The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul Read online

  “I simply can’t believe that they’ve already announced the position,” said Kaufmann, a black-haired man in his midthirties, passing his eyes over those at the table. Three others were sitting there, two men and one woman. They had just finished supper. The two other men, Yakov and Joe, were likewise freelance journalists in Cairo, and the woman was Martha Lindsey, who had been John Hartmann’s girlfriend. Two weeks earlier Hartmann had been shot dead by a unit of the Syrian Liberation Front. They had opened fire accidentally on the car John was in, but by the time they realized, everyone inside was dead. Thomson Reuters officially mourned his loss as one of its own. The three men had previously gone to the Estoril often with John and Martha, but this was the group’s first time there since the incident. Kaufman has reserved the table and placed the order in advance.

  “I can’t believe it,” he repeated.

  “You can’t be serious,” replied Joe. “Why, that really is pretty tasteless.”

  “That, it is. But I’ll wait and see how they’ll manage to find an authority of John’s caliber,” said Yakov.

  “I don’t even understand this,” said Martha, a tear coming into her eye. “I wrote to his editor asking them to wait. At least until I get back to London to pack his things.”

  “And what was the reply?”

  “That the demand for news is enormous, and the company cannot allow itself to wait.”

  “Animals,” said Yakov. “But what could you expect from a multinational, anyway?”

  “How are you, Martha?” asked Kaufman. “You haven’t even touched your supper.” The beef tongue lay untouched on her plate.

  “Good,” replied Martha, sniffling. “Only that I can’t sleep, and I’m drinking too much.” Kaufman looked over Martha. She was pale and the tears had smeared her makeup, but even so, she was a decidedly lovely blonde.

  “I figure that’s completely normal in the given circumstances,” said Yakov.

  “I can’t square everyday life, either, with John having been killed.”

  “I think none of us can.”

  They ordered a bottle of ouzo, and the waiter delivered it with a jug of water.

  “To John,” said Kaufmann, raising his glass high. The others followed his example.

  “Do you all remember the time he managed to land an interview in the Gaza Strip with the head of Islamic Jihad? For three years a picture hadn’t even appeared of the character, but John was able to take one.”

  “He was a fucking good reporter,” said Yakov.

  “And a good friend,” said Joe. “When I was robbed in Juba, in South Sudan, he was the first to give me a phone call and send me money. He could always be counted on.”

  “He loved you boys,” said Martha. “He was the best man I knew.”

  “Believe me, John loved you more than anyone in the world. You were his love, and he could imagine his life only with you. I remember that it was because he wanted to get home on time to you that he avoided late-night partying with the boys. But, God, how he could hold his liquor! He could drink as much as a whole football team.”

  “Let’s drink to that!” cried out Kaufmann, refilling the glasses.

  “To John, whom we could party with.”

  They drank, and then fell silent for a while.

  “And you, Martha,” asked Yakov, “what will you do now?”

  “I think I’ll go home to my mother, in London. After all, I moved here to Cairo because of John, and now that he’s died, there’s no sense in my staying. Even so, it is pretty horrible going back to the flat where his things are. I’m always expecting him to show up. I’ve got no business in Cairo without John.”

  “I understand you completely,” said Kaufmann. “This city is no place for a single woman.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Joe. “Even Yakov was robbed!”

  “My God, Yakov, what happened?” asked the woman.

  “It’s nothing. Last week the cops confiscated my camera.”

  “What kind of machine was it?” asked Kaufmann.

  “A Canon 5D. They took everything. The camera, the lenses, everything. For four hours straight I sat at a police station trying to prove that I’m not a spy.”

  “And what are you taking photos with now?”

  “Nothing. I’m saving up for a new camera,” he said. His face clouded over. “Five thousand dollars is no little money.”

  “My poor thing,” said the woman, caressing the man’s hand.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Do you guys remember when last year all three of us were nearly arrested on Mohammed Mahmoud Street, and it was John who talked them into letting us go?” asked Kaufmann, refilling the glasses.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t have taken my camera if he’d been there,” said Yakov.

  “If only he was here with us.”

  “To John.”

  They drank again. Kaufmann had not skimped in filling the glasses. There was hardly any ouzo left in the bottle. By now all of them felt the alcohol. The woman’s face turned red.

  “Say, Martha, did they take John home?” asked Joe. “I mean, you know, the funeral.”

  “Yes. Medicine Sans Frontier arranged it. His colleagues in Beirut identified his body.”

  “Thank God you didn’t have to.”

  “I couldn’t have taken that. Even so, it’s not at all certain I can. I don’t think John . . .” Before she could finish the sentence she burst out crying.

  The men fell silent in commiseration.

  “You’ve got to stay strong,” Kaufmann finally said. “John would want that, too.”

  “Yes, I know,” said the woman, picking up the red paper napkin from the table and blowing her nose with it.

  “Have you talked with his parents?” asked Yakov.

  “Yes. His mother is completely devastated. His father is holding his own. They’re expecting me next week at their place in London. His dad said he wants to establish some foundation so people can remember what John did. He said he died a hero.”

  “And he’s right about that,” said Joe.

  “Indeed,” said Kaufmann.

  “That foundation is a good idea. Worthy of John’s spirit.”

  “This too is why I wanted to talk to you guys. We’ll be needing your help if John’s father is really to make something of this foundation.”

  “You know you can count on us,” someone said. “We were not only John’s friends but also yours.”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  The men smiled and the woman smiled back at them.

  “It’s getting late,” said Martha, taking a look at the pink iPhone lying on the table to check the time. It was eleven. They had an hour to go before the start of the curfew. True, in truth no one really bothered with the curfew that was in force across the country. Shops, cafés, and restaurants stayed open, and crowds billowed on the streets.

  “The bill, please!” Yakov shouted toward the bar. The large, mustachioed man standing behind it nodded, and then called out in Arabic to one of the waiters, who delivered the bill to their table in a little, black leather folder.

  “How did you like the supper?” asked the waiter in English.

  “It was terrific,” sad Kaufmann, the others nodding.

  “May I pack up the leftovers for you?”

  “Yes, do be so kind,” said Yakov.

  “It’s really not necessary,” said Martha. “Really not.”

  “You’ve got to eat!” said Kaufmann. “Please take it with you.”

  The woman acquiesced, whereupon the waiter took the beef tongue to the kitchen, where it was put in a white plastic container. The party paid the bill, everyone chipping in for the cost of the supper, and they all then stepped out the door. Talaat Harb Street was still bustling loudly with life, schlockmeisters offering their wares on both sides of the street and drivers beeping stridently in the crawling traffic.

  “You stay strong, now, girl,” said Yakov and hugged Martha.

  “This is rea
lly hard for us, too,” someone added, “but you know you can call us anytime.”

  “Thanks, boys. In John’s name, too.”

  “He was one terrific fellow, and I’m honored to have been his friend,” said Kaufmann.

  “We are, too,” the other two men chimed in.

  They went their separate ways. Kaufmann and Martha lived in Heliopolis, so they agreed to catch a cab together. Yakov and Joe politely waited there until the woman, the white plastic bag in her hand, sat into the cab beside Kaufmann.

  Quietly they ambled home; they lived only a few apartment buildings away from each other. Joe broke the silence.

  “Say, do you think it would be really awkward if I applied for John’s position? I’m just really broke, and could damn well use the regular pay.”

  “Not at all,” Yakov replied. “I’d apply, too, if I had a camera.”

  It was settled.

  Later it occurred to Yakov that John had an extra camera in his flat. A Canon 7D. So he wrote the woman a letter spelling out his tragic financial circumstances in some detail, and asked her for the camera.

  In the course of the long cab ride Kaufmann persuaded Martha that they should go have a drink somewhere in Heliopolis, and so they did. The one drink became several, and at 2 AM he accompanied the woman home, stopping up at the flat to use the washroom. Martha teetered drunkenly in the stairwell, falling into Kaufmann’s arms. The man planted his lips on hers, she responded in kind, and they went into Hartmann’s flat. As for the plastic bag in which Martha was carrying the boiled beef tongue, they forgot that in the stairwell. By morning it was oozing liquid and swarming with big, black flies.

  Winter In the Promised Land

  It was winter in Jerusalem, late December. A fine layer of snow covered Golgotha, and winter coats appeared in the Old City. Radiators buzzed in the shops, and hotels adjusted their air conditioners to blow warm air under their five-star arches and fountains.

  The smell of burnt cedar pervaded every bit of the Muslim quarter. The breaths of the young men and women on guard duty at checkpoints could be seen in the air. Further off, in the Sinai Desert, pouring rain had caused a mudslide, rendered roads impassable, and washed entire Bedouin villages off the map. But in the foyer of the Waldorf Astoria, by its Art Nouveau clock, there wasn’t even a hint the sudden, stormy weather outside.

  I’d just emerged from several long weeks of reporting in the Gaza Strip. On December 23 I’d entered Israel at the Erez Crossing after the Israeli Defense Forces had announced even to the media that the situation would further deteriorate and that another military operation could be expected. Compared to Gaza—overcrowded, under a blockade, and in the grips of jihadists—the Waldorf Astoria seemed to me like heaven on earth, what with its velvet-upholstered elevators and spongy mattresses. I sprawled out onto the bed in my room and slept all day.

  After waking up I soaked for hours in the two-person bathtub. I kept trying out the lavish selection of shower gels and body lotions that promised to stave off age, wrinkles, and exhaustion.

  I couldn’t stay here long, I knew. If I wanted to write about the ongoing military operation, I’d have to move to a cheaper accommodation, in Tel Aviv. The army was being secretive about the timing of its offensive. No one knew when the tanks and the air force would be set in motion. Everyone knew the offensive was nearing, though, because homemade rockets were being fired regularly into Israel from Gaza. Five-hundred-dollar Palestinian stone-age rockets were being knocked out of the sky by thirty-thousand-dollar Israeli missiles. And Hamas was not skimping when it came to the number of rockets it shot: the situation for Israel was untenable. On account of the murders in the West Bank and the incoming rockets, the Israeli public demanded blood. Soldiers were ordered to their bases. Everyone was waiting for the order that the operation was underway. This could mean days or even weeks, and I meanwhile had to budget my money, unless I wanted to miss out on the hoopla.

  On finishing the bath I donned the robe and embroidered slippers, each bearing the hotel logo. I called the front desk to order a pack of cigarettes. Though I still had two packs of Egyptian Cleopatras, I thought I’d smoke normal cigarettes for once, as long as I was here at the Waldorf Astoria at Christmas. Merry Christmas to me.

  Room service pressed the buzzer within ten minutes. The bellboy delivered the velvety red pack of Marlboros on a little silver tray, with hotel-brand matches, set it on the smoking table, and left. I sat down in the armchair, lit up, and turned on the plasma TV above the bed to be greeted by a commercial in Hebrew, of which I understood not a word. A little boy was sitting across from a robot-dog, speaking to it at length as the dog replied with robotlike barks, and when the boy then threw a ball, the dog fetched it. The robot-dog even had a tail, which was wagging and which the camera zeroed in on at the end of the commercial as the boy and other children called out, now in Engish, “Robodog.”

  I stepped over to the bar, took out a little bottle of Chivas Regal, poured it into a glass, and drank it down. Merry Christmas, I thought, imagining that at this moment my Facebook page was being deluged by tacky, virtual Christmas cards featuring everything from Christmas trees, the baby Jesus in the manger, and sage sentences fished off the Internet about peace and love to big, Christmas-themed shopping specials. It occurred to me that I was close indeed to the little town where, tradition had it, some two thousand years earlier a particular woman had gone into labor on this day and given birth to the world’s savior.

  Theoretically.

  For my part, I’d never perceived so much as a trace of the world having been saved, so Christmas irritated me more than any other holiday. I’d escaped to the Middle East, but in vain: peace specials and last-minute messages of love had followed me even there. Though neither Muslims nor Jews celebrate Christmas, that doesn’t keep supermarket chains from heralding the holiest of shopping holidays with discounts.

  My phone beeped. I had set it for four o’clock so I could get ready in time for Aviad’s arrival at the hotel.

  Aviad was my best Israeli source and, of course, also my friend. We knew each other from Budapest. He’d been finishing his compulsory military service in Israel when he fell in love with Éva, a Hungarian Jewish girl vacationing in Tel Aviv. It was a grand love. The moment his service ended he traveled to Budapest to pursue Éva, who worked as a waitress in the bar I sat in practically every day. He hung out there constantly to be near Éva, and in the meantime the two of us spoke about all sorts of things and became friends. He and Éva went on to have two sons. Early on in their relationship, when Éva finally resolved to move to Israel with him, Aviad returned to the army. Though we hadn’t met in years, we kept in touch on Facebook. With his help I was able to enter Israel without having to undergo endlessly unpleasant interrogations on account of all the Arabic stamps in my passport, which was not even to mention the various pictures taken of me in jihadist circles in the course of my work. With Aviad’s intervention I was allowed into Israel without a hassle, and the government press office issued me accreditation, no questions asked. I was issued permits to travel to Gaza, and Aviad told me to stay on, by all means, since war was coming. That’s why we had to meet: he’d promised to get a level IV bulletproof vest, which could stop 7.62 armor-piercing ammunition. He said he’d bring it to the hotel at 4.

  I turned off the phone’s snooze mode, got dressed, and went downstairs to the hotel bar. Mahogany plates covered the walls. The bar itself was in the middle of the room, surrounded by round tables with red, damask tablecloths. A large crystal chandelier ensured some light, but the space was characterized more by a pleasant dimness. I sat down at a table, took out a cigarette, and lit up. A little while later the waiter appeared: a man of around thirty, with slicked-back black hair and a white shirt, tie, and black vest.

  “Merry Christmas, sir.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “A Budweiser,” I replied, referring to the Czech beer.

&n
bsp; He nodded and left, and soon reappeared with the beer and a crystal glass, which he put down before me, on the table, and filled.

  “Would it bother you if I turned on the TV?” he asked, pointing to the wall, into which a plasma TV was built.

  “No, go right ahead.

  The waiter returned to the bar and switched on the TV. Again, that commercial with the robot-dog. The dog barked, brought back the ball the boy had thrown, and wagged its tail. But this time what I’d seen before in Hebrew, was in Arabic, though now, too, the call at the end was in English: “Robodog.” I drank from my beer and crushed my cigarette. I watched TV. After the commercials, the station showed Ramallah, Bethlehem, and other cities in Palestinian control, Palestinian mass demonstrations, and then the Israeli tank division that had been sent to the vicinity of the Gaza Strip.

  The door opened, and in stepped Aviad. He headed toward me with a grin. He wore light brown military trousers and a jacket of the same color. He was beefed up, with at least twenty pounds more muscle than when I’d last seen him.

  “So, what’s up, you Arab groupie?”

  “All’s fine and well, you fascist Jew.”

  I stood. We shook hands and hugged.

  “Good to see you, you prick,” said Aviad, slapping my back. “I just don’t get what the hell you’re up to among the Arabs.”

  “Working. Sit your ass down.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got two days’ leave, got to go home to the kids. It’s Christmas.”

  “You’re Jews.”

  “Explain that to the kid and to the Hungarian gal who’s used to a Christmas tree. I’m fine doing lots of things in life, but not telling the two kids that from now on there won’t be a Christmas and gifts.”

  “And Hanukah?”

  “They get gifts then, too. That’s how they are.”

  “At least drink a beer with me. Did you bring the vest?”

  “I did. But you won’t get away with just that much. Get your stuff together, because you’re coming with me. Éva is waiting for you, too.”

  “I don’t want to be in the way. I’ve got a couple things to do, anyway.”