halt! You cannot park there!"

Ignore the idiot. Running, through the courtyard.

Hajab stepping in front of him, trying to block his way.

Idiot face flushed with indignation. Idiot mouth opening: "Halt! You are blocking the entrance! Trespassing on United Nations property!"

Charging the idiot.

Idiots arms spread to halt him.

"I am warning you, when Mr. Baldwin returns you'll be in big-"

Swinging the Beretta and hitting the idiot square in the face. Hearing bones crunch, the rustle and thud of collapse.

Running, flying, through the courtyard, trampling flowers. Gagging on sickly-sweet roses.

Funeral flowers.

No funeral today-coming, motek!

Through the door, mentally unfolding the Mandate-era blueprints.

West wing: servants' quarters. Staff quarters. Tagged doors.

The slaughterhouse, empty.

He ran, gun in hand.

Someone heard him, peaked a head out.