Asylum City (2 page)

She turned her head again. The man was still following her, gazing straight at her. She realized he didn't care that she could see his face. In fact, it seemed as if he wanted her to. She started running, slowly at first and then faster. She could hear his steps quickening until he was running behind her. The sound of his footsteps hitting the sidewalk reverberated through her body.

She couldn't let herself feel scared, and more to the point, she couldn't let them see she was scared.

“What do you want?” she said, stopping suddenly and turning around. She was breathing heavily.

He stood and stared at her in silence, his eyes trained on hers. There was no one else around. A cat wailed, making her jump.

“Why are you following me?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.

He didn't move, just kept looking at her with a blank expression on his face.

“Who do you work for?” she persisted. Her breathing was still not steady. His silence was threatening.

Hearing footsteps approaching from the other end of the street, Michal swung her head around. A second man in a black leather jacket was walking toward her. He could have been a twin of the first one. She stood caught between them, not knowing which way to turn. Her heart was pounding. She had to do something—now! “What do you want from me?” she asked, not managing to keep the tremor out of her voice. She was willing to sacrifice her life for something meaningful, but not like this, not without accomplishing something first, not when she was just getting started.

The first man advanced toward her. She wanted to scream, but she was paralyzed by fear, unable to move a muscle or force any sound out. Why had she come down this street? She'd played into their hands.

He stopped no more than a yard away and she thought she saw his right arm move. He was going to hit her. She threw her arm up to shield her face, but his hand shot out, grabbed her raised arm, and twisted it behind her. A kick to her knee made her drop to the ground. The pain was agonizing. She struggled, but they didn't let up. Her face was slammed into the cold asphalt by a blow to the nape of her neck. Her nose and mouth filled with blood. One of the men flipped her over, sat on top of her, and gripped her throat with one hand, bringing his face close to hers. She got a strong whiff of inexpensive cologne that made her stomach turn. She tried kicking at him to free herself, but it was useless. She didn't want to die. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

ITAI
Fisher returned the bicycle to the docking station outside Habima Theater. “Leave it a few blocks from her apartment,” Ronny had instructed him on the phone yesterday, “so when you get there you're not sweaty and out of breath. In fact,” he explained, “it's better if you don't let on right away that you use rental bikes, that you don't have a car. If she asks how you got there, where you parked, try to change the subject or say something vague about how you don't live so far away. And remember, don't start going on about pollution, living green, saving the environment.” Itai didn't manage to get a word in before Ronny added, “At least not until you get laid.”

Ronny's advice was getting on his nerves. He wasn't a sixteen-year-old virgin about to go on his first date. He didn't need someone to tell him what to do. It wasn't cool. The stock jokes at his expense were also getting tired. But no matter how much he felt like slamming the phone down in Ronny's face, he didn't. Ronny was his best friend, maybe even his only friend. They'd grown up together in the same apartment building in Holon, gone to the same schools, served in the same army unit. He knew Ronny loved him like a brother, and he knew he meant well. Besides, like his mother always said, if something irritates you, it's probably true. It irritated him whenever she said that.

Since Miri dumped him six months ago, he hadn't had any serious relationships, just casual sex now and then with some volunteer who was more interested in emotional release than she was in him. He had no explanation for it. Maybe it was the job. He worked too hard in an occupation that was too draining, and he was physically and mentally exhausted when he got home. Yeah, it was easy to blame the job.

Itai started up the street, gradually getting his breath back. He loved riding a bike, and he loved the feel of the wind on his face as he pedaled nimbly, especially now in the winter when the air was clear and bracing. Besides, it was the only quiet time in his day when he could think in peace.

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was Saturday, but still, in just the twenty minutes it had taken him to get here, he'd gotten three messages: one was from a Sudanese man who hadn't been paid his wages, one from a man from Eritrea who'd been evicted, and one from his mother wishing him luck on his date. He knew he should be mad at Ronny for telling her, but he just laughed. The truth is, he figured his mother was in on it as soon as Ronny started saying things like “We're not getting any younger,” and “People shouldn't be alone.” It wasn't the first time he realized they talked about him behind his back. Whenever Ronny came to visit his folks, Itai's mother would come down from her apartment two floors above—“I just happened to drop in,” she'd tell him—to pump him for information about her son. Quite a few years had passed since he left home, but she still hadn't gotten over the fact that she couldn't simply walk into his room to “tidy up” and search for clues to his private affairs. When he complained to Ronny about colluding with her, his friend just grinned and said, “You know your mother's unstoppable.” Since he
did
know she was unstoppable, that she always got what she wanted in the end, he decided to take it in stride. Let them talk. As for the two Africans, he'd get back to them after the date or tomorrow morning. There was nothing he could do on a Saturday night at this hour anyway.

The one person he was hoping to hear from hadn't called. He was disappointed not to see a message from Gabriel. He'd bought watercolors and brushes for him yesterday and was curious to know whether he'd used them. Although he tried to treat all the asylum seekers the same, he felt closer to some than to others. Gabriel's shyness and modesty drew him in. And it didn't hurt that he spoke very good English. It was easier to forge a connection with someone when you didn't have to go through an interpreter to talk to them. He didn't discover Gabriel's artistic abilities until the young man began to trust him and open up to him. He was extraordinarily talented and sensitive. “I guess we know what our grandkids are going to look like one day, Dov,” his mother said under her breath to his father when he told his parents about the African's drawings at one of their family dinners.

HIS
phone rang as he was turning right into Sheinkin Street from Rothschild Boulevard. Michal. He breathed a deep sigh. He liked her, even though she was what his mother would call a “difficult lady.” Michal was the ultimate volunteer. She didn't miss a day. She was a hard worker who gave her all for the asylum seekers who came to them for help, one of what Ronny called his “suicide bomber types.” But they'd been butting heads lately. She wanted them to take a more aggressive approach, to take action against the cause of the disease and not just the symptoms. He disagreed. In his opinion, it was better to concentrate their efforts in one area and not go off in all directions. A small group like OMA couldn't fight the big battles. Their job was to help people with problems that were critical to them, no matter how small and mundane they might seem. He could barely raise enough money to keep the organization going, and now that MK Ehud Regev had started accusing agencies like OMA of being traitors to their country, it was even harder to find donors. The politician's words were beginning to have an impact. It's easy to scare people, especially when there was no obvious solution, when the reality of the situation was so complex and had so many implications. Mounting big campaigns, filing lawsuits, or appealing to the High Court of Justice would eat up all of their resources and leave them with nothing to offer the asylum seekers who needed their help so badly.

They argued about it again yesterday. Michal told him that despite his objections, she'd filed a complaint against Yariv Ninio with the Bar Association, accusing him of being a racist who was responsible for the murder of Hagos and others, and demanding his disbarment. She maintained that the Foreign Ministry had determined that deporting migrants to Ethiopia on the grounds that they were illegal aliens from Ethiopia, and not refugees from Eritrea as they claimed, put their lives at risk, and that Ninio was aware of that opinion and had not only concealed it, but had argued repeatedly in court that the deportees were in no imminent danger.

Itai was livid when he heard what she'd done. Despite his contempt for people like Ninio and everything they represented, and despite the fact that, like Michal, he'd been very fond of Hagos and was deeply affected by his death, he didn't believe OMA should go to war against the State Attorney. Especially not when Michal didn't even have any proof that the ministry's legal opinion really existed. And they definitely shouldn't make accusations of a personal nature. During the hearing on the appeal against Hagos's deportation order, he'd been very much aware of the tension between Michal and Ninio, and he didn't think it had been in Hagos's best interest.

Itai thought he'd convinced her it would be a mistake to file the complaint, and now it turned out she'd gone and done it behind his back. He was furious with himself for not keeping a closer eye on her. He should have anticipated that she'd go ahead with her plan.

ITAI
declined the call. Michal had tried to reach him last night and several times today. He was screening her calls. He didn't have the energy to fight with her again. They couldn't even agree on Gabriel, their joint project. He thought he should be allowed to go on drawing and painting freely, to express himself however he wanted, and when the time came and he was ready, they'd help him take his art to the next level. But Michal wasn't willing to wait. She was never willing to wait for anything. She wanted things to happen now. A few days ago she'd reamed him out for not using his connections at the Bezalel Academy of Art (his uncle was a professor there) to arrange a scholarship for Gabriel.

He stood still for a minute and looked around him at the busy street. The cafés were crowded. The skies had cleared, ending a string of rainy days and drawing hundreds of Tel Avivians outside. He spent most of his time in a different part of the city. It was equally crowded there, but much less pleasant. So near and yet so far.

The girl he was going to meet—Ayelet—worked in the architects' office with Ronny's wife. “She's a great girl and she's hot, so don't screw up,” Ronny had said, sending him to check her out on Facebook. He liked what he saw. Ronny had always had good taste in women. She seemed nice when he spoke to her on the phone, too.

“BESIDES
the business with the bike, do you have any other advice for me?” he asked Ronny after taking a deep breath and counting to ten.

It turned out his friend had a whole litany of advice, including a list of subjects he shouldn't bring up: foreign workers, migrants, social protest, cartels, crooked politicians, affordable housing. “I swear I don't get you,” Ronny went on. “So many women ripe for the picking. If I were in your shoes . . . I've got to say you're an embarrassment to men everywhere. Instead of going out and having fun, you spend all your time dealing with the problems of people whose lives are so deep in shit there's nothing you can do for them. What about it, Itai? Can you have a conversation without mentioning the women who are raped in Sinai? Think of it as a favor to me.”

“How about the weather? Is that okay?” He had to give a little after such a histrionic speech.

“Well, I don't trust you to talk about anything else, so the weather sounds like an excellent way to go,” Ronny shot back.

“So I can tell her how cold it is in Levinsky Park, how the asylum seekers stand around all day in the rain, shivering and hungry, and no one gives a damn?”

“No worries. You keep joking about it and I can promise you one thing: you're not getting laid.”

“Okay, fine. I've got it. I can only talk about how the weather affects people in north Tel Aviv.”

“And take her someplace normal, a café or a pub,” Ronny went on, ignoring his last remark. “Not to a demonstration or some restaurant run by refugees. Can you do that?”

“Café. Cappuccino. White sugar, not brown. I ought to write this down,” he said, smiling.

“Asshole.” Itai could imagine the smile on Ronny's face at the other end of the line, too. “And if, heaven forbid, she orders chicken breast, don't make a face. Just take a deep breath and think about the breasts on her, okay, bro?”

HE
walked to the end of the block and turned left into Melchett Street. Again his phone started ringing. Michal again. He resisted the urge to pick up. It's just her way to trigger my sense of guilt, he reminded himself, to make me feel I'm not doing enough. He knew that tomorrow she'd find some reason to read him the riot act in any case.

Ronny was right. He deserved a night off every now and then. If he picked up, they'd just argue and it would ruin his mood.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the woman approaching.

“Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Ayelet.” Her skin was warm and smooth. He felt his body respond to the scent of her delicate perfume and her tight black dress.

“Hi. I'm Itai,” he answered. “I heard there's a great pub around the corner.”

Yes, tonight he was going to take a little time off from himself. The phone in his pocket was still ringing. He ignored it.

THE
winter sunlight streaming in through the window was making Yariv Ninio's eyes sting. He reached out automatically to the other side of the bed. It was empty. His bladder was full. He started to get up, but a stabbing pain in his head forced him back down.