It’s definitely a person that they fear is working for the other side.
Yes, it seems so.
And the other side is us?
Not necessarily, either. It could be Lebanese intelligence factors, for example, or rival Palestinian organizations like the PLO. But that’s much less likely.
And who’s the Yellow?
I’m not sure, but I have a hunch. I’d call someone I know at 504, but there’s a problem.
What’s the problem? Tamir asked, even though he knew the answer.
It looks like black material.
Okay, but I already called you.
Right. You shouldn’t have called me.
But I did.
And by doing so… Nissenbaum started, but stopped mid-sentence. Tamir knew what he was going to say: You got me embroiled in this mess.
Nissenbaum, Tamir said, almost begging, we need to understand what’s going on here, don’t we?
Could be. But I’m not going to make that call now, Nissenbaum said, and Tamir thought he slightly accentuated the word now. Send it out as black material and let the people in charge do their jobs. We’ll talk soon, he said and hung up.
From that point on, Tamir followed the black material protocol to the letter, but still made a copy of the deciphered content for himself, against protocol. After passing the envelope, he noticed in the corner of his eye Ophira leaving the reception room. He followed her, obeying his legs which seemed to move of their own volition. He followed her footsteps until she noticed, turned around, and stared at him in surprise, waiting for him to say something.
He didn’t know what to say. His words reverted back to their pre-creation chaotic state. God retreated to his embryonic corner, and the world grew dark again. The only thing that could be heard was the playful rolling-over of hippos and crocodiles in the black, sweet mud.
Tamir? her wonderful lips, dark violet night flowers, parted in the depths.
Yes?
You wanted to say something? she looked at him with silent, almost absolving wonder.
Yeah, that e/c you gave me?
Yes…?
It was black material.
Really?
Yes.
But… if it’s black material, I’m not supposed to know about it, am I?
No, you’re not. Nevertheless, I told you.
Okay… Thanks. Good night. She turned and walked away with her magnificent slow strut, like a line from an ancient song no one understands any longer, all the more magnificent for its very ancientness and strangeness.
After sending out the black material, Tamir remained at his desk for a few more hours to catch up. He read everything that went on while he was away, going over shift logs, and then started to navigate his way through the sea of material sent to the analysis room from every corner of the far-reaching realm of intelligence. He occasionally reviewed the summaries sporadically sent his way from the reception room. Nothing interesting was going on. He drank more and more coffee and read more and more material, until his eyes started glazing over and his brain could no longer process what it was reading. He felt slightly dizzy. He let out a sigh and staggered to his feet. It was 2:30 a.m. He peeked into the reception room. Anything going on? he asked the producer nearest to him, a curly haired guy with a tired expression on his face.
Nothing, they all went to bed a long time ago, except for these two. He gestured over to his panel. Tamir knew the frequency it was set on. It was the Amal Movement network in the Nabatiyeh area. He looked at the producer quizzically.
Top priority intelligence, the producer said sarcastically, you don’t want to miss this. He changed the audio from headset to speaker. Amid the creaks and cracks of the other panels, Quran verses billowed through the room in a sweet, poignant melody.
Ah, Tamir smiled, so this is how Shi‘ites entertain themselves at this hour?
Crazy nightlife they lead, huh? the producer snarked. Not that ours is any better, to be honest, he said and looked around the empty reception room.
You said there were two? Tamir recalled.
Yeah, there’s this guy, too, the producer said and turned the frequency scan dial. Tamir recognized this frequency as well. It was a Lebanon Army network. Tamir heard a male voice singing in Arabic. He could only understand a few words here and there.
Do you recognize the song? The producer asked. Tamir heard a hint of ridicule in his voice.
No.
It’s Farid al-Atrash. Kuli Li Eh Akul Lek. You don’t know it?
No.
You Ashkenazis. You know about intelligence analysis, but music? You don’t know shit.
Tamir nodded. He wasn’t thinking about Farid al-Atrash, but about the music he had listened to until recently, how he would lie in his room in the kibbutz, on the floor, with earphones plugged into his small stereo system, listing to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd… Recently, when he went home on leave, he had tried listening to that music again, but felt it was drifting away from him. No other music had taken its place.
How are you going to understand Arabs if you don’t know Farid al-Atrash? the producer looked out from his panel, his headset covering one of his ears, his hand fiddling with the silver dog tag necklace.
You’re right, Tamir said, wished him a pleasant shift, and told him to send someone to wake him if something urgent comes up. He reminded him to scan other frequencies and not spend the entire night listening to Farid al-Atrash, earning him a scornful look. He ignored it, left the reception room, exited the bunker, and aimlessly wandered the winding paths of the base. The calm, indifferent night, dotted with glowing streetlights, always surprised him, like it was a second, parallel reality to the one below. Above him was a plain army night, regimented by the bland architecture of military barracks. Only the dull drone emerging from the antenna field connected the two worlds— the one above and the one below. Tamir walked around the fence. A soldier on patrol emerged and asked him if he had a cigarette. Tamir said he
