An Unexpected Afterlife_A Novel Read online

  The doctor walked to the foot of the bed, picked up a clipboard, and scribbled with a pen. “Your medical aid?”

  “Don’t have any. I’ll pay direct.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows lifted. “That will be very expensive.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Would you like me to contact anyone? Relatives? Friends?”

  “No.” Then he added, “Maybe later,” to allay suspicion.

  The doctor put down the clipboard. “I’ll stop by later,” he said. “Mr. Eli Katz.”

  When his footfalls faded, Eli closed his eyes. “God, please. Heal me, please.” He flexed the muscle in the center of his brain. He pictured the bones mending, torn flesh and sinew regenerating throughout his battered body.

  He held his breath. Sit up! He willed his limbs to move, his neck to lift from the pillow. The suspended leg trembled. That’s it!

  Pain burst in his skull and tore along his spine like a bolt of lightning. His head slumped back on the pillow. He breathed in short, fast spurts. The beep of the heart monitor accelerated. The room began to spin and fade to white. Sweat trickled down his brow and stung his eye. He blinked back the pain.

  This can’t be happening!

  Tak-tak-tak.

  The sound of tapping on glass came from the end of the room. He turned his head. A large black bird hopped on the windowsill. The bird tossed its head from side to side and studied him with bulging black eyes. A strip of torn meat dangled from the sharp beak.

  A crow. A cruel bird. And an old friend. The Boss had a flair for poetic justice.

  The bird gulped down the morsel. Caw! Caw!

  Eli groaned. “OK,” he said aloud. “I get the message. Now, please, get me out of here.”

  The bird shook its head, and, with a final, loud caw, flew off.

  CHAPTER 20

  A bell jingled as Moshe and Irina left the throng of pedestrians on Jaffa Street and followed Savta Sarah into the shop.

  The old lady made a beeline for the till. She had dressed in a beige blouse and skirt for the occasion and donned a matching round hat with faux flowers.

  Moshe fell back. He folded his arms over his chest. “This will be embarrassing,” he whispered.

  Irina scanned the display shelves of men’s shoes. “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Savta Sarah adjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder and placed a hand on the counter, which came to her chin. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said with the well-oiled voice of an attendant to the Queen of England. “My grandson-in-law requires a pair of your finest shoes.”

  The man behind the counter looked as though he had just rolled out of bed. He pulled at his crumpled T-shirt and straightened his toupee. He peered at the little old lady, and a cunning smile cracked his pockmarked face, the smile of a Tyrannosaurus rex scenting a wounded herbivore. “Today is my lucky day,” the smile seemed to say. Unbeknownst to him, a grandmother-sized asteroid hurtled toward the planet at dinosaur-extinction speed.

  With a generous sweep of a hairy arm, he indicated the display shelves and haphazard piles of shoeboxes. “Madam, we have the widest selection of the best quality footwear in the country. What type of shoe does your grandson desire?” He had adopted the old lady’s genteel speech in a display of showmanship that jarred with his shabby outer appearance. The street show had begun.

  All eyes turned to Moshe and so he pointed to a pair of brown loafers.

  “An excellent choice,” he said, in his Savile Row voice, and he hurried to the storage room behind the counter.

  Moshe sat down on the low padded shoe bench and liberated his sore feet from the worn sneakers.

  Two weeks. Avi had always had an eye for Galit—who didn’t?—but he had been his best friend. Friends didn’t deceive friends. They didn’t steal their wives. The treachery made Moshe’s blood boil.

  “You’re in luck,” said the shoe salesman. He carried a shoebox in two hands as though presenting the Crown Jewels. He pulled the new shoes from their wrapping of crinkly paper and applied them to his customer’s limp feet, giving Moshe an unparalleled view of the misaligned toupee.

  Galit’s refusal to speak to him now made perfect sense. Avi had deceived Moshe with his one-month waiting period, and he had probably deceived her as well. Moshe had been a bad dream, a ghost, a hallucination, or—better yet—an undead zombie from a cheap horror flick. It was a wonder she hadn’t fled the continent.

  Moshe felt a tap on his shoulder. “If Sir will stand up and take a few steps?” The salesman’s glance said: be a good boy and please the old lady.

  Moshe clambered to his feet. He paced the shop under Savta’s eagle eye. “They fit well,” he said.

  The salesman beamed. “First time! Madam, you came to the right establishment. Shall I dispose of the old shoes?” He lifted the grimy sneakers by the laces like a dead rat.

  Moshe nodded. He slumped back on the bench. A pair of new shoes would not shatter Avi’s lies, nor would they grant him an audience with Galit.

  Irina sat down beside him. “Are you OK?”

  His shoulders rose and fell with despair. “Avi loved to tell me about his nightclubs and one-night stands. ‘You married too soon. You’re missing out.’ Now he’s stolen my wife. I thought he was my friend. The lowlife.”

  Irina nodded. “There’s something I don’t understand,” she said. “How did someone like Avi become your best friend?”

  Moshe took that as a compliment. “That’s simple,” he said. “Years ago, he saved my life.”

  Savta Sarah plopped her handbag on the counter and fished out her wallet.

  Moshe said, “Here it comes.”

  The salesman pecked at the cash register. “That will be six hundred shekels,” he said. “Credit card or cash?”

  Savta Sarah threw a single bank note onto the counter. “Fifty shekels!” she declared.

  The man’s mouth fell open. “Lady,” he said, the polish slipping from his voice. “These are imported shoes. Real leather. And this is the start of the season. You know what? You’re a fine, respectable woman. I’ll give them to you for five hundred.”

  Savta folded her arms over her bosom and lifted her nose in the air. “Fifty!”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” The polish evaporated. “Four hundred,” he said. “You won’t get that price anywhere. Believe me.”

  “Fifty!”

  “Lady, this isn’t the Machaneh Yehuda market.” The man looked to Moshe for help. Moshe shrugged. “Three hundred. Final offer. That’s the rock-bottom discount we offer at the end of the season but I’ll give it to you now.”

  Savta Sarah slapped the counter. “Fifty shekels!”

  The man turned purple. Veins pulsated at his temple. “Where are you from, lady?” he yelled. “The jungle?”

  “Yes!” she cried. “The jungle!”

  His mouth opened and closed like a fish. Moshe knew what he was thinking: women liked to talk, especially about bad shopping experiences, and this nice old lady probably knew many, many potential customers. “Great God! Two hundred and fifty.”

  Savta Sarah mulled over the offer. She threw another note on the table. “Seventy shekels.”

  “Are you trying to starve me? I won’t make a profit. Fine! Two hundred shekels. Just get out of my store.”

  “Seventy!”

  The man pulled at his hair and the toupee came away in his hand. He didn’t seem to notice.

  Moshe hid his face in his hands. He couldn’t bear to watch. Poor guy. And poor Savta Sarah. She had learned to survive on a prayer and sheer force of will. Old habits die hard. He could learn from her tenacity; maybe then he’d win back Galit.

  Two hours and four stores later, they sat at a bus stop. Moshe wore his new shoes, beige trousers, and a designer collared shirt. Irina looked beautiful in her new summer dress and fashionable pumps. Savta Sarah had parted with five hundred shekels in total. The storeowners had probably taken the rest of the day off.r />
  “Thank you, Savta,” Moshe said. Irina thanked her too. Savta Sarah had refused to take his hundred shekels.

  “I could have got him down further,” she said, wistfully, of the last salesman. “But I felt sorry for him.”

  The sun crept toward the horizon. In a few hours, working men and women would crowd the streets on their way home. Moshe had woken up that morning hoping to build a bridge to his estranged wife. By lunchtime, he had lost a best friend, but gained two weeks in which to win back his wife. The stakes had soared while the odds of success plummeted.

  Once, when he had forgotten their anniversary, Galit had thrown kitchen plates at his head. He longed for her to hurl plates at him now. He could work with an angry Galit, a Galit who still cared, but not with this brick wall. A new set of clothes would not make a dent.

  Savta said, “At least now you’ll be dressed properly when you see Galit.”

  “But Savta, she won’t speak to me. She wouldn’t even come to the door. And if Avi answers—”

  Savta Sarah patted his arm. “Don’t worry, Moshe,” she said. “Tomorrow is Friday and I happen to know exactly where she’ll be and when. I can promise you this: you will speak to her and Avi won’t be able to stop you.”

  “You’re the greatest!” He lifted her hat and planted a kiss on her forehead. A private meeting with Galit—an open miracle!

  “And this time,” she added, and her red lipsticked lips curled into a devilish grin, “she will not get away.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Hey. It’s me.”

  “I told you never to call me on this number.”

  “We need to speak. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m ending the call.”

  “I saw the girl. Hello? You there?”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “It’s her, all right. She says she lost her memory. Doesn’t remember a thing. Not even her name. She goes by Irina. She showed up with a man, a Moshe Karlin. And get this: his ID says he’s supposed to be dead. Hello? Hello?”

  “It’s not her. Forget about them.”

  “But if she talks, we’re screwed. I thought you said you’d taken care of her. What if—”

  “Calm down. Stop worrying and keep your mouth shut. It’s not her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Trust me. I know.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Friday morning, Moshe walked down Emek Refaim, his heart galloping in his chest. The huge bouquet of roses on his arm won smiles from the women who bustled along the sidewalk with fresh challah loaves and other Shabbat groceries.

  Thorns pricked his palms through the cellophane and made him loosen his grip on the flower stems. The roses had gobbled what remained of his cash and although Moshe was not a gambling man, today he had gone all in.

  He paused outside a storefront of tall glass windows. Two large words hung above the store: Zohar Raphael. Moshe had heard the name but he had never met the legend. He peered at the long row of women seated inside. The whir of a blow dryer resonated on the street. No sign of Galit. Had Savta Sarah miscalculated?

  Moshe rehearsed his two-pronged plan, patted his hair in the reflection, drew a deep breath, and pushed the glass door inward.

  The pungent smells of dye and singed hair assaulted his nostrils, the thunder of the blow dryer his ears. A line of women faced the wall mirrors, their heads buried in round plastic orbs, their hair wrapped in foil, like abducted humans in an alien laboratory. A longer line of women sat reading Cosmopolitan and Oprah magazines on the chairs and couches along the opposite wall. Between the rows of women, a skeletal girl with rings under her eyes swept severed hairs around the floor with a broom.

  The blow dryer fell silent.

  “Ooh,” crooned the man who held the blower. “Some lucky girl is in for a big surprise.” Zohar seemed to slouch even while standing. A strip of skin peeked from between the low waistline of his tight jeans and the hem of the faded T-shirt.

  He looked Moshe up and down and smirked. “Can I help you, honey?”

  No one had ever sized up Moshe that way—or called him “honey” for that matter—and he was not enjoying the experience. The woman in the seat before Zohar stared at her reflection like a well-trained poodle with long blond curls. She didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

  Moshe scanned the rows of women. “I’m looking for…”

  Before he could complete the sentence, a slender form strolled toward him down the aisle of the salon. A towel wrapped her hair like a pink turban. Her shapely hips gyrated to a familiar rhythm, but when she caught sight of Moshe, she froze. Her eyes narrowed and flitted to the exit, as though she wanted to sprint past him and escape. After a moment’s hesitation, her mouth tightened. She plopped onto one of the padded hairdressing chairs and trained her eyes on the mirror.

  Savta Sarah, you are a genius! Galit was not prepared to lose her appointment, even if it meant facing Moshe’s ghost.

  Moshe made for her chair and stared at her in the mirror. As beautiful as ever, turban and all. Words lodged in his throat. Her reflection stared at her feet.

  “Looks like our Galit has an admirer,” said Zohar. “Shiri, get a vase for those heavenly flowers.”

  The skeletal assistant dropped the broom and took the roses from Moshe. He had hoped for a moment of privacy but that was not going to happen. Remember the plan. Right!

  He said, “You’re late.” With those two words, the first he had ever spoken to her, he hoped to conjure their fondest shared memories.

  “Oh, no,” said a meek voice behind him, an old lady in the waiting line. “She was here before I got here, oh, two hours ago.”

  “Two hours?” Moshe could not hide his disbelief. He had never waited more than ten minutes for a haircut.

  The blond poodle spoke up. “I waited three.” She nodded with pride. “Last week I waited four hours.” A murmur of commiseration ran along the line of waiting women.

  Zohar raked her hair with his fingers. “That’s the price of art, honey,” he said.

  Of all the women in the salon, only Galit seemed not to have heard him. This was not going the way he had planned. “Galit,” he said. “It’s me, Moshe.”

  “Well, well, well,” Zohar said. “If it isn’t Mr. Karlin, back from the grave.” He rolled his eyes.

  Moshe didn’t know what surprised him more: Zohar’s knowledge of his return or the sarcasm in his voice. He ignored both.

  “Hangar 17?” he said. “The night we first met?”

  Had she made the connection?

  Zohar snorted. “Might as well give up now. You won’t get a word out of her.”

  Moshe gave him a warning look that said, “Stay out of this.”

  Zohar didn’t take the hint. “And I don’t blame her,” he added. He shot an imaginary bullet at Moshe with the blow dryer, and blew smoke from the barrel.

  What was he on about? Stay focused.

  “Galit,” he said, desperation crawling into his voice. “We’ve been through so much together. Aren’t you glad to see me again?”

  Her head stayed down; her mouth tightened further.

  Zohar snorted again. “Typical,” he said. “Men think they can run off and have fun, and when they come home everything will be just fine.”

  Moshe could ignore him no longer. “What are you talking about?”

  Zohar hooted. “I know all about you, Moshe Karlin. I know your type. The girls keep no secrets from me, right, girls?” The rows of women sang a chorus of agreement.

  Zohar removed the plastic gown from the blond with a flourish. “See you next week, dear. Regards to that no-good husband of yours. And do me a favor—throw out that blouse. You look a hundred years older in that shmata. Excuse me.” He bumped Moshe aside with his hips, pulled the towel from Galit’s head, and placed his hands on her damp hair like a mind reader.

  “Look at those ends! You need a cut, darling. And hig
hlights. Shiri, get the color ready.”

  Galit seethed on her seat. She had eyes only for the hairdresser. Moshe could use that to his advantage.

  “What did she tell you?”

  Zohar combed a length of her hair and chopped at the ends with a pair of scissors.

  “You’re like poor Etti’s husband.” He tutted. “Business trips to America for weeks at a time. Years on end. As it turns out, he was very busy indeed. Married another girl. Had children with her too! Etti was devastated when she found out.”

  Moshe could not believe his ears. “But that’s not me! I didn’t run off. I died!”

  Zohar rolled his eyes again. “Oh, please! Have you no shame? To fake your own death—funeral and all!”

  “What? No! I didn’t fake anything. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Less ridiculous than rising from the dead? Did you honestly expect her to believe that?” Zohar threw up his hands and tossed the implements onto the wheeled trolley of rollers and hairpins. “This is too much for me! I need a smoke.” He sashayed out the door.

  Moshe looked around at the flock of cowed women. “He hasn’t finished her hair.” On the sidewalk, Zohar lit a cigarette and stared at the sky.

  “Oh, he does that all the time,” said the meek old lady in waiting. “He can go off like that for a half hour.”

  “He’s an artist,” said another. Heads nodded in awe.

  Moshe sighed. Some things he would never understand.

  Galit sat in the chair, her hands clenching the armrests. A trapped animal.

  “I didn’t leave you, Galit. I died. I know this is hard to believe—I don’t understand it either—but I’ve been given a second chance. We’ve been given a second chance.” He had to prove it to her. “I have to show you something,” he said. He lifted his shirt. Behind him, voices gasped. “See. No belly button. This is a new body.”

  Her eyes flitted to his stomach. Her mouth twitched. Her barriers were crumbling.

  The door whooshed open. “You still here?” said Zohar, trailing a cloud of smoke.