Chapter 8
Her nerves were frayed by a long day of grueling investigation and the night flight that preceded it. Both her body and her soul yearned for rest, but she knew that she had a night of vigil ahead of her. Shouts and cries filled the big detention hall that was divided into small cells. She never imagined that women could shriek like that; shrill, like the monkeys she had once heard on safari; cries of protest, shouts of pain and hatred, animal groans.
Curses were hurled from all directions, in every imaginable language, a nauseating jumble the likes of which she had never heard in her life. How could women sink to such a low level, to such wickedness and perversion?
“Welcome to the Hilton,” the fat, peroxide warden greeted her, grabbing her by the arm. Talia winced at the physical contact but kept quiet. They reached the cell and the warden opened the barred door with one of the keys hanging from the heavy bunch in her belt. “Please!” With mock politeness, she handed her a tattered towel reeking of detergent. Talia dropped the towel to the floor. She had no intention of using it.
The warden stood in the middle of the cell inspecting her from head to toe, hands folded across her chest, legs spread apart. She seemed to have all the time in the world. What does she want from me, Talia thought, perching precariously on the bare mattress so as to minimize contact with it, legs to the side, leaning against the wall. The mattress reeked of a mixture of urine, feces, female secretions, unidentified filth and detergents. The atmosphere was suffused with such unbearable odors that she felt not only nausea but also palpable, physical pain. She tried to breathe somehow, but her lungs ached with the effort. In the middle of the cell stood a naked toilet bowl, without a cover, walls or partition around it. Talia could not conceive of using the bowl in the presence of all the other cellmates.
The thought of Jonathan in such a place horrified her. He could not possibly last a single hour here; the filth, the stench, the noise, the curses, the repulsive, menacing types the likes of which he had never met in his life. If women could be so brutal, so frightening, what were the men like? She stifled a shriek of dismay and revulsion.
Suddenly, for the first time since she had met Jonathan, she realized she was stronger than he. But the knowledge did not console her. Her Jonathan was an only child, born to elderly parents — his mother was in her mid-forties when she bore him — he was spoiled and fastidious; he changed shirts three times a day, and he never used a towel more than once. She thought longingly of their perfumed bathroom, with an enormous pile of soft towels that Jonathan used to go through every day. He used them like paper towels. His sense of smell was the most delicate and refined of his senses. “My dearest Talinka,” he used to gush in their most intimate moments, “you know what I love most about you? Your smell. You are so sweet-smelling, as if your body contains a capsule of perfume that is slowly released over time.” He used to hug her to him and sniff in her fragrance. In her heart of hearts, she hoped that her scent had stayed with him in his final, difficult moments, the aroma of their most recent lovemaking, shortly before their final separation...
Rapt in her thoughts, she had forgotten all about the warden, who now interrupted her reverie. “Captain Koren told me to keep an eye on you, so I’ll watch you like a hawk, sweetie, don’t you worry,” she laughed, revealing gaps in her back teeth. Talia could smell her acrid breath, and her face contorted in an involuntary expression of disgust.
“You think you’re too good to stay here with us? You won’t even talk to me? Sure, who am I, just a lousy prison warden. But wait and see, you’ll need me yet, honey, with all this human garbage in your cell, real high society they are, like you’re used to, I’m sure. But listen if these filthy animals give you any trouble, I’m right here, at the end of the corridor. Just holler ‘Marcelle,’ and I’ll come in her like a guided missile.”
The commotion in the cell increased. Somebody yelled as if she were being beaten to death; another tried to shut her up rudely. “Shut your trap, you bitches, or I’m coming in there,” the warden warned in her manly voice. Talia felt relieve when the warden left the cell and stood outside the bars, sticking her face in the grille. “Say, fancy lady, what’s with you and Captain Koren? If he could wrap you up in cotton wool, he’d do it. He didn’t even go home tonight. He’s here, sleeping in his chair. A real hunk, our captain, don’t you think? Better looking than your husband, what’s his name, Schwarz-Schmwarz, the one that jumped out the window, like a chicken.”
Talia was crying in small, intermittent sobs. She covered her face with her hands, ignoring the other women in the cell. Their eyes pricked her like daggers, don’t meet their eyes, don’t make eye contact, she told herself, but she soon realized that the women interpreted her attitude as aloofness and condescension, and that she was playing into their hands, into their boredom, into their anger. To them, she was a representative of a society that hurt them and deprived them of their rights—equal opportunities, self-esteem and respect.
“Hey, honey, you’re having a hard time here; we heard about you, fat cat. These are not the conditions you’re used to, are they? First class fitness center, huh? Look at me, I do my aerobics in the red light district. But they won’t even let me do that in peace, those bastards!” First Talia heard the shrieking voice, then she forced herself to look at the speaker; a woman with masculine features and heavy make-up was approaching her, brushing against her as if by accident. Her mini-skirt revealed thick thighs. She was wearing red, lace panties and a bad odor emanated from her crotch. Talia recoiled in disgust, afraid the smell would cling to her.
Noises of belching and hiccupping came from the comer of the cell. A skinny girl in tight jeans and long, disheveled hair was clutching her stomach and throwing up. “Come here, come here;” the mini-skirted woman pulled the girl to the bowl where she disgorged foully, then dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap. A third woman was sprawled on a pallet next to Talia, snoring vociferously, like an off-key trumpet. Another woman was seated by the window, her eyes closed as if asleep. How they can sleep in this horrid noise, and with the light on, Talia wondered.
The mini-skirted woman came toward her again, accompanied by a short, heavy-set woman, adorned with chunky jewelry, wearing a wide dress that concealed her corpulent body. Her kinky hair tumbled through the colorful kerchief on her head. Talia moved to the edge of her pallet. “Hey, you can try to run away from me, but it’s not going to help you. Whatever Mazal wants, Mazal gets, isn’t that so, Nadya?” Nadya nodded vigorously, shaking her pendants and bracelets.
Marcelle stood at the end of the corridor, watching her with a n amused expression. Talia knew that if she called on the warden, she would immediately come into the cell, impose order, and get the mini-skirted woman off her back, but she was paralyzed and her throat felt too constricted to utter a word. She was not sure which of the two women posed a greater threat to her, the mini-skirt with the man’s face or the peroxide warden. She had forgotten the existence of the officer.
“Leave her alone, you bitches, have you got no pity in your hearts?” The woman who had been napping by the window woke up, got to her feet and gathered her thin, blond hair above her delicate face. “If you so much as touch her with a finger,” she demonstrated by lightly touching her thumb and middle finger, “that will be the end of you!” Her lithe body was encased in tight black pants and a multicolored shirt. “Do you know who my brother is? I don’t have to tell you. All I need to do is say one word to him, and he comes down here and tears you all to pieces.” These words, uttered in a throaty French accent, were in sharp contrast to the woman’s delicate facial features.
“What do you want, we didn’t touch her,” Mazal appeased, taking small steps backwards. Nadya nodded and hurried back to her pallet.
The French woman came closer to Talia. I’m Monique Mamman from Bat-Yam. You’re Talia Schwarz, aren’t you? I saw your picture in a magazine. May I sit next to you for a little bit?” she asked.
“Please do,” Tal
ia agreed gratefully, scooting over to make room for her. Judging by her appearance at least, Monique seemed just as out of place here as she, herself, was, and she was glad for the opportunity to chat with her. Finally, a kindred human soul. “Why are you here?” she asked.
“Ah, c’est rien, it’s nothing,” Monique waved her hand in dismissal.
“I was caught in an embezzlement felony.”
“Embezzlement? What did you do?”
“Oh, there was this Frenchman, he was loaded, you can ask my brother. Well, trѐs bien, he took an immediate shine to me, but what can I tell you, the man is so cheap, a real skinflint. He only takes, never gives anything. Alors, he takes me here, he takes me there, only to the cheapest restaurants, and there, too, he checks everything I order with a magnifying glass. He skimps on taxis, too, on everything! So I said to myself, what the hell, I’m going to teach him a lesson, I’ll show him who Monqiue is! He came to Israel to make money, you know, in real estate deals, I don’t have to tell you about it. So I sold him the island in Bat-Yam.”
“What? You sold him an island?” Talia was amazed. “You own an island?”
“Me? Where do I get off owning an island? I only told him I owned one, you see.”
“And he bought it?”
“Sure did.”
“And paid for it?”
“Sure, he paid for it, like nobody’s business. He gave me a check for twenty-four thousand bucks, the dumb ass, and he was good for the money, too! Except when he found out I was bluffing, he reported me to the police.” Tears, not of sorrow this time, were rolling down Talia’s cheeks. For the first time in many days she was laughing, a hearty, carefree laugh that was like a remedy for her soul. Monique joined her, and the two held hands, groaning and shedding tears.
“So what are you going to do now, Monique? Will you give him back the money?” Talia asked when she had calmed down.
“Are you kidding? You think I’m off my rocker? I spent the whole thing. I bought clothes, perfume, jewels. I went to Paris on a shopping spree. Well, you only live once, don’t you?”
“Yes, and that, too, is sometimes too much.”
Monique sobered at once. “Listen to me, ma cherie. Get a grip on yourself. You’ll get out of this mess, trust me. I’ve been through a lot in my life. Life is a see-saw.” She stopped for a moment, her blue eyes peering at Talia intently. “Look, I don’t have kids, you do. You must be strong, for your children’s sake. So now close your eyes and try to sleep. You look exhausted. Bonne nuit, ma petite”
Water, water. The entire bathroom was flooded with water. She was standing under the scalding shower scrubbing her body until it looked red as a lobster. She’d have peeled off her entire skin, if she could. The towel felt almost too soft to the touch, so she dried herself by lightly rubbing her body. Then she cut her long fingernails almost to the flesh, until they hurt, and shaved her armpits and pubic hair. All this was not enough; she took a small scissor and frantically began chopping her hair. Large clumps of hair fell to the wet floor. She continued to cut without looking in the mirror. Only the sound of Michali’s crying made her stop. Now she took a look at herself; her face was flushed, covered with dark splotches, and her savagely chopped hair gave her a desperate look. You’re nuts, she told herself. If you don’t get a hold of yourself, it’s the children who’ll suffer.