That weekend Alex was home on leave again. The Police task force had spread out on both sides of the neighborhood. Police representatives, National Security Agency representatives, even one from the Prime Minister’s office, had spoken with us. The old lady sat hunched over near her balcony door, then got up to prepare Shabbat dinner in the kitchen. A dark Mazda was parked on the street with its engine running, waiting for Alex. After they had dinner on the balcony, he went out. I stayed up waiting for more than half of the night and when the Mazda brought him back, stumbling and singing in Russian, I closed the door behind me and got into bed with Iris.
It was late in the afternoon when he came out on the balcony, barefoot, wearing light jeans and without his cigarettes. He sat there wordlessly, his head in his hands.
We drove out of the neighborhood. “Thanks for helping me with this, man,” Alex said. We passed the empty guard post that was manned lately with police officers enforcing a checkpoint. Alex took out his cigarettes and lit one for us both.
“Hang on,” I said, “let’s get out of here first.”
He held the two burning cigarettes. “Where do we search now?” he asked once we were on the highway. “Let’s get out of here first,” I repeated.
I was trying to think what would happen if everyone had a home security service, the kind that they recommend you get, and then all of the homes were broken into at the exact same time; what would happen then; how many houses would ten hired security guards, in five patrol cars, manage to save; and what if everyone’s children went out after dark at the same time? I slapped myself on the back of my neck. Alex turned on the radio. I turned it off.
“Thanks for helping me with this, man,” he said again. “I don’t know how I forgot the rifle. I always feel it. I have a hole in my back because of it.” He pressed on a point under his back ribs and furrowed his brows. “It’s jail, for sure.”
We passed a sign that read Hummus, Falafel, Tahini, Pickles sold by Wait and had red arrows pointing the way. “How many bullets does your rifle hold?” I asked.
“And you shot one of your own?”
We drove and drove until we passed Ra’anana Junction, the entrance to Givatayim and its exit, and then Alex said, “Stop there.” I pulled up into a gas station. The blue neon lights were blinding. Alex said, “Be back in a sec,” he asked for four hundred Shekels, got out of the car and walked into the convenience store. My heart began to pound. I turned off the air conditioning. Alex disappeared from sight. I thought about the children. Two images were going through my mind: the wind blowing over the sand, and a boy and a girl running into the sea. How come you always run into the sea and never just walk? I pictured Ben, blindfolded in a basement, the smell of urine and iron all around him. I couldn’t imagine Beth. I couldn’t get a view of Alex from the car.
I nearly honked in order to break the silence, as Alex appeared holding a heavy plastic bag that the blue neon lights turned to yellow. He got in the car and pulled two cold, metallic-blue cans out of the bag. “Is that what they’re drinking at places nowadays?” I asked. Alex smiled and coughed. I saw that he was missing a tooth deep in his mouth.
He poured two shots of vodka into plastic cups. “It helps with the taste.” I drank just as he did. I shifted in my seat and had to pass gas. My body was heavy from the past few days and I laughed coarsely, loudly, how it all hurts, and Alex laughed too. We drank whatever was left. In the distance, rather close by, we could see the hypnotic lights of the city arranged in geometrical shapes, precise, well-formed, like something unbelievable, something that doesn’t even exist. I asked whether I should keep driving. Alex hummed a Russian melody, not anything familiar, not something the first settlers sang, but some disgusting, heavy, loud crap that young people dance to. He threw the empty cans on the car mat. We drove through the city’s narrow streets. Drops of moisture thickened over the window panes. Where do your friends live? I asked. Alex hummed and tapped his fingers on the window and dashboard. Just tell me already, I said, Where’s the weapon, and he laughed again. He had that bitter smell of alcohol again. I kept driving and yelled, Where’s your damn weapon? The steering wheel shook in my hands. He said, it’s on Mandevoshkes or something street, and burst out laughing. Then he gave me vague directions by memory. We progressed slowly. We reached Mandevoshkes Mocher Sforim Street and stopped before a neglected building. Alex put his hand on my shoulder, then looked at me, narrowing his eyes. He drew closer and said, “You’re under a lot of pressure now,” and burst out laughing.
