That’s not really a cover story, it’s pretty close to the truth.
Good, then you won’t have any problem selling it. Your flight leaves at 6:45 a.m. Assaf will give you the rest of the details in a minute. Welcome to the team.
c. Forgotten Frequency
On the flight over, Tamir read the transcript of the poem Alma Strandläufer had read at the Nâzım Hikmet Café in the 8th district. He felt that the translation appended to the text was too literal, crass, and inaccurate, so he tried to translate the Arabic for himself. It took him a long time. It had been years since he last read or heard Arabic, aside from the occasional Arabic program over the radio during his commute to the college. He gave his mind time to acclimatize, to readjust, like an old reception panel slowly rebooting, groping in the dark for a primordial, forgotten frequency:
The marsh angel slowly ascends. Its wings
saturated in cold mud, boggy forgetfulness. Slowly
and steadily, it bats its pinions.
Silence over the earth. It falters,
pierces, and rises. It sees
destitute streams, inula-covered ruins,
and salt.
Darkness whispers its lifeless
name.
Where to shall it fly now?
d. Cautious Joy
Outside the window of the cab, a huge complex of petrochemical plants sprawled, the size of a small city. Tamir ruminated on futuristic cities, metal birds, and mechanized ships. The Sikh taxi driver seemed to be absorbed in his own lofty contemplation. Under normal circumstances, Tamir would have taken the train, especially in a city with such a highly-developed public transportation system as Vienna, but Assaf had told him that he would be reimbursed for expenses such as taxis, restaurants, and cafés upon presenting receipts, so, why not? he thought. Why the hell not?
He packed lightly, assuming he’d only be gone for a couple of days. Some warm clothes, two or three books. His phone made a faint buzzing sound. He looked at the incoming message. The coordinator of the philosophy department at the college wanted to know why he hadn’t arrived to his meeting the day before, and wanted to reschedule. Tamir replied that he was feeling under the weather, and that he’d call soon to set a new date. He put his phone back in his pocket. He knew he wasn’t the only one reading these messages. Assaf made it clear to him that the app he was sent wasn’t merely a means to upload GPS directions. We are connected to your phone now, he explained. We know your location, and can see what you see. This is important, because if you get in any kind of trouble, we’ll know where you are and come help you. It’s very important you keep your phone on you at all times. It’s your insurance policy.
The taxi entered the city. Tamir cracked open the window, and a cool breeze caressed his cheeks. An inert grayness extended over the restful streets. The sun was nowhere to be seen. For some reason, that instilled Tamir with a sense of tranquility. The boulevards stretched before the cab, broad and long, awash with calm and orderly traffic. The taxi stopped at a red light, affording Tamir the opportunity to observe cyclists and pedestrians at their natural pace. They seemed poised. At home, he always felt a certain chaotic disquiet permeating the air, interwoven among the people, percolating into their being. During the classes he taught, he used to sometimes feel that the civility imposed on people is but a thin veil, worn and damaged from all of the violence, frustration, and disquiet stirring beneath it. A repressed violence rasped in the air, against the institution, against academia as a whole, against education, against liberals, against Tel-Avivians, against seculars, against observants, against Ashkenazis, against Mizrahi intellectuals, against Arabs, against language, against complexity, against poeticism, against beauty. Tamir gazed at the enchanting streets of Vienna, and his heart expanded. He felt a cautious joy sneaking into his void, empty heart.
e. Green Mist
The apartment he was assigned in Lederergasse was quite nice: high ceilings, broad windows; light-colored walls in the living room, blue-tinted walls in the bedroom; two underwhelming couches, somewhat ironic knock-offs of Rococo palatial furnishing; and a vermilion sofa which exuded an almost exaggerated jubilance. There was even a bureau there, with an IKEA-style executive chair. Bureaus always made Tamir comfortable, even if he wasn’t intending on writing, even if he had nothing to write about. If anyone asks, Assaf told him during his briefing, it’s an Airbnb apartment. Tamir asked if it in fact was an Airbnb apartment. That’s what the neighbors believe, Assaf replied. In the city registers, it’s listed under the name of a person who ostensibly lives in London. Looking around him, Tamir was grateful that the apartment did not look like another one of the many identical Airbnb apartments he had stayed in during his travels, more often than not designed in a style one might call ‘functional’— in other words, uncomfortable— designed according to a peculiar aesthetic code which could make any sojourner feel detached and alienated.
He unpacked his things and took a shower, then put on a black sweater, a crimson scarf, and his favorite blue jacket, and went out to grab a bite to eat. He read up on the city on the flight over and in the hours prior; it had been a while since he last visited Vienna, and he needed to brush up. He was now walking south on Lederergasse, and stopped to look at a curious building which stood out conspicuously against the elegant nineteenth century houses lining the street. The building looked like a formidable fortress. It was built of small, faded red bricks, and towered like a primordial giant. Tamir was intrigued. He turned into a dark narrow passage, and only when he emerged in a wide hall did he realize that he had entered a church— and a nice church, at that. When he came out of the other side onto Piaristengasse, he saw that its façade was
