The Marsh Angel, Hagai Dagan [free e reader .TXT] 📗

his head brought to mind complex thoughts. He didn’t understand those thoughts. Maybe they weren’t his thoughts at all, he mused. Black vultures circled overhead in the frosted skies. Starless nights overwhelmed desolate cities. Refugees moved through barren roads, silent, detached. In the distance, beyond speculative hills, lay the ruins of ancient cities. Tadmor? Palmyra? Atil? Lachish? A naked woman, pale as a night heron, stood on a rock, her black hair motionless in the night sky. The refugees cast their eyes to her as devotees in a gaping, borderless temple. The night shook. The woman spread her arms to her sides. The crowd expected her to turn into a bird, to soar, but instead she dropped and fell silently from the cliff.

Tamir entered the municipality building compound, went up a flight of stairs covered in regal crimson carpets, leaned on cool marble pillars decorated with Doric and Ionic embellishments, passed through vacant halls and crossed broad porticos, spacious and silent, as if waiting in expectation. He tried to gather his thoughts. Sometimes, taking walks helped him clear his mind: his thoughts would scatter, wash away like waves being pulled back into the ocean, and then rearrange, as if of their own volition. But this time, it didn’t work. He left the municipality building, went up Josefstädterstrasse, and stopped in front of a shop selling assorted wallets. He looked at a wallet with an interweaving floral pattern, and suddenly thought Afik might like it. He went into the shop, but his phone vibrated. Yaki wrote: 45 Mariahilferstrasse, 20 minutes from now. Take a taxi. Tamir sighed. He left the store and hailed a cab. The driver explained that he couldn’t drive all the way across Mariahilferstrasse. He took him as far as he could, and Tamir swiftly walked the rest of the way. Flakes of frost were suspended in the air. He shivered, feeling more invigorated and alive than he had for years. He didn’t dwell on the thought.

Yaki waited for him there, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. He stomped out the butt and signaled to Tamir to follow him. They entered a narrow cobblestone passage, between houses with viridian colored window frames. On both sides of the narrow passage were small boutiques, bars, and cafés. Yaki strode purposefully, occasionally glancing to his sides. It was clear he wasn’t interested in taking in the quaint view, even though the passage was what tour-guides would call ‘enchanting’. Yaki stopped in a courtyard enclosed by stone arches. On both sides were large green wooden doors. Beer tables stood in the court, orphaned, as if awaiting warmer days. Yaki wiped the condensation off one of the chairs and sat down. He signaled to Tamir to do the same.

We’ll freeze to death here, Tamir protested.

Don’t get spoiled on me now.

What are we even doing here?

Talking to Musa.

Here?!

Yes, it’s safe here. Yaki glanced quickly to his sides. Only then did Tamir notice the girl who said he could call her Marina. She leaned on a wall on the far end of the courtyard, wearing a long light-colored jacket which blended seamlessly with her surroundings. A white woolen hat was pulled down over her eyes. She smoked a cigarette. Her eyes were concealed behind the dark lenses of a pair of frameless glasses.

Say, Yaki, what’s the deal here? Why is the operation run like this?

Like how?

You’re an organized and official intelligence body, aren’t you? So, why aren’t we meeting at the embassy? Why aren’t we working from the embassy? Why are we sitting here now, as if this were some crappy spy film?

Yaki glanced sideways at him. Maybe this is a crappy spy film.

It’s all very odd, Tamir said. I mean, why is it so hard to get clearance to bug her apartment?

You’d be better off asking Musa these questions, though I wouldn’t recommend it. He won’t like it.

That’s why I’m asking you.

And I’m referring you to Musa, Yaki smiled. He took out his smartphone and started fiddling with it. Tamir shivered from the cold, expecting to see Musa’s face pop up on the screen through some encoded video-call app, but nothing happened. A couple of minutes later, an ungainly figure emerged from the other side of the passage and sat in front of them. Musa’s doughy face appeared from behind a thick gray scarf. His bald head was covered by a black woolen hat which made him look a bit ridiculous.

We’ve given your theory some thought, he said.

Uh…

First of all, it’s good you came up with it. Perhaps we need to recruit some literary scholars to the organization.

Tamir conjured something approximating a smile. He could barely move his lips from the cold.

We think the Sumerian cities might be cities in Iran. We checked the poems according to their dates of publication and cross-referenced them with what we know of our activities in Iran. It appears that Ur is Tehran, Uruk is Qom, and so forth.

And Lagash? Tamir asked, forgetting about the cold for a moment.

Natanz.

Is anything planned for Natanz soon?

Musa hesitated for a moment. Yes, he finally said.

Cyber?

Musa nodded.

Sorcery and deception, Tamir mumbled. That’s not even an encryption, that’s simply poeticism. Someone simply assumed that no one was reading poetry, or maybe that no one even knows how to read poetry. It’s simply a case of two people talking in poems… he fell silent. Musa stared at him. Something intruded into Tamir’s thoughts, a distant memory. Reeds, bitter olives, greasy confectionary, sweet, strong, dark tea, Dallal’s eyes, Sa’ira’s voice; the taste of bitter olives intensified in his mouth, filled his insides, biting, strange; Sa’ira’s voice faded, receded, made way for Dallal’s voice. We have a special language, she said, a language of poems.

Dear god, he turned to Musa.

What?

Her sister, Sa’ira…

Her name is Sarah now. Sarah Ben Amram. Wife of Rabbi Ben Amram.

He became a rabbi?

Yes, he’s done quite well for himself…

And… are you still keeping tabs?

Not really. She hasn’t given us any reason for concern since. Why? Do you think…

I think she’s the