“And Moses said unto the children of Gad and to the children of Reuben: ‘Shall your brethren go to the war, and shall you sit here?”
Numbers, 32:6
The vapor rising from Tammi’s steaming cup of chai kept changing shape as it rose and vanished into thin air. Tammi held the cup with both hands and carefully raised the mug to her lips to test how hot it was. She sipped the chai slowly.
“We met less than an hour ago and you already know more than a little about me,” she offered an interim summary. “You know that I got stuck with my car, you know that I’m a graphic designer for a leading publishing house, and now you know that yesterday Adam and I separated…” She glanced sorrowfully at her worn-out corduroy bag and pulled at the zipper, opening it ever so slightly.
“Okay, so, to balance it out,” he replied, “you know that my car isn’t stuck, you know that I’m a lawyer, a partner in one of Israel’s biggest criminal law firms,” he added without a hint of modesty, “and now you also know that my wife, Tamara, and I separated. Just yesterday, by the way.”
She squinted suspiciously, and the right side of her mouth hesitantly curved upward. “Ro’el, let’s put things in order. We’ve stepped out of your story for a minute, okay? We are now in reality, in the here and now, in real life, you know?”
Ro’el remained motionless, but quickly recovered and answered: “And in real life it can’t happen that two strangers sit opposite each other in a café and discover by chance that bothof them—just yesterday—broke up with their partners?” he said and froze again.
The corduroy bag moved slowly and white whiskers attached to a gray, sniffing nose began to peek out. Ro’el screamed and jumped back in fright as a beautiful, white Himalayan cat carefully poked its head out of the bag, its anxious blue eyes suspiciously checking out the place. The other customers in the café turned their heads at Ro’el’s scream. Tammi burst out laughing. When Ro’el finally gained control of himself, he also started to laugh.
“What’s that?”
“Not what’s that,” she corrected him, “who is that? This is Macchiato!”
“The only cat in the entire world who’s become addicted to coffee?” he tried to guess the meaning of the unusual name.
“Not really,” she patted Makiato’s head, trying to calm the frightened creature. The furry cat was totally white, except for three gray spots on her head—one on her nose and the other two on her ears. “Macchiato in Italian means ‘stained,’ you know, like… the stain of coffee in milk. My Macchiato is also stained here, see?” She ran her finger down the cat’s nose. Dazed from the medication given for the move, he blinked slowly, his eyes glassy. “Look,” she wanted things to be put into order. “Didn’t I just tell you that Adam and I separated yesterday, and you replied that you and Tamara took the exact same step, also yesterday?” The sound of her laughter still rang in his ears, seeming like the laughter of carefree children.
“Yes, I think so…”
“And breaking up a relationship like that is sad, isn’t it?”
“Yes, at times it’s sad.”
“So why are we suddenly happy?” They fell silent for a moment. “I would like to hear what you went through last night, if you’d like to tell me, but I’m still curious about Yiftach and whathappens next. What causes such a smart, successful lawyer to make such a mistake in court, and what in the world is he planning to tell Weissman? So if you want me to design your book cover, we have to remain focused. We have to move forward, Ro’el.”
“You’re right, let’s leave reality behind—who needs it? Let’s dive back into the world of fiction.”
***
They both undress and get into bed. He is intimately familiar with her; he knows what she likes. Their lovemaking is stormy and prolonged, and she moans each time he sends waves of pleasurable shivers through her. She yields to him completely, passionately, unrestrained, in a whirl of sensuality. She loves the feeling of being wholly lost. After they both climax, she whispers in his ear the usual flatteries that sustain his masculinity. She knows that otherwise, there may not be a second time, and he soaks up her words ardently.
Melody woke up from yet another dream in which she and Eitan were together again. It was a recurring dream that would appear in her subconscious from time to time. She couldn’t escape him, not even in her sleep, and this dream was one of those dreams that remain with you even after awakening. Am I losing my mind? she wondered. October 8th—exactly two years since she last saw him, since they parted from one another like the sea receding from the shoreline. The thought that perhaps he has disappeared from her life forever was difficult for her to bear. Her life in the kibbutz was turning into a distant memory; her studies at Haifa University had ended, as did her year of internship. Only one constant remained in this young woman’s life, steady and pulsating—her longing for him, a longing that eradicated whatever joy she still had left. When she moved toTel Aviv, she believed—perhaps, more correctly, she had hoped—that Eitan’s essence would dissipate from her heart; it would be crushed, erased and destroyed. Although she didn’t lie to Yiftach when she said that she prefers the present to the past, she now wondered why, even after two years, the river of her thoughts kept flowing into that same sea called Eitan. Why did those damned thoughts always find a way of reaching her? Whether asleep or awake, when at work or just relaxing, at home or outside, in the shower or in bed—her mind could not escape his image; she didn’t have a single moment that was totally her own. Parting from him had created great sadness, and she had allowed herself to be totally sucked into it. She now felt that nothing special was happening in her life, each day seemed identical to the day before. At times she felt that she was weaving for herself a present without a future, as the scars that Eitan had left in her soul were indelible.
She forced herself to get out of bed and her disheveled hair looked as if she had just been in a terrible fight. Today too would follow a predetermined, familiar route. Melody got dressed slowly, sluggishly, and left for another day of work.
The coffee maker down the hall puttered like it was about to break down. Yiftach waited for the milk to boil, then poured it into his cup of strong espresso along with one teaspoon of brown sugar. He stirred the coffee and tasted it. The espresso was delicious. He was bleary-eyed after a sleepless night. He tried to imagine all the possible scenarios of his upcoming critical talk with Weissman. He must win him over, he must convince him that his plan is viable and that if it succeeds, the world will become a better place, and—without exaggeration—a new chapter will be written in the chronicles of humankind.
Julie entered the kitchenette and was surprised to see him there. “Good morning, Yiftach. When did you arrive?”
“Hi, Julie, good morning. Early. When is Rafi arriving?”
“He’s already in his office.”
“Is he busy? I need to talk to him.”
“He has a session at one o’clock to review the evidence. He’s going over the materials now. You can try your luck,” she said, her body language hinting: ‘What have you got to lose?’
Gripping his coffee cup, Yiftach went to Attorney Weissman’s room and stood at the open door. Weissman was seated at a large desk, reviewing once again the list of witnesses he would be questioning in court today. Cross-examinations are serious business. Only a threatening and experienced cross-examiner like Weissman knows how to rattle the witness facing him and throw him off balance. Only a fighter like Weissman understands how to cause the poor witness to get confused, to sweat, to forget his own name and to wish he could simply disappear. And then, when the witness is behind the stand, looking like a beat-up sack of potatoes, when he is wretched, addled and shaken and his credibility is in question and he can almost feel his life force seeping from him, only then does Weissman lead him to the trap he set for him in advance, to that one crushing question that causes his version to instantly collapse like a child’s sandcastle on the beach, washed away between the waves.
Yiftach tapped on the door frame.
Weissman glanced up. “Yiftach, good morning. Come in,” he waved his hand, glad to see his young colleague, anxious to hear his explanations. Weissman slid a chair over towards Yiftach using the heel of his shoe. The young attorney sat down as he placed his hot coffee cup on the desk and looked at his boss. He was almost able to see his own reflection in the sheen from Weissman’s hair that was combed back with an oily pomade. Weissman—who never did free himself from his obsession with cleanliness and orderliness—offered Yiftach a coaster for his hot cup, raised his eyebrows expectantly, and brought the tips of hisfingers together like an arrowhead. “You got me a little worried at the beginning of the week,” he admitted.
