The Marsh Angel by Hagai Dagan (ebooks online reader .TXT) 📗

into his routine, and his routine sank into him. His days became increasingly monotonous: he would wake up, go to work, and do his job with steady, uneventful professionalism. A part of him had always yearned for the stability and security of routine, but another part of him was slowly receding, withering, fading away. He had no friends in his life anymore, nor women. He would drift through the streets of Tel-Aviv feeling weightless, as if his feet never touched the ground; as if he was hovering above the mounds of dog shit; as if when Dallal was dragged into that black sedan, all the moisture and mass which comprised his being were sucked in with her, leaving nothing but a hollowed vacuum inside him.

Was it even really Dallal? She was so different. Perhaps he merely imagined it was her? He hadn’t seen her since that day long ago, when she soaked up the blood drawing from his head and made him a cup of strong, sweet tea. He was only a boy, and she was only a girl, but her hands were steady and her voice was settled and soothing, almost dreamlike. He had felt as if he were in a dream. Perhaps he really had been dreaming? Was there anybody else there? Her sister, perhaps? Her parents? Possibly, but he didn’t remember anyone but her, no voice but her dreamlike voice. He was exhausted, and her voice put him down like a lullaby. What did she say? He couldn’t remember. Her words transformed in his memory into a spellbinding, numbing incantation.

Was it her? That fire burning in those deep dark eyes, he recalled. That rage behind which lay an endless, invincible tranquility. Was it her?

His life had become all but automated: he went through the motions at work. He exchanged basic pleasantries with his colleagues, but nothing more. Gradually, he lost all interest in his surroundings. When he finally realized that he had lost interest in his long-time object of research, the Front/Jibril organization, it felt like a forgone conclusion. Even worse, the closer the day of his discharge came— and it crept along in a sluggish, protracted manner— the more he realized to his embarrassment that he had started to forget things he once remembered, things he had memorized; that as he was staring at his index cards and papers, he was comprehending less and less of what he was reading, as if he were gripped by a subtle dementia, as if his critical thinking and analytical skills were draining from his mind.

One day, someone who’s name meant nothing to Tamir called from Kidonit— Jonny and Harel had discharged already— and asked a seemingly trivial question, concerning the use of certain code names on the Front/Jibril networks. He knew that he should know the answer to the question, that he had always known it, but at that moment, his mind drew a blank. He muttered something about an urgent matter that suddenly popped up and asked the intelligence analyst from Kidonit to call him back. He then turned to his papers and tried to reconstruct his lost knowledge. He found the process excruciatingly draining, as if something inside him resisted the search; it was then that he realized that his mind was rejecting the corpus of knowledge he had toiled to amass, signaling to Tamir that this story was as good as dead.

He drifted through the remaining few months like a zombie. He would come into the department late, and leave early. In between, he mainly sat idly at his desk. Summaries accumulated, logs piled up, his incoming messages folder became desperately backlogged— but he remained motionless at his desk. No one in the department seemed to have noticed Tamir’s indolence, since the Front was no longer an organization of any consequence. Thus, a strange correlation emerged between Tamir and the organization’s operatives themselves, who kept on attending meetings in refugee camps in Lebanon merely to chat their regular idle chat about operative wage-bill and representation in different Palestinian resistance committees. Tamir likened these operatives to dilapidated mummies, crumbling into dust. He felt his own hands were wrapped in green shrouds that had to be removed quickly before they adhered to his skin forever, before the death encapsulated therein engulfed him as well, before the doom into which they pulled sucked him in completely and closed its ravenous, antennas-toothed mouth over him for good.

When his replacement arrived at the department to start his training, Tamir scrutinized his avid, buoyant demeanor and felt like an old man looking at an exuberant youth. But I’m young too, he thought to himself, and it’s not like I’ve even been here for that long. How did this happen? His replacement looked at him with anticipation and enthusiasm, almost in adoration. He was lively and eager to learn. Tamir said little, opting for dramatic pauses and silences which he secretly felt were utterly ridiculous; he pointed at the towering stacks of papers on his desk and said with some embarrassment that there was some backlog to be taken care of.

Two weeks before his discharge, he was summoned to see the department head for a concluding conversation. Tamir knew that the department head was halfway out as well, and that he will soon be transferred to another position before being promoted to arena head. The department head greeted him with a typically enigmatic smile. So, I assume there’s no point in discussing additional service, right?

No, Tamir said. Even if he did ask to sign on, there was no guarantee he’d be obliged; he knew that his neglection of his duties in recent months hadn’t escaped the eyes of the department head— he just didn’t find it important enough to intervene. Both me and the Front are of zero interest to him, Tamir reflected.

Okay, the department head said, so what do you plan on doing next?

Study.

That’s nice. Middle Eastern studies?

I doubt it.

Economics? Computer science?

I’m more of a humanities person.

Oh, so you want to be