Who am I to spoil shows…?
Okay. Other than that, is everything clear?
What’s the password for the app?
BlackRain8491, Yaki said.
g. Hidden Ground Water
A gentle, thin rain came down on the city. It caressed Tamir’s face as he strode down Florianigasse. The city appeared pensive and gloomy beneath the shroud of rain. He felt an indistinct mixture of utter despondency and a sort of physical exhilaration, not merely physical, a kind of spiritedness which does not stem from happiness. Black Audi cars whistled past him. He entered a place called Café Florianihof. An eerie silence prevailed inside. The walls were lined with unsettling pictures of black, decaying tree branches. Tamir glanced at the images and felt that there was another city beneath the city, the upper city hovering above him like a scarf in the wind, while the lower city spreads like a dream map over the base of his consciousness, a map he cannot reach. He ordered a sacher sausage and a Sturmspritzer. He had always wanted to try that drink, semi-fermented wine mixed with sparkling water.
The smartphone Yaki gave him vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw a weather notification pop up on its screen. He went into the app and typed in the password. It was an audio file. He plugged in his earphones, partly because Assaf had instructed him so— never to play audio files without his earphones, and to make sure no one but him could see any video files he might receive— but mostly as to not disturb the sanctified silence in the café. Only a handful of solitary men and women were seated at the tables covered with pristine tablecloths, reading newspapers or laboring over laptops. One young woman was writing in a blue leather-bound notebook, or, more accurately, suspending the pen in her hand above the unblemished paper. She leaned her chin on her hand, and her eyes wandered aimlessly across the café. Vienna is the city of the lone and dejected, Tamir thought to himself, and cafés are their stomping ground. But he knew he was actually thinking about himself.
He played the audio file. It was a conversation between a man and a woman. They spoke in English. The woman’s voice was quiet, relaxed, a bit distant, but not cold. Her accent was decent, more American than British, but a foreign cadence crept through it like a warm easterly wind blowing through a well-tended northern garden. He thought he recognized the voice, but he wasn’t sure. Was it her? The voice was different than that of the girl who had bandaged him on that fateful night, and different than the voice he had heard over the radio all those years ago— J2 to J1, why did you change the frequency? I hear you, over. And yet, as soon as he heard that voice through his earphones, he felt that pull, that familiar force pulling down, down to effervescent, hidden ground water.
The conversation revolved around poetry. The speaker complained about a typo in a poem she published in a literary journal called Naked Words. Tamir understood from the course of the conversation that her interlocuter was the journal’s editor. He apologized for the error, and admitted his editor must have thought the name Lagash was erroneous, assuming the author had meant Lagos, the Nigerian city.
That’s what happens when ignorance dresses up as erudition! bellowed the woman.
Okay, no need to raise our voices, the editor tried to placate her. Not everyone knows…
Not everyone knows, what?! That Lagash was an important Sumerian city in the 3rd millennium B.C.E., and that Lagos is the former capital of Nigeria?! You’re lucky I understood it.
Listen, I understand this is important to you, and in the future, we will…
You have no idea how important this is to me! It’s much more important to me than you could possibly fathom! So much is riding on this!
That sounds a bit excessive…
Oh, does it! Then you simply don’t understand the power of poetry. It is irresponsible to publish with you.
The audio file concluded. The woman with the blue notebook closed it and signaled to the waitress. Tamir thought about what he had just heard. Something didn’t sit right. The sacher sausage was served to his table. On one of its ends rested a mound of fresh grated horseradish, and on its other, a pool of yellow mustard. Tamir dipped a piece of the sausage in the mustard, scooped up some horseradish, and put the fork in his mouth. The gentle smoked flavor of the sacher sausage blended immaculately with its accompanying condiments. A few seconds later, a wave of spiciness pervaded Tamir’s nose and sinuses. He sniffled slightly and took a sip of the Sturm. The lofty, light flavor was uplifting. His smartphone buzzed again. It was Yaki. Tamir answered. I don’t feel comfortable speaking here, he said, it’s very quiet.
Of course, Café Florianihof’s like a funeral home, Yaki said.
I’m glad to hear you’re pinpointing my location. I feel safe.
We always look out for our own.
Sure.
Perhaps it’s best you step outside and talk on the street.
The sausage will go cold.
You’re breaking my heart.
Tamir stepped outside and stood by the entrance to the café.
So, why is she making such a big deal about a stupid poem?
Everyone hates typos, Tamir said.
But isn’t her reaction a bit over-the-top? I mean… It’s not the end of the world, is it? How many people even read these journals?
Not many, Tamir sighed, recalling the academic journals that printed the few articles he had published. Thoughts scatter like dust in the wind, he thought to himself.
So, we haven’t learned much from this conversation, have we? Yaki asked. Perhaps only that she’s temperamental.
I don’t think so.
Why’s that?
I don’t know. I’ll look for the poem she’s talking about.
Are you serious? What for?
I don’t know. It’s good to read poems.
Is it?
Do you remember that Egyptian intellectual who said the biggest mistake Israeli intelligence made
