Asylum City: A Novel Read online

  Dedication

  TO MY PARENTS, HAYA AND AVI

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Liad Shoham

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  A blast of cold air struck Michal Poleg in the face when she stepped out of the bus in north Tel Aviv. She pulled her windbreaker tighter around her. She hadn’t dressed warmly enough, as usual, and as usual, she hadn’t taken an umbrella. At least there was a break in the “storm” the weatherman had predicted in dramatic tones. For the time being, it wasn’t raining. That’s how it always is around here, she thought. Two drops of rain and they call it a storm. But the real storms, the things that actually matter, get ignored. Typical. A white car pulled up in front of the bus she’d just exited and a man in a black leather jacket got out, glancing in her direction.

  She started walking quickly, making her way from Milano Square to Yehudah Hamaccabi Street. In five minutes she’d be home. It had been a long day. She’d been working as a volunteer at OMA for just over a year. They usually closed at five on Friday, but on days like this, when it was cold and wet out, they were busier than normal so they stayed open late. The Organization for Migrant Aid couldn’t keep regular business hours. They had to do what they could to find a solution for all the refugees who didn’t have a roof over their head, and there were too many like that. But whatever they did, it was never enough.

  Michal wasn’t in a good place these days. She was sensing a regression, as if she was back where she was when she first came to work at OMA. Her rough exterior, the defenses she’d built up around herself, were starting to crumble. In the early days she’d sit open-mouthed, listening in disbelief to the stories she heard, not knowing how to respond. She’d go home and lie on the couch with a bag of frozen vegetables on her head, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t take it in. She felt she was fumbling in the dark, that she’d landed in a strange place, on a different planet where she didn’t know the rules. In time, she learned what to say, what she could and couldn’t do to help, and mainly, how to listen in silence. It was all down to Hagos, their interpreter. He taught her that there was strength in silence, that sometimes just listening to people did more good than shouting to the high heavens. But shouting to the high heavens was exactly what she felt like doing now, because despite his strength and his silence, Hagos had been deported back to the infernal country he’d fled, and they’d murdered him there, just like she’d feared. She’d had enough. She was sick of feeling helpless, of being powerless to make a difference. She wanted to do something more than listen; she wanted to make a real change, not just put out fires.

  That’s why she filed a complaint with the Bar Association a few days ago against Assistant State Attorney Yariv Ninio. The lying weasel had concealed from the court the legal opinion of the Foreign Ministry that could have saved Hagos. Itai didn’t want her to do it, but she felt compelled to take action. She couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

  As she crossed the square, Michal noticed that the tall man in the leather jacket was right behind her. His footsteps echoed through the open space, now deserted due to the “storm” and the late hour.

  The refugees she worked with needed her to be focused and dedicated. They could sense when she was on edge. Without Hagos, she had no one to talk to. Itai was too busy, and lately every conversation with him ended in an argument. She found it hard to talk to Arami, the other—now the only—interpreter. She knew how devoted he was to the men and women who came to them for help, and she always felt guilty around him, as if she were responsible for their hardships. She had the feeling he regarded her as a government agent: rich, white, complacent.

  Michal glanced behind her. The man was less than two yards back. He looked her directly in the eye, his face expressionless. Here she was in the old north of Tel Aviv, presumably one of the safest sections of the city, and she was frightened. She regularly wandered the slums around the old bus station that were home to the refugees without sensing any fear. People just didn’t understand. Racism and prejudice were so deeply embedded that it was very hard to uproot them, especially when the government and that loathsome Member of Knesset Ehud Regev were conducting a relentless campaign against the refugees, labeling them “dangerous,” “drunken,” “violent,” and “disease carriers.” Try to explain that they were human beings just like us who wanted nothing more than to live a normal, quiet life, that one of the main reasons they left their homes and their homelands was to escape the violence.

  She kept up a quick pace, attempting to put more distance between herself and the man behind her. I’m probably paranoid, she tried to convince herself. She turned right into a side street just to be sure. Across the street from her was a clinic, its windows dark. She passed a small playground, filled with toddlers and their nannies in the morning, but empty at this hour of the evening. The swings were swaying back and forth in the wind. She realized she hadn’t imagined it. The man was following her. She heard his footsteps comin
g closer.

  In Michal’s world, there were two types of Israelis: the ones who tried to help, to do the right thing, and the ones who wanted to hurt or exploit. It was a polarized world with no middle ground. You were either a devil or an angel. She had no doubt which category the man stalking her belonged to.

  She started walking faster. Despite the cold, she was soaked in perspiration, her blouse sticking to her skin. What the hell was she supposed to do now? It was a mistake to turn into this quiet little street. What was she thinking?

  She’d never seen the man in the leather jacket before, but she was sure he was sent by the people she’d confronted near the office a couple of days ago. Hagos had told her explicitly to steer clear of them, but she couldn’t hold back. Her mother was right. “My little Michal has a knack for getting into trouble,” she liked to say with a sigh.

  Two months had elapsed since she went to the Police Department’s Economic Crime Unit. That was the first thing she did when Hagos was deported. She reported what Hagos had told her about the “Banker.” She’d even managed to snap a picture of him coming out of a restaurant on Fein Street, and she handed that over, too.

  But meanwhile, nothing had changed. The “Banker,” whose name she still didn’t know, continued to walk free around the old bus station. When she saw him there again the day before yesterday, she couldn’t control herself. She was just coming from a shift at the women’s shelter on Neveh Sha’anan Street, an experience that invariably left her feeling depressed, when she saw him mingling with a group of refugees, strutting around cockily in his fancy suit as if all was right with the world. She accosted him in the street, screaming that he was an extortionist bastard, a filthy crook whose money funded rape, smuggling, torture, and slavery. She didn’t give a second thought to the women peeking out in fear from behind the curtains. He looked at her with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. It seemed like he was about to say something, but before he did, two goons, obviously his bodyguards, grabbed her by the arms and dragged her away, and none too gently, either. The “Banker” vanished into an alley, fleeing like the chicken he was. His goons released her and walked away. But she wasn’t finished. She followed them up the street, yelling, “Scumbags, maniacs, gangsters.” Passersby stared at her in astonishment. “Who do you work for? Who gets the money?” she screamed at them. She was positive the “Banker” and his goons were only a link in a bigger chain, that someone more powerful was calling the shots, most likely a large crime syndicate that spread its tentacles out in all directions, destroying, devastating, exploiting, crushing. They ignored her. As soon as they reached the corner, a car pulled up beside them and they disappeared inside.

  That’s what happens, she thought. When the government doesn’t provide basic services, a vacuum is created, and that vacuum is filled by all sorts of scum. When people don’t have work, they drink and shoot up; when they don’t have doctors, they go to back-alley abortionists; when they can’t use a proper bank, they turn to the “Banker,” whose organization rakes in millions. The refugees had no choice. They couldn’t walk around all day with everything they owned on their back. They needed loans to survive and a way to transfer their earnings to their families back in Africa. The government turned a blind eye, it didn’t want to know, creating an opportunity for ruthless thugs to take advantage of the weak and impoverished.

  She knew all too well that her screaming wouldn’t make any difference. The “Banker” would continue to demand money and the refugees would continue to pay exorbitant interest. But at least now they’d know they were being watched, that they couldn’t just blithely go about their business, because despite what they might think, somebody cared. Michal also wanted to give meaning to Hagos’s death, maybe even make up in some small way for the fact that she wasn’t able to prevent his deportation. Hagos wouldn’t have been happy about her attempt to get at the “Banker,” but that would just be fear talking, the result of the defenselessness imposed on people like him by the establishment.

  She turned her head again. The man was still following her, gazing straight at her. She realized he didn’t care that she could see his face. In fact, it seemed as if he wanted her to. She started running, slowly at first and then faster. She could hear his steps quickening until he was running behind her. The sound of his footsteps hitting the sidewalk reverberated through her body.

  She couldn’t let herself feel scared, and more to the point, she couldn’t let them see she was scared.

  “What do you want?” she said, stopping suddenly and turning around. She was breathing heavily.

  He stood and stared at her in silence, his eyes trained on hers. There was no one else around. A cat wailed, making her jump.

  “Why are you following me?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.

  He didn’t move, just kept looking at her with a blank expression on his face.

  “Who do you work for?” she persisted. Her breathing was still not steady. His silence was threatening.

  Hearing footsteps approaching from the other end of the street, Michal swung her head around. A second man in a black leather jacket was walking toward her. He could have been a twin of the first one. She stood caught between them, not knowing which way to turn. Her heart was pounding. She had to do something—now! “What do you want from me?” she asked, not managing to keep the tremor out of her voice. She was willing to sacrifice her life for something meaningful, but not like this, not without accomplishing something first, not when she was just getting started.

  The first man advanced toward her. She wanted to scream, but she was paralyzed by fear, unable to move a muscle or force any sound out. Why had she come down this street? She’d played into their hands.

  He stopped no more than a yard away and she thought she saw his right arm move. He was going to hit her. She threw her arm up to shield her face, but his hand shot out, grabbed her raised arm, and twisted it behind her. A kick to her knee made her drop to the ground. The pain was agonizing. She struggled, but they didn’t let up. Her face was slammed into the cold asphalt by a blow to the nape of her neck. Her nose and mouth filled with blood. One of the men flipped her over, sat on top of her, and gripped her throat with one hand, bringing his face close to hers. She got a strong whiff of inexpensive cologne that made her stomach turn. She tried kicking at him to free herself, but it was useless. She didn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

  Chapter 2

  ITAI Fisher returned the bicycle to the docking station outside Habima Theater. “Leave it a few blocks from her apartment,” Ronny had instructed him on the phone yesterday, “so when you get there you’re not sweaty and out of breath. In fact,” he explained, “it’s better if you don’t let on right away that you use rental bikes, that you don’t have a car. If she asks how you got there, where you parked, try to change the subject or say something vague about how you don’t live so far away. And remember, don’t start going on about pollution, living green, saving the environment.” Itai didn’t manage to get a word in before Ronny added, “At least not until you get laid.”

  Ronny’s advice was getting on his nerves. He wasn’t a sixteen-year-old virgin about to go on his first date. He didn’t need someone to tell him what to do. It wasn’t cool. The stock jokes at his expense were also getting tired. But no matter how much he felt like slamming the phone down in Ronny’s face, he didn’t. Ronny was his best friend, maybe even his only friend. They’d grown up together in the same apartment building in Holon, gone to the same schools, served in the same army unit. He knew Ronny loved him like a brother, and he knew he meant well. Besides, like his mother always said, if something irritates you, it’s probably true. It irritated him whenever she said that.

  Since Miri dumped him six months ago, he hadn’t had any serious relationships, just casual sex now and then with some volunteer who was more interested in emotional release than she was in him. He had no explanation for it. Maybe it was the job. He worked too hard in an occupation that was too dr
aining, and he was physically and mentally exhausted when he got home. Yeah, it was easy to blame the job.

  Itai started up the street, gradually getting his breath back. He loved riding a bike, and he loved the feel of the wind on his face as he pedaled nimbly, especially now in the winter when the air was clear and bracing. Besides, it was the only quiet time in his day when he could think in peace.

  He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was Saturday, but still, in just the twenty minutes it had taken him to get here, he’d gotten three messages: one was from a Sudanese man who hadn’t been paid his wages, one from a man from Eritrea who’d been evicted, and one from his mother wishing him luck on his date. He knew he should be mad at Ronny for telling her, but he just laughed. The truth is, he figured his mother was in on it as soon as Ronny started saying things like “We’re not getting any younger,” and “People shouldn’t be alone.” It wasn’t the first time he realized they talked about him behind his back. Whenever Ronny came to visit his folks, Itai’s mother would come down from her apartment two floors above—“I just happened to drop in,” she’d tell him—to pump him for information about her son. Quite a few years had passed since he left home, but she still hadn’t gotten over the fact that she couldn’t simply walk into his room to “tidy up” and search for clues to his private affairs. When he complained to Ronny about colluding with her, his friend just grinned and said, “You know your mother’s unstoppable.” Since he did know she was unstoppable, that she always got what she wanted in the end, he decided to take it in stride. Let them talk. As for the two Africans, he’d get back to them after the date or tomorrow morning. There was nothing he could do on a Saturday night at this hour anyway.

  The one person he was hoping to hear from hadn’t called. He was disappointed not to see a message from Gabriel. He’d bought watercolors and brushes for him yesterday and was curious to know whether he’d used them. Although he tried to treat all the asylum seekers the same, he felt closer to some than to others. Gabriel’s shyness and modesty drew him in. And it didn’t hurt that he spoke very good English. It was easier to forge a connection with someone when you didn’t have to go through an interpreter to talk to them. He didn’t discover Gabriel’s artistic abilities until the young man began to trust him and open up to him. He was extraordinarily talented and sensitive. “I guess we know what our grandkids are going to look like one day, Dov,” his mother said under her breath to his father when he told his parents about the African’s drawings at one of their family dinners.