Bound by Debt, page 15
“Sure. By all means,” I reply and jump out.
The deli is empty. “Is there anyone here?” I raise my voice.
A baker rushes out of the back room. “Yes, ma’am.”
I choose two plump pastries, pay, and return to the taxi. A brown bag with two cinnamon snail cakes inside opens with a rustle. Two warm pastries get unwrapped in two eager hands; their fragrance inundates the car. Seized by a passionate craving for the sweet carbohydrate, Raphi and I devour our cinnamon rolls as if they descended from the heavens especially for us.
“See, my life is not a bed of roses either,” Raphi says with his mouth full.
“Why, brother, you seem to be getting along so well? You have a nice American wife, a child, and a good job. What’s missing?” I ask, still chewing.
“It’s all because of the thick-headed Denise. A nice American wife? I wish God would repay her for all the wrong she has done.” Raphi licks his lips, gathering crumbs from around his mouth, and squashes the empty bag.
“I thought things got better between you two.”
“Hell no. With this woman nothing can work out. Just shit in buckets,” he says, pulling out a cigarette from the pack he keeps in the glove compartment.
A comforting thought crosses my mind, that he is off my case, and we have exchanged roles. Now it’s me in the priest’s position, listening.
“Because of her, Abigail left home and went back to Israel.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette. “All day long arguing and shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. Instead of hugs and kisses only doors slamming, shoes flying in all directions, always frowning faces. So Abigail bought a ticket and flew to Israel.”
“And in Israel, does Abigail have a place to stay?” I ask, surprised that he did not share this predicament with me earlier.
“My mother, in Netanya, has a spare room. It’s Yossi’s room, my younger brother who is in the army now. Believe me, this woman I married is a nutty nervous wreck. Doesn’t have a clue about raising children, stubborn like a mule. The only good thing I got from her is the citizenship and a work permit. See. I don’t need any favors from senators to get me a green card and to spend ten thousand dollars for the deal.”
“That’s not who I paid.” I insist on being precise. “It’s the lawyer who works for him.”
“What does it matter who you paid? The money came out of your pocket.”
“I paid, and the visa is on its way, worth every penny,” I say, and my gaze moves off to the pale sky getting ready to light up with the coming dawn.
In my soft bed, the place where I feel most secure, I can’t sleep. Fear is weighing me down. I come to the conclusion that Raphi is right; The mafia’s fury will not get washed with water. With mobsters nothing gets erased.
In the morning, during preparations in the kitchen, my child proves to me, “Mommy, you promised me that you would not leave me alone in the evenings, but yesterday you went out and let the disgusting babysitter watch over me. I was asleep, but I woke up and asked Anat where you were. She said she didn’t know. I called your phone, and you didn’t answer.” Yuval’s blue eyes anxiously follow my movements as I pack her lunch in her school bag.
“I went out,” I say weakly. “Mother is allowed to go out in the evening sometimes without you. Now, are you ready? We must hurry or we’ll be late for school.”
Yuval is having none of it. “But you promised. You promised you would stay with me in the evenings, so why did you promise if you don’t keep your promises?” She raises a fist the way she often does when she is angry.
“I went out with friends,” I snap at her, amazed at the speed with which I too, get carried away by anger. “Come on,” I reach my hand out, “let’s not be late.”
Yuval ignores my outstretched hand but follows me obediently to the door.
It’s a warm morning. Under a blue sky decorated with sheep-shaped clouds, we hurry down Tenth Street, Yuval is still sulking, walking along with her arms crossed. Marching side by side, each immersed in her own thoughts, all of a sudden Yuval says, “Tonight, Mommy, promise me you are not going anywhere.”
And I promise.
Before we part at the school gate, I lift her up in a tight hug and kiss her wet eyes. She clings to me as if it were her first day of school. “Mommy, will you keep your promise?”
Hugging her with a pounding heart, I freeze at her indignant tone dipped in overwhelming sweetness, and I say, “Of course, my cutie pie. Mommy always keeps her promises.”
As I turn to go on my way, rushing to my cleaning job, emptiness looms inside me. It feels like only the shell of my body is intact; inside is a wasteland, an arid space.
Walking through the bustling streets, I hear my heels making rhythmic clicking noises on the concrete. The tapping disappears by boisterous barking as a huge dog emerges from the side door of a grey building. The thought of the pain that would be inflicted on my ankle from his bite horrify me. ‘Never run away from a barking dog’ I recall Grandma Salma’s words, even though I Increase my speed and start running. Petrified I look back, I thank God the dog is no longer visible. Freed from the threat I slow down, my thoughts concerning Yuval continue to peck my mind, from worst to better, from better to worst as fast as the pace of my clicking heels. Captivated in my thoughts I suddenly notice a black car driving very close to the pavement.
It is driving slowly, matching my footsteps. I speed up, and the car accelerates. I slow down, and the car slows down. My stomach turns inside out, and a sharp headache begins to slice my skull. Terrified, I hasten my speed.
About ten paces before Betty Jalenko’s apartment, the car stops. Two bullies with sideburns in the shape of an Italian boot jump out and come towards me. I recognize them. One of them is Mateotti, the other, the scar face, is Ben-Lulu. Before I can really process what’s happening, the two grab me, drag me to the car, and fling me in the back seat. Ben-Lulu piles in next to me without letting go of my arm. Mateotti shuts the doors and settles behind the wheel. My breathing quickens, my heartbeats are galloping horses. This is the end. Satan got me. The writing was on the wall, I say to myself, ready for my execution.
Ben-Lulu is rummaging in his pockets, a smile of triumph lights up his face as he pulls out a wallet, extracts a photograph, and shoves it in my face.
“Do you recognize him?” Ben-Lulu shouts, the veins of his neck swell, and the scar on his face wrinkles.
“No. Absolutely not, I do not recognize him. And I really don’t.” Shivering, I shake my head vigorously. “I have never met that person,” I repeat.
“Are you sure? This man was photographed last night leaving the Love Palace,” Mateotti shouts from the driver’s seat.
Silence falls. My breath has stopped. I search for words, but they do not respond to my command.
“Answer me!” Mateotti’s face is crimson with anger and disgust.
After a deep breath, I manage to mutter, “Yes, a million percent sure, like the sun at noon, I do not know this person.”
Mateotti hits his forehead with his palm. “How could I forget,” he says and turns to his partner, “these Israelis will never speak the truth. Even with a gun to their mother’s head they will continue to lie. Make her talk!” he commands.
Ben-Lulu bends my hand back. “You sent me out to Eighth Street on a wild goose chase. You think this is funny? You filthy bitch, if you don’t cooperate, it’ll hurt even more,” he whispers in my ear.
“How can I cooperate? I have nothing to tell you.” I howl in pain when he wrenches my arm.
“I warn you, Iris Maor, if I have to break your fingers one by one in order for you to identify the man in the picture, I have no problem.” Ben-Lulu turns a threatening finger at me. “Or maybe it’s better that we take care of your child first and tear her eyes out so you start talking.” He sneers. A tremor of fear courses through me.
“I heard you were in the Love Place yesterday, and you don’t remember the man from the picture? The one who filled you with cocaine, fucked you, and probably paid well; the Israeli has money like sand.” Mateotti snorts with laughter accompanied by racking coughs full of phlegm.
“I have no idea what you are talking about. The man in the picture was not at the Love Palace yesterday, and if you touch one hair on my child’s head, your life is in danger!” I scream. “I also have methods,” I add in a broken voice, “you filthy bastards, you fucking dog shit.”
Mateotti does not respond. He turns on the engine and pulls into traffic. We drive.
A heat wave cloaks the city. The steel sun bounces sparks off the rooftops. Mateotti guides the car through crowded streets. In the panoramic rearview mirror I see his narrowed eyes, his face a self-important mask of a dangerous criminal. Where am I being taken? Is this my last journey on earth? my inner voice probes. The black car rumbles in a dull growl, not a syllable is heard. I’m scared to my bones. The vehicles approaching from the opposite direction look monstrous; their jaws are open revealing hungry teeth.
From time to time Mateotti glances at me in the mirror, perhaps making sure I do not intend to escape. And how could I? With Ben-Lulu’s iron grip on my arm and his heavy leg blocking mine, I’m trapped.
We’re leaving town. Route 495 east to Long Island. Suddenly a stop. We’re on a side road. Mateotti gets out of the car, and the two thugs grab my arms and lead me to a field behind some bushes. What happened there I remember only in bits and pieces since after the third kick to my stomach my consciousness left me. The next thing I remember is lying there in the bushes like a beaten dog, the hoodlums standing over me, looking at me with disgust and a stream of warm liquid is wetting my face. The smell of urine overwhelms me. I cannot utter a word.
Mateotti zips up his pants. The two thugs move away. From a distance I hear Mateotti’s voice. “Your problem is that you bet on the wrong horse. Think about it, Maor...” Mateotti’s voice becomes fainter and fainter until it dies in the rumble of the engine of his departing car.
On the ground, wrapped up like a cocoon, I try to rise. My first thought is how to wipe the piss off on my face. Shivering, shedding tears, I reach deep into my handbag, pull out the tissue package, and clean my face. Thank God my mobile is here. I call Raphi.
“Come quickly. I’ve been attacked. Quickly, near the Beacon Scout at exit 68 on the Long Island Expressway. Turn Waze on. I’m there, I’ll try to get closer to the highway. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“What happened?” Raphi asks anxiously.
“They caught me in the morning on my way to my cleaning job. They shoved me in their car and drove me to a field and kicked me in the stomach I don’t know how many times, after the third I stopped counting.” I leave out the part about the urine, ashamed.
“I’m on my way to LaGuardia with a passenger. I’ll pick you up on the way back.”
“They kicked the hell out of me, beat me up big time. I can hardly stand,” I tell him, trying to keep on my feet.
“Wait there, don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I try to walk, moving one careful foot in front of the other. My legs do not obey, and I collapse on the dirt. The pain is unbearable. A surge of bitterness engulfs me, filling me with guilt. You deserve it, you dirty whore, a greedy hooker who doesn’t deserve to be a parent, a low-life mother who lets her daughter down. God punishes those who take shortcuts and try to make easy money, I tell myself, sprawling in the mud.
I glance at my phone screen. Only ten minutes have passed. There’s plenty of time. Plenty of time for what? Till they kill me? Thunderous drumming as in the circus prior to a double summersault fills my ears. My coffin is lowered to the grave. Who will attend the funeral? The distorted face of my baby girl is peering at me, her eyes are hollow. She seems to ask me something, but she makes no sound. I’m a crappy mother, not worth the dirt I’m lying on. The pain in my stomach is agonizing, my head is spinning, something heavy rests on my heart, excruciating ache, broken ribs? A rupture of my heart? I touch my scalp tenderly feeling for injuries, and find only my hair soaked in urine. I am momentarily resurrected and immediately wither. Must rise.
I gather all my energy and with a long groan, moving inch by inch, I manage to stand. Step by step, staggering, I proceed in the direction of the highway. The pain beats at me, tongues of fire invade my guts. Losing my balance, I periodically crouch briefly then continue. With every step the pain in my stomach deepens. I reach the highway. Looking for a place to sit, I find a tree stump. I wait.
Finally, Raphi’s taxi appears. He pulls up right next to me. “Jesus, Iris, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been run through a washing machine. What’s the smell? Why are you wet?”
“After the beating, Mateotti peed on me,” I mutter, biting my lip so I don’t cry.
“Come on.” Raphi puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me to his cab. “Just a second,” he commands gently, and before opening the door to the cab he pulls a blanket out of the trunk and spreads it on the passenger seat, only then he helps me crawl in. “I’m taking you straight home,” he says. The stink of urine fills the cabin. “A good shower and it will pass,” Raphi promises and opens all the windows.
“The bastards jumped on me and threw me on the ground. One grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back, and the other kicked me in the stomach. I fainted from the pain. Laying there in the dirt for I don’t know how long, I regained consciousness when my face felt wet.” I burst into loud tears.
“When will you get what your brother is telling you?” Raphi asks, looking at me in distress. “These people, may their names and memory be erased from the earth, can kill. You should be thankful they did not smash your face and slaughter you.”
“The mobsters caught me on the street and showed me a photo of a man I did not know, asking if I recognized him. They said he was a customer who was with me last night.”
“You’re not listening to me. I warned you, keep doing what you’re doing, and Yuval will be next.” Raphi sounds genuinely concerned.
Self-pity and terror take hold, and tears run down my face. The words die on my lips. I wipe my nose and nod in silence.
In the bathroom, I get rid of my filthy clothes and opens the water tap to fill the bathtub. I look in the mirror and am horrified by the battered woman staring at me. Behind me reflected on the patterned tiles my blurred image looks tortuoused. The stream of water fills the bath with a soothing rumble. I dip my feet in the warm water, then my ankles, and gradually I let my whole body slide into the tub. I leave the faucet open until the water fills the tub to the rim. I lie down and straighten my legs; only my nose is left outside. The relief is immediate. A sense of intoxication suffuses me. With a handful of shampoo, I wash my hair methodically, scrubbing the lather into my scalp again and again until the roots of my hair burn. With another handful of the shampoo I clean every part of my body, lingering on every skin fold.
The tranquility in the water brings back my sanity. I stand up to let the water drip, steam rises from my skin like silk threads. Reaching for the towel, my mind is clear but the stomachache is still there.
I dial Betty Jalenko. “Something has come up,” I tell her. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” I promise.
“I’m waiting here, I thought you were forgetting. Very good. Very good you remember calling, and everything will work out. Tomorrow I’m waiting for you.” Betty Jalenko’s innocent concern is comforting. The call disconnects.
Chapter 22
They break in all directions like a plague of locusts, out of the closets, out of the dishwasher, the oven, masses of straight-winged creatures scurrying, their antennas guiding their way. They run around, change direction, and keep on moving all over the place. They are everywhere, on the stove, the countertop, between bottles, in the microwave, on the linoleum floor, on the ceiling. In Betty’s kitchen, the cockroach carnival is in full swing.
“Before the work begins, the animals need to be removed.” Betty scrunches her face in desperation, picks up a mosquito bat and demonstrates the technique of fighting the invaders.
With a jab of her arthritic finger, she signals me to open the cabinet door under the sink. I follow her order, grab the insecticide and join the battle. I spray, Betty bats, I spray, Betty bats, again and again without cries of disgust. Work is work, I order myself, spraying in all directions. The brown bugs relinquish their lives without protest, they turn into pieces of cardboard with six legs and two antennas. Some of them perish on their backs, some in the same position they were felled by the poison. I sweep the bodies into the dustpan and dump them into the trash.
“Dis is good. Dis is how work to clean.” Betty puts down the bat, claps her hands in excitement, and with a duck-like gait limps out of the kitchen.
Where to start? I choose the dishwasher. I pour detergent into it and turn it on. Burnt oil on the stove top. Above the oven the ceiling is black. Curls of dust fly around the corners. Moisture stains on the walls look like dim faces watching me. I decide to attend to the silverware drawer: slain cockroaches fused with medicine tablets, prescriptions, little bottles of syrup, candy wrappers, a rusty can opener, a grocery list, hair ties, fridge magnets, all crammed around the knives and forks. I clean feverishly, scrubbing, rinsing, organizing, sorting the cutlery and arranging it in the compartments according to their type.
“Doctors are cheap sorcerers. Told Mother she had something bad in her belly. Four months later she died. It happened the same day our cat, Zachariah, died. Four years ago.” Betty’s voice sounds near.
I throw a quick glance at her and continue to scrub.
“You wouldn’t believe how fast it happened,” she sighs, and a crazy look lights up her eyes. “And I remind you again, everything here you touch, but not there.” She points her crooked finger towards the corner of the living room. “There on the walnut table in the turquoise urn, I told you there is mother resting. There you don’t touch.”
