Fracture Point Read online

  “Do you have a good brain enlargement surgery you can recommend?” she said, pointing at me. “Like a breast augmentation surgery, but for stupid people. I’m asking for a friend.”

  Donna and Na’ama giggled. Donna took the last sip of her Lambrusco. She bent back a bit to finish her drink, and you had to be blind not to see her curves.

  “Here.” The bartender placed the bill between the two of them.

  “Don’t be a Roni Rosenthal,” Libby whispered to me.

  Donna sent the bartender a long, warm good-bye as she got up. She had a big white smile. They left the small tray with the bill and a tip on the counter.

  “Bye, Donna. Ciao, Na’ama,” the bartender said warmly. What a beautiful smile she has, I thought.

  “Ro-sen-thal,” Libby continued to whisper to me.

  “Listen . . .” I stood up abruptly. Libby shouted, “Goddamnit!” when my chair hit her in the knee. Donna turned in surprise.

  “Ummm . . . Can I have your number? Sorry, I thought we could maybe get together some time.”

  “Breathe first,” Libby muttered behind me. Donna’s tight smile held back her laugh and took my breath away.

  “You’re really bad at this,” Libby said, saying out loud what we all knew. I signaled to her with my hand to stop. She was still holding on to her knee.

  “All right,” Donna said with a smile. “Write it down.”

  It was too easy.

  I turned to take my phone from the bar, but Libby was already handing it to me. I put my hand out to take it, but right before I reached it, she let go and it fell on the floor, bouncing off of the chairs like in a pinball machine.

  “Shit!” Libby and I both said. Libby jumped out of her chair, knocking it over loudly, causing the bartender to yell over at us. “Hey guys, take it easy,” he said. I was so embarrassed.

  “Here, take it. Sorry,” she said, handing me the phone with a stupid smile. The two girls were watching us as if they were watching a circus performance. “You have a call from Rami,” she added when I tried to turn the phone back on. It had turned off when it hit the ground.

  I had no idea what Donna was thinking at this point because I didn’t dare look at her face. When the phone was back on, it said that I had a missed call from “Dad.” I felt my head getting hot, and I needed to calm down.

  “Libby, come on . . .” I started, but didn’t know how to continue the sentence without making things even worse.

  Donna, saving me, started to give me her number.

  “Zero-five,” she said, turning the situation from a nightmare into slapstick comedy. I looked up at her, and I saw that she and her friend were grinning. I also smiled, and I was finally able to calm down a bit. Libby was also smiling, even though she had no right to be. The market was much more relaxed and quieter, but something inside me wouldn’t settle down.

  Just five hours earlier we were at the Yarkon Cemetery with colorful balloons and a birthday cake. People were dressed in every color but black. Instead of eulogies, everyone told funny stories of things that happened to them with Grandma. That was the way she wanted to go. “Not a happy story, a funny one,” Uncle Abraham had corrected Doreen when she told me to write a happy story. Grandma had always said that her death would be the most fortunate of deaths because she could have easily died a dark death in the Gross-Rosen Concentration Camp had the Red Army not arrived to liberate them.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Libby said, interrupting my daydream.

  “A lot of things are going on,” I answered. Even though her clumsiness upset me this time, I’m unable to stay mad at her for more than five minutes.

  “Good luck with this course of yours,” she said when we parted on Agrippas St. “It’s not too late to change your mind and do something normal.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be fine,” I replied, and debated whether to say what I was about to say. “We didn’t talk about you and your di- . . . your separation.”

  She stared at me and said nothing.

  “I’m just . . . uh . . . you know, we only talked about my shit. I really wanted to ask, but . . . I didn’t want to push it.”

  She rolled her eyes and put her arm on my shoulder.

  “You know I’m always here if you need anything, right?” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Libby, who has always managed on her own. “Bye, Froggie.”

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t want to wait too long, so I sent her a text message the day after she gave me her number. The conversation was all right. She wished me luck in my “government whatever” course. I only told her that it will take four months and that I would only be home on weekends.

  I asked her out for a beer. She said no, that she was looking for someone to go with her to a new Asher Zigi play, and I seemed like the right partner.

  “Asher who?” I asked.

  “Asher Zigi, a young, talented performer. You’ll love him.”

  The play turned out to be a contemporary Jerusalem-style adaptation of some Shakespearean play After the show was over, we went out for Belgian waffles, and she explained the connection between the play and the original Shakespeare. It was great to listen to a woman who knew exactly what she was talking about. I could see the sparkle in her eye as she spoke of the synthesis between the literary worlds. I just sat there and nodded like an idiot. She ended her explanation with a question. “So do you see what a genius Asher Zigi is?” I said that I didn’t.

  “Whatever,” she said, gently covering her mouth as she chewed.

  “No, I . . . I’m sure I didn’t understand it the way you did, but it’s really nice to hear you talk about it.” Her wisdom was as beautiful as her smile.

  As we were about to part at the corner of Azza and Ben Maimon Streets, we stopped and talked about the weather and the city. It was obvious that we were standing there to determine whether this relationship had a future. Our arms touched, supposedly by accident. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even after we said good-bye. She smiled because she understood. Our good-night kiss was not just a “first date requirement;” this was a first kiss that came from a true moment of attraction and excitement.

  That was how I spent the evening before my first day of Unified Security Training.

  I arrived at the training facility after a two-hour bus ride to the center of the country, miles away from every city I know. There was no “welcome” sign, and there was no staff member waiting to tell us where to go. A security guard checked our entry permits and let us through the revolving metal gate, straight into a web of office corridors that all looked the same.

  Luckily there were small arrows pointing toward the “admissions for training course.” The sound of distant thumping and feet stomping became louder as I headed through the neon-lit corridors. I found another sign on a large metal door. I pushed it open and entered a vast hall with a high ceiling. Huge industrial fans were positioned in the four corners of the room, creating a cool cyclone that smelled of sweat. In the middle of the room, there were what looked like several boxing rings. About 20 participants – all breathing heavily – from various courses were standing in a circle around their instructor, who was teaching them self-defense. There were also a lot of busy-looking people in buttoned-up shirts talking on their phones and rushing around.

  When I was growing up in Afula, if I got lost, I had no problem approaching a stranger for directions. In the army, you can tell by a soldier’s uniform if you can talk to him or not. For example, an older person with a wrinkled training uniform is a reserve soldier, and you can easily approach him. In contrast, a soldier with a command lace and the rank of sergeant-major is not someone you should approach without good reason. In this strange new place, I had no way of knowing who was what, and with whom I could speak freely. The man with the small pot belly and glasses could be either the electrician or a senior director. The saf
est option would be to turn to the regular army soldiers, who were easy to spot because of their olive uniforms and young age.

  “Excuse me,” I called to a young female soldier who passed by the boxing ring. “Do you know where the new course is?”

  She slowed down but didn’t stop, turning her head at me and continuing forward as if she were pulled by a magnetic force, only slowing down slightly because she had some empathy towards a new, confused worker. She smiled and told me that I was funny, since there are many new courses every day.

  “Security. Something that has to do with security, the Unified Security Course?” I tried.

  She pointed to a door on her right.

  “It’s that door, just two corridors from here,” she said, and raised her hand like a flight attendant.

  I let out a sigh, and I think I also said “Thank you,” but I’m not sure because I immediately ran towards the door. A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and its owner asked, “Mr. Evron?” I looked at the man who called my name. We had never met before. I wanted to ask him who he was, but all that came out of my mouth were grunts.

  “Why aren’t you in class yet?” he asked, and came closer to me. He was in his late thirties, with light hair cut short, direct brown eyes, and a massive chin. I had no doubt that while he may have known who I was, I was certain that I didn’t know him.

  “Hello. I’m Itay. I’m joining the . . .” I started, but the man tightened his grip on my shoulder, his forehead almost touching mine.

  He didn’t raise his voice, but it was definitely firmer. “What are you, a sales representative? I know who you are. Get to class. Now!” He shoved me towards the door.

  I was thrown into a classroom with tables set up in a “U” shape. Ten people were sitting at the tables, and they were all staring at me. They were all wearing shirts with collars and long pants. I also had clothes like that in the bag that I was carrying. I looked for a place where I could quickly sit down and hide the fact that I was the only one in short, ripped jeans.

  “Good morning, and welcome to the Unified Security Course. Welcome to the ISA,” said the man with the big chin, speaking as confidently as a lawyer. “We’ll wait for Mr. Evron to choose a seat and then we’ll begin.” I didn’t understand what was so funny until I realized that he was pointing at the only vacant seat left.

  “You’re now in the ISA National Combat Academy, but you can call it just ‘The Academy.’ Just like in the film Fight Club, rule number one is that you do not talk about The Academy outside. Who saw the movie and remembers the second rule?”

  The room went silent. I noticed that everyone had small white stickers on their chests with their names. Everyone except Itay Evron, of course.

  A man with thick hair and a beard, with the name “Ron” written on his sticker, raised his hand.

  “You don’t talk about The Academy . . .”

  “Well done, Bitton,” Eitan said before he even completed the answer.

  Eitan continued to talk about the Israeli Security Agency, going over the rules regarding what’s allowed and what’s prohibited. He also explained what we should answer when people ask us where we work. I watched him, and besides his posture, which seemed especially strong, there was nothing unique about him. In the newspaper, you always see a body with a pixel-blurred face and the first letter of their name. These blurry-faced people don’t say much and usually only mention some slogan that they’re trained to recite, like “My reward is the satisfaction I get from defending my country,” or “I was only doing my job.” The heart fills with pride! Here stood a man with a full first and last name and even a regular face, if we put aside his prominent mandible.

  Damn, I thought to myself as the self-introduction round began. Everyone had to state their name and their background.

  “I’m Yochai Shitreet from Netivot, and I was discharged a year ago as a company commander in the Golani Brigade.”

  “Leroy Cohen, Herzliya,” said the next person. “I was discharged two years ago from the Maglan commando unit.”

  “Idan Luvaton, Tel Aviv,” said the next one. “I was a security guard in the courts for three years.” Idan looked 10 years older than the others. He had a high forehead and small wrinkles on his face. “I was a unit commander in Sayeret [reconnaissance] Givati.”

  “Ron Bitton, Ness Tziona. I was discharged two years ago from Shayetet 13, the Naval Commando Unit,” said a man with a beard. He had a big black tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve.

  “Yotam Even, from Moshav Aminadav,” said the next. “I was discharged half a year ago, as a deputy company commander in the Duvdevan special unit.”

  Everyone was looking at me. Four out of the four guys before me presented themselves as ex-commando soldiers or senior officers. I thought that perhaps I should wait a minute, before sharing my modest military background with them.

  “My name is Itay Evron. I live in Jerusalem, originally from Afula. I was discharged three years ago from the Nahal Brigade.” I tried to say this in the same confident tone that they used, but unsuccessfully.

  “Are you an officer?” Yotam Even asked me. I thought to myself, that’s none of your business, asshole.

  “No, not an officer,” I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was a combat medic.”

  It was hard to recall how long the silence after I finished speaking lasted. Was it long enough for everyone in the room to wonder what this pawn was doing there among knights?

  A foreign accent filled the room. “Arik Goldstein, also from Jerusalem. I was discharged from the army two years ago. I was a company commander in the Paratroopers.”

  At that moment I loved this big blond guy.

  “Are you American?” the bearded man from the naval commando asked him – Bitton or something. “No, I came from South Africa six years ago,” Arik replied. “From Johannesburg.”

  After the round of introductions was over, Eitan continued. He told us that the course was going to be very intense, a lot of shooting, a lot of Krav Maga. We were also going to learn the various security protocols. “There’s no such thing as being absent,” he said, cutting through the air with his hands. “Talk to me only if there are special circumstances − very special circumstances.” Eitan examined the faces of the new employees. “Even those requests will be denied.”

  My phone beeped with the sound of a message coming in. The entire class turned towards me, and my stomach tightened. I apologized quietly and took out the phone. The pressure I was under caused me to take much longer to turn it off than it usually does.

  “Sorry,” I said and smiled, placing the phone on the table. The class remained silent. Why isn’t Eitan talking? The bearded guy with the tattoo in the corner mumbled something that sounded like, “You can’t have that in here.” I looked down at the table and saw that there were no other phones; mine was the only one.

  “My dear Mr. Evron,” Eitan said, turning to me. “You came in late for class, so you didn’t hear the rules. We do not enter classrooms and offices with our cellphones on. It is a matter of information security.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled. Eitan pointed at the door and said, “Put your phone in the phone cabinet outside and sit back down.”

  The class was silent as I got up, crossed the classroom, went outside, came back in, and went back to my chair. The tense silence was disrupted only by the sound of my footsteps. No one moved or made a sound. All eyes were on me as I crossed my personal Via Dolorosa back to my seat. I couldn’t have imagined a worse start to the course.

  The message was from Donna. She probably wanted to know how my first day was going. How sweet of her. Better she doesn’t know.

  Eitan started waking people up by asking them questions like, “What do you think about that?” or “What would you do?”

  “Ummm . . . commander?” the guy with the big light-colored eyes said, raising his h
and like in elementary school.

  “You’re not in the army, Leroy. You can call me Eitan.”

  “Is it true that because of Jonod Al-Takhrir our course will be shorter?” he asked, as the others looked at each other. Eitan remained silent.

  “Because of what?” two people sitting next to me asked at the same time, sticking out their ears like hunting dogs.

  “Who did you hear about Jonod Al-Takhrir from, your brother?” Eitan asked and didn’t wait for his reply. “Hold off on the intelligence and let’s see how you fight first.”

  “What is Jonod Al-Takhrir?” Arik Goldstein asked, with his South African accent, making the Arabic words sound funny.

  “You have a lot to learn,” Eitan said as a well-planned smile spread across his face, his chin getting even wider.

  Later in the conversation I managed to put on a focused face when I recalled the moment when Donna and I clasped our waists at the corner of Azza and Ben Maimon Streets. Since I left Adva, I was no longer sure I would find what I was looking for. Every weekend Adva found some good party to hang out at. I felt so dumb near this easygoing, energetic bomb. She had the perfect body of a military sports instructor and she loved to show it off when we were on furlough from the army. She taught me everything I know about what women want in bed when we made love. She was an egocentric, demanding, nervous wreck, but on the other hand she was a great companion for those three years of mandatory military service. Ever since we broke up, I thought I’ll never meet “the one.” Then Donna arrived. Her body intrigued me, although she’s not one of those girls who expose. As I grabbed her waist at the street corner, I wondered why was she hiding her figure in that loose clothing.

  “Better get yourselves warmed up.” Eitan woke me from my daydream, and a crocodile smile spread across his face. “In the next hour, we are going to learn how to fight.”