The Tel Aviv Dossier Read online

  My feet are now within the brown-red thing above, and the noise starts. No pain, but a sense of something. Something like a hundred million lines of code, all running simultaneously. They feed into my mind. I can see . . . things. Inside. Inside my head. Knowledge! This thing is like a vast computer, a quantum processor of some sort. It . . . analyzes me. It breaks me down into lines of code.

  It’s a biological processor and, as I’m dragged farther into this gelatinous blob of browns and reds, a little like a food processor too.

  Just like a food processor, actually. And I’m the food.

  I can’t see my feet. A bit of something, some fluid again, sprays over my face. Now my knees are in. My hips. Some more noise. Another spray. My belly. Food processor, under strain. A big drop of something smelly, sewer-like stuff. My chest. More noise, more stuff. My voice, something happened to my voice. My shoulders. The sound becomes a whine. If I had a food processor like that, that’d be the time to turn it off, before it burns up. The noise gets higher and higher, both in amplitude and pitch. It hurts my ears. I hope that my voice can be heard above it.

  It stops.

  There’s silence. Something gets loose. Nothing holds me in the air anymore. I’m falling. I’m rolling in a funny way. I try to look around, but my vision is blurred. I roll around myself too fast . . . like a gyroscope . . . Why is that? I’m spreading . . . spreading my hands and feet in order to be less aerodynamic, create some drag . . . slow myself down . . . It doesn’t influence my . . . doesn’t help . . .

  Ow!

  I’ve landed on the ground.

  My head is on the ground.

  My nose is on the ground.

  I try to push myself up, but nothing happens.

  I can’t get up.

  I’m paralyzed.

  I’m rolling a bit. Still on the ground. I’m looking sideways now.

  I can’t see myself. I can see that my head is on the sidewalk, and there is all sorts of debris around, but I can see nothing that belongs to myself. Nothing. No hands, no legs, no torso.

  Either I’ve become the Invisible Woman, or I’m a head without a body.

  Option one is ludicrous. If I’m invisible, my retina would be invisible too, and I wouldn’t be seeing anything. Option two is ridiculous. If I’m bodyless, I’m practically dead.

  Maybe I’m invisible from the neck down?

  No, this is outright nonsense.

  There must be an explanation to all this. There must be! I must find out what it is. Or die in the process. Or maybe I’m already dead. Or processed. There was something up there, something that saw me, knew me, and for a brief moment . . .

  No. Maybe I’m just dreaming. But this doesn’t look like any of my dreams. In my dreams I always have absolute control. I’ve been practising lucid dreaming for years. So where am I? What is this?

  I wish Leonid was here now. You always know where you are, with Leonid.

  Good old Leonid.

  Note to self: Delete previous passage in editing.

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

  All was quiet on the southern front, and I was coming to realize what was disturbing me during this whole otherwise-perfect afternoon. Something was missing. Something very important, which no real action hero like myself can do without.

  A soundtrack.

  At first I didn’t notice this lack because of the tremendous sound effects, the noise made by everything and everybody going up and down and sideways and into each other, all in natural surround sound the kind of which has never been experienced before. But now, sitting in the Hawk’s cabin, looking at the remains of the flying tank, it started to dawn on me that the symphony was over and done with and that, except for the background noise of the Hawk muttering to itself on neutral, there was nothing to replace it. It was, all of a sudden, very quiet.

  And I needed music.

  There was a hi-fi unit in the Hawk, against regulations. I played with the radio a bit, mostly for curiosity, but only got static. A weird kind of static, come to think of it — like whispering waves, with the length of time between each wave becoming longer, and each wave, when it came, bigger than the last — which, to be honest, was better than local radio. I hate local radio. It’s all pop and bad Israeli imitations of American rock music and if it’s not that, it’s “Eastern music,” which is what country and folk music is to Americans, only worse. Static was an improvement.

  Still.

  I looked around for CDs, and found three. Pop, so-called rock. And Alanis Morissette.

  The static coming out of the radio began to annoy me, so I turned it off. I felt the adrenaline level in my blood declining, slowly, everything getting more and more relaxed. The quiet after the storm. No! This couldn’t be over! Not yet!

  And somebody up there liked me, I’m sure, because at that moment I noticed the very low hum, fading in slowly, so slowly, becoming a distant rumble, coming from behind me. The Hawk was still facing south. I opened the door, stood on the last of the three steps leading to the cabin, and turned my head north.

  And saw, over the weird flames licking the rear part of the Hawk, something wonderful.

  Something grew out of the middle of Tel Aviv. The ground rose. I saw, far as I was, the shapes of sky-scrapers on its top, standing above a huge square building. They were moving slowly, first towards each other, then away. Rising. The whole construction looked familiar, somehow. Then it clicked into place, and I realized that what I was seeing was the Dizengoff Center Mall being pushed up, reluctantly yet steadily, becoming the summit of . . . of a new mountain.

  I knew, then, that it wasn’t over yet. I also knew that I’d strayed too far south, and that I had to get back to the centre of the city, where the real action was. And in the meantime . . .

  I popped Alanis into the CD player. I rolled down the window. I turned the music up high.

  “I love the world today!” I shouted out at the sleeping city. “You look good to me, I don’t want you to change!”

  Tel Aviv didn’t reply, and I revved the engine, speeding ahead, crashing into the remains of buildings, of cars, of people, smashing everything in my way.

  “You’re my bitch!” I sang to my dreaming city. “You’re my lover!”

  Ahead was the mountain. I hit the gas.

  It was then that I heard someone calling my name.

  FIRST EXTRACT FROM THE SHELL LETTERS (INK ON PAPER)

  Hiya Nicky, how’s it going? Tel Aviv is cool, we left the kibbutz — at last! — two days ago, must confess picking bananas is so not my idea of a good time! — and now am chilling on the beach and writing to you. How’s London? I heard on the television — we get BBC World at the hostel — that it’s snowing? No way! Ha ha ha. Here it’s so hot, the sea is blue and calm and I’m thinking about getting an ice cream in a minute — yeah, getting the munchies a little. Jason picked up some local weed yesterday from some guy in a club and, well, you know me, the beach is the best place for it, innit! We’re thinking of going to Eilat, it’s a city on the Red Sea where it’s even hotter — ! — and then maybe into the Sinai — that’s in Egypt. Duh. Anyway so like everything is pretty cool and we’re just gonna backpack for a bit and check it all out, and meanwhile Tel Aviv is fun, had too much beer last night (no change there then!) and it’s nice to just lie on the beach and relax.

  . . .

  Not sure what just happened. The ground kinda rolled — you know, like when you shake the duvet or something? — like that. It felt really strange. I thought it was an earthquake and shit but the sea didn’t move at all, and then it passed, and all the old people that hang around on the beach in the morning just looked at each other and then kinda shrugged. So I figured it was nothing. But —

  . . .

  Man, Nicky, I don’t know what’s going on. I guess the best thing to do if there’s an earthquake is to stay outside and away from buildings, right? I’m sure I saw that on the Discovery Channel or something, you know what Jason is
like with those retarded programmes. Sorry. I know I shouldn’t say “retarded” but honestly, all those —

  . . .

  Shit, something just came out of the water!

  It was huge but it had no shape, it was like a massive cone of air, it moved like a corkscrew from the water to the surface and kinda hovered there and if you tried to look at it directly it blocked the sun and also it gave me a headache and I had to turn away. I’m scared. Even the old people look worried. One of them’s got a radio and he was listening to some local station, some weird Hebrew music or whatever, and all of a sudden it just stopped, the music, and there was this weird loud static. It almost sounded like a . . . I don’t know. Like a language, at least if insects had a language. It definitely didn’t sound like Hebrew, even though the only word I can say in it is “shalom.” Oh, and “Ma kore?”, which is like a “What’s happening!” and “Ken,” which is yes, and “Lo,” which is no. You don’t really need much more than that. Man, I’m feeling a little woozy. I wish I didn’t have that spliff now. Anyway, this thing from the water, it —

  . . .

  OMG! OMG! There were like — I don’t know — like three dozen of these things kind of, kind of growing out of the water, like they were being born out of the sea, and they hovered there and then they moved off, they just passed by us, me and all the old people, and into the road and then — I’m scared, Nicky. Do you think earthquakes are like — they’re like — animals? Like, I know it’s something to do with plates and stuff, or is it shelves? — but what if earthquakes were like, well, like spirits? You know what I mean? There are these horrible sounds, there are buildings in the city and they’re just collapsing, and I can hear helicopters in the distance and people screaming, and all the old people look really confused, like they can’t decide if they want to run into town or stay right where they are. But I tell you, these things didn’t touch us. I vote to stay here. Thank God for this letter, at least, you know, it gives me something to do, to focus on, otherwise I don’t know what to do — I mean, what about Jason? Shit! I totally, like, forgot about him. He’s at the hostel, I mean, is he going to be alright? I thought Israelis were supposed to be good at this sort of thing, like emergency response and stuff, with all those bombings you hear about, but this is just, like, escalating, I’m trying not to listen but they are screaming, Nicky, they’re screaming and I’m scared.

  . . .

  OK, I’m better now. Sorry about the handwriting. My hands are still a bit shaky. How long have I been here? It feels like a long time’s just passed, like when you take an E at a club and all of a sudden it’s morning and you’re staggering out and your legs ache — you know what I mean? The sky is dark now, and I see stars, but they are like no stars I’ve ever seen. When I stand with my back to the sea — though I’m scared, I’m scared of doing it! — I can see Tel Aviv, a white city covered in black smoke, and hear the explosions, and the whistle of rockets overhead, though they have almost died out now. It is quiet. There are no more screams. It’s like either everyone else is dead, or hiding. Behind me, the sea is a blue-black bruise, I’m —

  . . .

  Nicky, I just looked out onto the city again and — I don’t know how to describe it, just one more crazy thing in a crazy day, maybe — (or maybe I’m just wasted? I hope this is just like a bad trip, or like an acid-flashback like the time we went to the zoo — do you remember? That was horrible) — but as I watched Tel Aviv I saw something growing in the distance, rising slowly over the roofs of the city, and as it grew it toppled buildings and cars — it looks like a mountain. I watched it for a long time. It grew — it grows — over the horizon and already it seems larger than it could possibly be. I don’t know if I can explain it. There is a sense of vastness about it, and already it is impossible to see its top, only the lower slopes of it where the remnants of buildings still stand. There’s a sort of haze around it. As I watched it I thought how well it fitted in with these strange new stars in the sky. It’s growing still, though slower than before. Sometimes I look and I think I see things moving on its lower slopes — nothing I can describe, but giant, shapeless forms that move slowly, with a kind of ancient, patient gait, maybe like caged animals who had been let out at long last from imprisonment — it scares me, Nicky, but at the same time there is something so awesome, so majestic about them, that you find it hard to pull away, and when you do the world around you seems less real, somehow meaningless against those distant shadows. I hope Jason will be alright. I’m staying on the beach. Strangely, it feels almost safe here. It’s quite crowded now, lots of people came running from the town, and the old folks are still here, and now there are fires and a lot of people talking but mostly it’s in Hebrew so I can’t understand. It feels —

  It feels strangely free, to be standing here, alone in a crowd, on the beach, watching the cold dark stars and their mountain, with my back to the sea. Already London seems like a dream, although I wonder — is this happening there too? And then I wonder if I’ll ever find out. I’m going to try and get some food now, Nicky, and will write you more later.

  Love,

  Shell

  THE TESTAMENT OF DGANIT S. (A FRAGMENT)

  I hear voices in my head.

  I don’t think I’m crazy. Or maybe this is crazy, I just haven’t caught up yet. Or it’s the universe that has just gone crazy and it hasn’t caught up yet.

  This is just crazy thinking. I am not imagining this. In fact, I think, deep down, I always knew it would come to this. All those years, the séances, the UFO-sighting trips to the Negev, the telepathy tests, the tarot readings, the meditation, the Tantric yoga, reading Von Daniken, the LSD (but only twice), reading Castaneda (but only once), the mind-group thing we tried in the commune, the nudism, the veganism, the Ouija boards, the Rorschach tests — all that was like basic training in the army, readying me — for this:

  The voices are like the babble of water rising from deep under the sea. The voices are like oozing black lava, dripping upwards from underwater vents, burning in the water. Somewhere is another voice, shouting my name. Somewhere far away, in another life, shouting an alien name. Dganit. Dganit. But I am the great nameless. I am a cloud of darkness, a thing which has no name, can have no name, a thing ancient beyond humanity, beyond worlds, a thing not of the world and yet within it. I am naked before it. I spread my arms and twirl with its power, and I speak to it.

  It sees me.

  All around me they die, humans, tiny things, petals of a rose blowing in the rising storm. Danny and Misha and Mike, screaming but like a weak, soft, final movement of a melody on violin. Violin. Violence. Violated. I feel it through me, like tentacles caressing my body, touching my skin, touching me inside, soft, slippery, sensuous. And yet I know that to it, too, I am nothing, another petal blowing in the wind, and yet —

  It sees me.

  There is a terrible darkness and I am a fading star suspended in the dome of a crumbling sky. I try to whisper I love you and my words go into that horrible, awesome nothingness, but it isn’t nothing: it is alive, it knows, it hungers. Words are simply not enough. But they are all I have.

  Let me paint you a picture, then, with the words I still have left: Gilly’s house broken like a doll’s house, as if a giant child had been punching holes in the roof, in the walls, with its tiny giant fists. Gilly nowhere to be seen. Outside, the pavement red and slippery. A 1978 white Toyota lying on its side, the front window smashed, a doll — or perhaps it is a child? — dangling from the rolled-down window of the back seat. Rain falls, and the car is no longer white. Columns of white light, pulsating, growing stronger, swirling like dervishes, their batons people. Someone laughs. I hear the siren of a fire truck. I hear the sound of gunfire. Strange. To hear gunfire. To hear fire. There is fire all around me, alive, a seeing, feeling fire, a cold, indifferent flame awakened from a million years of slumber. Take me! Don’t leave me here!

  And a part of me, the part that did the degree, and the Masters, the part t
hat was writing a PhD for Professor Amir, the slimy cock with the wandering hands, the cold analytical part of me is thinking:

  Some sort of invisible force field, yes. Self-sustainable motion. Resembling a localized tornado. No signs of a biological mind, intelligence might exist on the molecular level, a quantum matrix of probability computing —

  And the other part of me knows that these are the gods, the angels, the demons, the monsters of a thousand and one religions made manifest, craving the flesh; and an eye sees me and I see myself in it: an eye the size of a galaxy, with star clouds swirling in its blackest depths, and I, a speck of dust across a universe where I am insignificant, an accident crawling out of a molecular soup, fins becoming hands, a tail growing, falling off, only its bone remaining, a speck of dust daring to stand erect, beginning to think, discovering fire, mathematics, gunpowder, a thinking animal that thinks, mainly, about fucking and, when not fucking, about killing other animals like it. Can you see me? I cry. I scream. I stand on the edge of the road and the road is empty. Take me with you! And it passes me by, and the red rain falls, and the eye withdraws from me, blinks for aeons, turns away, having seen nothing of any significance. Please! I run after the maelstrom. I hear voices in my head, and they crowd everything else away, all thought, all feeling, love or hate or fear, voices alien beyond knowing, voices filling my head to the brim until I scream and scream and scream.

  P A R T T W O :

  T H E M O U N T A I N

  THE BOOK OF DANIEL, PART II

  Bareheaded before God, Daniel ran. Above his head dark clouds gathered, black smoke taking the shape of demons and ruches, evil spirits, servants of Ashmedai or Asmodeus, Lord of Demons. When he stopped at last he was surprised at the silence, solemn and profound, disturbed only by the pounding of blood in his head. Yeshiva clothes are heavy and unsuitable for running. He had already taken off his coat. Now, on impulse, he unbuttoned his shirt, and when his fingers fumbled with the buttons he tore it open, and laughed, surprised, and threw the white shirt to the ground. The wind was soft and cool on his chest. More, he thought. And then — more! He took off his undershirt, stained with sweat, and threw it on the ground. More! His shoes! His black shoes! He threw them at a wall. Socks. He smelled them and pulled a face and rolled them into a ball. His feet, sensitive, felt the ground keenly. He kneaded at the asphalt with his toes. It felt warm, and the wind against his feet made him shudder. He stood half-naked in the middle of the street and listened to the silence. Apartment buildings were ruins around him. A broken sign lying on the ground said, Frishman St. He turned and turned, spreading his arms, letting the air cool his body. He laughed. Above his head the black clouds parted and he saw the cold immense stars, charting an unknown map in a new sky. More! With shaking fingers he unbuckled his belt. He let his black trousers fall down to his knees, then kicked them off. He remained standing in his white underwear. No more, he thought. The world is ended, and God didn’t come. I shall go as Adam did, in the Garden of Eden there on the Euphrates river. I shall go without the leaf of figs, and I shall go without shame.