The Celestial Gate by Avital Dicker (red white royal blue txt) 📗

a floral dress that was clearly several sizes too small. She was holding a year-old baby in one arm, and with the other was dragging along a toddler of around three, who lay down on the ground, stamping his feet in a tantrum. The baby started to cry too.

No, thought Yam. No way. He wanted nothing to do with this family. Two exhausted parents and four children. It seemed highly unlikely that a fifth child would receive an enthusiastic welcome. It looked like they were barely surviving as it is. And besides, who wants to have a picnic in the forest in the middle of summer? That’s torture, not recreation. No, they were not right for him. He was absolutely sure he didn’t want them.

He again pushed the button he had been handed by the Indian and was grateful when the scene around him faded.

Back in the room, the Indian was moving about boorishly, throwing punches with each of his four burly arms. He extended one beefy fist and hit Yam on the back of his neck.

“Ouch!” Yam yelped, rubbing his head.

The Indian’s turban swayed fretfully on the enormous man’s head, and he folded all four arms across his chest.

With his many fingers, the Indian tapped on the blackboard in the center of the room where the rules were displayed. “You should know the drill by now. Before you make your decision, you are obligated to watch each family for a full half-hour. And the first and most important rule is that you don’t get to decide if you’ve seen enough. Now, I’m sending you back; that is my job!” The Indian’s eyes flashed with anger, and he puffed out his cheeks.

“Wait,” cried Yam and shielded his head with his hands at the sight of the four arms waving in front of him again. “Stop. Listen for a second. That father hits his children. Besides, they already have four children, including a baby, and it seems they’re not coping as it is.” Yam found refuge behind the armchair. “I honestly think they don’t want another child.”

“Idiot,” the Indian waved a long finger. “Do you really think that after just two minutes you know everything there is to know?” he roared, continuously deflating and inflating.

Yam stood up straight. “Do not hit me again,” he said in a quiet, threatening tone and his eyes turned black with anger. “It’s against regulations.”

The Indian ignored him and launched a fist at Yam again. But this time, Yam deftly grabbed the arm that was coming his way. He stood within a few inches of the Indian’s face, “I didn’t like them. Got it?” he said silently and with emphasis.

“Abuse!” called the Indian.

“You started,” Yam asserted, fists still clenched.

“You souls! You’re arrogant – all of you. You never bother to look properly at the depth of your possibilities and choices and then you complain, ‘It’s The Draw’s fault,’ ‘It’s heaven’s fault.’ You blame everyone but yourselves.”

Yam’s pupils became the color of granite. “Explain to me how I’m supposed to know the whole truth about a family when all you’re showing me is half an hour in the life of people I don’t know anything about and this is all I have to go on to decide if I’ll live with them for a whole lifetime? I have to choose among three families I don’t know and go to a country I didn’t choose and live a whole lifetime there. Where’s the logic in that?” Yam reddened in anger.

“‘Where’s the logic?” the Indian mimicked sarcastically. “This is God’s plan, not choose-your-own-adventure. What do you want from me anyway?” he shrugged. He inflated again to such a size that he filled almost the entire room, squashing Yam into a corner.

“Well, even God makes mistakes,” Yam refused to be intimidated by the Indian.

“So talk to God. Go on, I dare you. I’ve been trying to catch him for several eternities. His diary is full until the next century.”

Yam folded his arms across his chest. “I really don’t need lectures from you. Do your job and show me the next family.”

With all his arms on his hips, the Indian shook his head and looked at Yam with scorn. “Idiots. You never learn.” He smirked and whistled to himself with annoyance. “That’s it, I’ve had it with you all. I’m requesting a transfer. I’ve had it with this job. I’m too old for this.”

“Amen,” answered Yam. “You’re the absolute worst clerk I’ve ever had.”

He pushed the button for the second time and breathed a sigh of relief as the room and the Indian disappeared.

When the picture focused and cleared again he was in a nightclub. The dance floor was packed with cute young girls in tight-fitting dresses and high heels, and men wearing leather jackets and stonewashed jeans. Electro-funk was pumping out at full volume in the background.

At the edge of the dance floor, the long bar was crowded. Some people were engaged in conversation while leaning against the thick, dark wood countertop, and others were ordering drinks. The men were eyeing the girls, who in turn were checking out the men.

A skinny blonde girl was behind the bar, her long hair tied into a ponytail with a black band. She was plainly dressed in dark jeans and a white tank top. On her right arm, at the top, right near her shoulder, Yam noticed a butterfly tattoo.

She’s gorgeous, he thought.

The girl worked briskly, without a moment’s rest. Her body was in constant motion. She poured drinks into glasses, took orders, gave out change and, smiling politely – safely buffered by the thick wooden countertop between her and the customers – evaded the steady stream of pick-up attempts.

A good-looking young man came out of the kitchen, his hands stacked with trays of clean glasses. He stopped for a moment when he saw the attractive bartender.

Yam could almost sense the young man’s eyes traveling down her back, all the way along her spine. She didn’t turn her head, but the corners