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

What? Tamir was caught off guard, realizing a second too late that he uttered the word ‘what’ in Hebrew.

I knew it, the waiter smiled, I have a knack for spotting Israelis.

Oh, yeah, hi, Tamir mumbled, a bit embarrassed. He didn’t like meeting Israelis abroad. But there was something unusual about this waiter. His accent seemed a bit off, but Tamir couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Where do you hail from? he asked.

What?

Where are you from in Israel?

Acre, the waiter said.

Interesting, Tamir said, we’re practically neighbors. Where in Acre?

Actually, nearby Acre, the waiter said. I left when I was young. I met an Austrian tourist when I was working in Tmarim Beach. Things just rolled from there.

Tamir looked at him in silence. He could think of a few options. I used to know the area a bit, he said.

Oh, no one knows this place, the waiter said.

Try me.

It’s a little south of the city. A settlement… An illegal settlement. It’s not there anymore.

Tamir’s heart started racing. He glanced up and locked eye with the dark-eyed waiter. His mouth opened and closed. Finally, he managed to say the words: anta min Arab al- Ghawarneh?24

The waiter’s lips quivered slightly. I-I didn’t think anyone knew… he said in Arabic. How do you know Arabic?

I visited there as a child, Tamir said, ignoring the question. There were two girls there… he examined the waiter. They’re probably slightly older than you.

What are their names?

Dallal and Sa’ira.

Twins?

Yes, could be.

I remember them. The Zaidani family. The parents… died. They were about seven or eight years older than me. I don’t know whatever happened to them after the settlement was demolished. My family moved to Makr.

I see.

They were very pretty. Especially Sa’ira.

No, especially Dallal, Tamir said, as the image of the sweet, black lakes of forgetfulness came flooding back to him. They taught us a song, he said, and his lips starting moving, as if of their own will: the hoopoe forgets, the heron takes flight, the kingfisher submerges, the pelican sleeps tight, the ibis hides in the thicket, the pigeon sits for all to see… his voice faded. He fell silent.

Only the stint remembers, but the stint flies out to sea, replied the Austrian waiter from the shanty settlement of the Arab al-Ghawarneh that had once lain on the mouth of the Na‘aman.

Herr Ober! Someone called over. I’ll get you your coffee and cake, he said, as if pulled back to the surface from the deep; he detached from Tamir and sailed away like a somnambulant ship back to the bustling expanse of the café.

p. Austria Vienna

On the way from Café Sperl, as he walked swiftly down Stiftgasse towards the 8th district, Tamir’s phone vibrated. Keep going, Yaki wrote, reach the bar you sat in.

Tamir turned let on Burggasse, right on Neubaugasse, and proceeded until he reached Strozzigasse. Yaki was waiting for him inside the Torberg, at the corner of the bar, sipping a beer. He had a morose expression on his face. The plot thickens, he said.

Tamir ordered his favored Hendricks Gin, with tonic and a fresh cucumber. Behind the bar stood a man and a woman, preparing drinks and chatting with three people who gave the impression of being regulars. They were discussing the differences between Irish whiskey and Scotch whiskey. Yaki nodded to them, and said he already know those guys. They always sit in the same place, always yakking about the same things. It’s almost always about alcohol, or the how Austria Vienna are doing.

Austria Vienna?

Their soccer team. Do you even live on this planet?

Are they any good?

Not really. Probably a bit better than Israeli teams.

Fascinating.

Anyway, it’s good they’re talking so loudly. That leave us to talk privately.

Where’s Musa?

On his way back to Israel. He said he’s got a matter to take care of.

So, it’s us alone again?

He’s sending the bull-terrier in his stead. The conversation on the bar indeed shifted to soccer and Austria Vienna.

You know, said Yaki, once a week they show soccer at the Hummel, in the back room. The one that’s always empty. That night, it’s always packed. It’s almost exclusively men, drinking beer. They’re fascinating to observe. They react with… restraint. Even the broadcasters in the studio. It’s all kind of second-gear. And they’re all a bit sad. Even when their team wins.

Wow, Yaki, you’re really showing me the hidden side of Vienna.

You know what’s fun about watching Austrian soccer?

No.

That you don’t give a shit.

q. The Banks of the Na‘aman

The following day, Oz arrived. Yaki instructed Tamir to come to the small square in front of the Franz Ferdinand Guesthouse.

Be there in fifteen minutes, he said.

Giving out orders suits you, Tamir replied. You’re a natural.

I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment.

You shouldn’t.

The place was nice, chilly and desolate, except for two schoolboys who sat in a distant corner. On one side of the square were modern-looking structures, and on the other were typical elegant 8th district houses. The trees above them billowed in the light breeze, barren and branched. Oz wore a dark brown coat made of some synthetic material. He didn’t have a yarmulke on. A waiter approached them and told them that they didn’t serve tables outside during winter. Yaki answered that it’s fine, maybe they’ll come inside soon. The waiter looked at them unimpressed, and scampered back inside. Oz asked for an orderly report. Yaki described recent events. Oz asked some questions regarding the surveillance arrangements. Yaki answered. Oz asked Tamir if he had any other insights. That’s what we brought you here for, isn’t it? he glanced sideways at Yaki. Because certain individuals thought you might have insights.

He’s the one who figured out the poems, Yaki said.

Oz frowned and didn’t reply.

A cold wind blew through the square. Tamir tightened his scarf around his neck. He felt like having a large cup of melange and a big desert. Perhaps a kaiserschmarrn.

Yaki suddenly sat up in alert and listened to his earpiece in silence. She’s on the move, he said. She’s