The Tel Aviv Dossier Page 3

“I don’t know,” Dubi says, and there’s that gleam in his eyes, the one like Cameron had when he accepted the Oscar for Titanic, “but this film just turned into a documentary. You’re still rolling, Rami?”

  “Yeah,” Rami says. “Keep quiet.”

  Everything is shaking, everything is turning loose, and I hear wind building up outside. We’re in a basement, but I still hear it. Then, suddenly there’s no ceiling. The walls are floating, the chairs, the table, the lamps, the camera, we are hovering, and the floor below us rotates slowly. And then I get it.

  “It’s a tornado!” I shout. “We’re flying into a tornado!”

  “In Tel Aviv?” Dubi shouts back. “Impossible!”

  And as the ground below us rolls, faster and faster, and we take off into the sky, and suddenly I think — it’s just like the flying farmhouse in The Wizard of Oz; and I can’t help wondering where we might land, and whether it’ll be in black-and-white or colour.

  THE FIREMAN’S GOSPEL, PART II (ELI — APOCRYPHAL?)

  So there I was, driving the Hawk down Ibn Gvirol street, a semiconscious fireman in the passenger seat and a rather too conscious one somewhere in the back, where I couldn’t see him because the right-wing mirror had just been broken by a flying bicycle, rider included. There was a terrific wind, and action all around us, just the way I always imagined it should be. Just the way I wanted it to be. Even better. In some places it looked as if gravity was somehow reversed, cars and trees and people floating up, slowly at first, then accelerating, finally vanishing in some kind of turbulence overshadowing the street. Far in the south, a huge black vertical cloud was visible, and I saw parts of buildings swinging around over that area of the city, as if caught by an invisible carousel. Similar clouds were visible in the east and west, though only just. Around us, people were flying.

  “What happened?” Kuti said, waking. “Where are we going?” I didn’t answer. I was smiling like crazy.

  “Eli, come on. And where’s Avi?”

  “He’s in the back,” I said. I didn’t bother even to try to check.

  Either he was still there, or he wasn’t.

  “In the . . . oh my God, what the hell is that?” Kuti shouted, and I looked to the right and saw something beautiful: a yacht, huge, flying low and upside down, the stub of its mast digging into the street, rushing straight at us. There were people caught in the remains of its rigging.

  I said “Wow!” and then it hit us, full force, smashing against the right side of the hawk, making us swerve wildly. After the big crash I felt two minor ones, probably the trailing people. Then I saw the main ladder, which should have been strongly tied to the body of the truck, flying above us right into the side of a building.

  Kuti shouted something, but I didn’t listen. Somehow we managed not to overturn, and instead did a full circle around our rear-end, sweeping cars over the sidewalks on both sides of the street. The noise was fantastic. Kuti shouted again. I smiled and pressed on the gas pedal.

  That was the point at which I understood that everything was different now, that the old rules were gone. That I could actually be myself, and not have to pretend to care.

  “What are you doing?” Kuti shouted. “Where are we going? Where’s Avi?”

  “We’re having the time of our lives,” I said. “We’re going to have some more of it. And Avi is, in all probability, squashed by the Flying Dutchman back there.”

  “Oh my God! Was he in the rear position? Oh my God! Oh my . . .”

  “Everybody dies,” I said. It’s my favourite R.E.M. misquote, but it doesn’t work too good in Hebrew. In Hebrew it sounds just like “Everybody is dead” — which suits me fine, but nobody else, it seems — and the original meaning is lost. Kuti stared at me, shocked by this even more than by everything else. I always thought he was a bit strange.

  The Hawk, despite all its weight, including three tonnes of water and I forget how many tonnes of motor and ladders and equipment, not to mention a considerable amount of naval craft remains, moved very fast and very lightly on its wheels. I drove it at full speed through a red traffic light, which looked as if it was struggling to stay connected to the ground. By then we were already near the municipality building, where Prime Minister Rabin had been murdered. The little memorial corner was still there, but numerous parts of the municipality building were gone, as if blown away by an invisible daikaiju not too keen on paying property tax. The road got a little bumpy — some water pipes broke and started spraying water all around it — but the street was clear of cars by now, as most of them were hovering at various heights above it. The roofs of the buildings were being ripped off and tossed here and there. We passed by one of the local McDonald’s, which was in ruins, making me particularly happy. Some things should never be called hamburgers. All around and above us windows were breaking, and all sorts of things were being pulled out of them: furniture and animals and people. Everything was flying up. People were flying up. People, like superheroes, free in the air.

  For a moment I thought I might enjoy flying myself. Then I saw what happened to those who got too high.

  Eventually, all of them got too high.

  There was red rain.

  It was great to see.

  If you looked high enough, there were more reasons to think of hamburgers.

  “Kuti,” I said, “how about if we stop and grab something to eat?”

  But Kuti passed out again.

  *

  After we passed the point in which Ibn Gvirol becomes Yehuda Halevi street, things went a little slower. The street was narrower, and some cars, instead of flying right up, drifted to the sides of the road and got stuck on walls and in windows, like giant beetles poisoned and put in a collection made of concrete. Pieces fell off them back to the street: mostly doors, but also tires and trunk covers and several whole engines. I drove over all that, but it was getting difficult.

  There was no rain here, and it was relatively quiet, though the wind was still quite strong. When I quickly glanced back, I saw several buildings crumble and disintegrate. Before us there was the giant cloud that covered the south part of the city, near Jaffa. Far east and west, other, similar clouds overshadowed the city and the sea. Maybe this place, here in the middle, is like the eye of the storm, I thought. Or maybe it isn’t, and whatever this whole thing is, it’s going to end soon. But no — I am an optimist by nature. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that all this would end so shortly after it began. Not when I was having all this fun.

  Kuti woke up again.

  “Where are . . .” he said, and then he saw.

  “What are . . .” he said, but then probably thought better of it.

  “Why are . . .” he said, but halfheartedly.

  Then he said, “Stop the truck!”

  “No way,” I said, and then saw why he said it. In front of us, a pile of rubble which looked like a giant grey turd, but was in fact the remains of a three-storey building, was spread over the road. There was no way that a vehicle the size and weight of the Hawk could cross it.

  I said, “We’re going to cross it.”

  “You’re crazy!” Kuti said, as I stopped and then put the Hawk into reverse, building some distance between us and the rubble. There was a more-or-less complete collapsed wall lying ahead, like a naturally occurring rump. “Don’t do that, don’t — !” he added, as I deliberately hit another building, so that most of the yacht went off the Hawk, as well as some ladders and probably the remains of Avi, if anything was left of him. “Let me off! Let me out of here!” he said, as I revved the engine, putting the RPM meter in the red. But by the time he managed to open the door it was too late. I released the brakes, and the Hawk dashed forward, accelerated like no Hawk before it ever had, ran over the collapsed wall and arced through the air. Kuti tried to hold onto my arm but I pushed his hand away from me and he flew out of the cabin and into the sky.

  It was rather like that scene in E.T., with the bicycle over the moon, only it was a fire truck a
nd there was no moon. It seemed to last forever. It definitely lasted more than the time it should take any fire truck to return to the ground.

  The same couldn’t be said for Kuti, though. Again, there was a bit of red rain.

  When we got back to the ground, I noticed that the rear part of the Hawk was on fire.

  I really couldn’t have asked for more.

  MINUTES OF THE ISRAELI UFO RESEARCH SOCIETY MEETING, TEL AVIV CHAPTER (AUDIO TRANSCRIPT)

  Chairwoman: Shalom everyone. Thanks for coming. First, I want to say thanks to Gilly for letting us use her house again —

  Gilly S.: No problem, you’re always welcome —

  Chairwoman: and to Gilly’s husband for the lovely cookies —

  Danny M.: I brought the drinks!

  Chairwoman: And to Danny for bringing the Diet Coke and the orange juice. Right. Let’s start. I’d like to welcome everyone who came —

  Misha B.: Aharon asked me to apologize on his behalf, but he couldn’t make it today.

  Danny M.: Abducted by the Greys again?

  Misha B.: He has an appointment with the doctor.

  Misha B.: Why are you laughing?

  Chairwoman: Order, please! OK, moving on. First item: the annual payment is almost due. We now have eleven registered members —

  Mike L.: Ten.

  Chairwoman: Ten?

  Mike L.: Gideon’s got a job in New York, he’s leaving in two weeks.

  Chairwoman: Nice of him to tell us.

  Mike L.: What do you want from the guy?

  Chairwoman: Me? Why? I just think it’s basic decency to let your colleagues know if —

  Mike L.: I heard you were more than colleagues.

  Misha B.: Why are they laughing?

  Chairwoman: Order! Order! Mike, I want an apology from you right now!

  Mike L.: I’m sorry.

  Chairwoman: Right. OK. I want to remind all members to bring the membership fee for the next meeting, cash or cheque. Next week we have a lecture from Dr. Amos Oliani, who is an astrophysicist and has done a lot of research on the Fermi Paradox —

  Dganit S.: How?

  Chairwoman: What do you mean, how?

  Dganit S.: How could he do a lot of research on the Fermi Paradox? The whole point of it is that, though statistically there should be thousands of technological civilizations out there, we can’t see any of them, so where are they? That’s the paradox.

  Chairwoman: So?

  Dganit S.: So how can you research something that you can’t see?

  Danny M.: By watching The X-Files?

  Mike L.: Roswell. It’s the only way to know for sure.

  Dganit S.: Oh, shut up already with Roswell.

  Mike L.: Shut up? Don’t you tell me to shut up. That’s exactly what they want, that people like me would shut up.

  Dganit S.: They?

  Mike L.: You know exactly what I’m talking about.

  Dganit S.: I don’t think even you know what you’re talking about.

  Misha B.: I agree with Mike. The only way to prove it once and for all is for the American military to release the Roswell files —

  Dganit S.: You’re even worse than he is —

  Mike L.: Sceptic! Doubter! Why are you here? Did they put you here to spy?

  Chairwoman: Order! Order!

  Mike L.: And besides, we all know the Israeli air force shot down a UFO during the Six Day War, and that’s what we should be focusing on!

  Gilly S.: I have to agree. We need to step up the campaign to have the government release the files of the Tel Aviv Report —

  Misha B.: I concur.

  Mike L.: Thank you. At least some of us have sense.

  Dganit S.: What Tel Aviv Report?

  Mike L.: You call yourself a UFO researcher? Did you fall off the ignorant tree hitting every branch on the way down?

  Chairwoman: Order! Mike, apologize to Dganit.

  Mike L.: I’m sorry.

  Dganit S.: It’s okay. I’m not bothered by retarded little morons with attention-deficit disorder —

  Mike L.: How dare you?

  Chairwoman: I said order!

  Misha B.: I concur.

  Danny M.: The Tel Aviv Report, Dganit, is the top secret document prepared by the special investigative committee after the shooting down of an unidentified flying object over Tel Aviv during the Six Day War.

  Dganit S.: If it’s top secret, how come you know about it?

  Mike L.: I really pity you, you know that?

  Danny M.: Let’s just say the UFO community has means of obtaining information. Some high-up people in power are sympathetic to our aims, you know?

  Misha B.: Really?

  Mike L.: Of course. You think Aharon is the only abductee in the country? The military takes the threat of alien infiltration very seriously.

  Gilly S.: They say Gideon personally worked with the committee as an advisor —

  Dganit S.: Maybe that’s why he’s leaving the country —

  Misha B.: Why are they laughing?

  Chairwoman: Order, please.

  Misha B.: What’s that?

  Mike L.: What’s what?

  Danny M.: I felt that too!

  Dganit S.: Me too.

  Chairwoman: Dear God.

  Misha B.: What?

  Danny M.: What?

  Chairwoman: The window — look out the window!

  Danny M.: I can’t see!

  Mike L.: Don’t push me!

  Danny M.: Move out of the way!

  Gilly S.: Will you two please shut up?

  Misha B.: Is that a UFO?

  Mike L.: It’s not your standard saucer or cigar-shaped vehicle —

  Danny M.: My God! At last! It’s true! It’s all true!

  Dganit S.: It’s a fucking car, you idiot —

  Mike L.: Oh, yeah —

  Dganit S.: Suspended in mid-air by what seems to be a sort of invisible force field —

  Gilly S.: And it’s moving! But —

  Mike L.: It’s hostile! All those years, and when we finally make contact —

  Misha B.: I think I’m going to be sick.

  Gilly S.: We have to stay together. We have to —

  Misha B.: Mike! Mike!

  Chairwoman: Oh my God. I’m —

  Misha B.: Mike!

  Danny M.: This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

  Dganit S.: So now it isn’t real? All of a sudden it’s not real, Danny?

  Chairwoman: Misha, get away from the window!

  Danny M.: Misha! Somebody do something! Grab her!

  Dganit S.: This thing is amazing! And there’s another one! They look just like localized tornadoes, but clearly intelligent — I wonder how they communicate —

  Danny M.: You bitch! You heartless bitch! Misha! Misha, I’m coming!

  Chairwoman: Bet she heard that one before —

  Dganit S.: I’m going out there. I want to try to talk to these creatures.

  Chairwoman: What? Dganit — Dganit — come back!

  Chairwoman: Shit!

  Chairwoman: Gilly, do you have a basement?

  Chairwoman: Gilly?

  Chairwoman: Oh my God, Gilly —

  Chairwoman: The blood — the blood — everywhere —

  Chairwoman: I’m going to be sick again —

  Chairwoman: Is this thing on?

  -- End Transcript --

  THE SHIMSHON FRAGMENT (APOCRYPHAL)

  Shimshon sits behind the counter of the bookstore when the first quake shakes the shelves. His rare first edition of Groteska, a heavy hardcover by the so-called “Israeli Lovecraft” falls down and he has to get up from his chair to catch it. Shimshon curses and strokes the book’s spine. He puts the book behind the counter and sits himself back down and lights another cigarette. What the hell? Earthquakes?

  Shimshon returns to his computer screen. The letters dance on the monitor in pretty black on white. He’d written four books so far, and published them himself. Why let someone
else handle his babies? Burroughs did the same thing, and for Shimshon, Burroughs is the closest thing to a god. This, his latest book, is going to be the best one yet. Conch is about a boy in Tel Aviv discovering a large shell that had come out of the sea. When he blows into it strange things happen. Ancient entities that wear no discernible form rise from the sea and converge on Tel Aviv. The army is helpless against them, and it is left to a small band of survivors to try to escape through the desolate ruins of the city. The hero, named, naturally, after his creator, is called Samson. It is a good biblical name.

  There is another tremor and the sound of an explosion outside and Shimshon jumps and the cigarette falls into his coffee and he hardly even notices. A terrorist attack? Another one? This is so bad for business. And rent is so high here on Dizengoff Street. They should never have built so many coffee shops here. It’s like an invitation to the goddamned Palestinians to bomb. He doesn’t advocate killing them all like some of the extremists do, but really! In the old books in his shop Tarzan had fought the murderous Arabs numerous times. They are like animals. They have no honour. He gets up cautiously and goes to the door. There are no customers in the shop. He hates it when they complain about the smoke. His shop, his rules. Like Tarzan, he is the king of his domain.

  What the — ? He can’t believe it. There’s a tank, a goddamned tank driving down Dizengoff Street. They’ve really done it this time! They should all be killed like vermin! Bloody Arabs! What the hell happened?

  There’s a voice coming out of the tank on some sort of amplifier. The voice says: “Stay inside! Lock your doors! Do not panic! The army is dealing with the situation!”

  What situation? He runs back to his desk and switches on the radio, but there is nothing but static. It’s Iran! he thinks. The bomb! “I repeat, do not panic!”

  Shimshon begins to hyperventilate. Save the book! he thinks. Must . . . make . . . copy. Must . . . backup. There is the sound of another explosion outside and he feels panic rising and his heart is going fast — too fast — and he falls to the floor. What is happening? The book — no, must look first — he crawls towards the door and, through the glass windows he sees the tank, but it is impossible, the tank is rising in the air and — somehow — it’s torn, as if it were made of papier-mâché, the cannon coming apart, the tract wheels falling off and the armoured plates crumbling to the floor — it is like watching a butterfly being played with by a child, the way he used to do it, the way —