I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Okay. Anyway, I’ll finish my sausage and hit the library.
h. Sorcery and Deception
It took him some time to find the right wing of the library at the University of Vienna, but he was relaxed and patient. Perhaps it was the marble colonnades he sauntered by which imbued him with ease and serenity. Even after finding the right wing, it took some time before he was given access and before he learned to navigate the online catalogue. He typed in the name of the journal, Naked Words, jotted down its location, found the right shelf, and pulled out its most recent volume. There was nothing by Dallal Zaidani, nor by Alma Strandläufer or al-Darija. He skimmed the contributors list. His eyes paused on an author named Flamingo Reed. That might be a real name, he thought to himself, but actually it kind of sounds like a pseudonym. Reed… Like the grass. But why Flamingo? Suddenly, he recalled the long walks he would take with his father around the fish ponds of the kibbutz during migratory season. There were always pelicans there, who were a tremendous nuisance since they would raid the ponds in flocks, utterly decimating whole populations of fish in minutes; but occasionally, once every few winters, flocks of pink-white flamingos would appear. They would stand on one leg in the shallow pond water, looking like an African mirage against the drab backdrop of the early Israeli winter, like an excerpt from an exotic tale, strange and absurd.
He examined the poem.
Yet again will the Acadians descend upon Lagos. The dusty prophet forewarns:
The calamity is near. A matter of days. Gilgamesh has not returned,
the gods remain silent. Only the dusty prophet speaks, his voice weary,
parched.
By dust and by smoke they shall rise, from the desert
emerge. Not by sword, nor by fire
shall the city fall, but by mirrors,
by sorcery
and deception.
Tamir already knew it was not Lagos that the Acadians will raid, but Lagash. He reread the poem. Who are the Acadians here? he thought, and who were the Sumerians? And what is the meaning of the prophecy that the city will fall by sorcery and deception? There really was something deceptive about the poem.
He went back to the computer and searched the name Flamingo Reed. A number of other journals popped up. All the poems had been published in recent years. He revisited the shelves, and picked out the journals. He sat beside a student with green streaks running through her hair, and perused the poems. Here too, tales of Sumerians and Acadians were spun. What’s the deal with Sumerians? he asked himself. He photocopied the poems. Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Not wanting to disturb the emphatic silence in the reading hall, Tamir slipped out quickly, followed by the bemused gaze of the green-haired student. For a moment, he thought of nymphs frolicking in a forest clearing.
She’s on the move, Yaki whispered. I don’t know where. I want you around. I haven’t decided if I want you on the stakeout or not, but stay close. I’m sending you a map. You can see her movements on it. Go in her direction, but under no circumstances are you to enter her field of vision, got it?
Yes.
Okay. Go. It’s not very far from where you are now.
Tamir typed in the password and opened the map Yaki sent him. He quickly headed over to the 7th district and turned onto Siebensterngasse. He walked down the charming street, passing by small cafés, bars, and boutique shops; some of the shops were peculiar, displaying only a few odd items, like a single tea pot made of ornamented fine china, or an 18th-century-Habsburg-army themed chess set. The red dot on his map stopped on the corner of Neubaugasse and Burggasse, so Tamir paused and looked at the display windows. A few minutes later, she was on the move again, down Neubaugasse, turning left into Siebensterngasse— the street where he himself was standing. His phone vibrated. Stay where you are, Yaki’s voice sounded emphatically. Wait for further instructions. Stay on the line. Tamir stood still, while the red dot moved closer and closer in his direction. There’s a place called Epos next to you, Yaki said, do you see it? Tamir confirmed. Get ready to go in, Yaki said. Go, now. He went in. Wait, Yaki instructed.
The waitress at Epos Restaurant— a comely middle-aged woman in black leather pants and a shiny black jacket— looked at him confusedly. He smiled at her and put the phone to his ear. She went into Café Nil, Yaki said. You stay in Epos. I don’t want her to spot you. Tamir sat down and ordered a melange. He looked at the screen again. The red dot rested motionlessly in what must have been Café Nil. His coffee arrived. He sipped it. It wasn’t particularly good, but he needed a caffeine boost. Or maybe an alcohol boost. No, alcohol would be a bad idea now. Really bad.
He felt alert, excited, frustrated. He didn’t like it that she was there and he was here, just a few yards away. Is this it? Is this how it’s going to be? A text appeared on his screen. She’s sitting alone reading a newspaper, Yaki wrote. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Or maybe she just wants to sit alone and read a newspaper, Tamir thought. The hummus here is horrible, Yaki wrote, a crime against humanity. The falafel tastes like something left over from the Turkish period. Not Turks, Tamir wrote back, Ottomans. And they never conquered Vienna. He recalled the trivia games he used to play with Ilay in the office they shared in Department 195. Ilay was a history buff with a keen interest in the bloody history of Europe. Tamir continued to write: The Polish king Jan III Sobieski rode in with his army of winged Hussars, lifted the Ottoman siege, and saved
