Friday, June 30, 2023

"Tales of the Tel Aviv Ticket Inspector" - short story


"Tickets! Tickets for inspection!"

The grey-haired woman in the third row squirms in her seat, fumbles with her purse, and finally extracts her green Rav Kav bus card. Avshalom senses she's hiding something. His suspicions are confirmed when he presses her card to his handheld reader.

"You didn't pay," he tells her.

"What?" she asks in Russian.

"Rav Kav—empty," he replies in accented, imperfect Russian. This surprises her, he can see. She isn't expecting a religious, Sephardic, slightly overweight, somewhat disheveled ticket inspector to answer her in her native tongue. "Get off bus," he says.

"But I paid!" Her face reddens in embarrassment as she pushes past the commuters standing near the door. "I paid!" She steps down to the sidewalk. The door whooshes closed behind her and the bus pulls away from the stop.


Read the rest of the story on DoubleSpeak.

Photo by Bahnfrend and used under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license

Friday, June 23, 2023

"Forgiveness" - short story


The village was nestled in green foothills not far from the Greek border. Quaint wooden farmhouses and ramshackle barns. Cultivated fields of summer crops; fenced-off pastures spotted with dairy cows and goats. Grassy meadows bordered by colorful wildflowers. In the distance, snow-capped peaks below a cloudless blue sky. The Rhodope Mountains, scenic and bucolic, home to some of Bulgaria’s oldest citizens. One of them was waiting to see me.

“My grandfather is ninety-five-years old,” Anna reminded me as we drove south on the narrow highway. “He’s half blind, walks with a cane, and doesn’t hear very well, but he still has his wits about him. He rises at the crack of dawn to milk his cow and tends his vegetable garden in the afternoons. And he eats a lot of yoghurt,” she added with a laugh.

“I can’t believe I’m here, that I’ve flown all the way from Tel Aviv just to meet him.”

“He’s very eager to see you.” Anna continued to talk excitedly as she drove, but I remained mostly silent, keeping my eyes focused on the beautiful countryside.

I was looking forward to meeting him as well, but I had a growing feeling of trepidation ahead of my visit to his home. Why had I come to Bulgaria? Had I made a mistake? Was I on a wild goose chase that would make me a laughingstock when I returned to my office in a few days’ time? I shook my head, shocked at my impulsive decision to come.

Anna slowed down when we passed the sign announcing our arrival in Gela, the village that was our destination. A minute later, she parked the car. I got out, took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, and followed her up a gravel path towards a wooden farmhouse that had seen better days. We took off our shoes outside the door and went inside.

It took several minutes for my eyes to fully acclimate to the dark interior. Outside it was a warm June day, but inside the farmhouse I shivered. The unlit fireplace at the side of an open kitchen made me wonder how warm the room was in winter. The Rhodopes were ski territory, I had learned. Visions of snow-covered slopes brought back memories of the ski trip I took with friends after finishing my compulsory service in the Israeli army.

“Sit here,” Anna said, pointing at a low bench near the dining room table. “My mother is probably shopping in Smolyan. I'll go see if my grandfather is awake.”

I sat down and looked around the rustic, homey room. Watercolor paintings of green landscapes hung on one wall; a window opened to real-life vistas of the same. All the furniture was wooden, apparently homemade. I rested my hands on a colorful embroidered tablecloth, kicked my backpack under the table, and fidgeted as I waited for Anna’s grandfather. All I knew was that he had something to give me, and I didn’t have a clue what it could be.


Read the rest of the story on The Writing Disorder.


Monday, June 12, 2023

"I Am Marco Polo's Brother" - short story

My name is Giuseppe Polo, son of Niccolò and Nicole Anna, born in the year of our Lord 1251 in the magnificent city of Venice. Magnificent, I say, not only because of my city's Gothic-style palaces and narrow canals winding through its districts like so many cobblestoned streets, but also because of the power and influence of the Republic of Venice. Our republic is prosperous, ruling many territories on the shores of the Aegean Sea and beyond.

I was but a boy of three, still weaning from my mother, when my illustrious father and uncle Maffeo set forth as traveling merchants on a mission to the East. They sought spices and silks, precious gems, and gold and silver utensils, anything that would benefit our family business, but I believe the true intention of their journey was something other than material wealth.

Read the rest of the story on Litro Magazine USA.

Sunday, June 4, 2023

"The Last Elephant" - short story


Sometime in the near future

Ethan has been looking forward to the school outing for weeks. Marking the dates on his calendar, a countdown running in his head. Two weeks to go. One more week. Four days. Two. Today!

Ethan is going to the zoo with his classmates at Lincoln Elementary. With Liam and Stevie, his best friends. They are as excited as he is. The zoo! And they will see the elephant!

“Listen up everybody,” Mrs. Gibson says to her students when they arrive. She introduces them to one of the zoo’s employees.

“My name is Jackson, but you can call me Jack. Our zoo is a member of Animals Consolidated, the leading zoo management company in America,” he explains. “Our zoos have the most wonderful creatures. You’ll see some of these special animals today. Are you ready to get started?”

Jack leads them along the pathway to the center of the zoo grounds. Past the tropical bird hall, past the reptile pavilion. Past the pond where cranes, herons, and geese flap their wings and dip their beaks. Up a slight hill.

“This is the lions’ cage,” Jack says, pointing through the bars.

“Where are the lions?” Liam asks.

“The lions aren’t here right now,” Jack tells the schoolchildren. “They’re on loan to another zoo. There are so few lions left that we share them.”

Ethan is impatient. He hasn’t come to see lions. Or tigers. Or any other wild animal. He has come to see the elephant. He walks away from the group and approaches the biggest enclosure of all. And there he is.

Ollie—that’s the elephant’s name. In the distance, Ollie is feeding on greenery, raising his long, gray trunk, piling the food into his mouth. Lowering it playfully for another mouthful.

Ollie looks up, his white tusks sparkling in the morning sunlight. He lumbers forward, across the pen in slow motion, toward the boy. A huge, bobbing head. One leg lifting heavily and stamping down, another leg following it. Gray, wrinkled skin shaking back and forth. Tail wagging, slapping at flies. A gigantic, magnificent creature approaching.

“Wow!” Ethan shouts. The elephant draws near.

The other schoolchildren join Ethan at the guardrails, watching the bull elephant swaying until it comes to a halt a few feet away from where they’re standing.

“Step back,” Mrs. Gibson cautions them. “Let’s wait for Jack’s explanation.”

“Ollie goes from one zoo to another, so that as many people as possible can see him,” Jack begins.

“I heard he’s the only one,” Ethan says.

“Yes, he’s the only one. The only one left. As you may know, there were once hundreds of thousands of elephants. They roamed freely on the savannas of Africa, in the rain forests of Asia. But we drove them to extinction. Loss of habitat. Poaching. Illegal ivory trade. There are many reasons, none of them acceptable.”

Jack points to the animal in the enclosure. “Ollie is the very last elephant. We raised him in captivity, but elephants do not do well in captivity. All other members of his breed died off, leaving only him. When Ollie dies, there won’t be any elephants left,” Jack tells the children.

While his classmates move on to the bear enclosure, Ethan remains in place. Ollie stares at him with sorrowful eyes. All alone. The only one left of his species.

Ethan notices something on the elephant’s face, just below an enormous flappy ear. A whitish area, set against the gray. It looks like—yes, it’s a star! A five-pointed star, a birthmark on Ollie’s hide.

“Amazing!” he says aloud.

He takes one last look at the elephant and runs to join his classmates.


*-*-*


Thirty years later

 

Ethan has been looking forward to this assignment for some time. This is the kind of project he’s good at. Every article he writes is a challenge, but he has no doubt the piece he’s working on will be just what his editor asked for.

He parks and hurries to the building’s entrance. A security guard checks his name against the morning’s expected arrivals. Ethan puts down his laptop case and walks through the metal detector.

“Mr. Matheson is expecting you,” the guard informs him.

“Welcome to Animals Revisited,” Matheson says, shaking Ethan’s hand. “You’re the science reporter, right? I’ve read some of your articles. Quite good.”

“I specialize in stories about scientific research.”

“You’ve certainly come to the right place for that.”

“I’m here to learn,” Ethan says. “Can I record our conversation?”

“Sure, everything I tell you is on the record. Animals Revisited is a research lab exploring ways to bring back extinct species. We sequence their genomes, edit DNA of a close living relative to match it. Then we endeavor to make an embryo with the revised genome and implant it in a surrogate mother.”

“And, you succeeded?”

“You’re aware of the repeated failures with mammoths. That’s because we never had viable tissue to work with. Not so with elephants, which went extinct barely three decades ago. We perfected the process and achieved the desired results. We successfully brought the elephant back to life!”

Matheson leads Ethan to the lab’s nursery and brings him to a small cage. An animal crib and inside, a newborn elephant.

Ethan snaps pictures and writes down his first impressions of the infant pachyderm. He walks around the cage, observing the gray calf from all sides. Not yet steady on its feet. Thin strands of black hair. Wide curious eyes. Just under one of the creature’s flappy ears, he spots a whitish area. A noticeable birthmark on its textured wrinkled skin. A shape with five points. A star.

“Amazing!” he says.

# # #

Originally published on Written Tales.

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

"The Table at the Back of the Coffee Shop" - short story

 

Up and about when all is quiet, Kevin puts on his sports clothes and running shoes and races through the park. It doesn’t matter if there is light rain, or if the temperature has dropped below freezing, the run invigorates him, sets him right for the day.

The early train is half empty, and Kevin takes his usual seat in the third car. He picks up the self-help book he is reading. As the train speeds toward the city, Kevin studies the daily habits of successful people.

Kevin emerges from the station and bounds across the street, steps ahead of a passing delivery truck. The barista at the all-night coffee shop greets him by name. He nods and takes his regular table toward the back. This is where he sits every morning, the natural lighting just right. His regular table. He powers up his laptop, and his espresso is ready moments later.

The barista—maybe her name is Nancy, he's not sure—once tried to engage Kevin in conversation, asking him why he worked in the coffee shop. Kevin gave her the briefest of replies, telling her he had long ago vowed to stay clear of office politics, and that he had a shaky internet connection at home.

What Kevin didn’t tell her was that he had recently been fired from his job at a brokerage firm. Insider trading, they said, but it wasn’t exactly true. He also didn’t tell the barista that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. She had yet to remove her things from the apartment they had shared. Getting into the city each day and working in the coffee shop—this was the escape he needed. This was his life now.

Kevin sits at his regular table and sips his coffee. He gets busying buying securities and stocks, then selling them later, hoping to turn a profit. For Kevin, the coffee shop is a welcome refuge when everything in his life has gone wrong. The relaxed ambience of the place makes him forget, temporarily, the loss of a job, and the girlfriend who walked out on him. Listening to mood music streaming through his AirPods, he filters out the surrounding noise and tunes out of his troubles. The morning's caffeine intake keeps him alert, keeps him on course. He reviews his positions and closes profitable deals where he can, hoping to come out ahead at the end of the market day.

On the train home, Kevin reads a chapter of his self-help book. When he arrives at his apartment, he sets his laptop on the table and skims through emails. A dinner of leftover Chinese takeout awaits him. He walks around the boxes left by his ex-girlfriend, opens a beer, and falls asleep while watching a streaming crime series.

Five days a week, Kevin travels to the city and sits at the coffee shop for a full day of day trading. Kevin wonders whether it's all worth it. No colleagues to work with, no girlfriend waiting for him when he returns home. There must be more to life than this.

It's Friday morning, the last day of the workweek. When Kevin arrives at the coffee shop, someone is sitting at his usual table. The table in the back, by the window. His table. A woman with her head down is typing on her laptop. Kevin looks around at the many available tables. He could sit anywhere, but this is where the natural lighting is best. The barista has a wry smile on her face as she prepares his espresso. Kevin turns to the woman.

“Excuse me. This is my table.”

The woman looks up, stares at Kevin, and then breaks into tears. He steps back, not understanding what he’s done to offend her. He raises his hands, surrendering the table, but doesn’t move away. He won't be able to get any work done sitting near a crying woman.

“Is something wrong?” He realizes how stupid this sounds because, obviously, something is very wrong.

Saturday, May 13, 2023

Review of 'Demon Copperhead' by Barbara Kingsolver

This week Barbara Kingsolver won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her novel Demon Copperhead. This week I finished reading Demon Copperhead. Just because a book wins the Pulitzer doesn't mean you'll enjoy it.

I have read Pulitzer Prize winners in the past and some of them I enjoyed immensely, such as Less by Andrew Sean Greer (2018 winner); All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr (2015); and The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (2014).

On the other hand, I considered The Overstory by Richard Powers (2019) to be seriously overrated, excessively long, and complicated by esoteric words that would baffle a Scrabble player.

What didn't I like about Demon Copperhead? The novel is described as a 'masterful recasting" of David Copperfield. Apologies to Charles Dickens—I didn't read that classic. In this case, I can't make any sort of comparison.

Demon Copperhead is the coming-of-age story of an Appalachian boy struggling with poverty and, as he grows up, opioid addiction. The Pulitzer Prize committee said that the protagonist Demon Copperhead has a "wise, unwavering voice" but I found that voice annoying. And longwinded. And often veering off course in an endless stream of consciousness that was difficult for me, as a reader, to endure.

Life is hard when you're going from one uncaring foster home to the next, it's true, but I kept wishing that Demon would get his act together. He never did.

Especially irritating to me was the language of the book. I'm sure that the author got it just right—this is the way Virginian rednecks speak and act—but I found the book too Appalachian for me, for lack of a better way to describe it.

The book is long and midway, I began to long for it to end. I'll leave it for the reader to determine whether it's a happy ending or not. Maybe the novel deserves the prestigious literary prize it won, but I won't be one of its readers recommending it.

Barbara Kingsolver is an American novelist, essayist and poet. She was raised in rural Kentucky and lived briefly in the Congo in her early childhood. Her widely known works include The Poisonwood Bible, the tale of a missionary family in the Congo, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, a non-fiction account of her family's attempts to eat locally.


Related stories:

Review of "Less" by Andrew Sean Greer

Review of 'The Overstory' by Richard Powers 



Tuesday, May 9, 2023

Review of 'Professor Schiff's Guilt' by Agur Schiff

The protagonist of this novel does not deny that his "grandfather's grandfather's grandfather was a slave trader". Professor Schiff admits this freely to the members of the Special Tribunal convened in a fictitious African nation to judge whether he is guilty under the newly legislated Law for Adjudicating Slave Traders and their Accomplices, Heirs, and Beneficiaries. Schiff is the "first person officially suspected of committing crimes" under this law. He has no doubts that the tribunal will maintain its judicial objectivity and trusts it to judge him fairly.

In the novel Professor Schiff's Guilt by Agur Schiff, translated by Jessica Cohen (New Vessel Press, May 2023), the 63-year-old professor first learns about this small African coastal country after reading a marginal item in a newspaper detailing the discovery of the remnants of a nineteenth-century merchant ship. The Esperanza was once owned by his ancestor, Klonimus Zelig Schiff. The professor saw in his family's connection to that ship and its role in the African slave trade, the subject of his next book.

But the professor's road to Africa began even before he read that newspaper article. When he fails to collect a debt from a dubious attorney at home in Tel Aviv, he is offered instead the services of Mrs. Lucile Tetteh-Ofosu, an African migrant worker, as a personal assistant. "Are you offering me a human being instead of the money you and your friends owe me?" he asks incredulously. Signing a legal document entitles Schiff to "make any use of Lucile as he shall deem desirable in his sole discretion," in effect making her his modern-day slave.

These two plotlines play out in parallel—the professor on trial for his slave-trading ancestor's misdeeds, and his fascination with the mysterious African woman who he employs to clean his house. The African official assigned to Schiff's case declares him a racist, claiming that his testimonies and writings show that he considers Africans to be inferior. Is the professor guilty of this charge, or is he honest in his claim that he loves the African nation, its people and its culture?

"You love us just as a master loves his slave," the investigator tells him.

This well-written and compelling satirical novel makes us question how our colonial ancestors related to the African continent and how Israelis today relate to the migrant workers we employ in minimum-wage menial jobs on the streets of Tel Aviv. In this, maybe we share the professor's guilt.

Agur Schiff has worked as a filmmaker, started writing fiction in the early 1990s, and has published two short story collections and six novels. Professor emeritus at the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem, he has been awarded the Israeli Prime Minister’s Prize.

Jessica Cohen translates contemporary Israeli prose, poetry, and other creative work. She shared the 2017 Man Booker International Prize with David Grossman, for her translation of A Horse Walks into a Bar, and has translated works by major Israeli writers, including Amos Oz, Etgar Keret, Ronit Matalon and Nir Baram.


Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

Tuesday, May 2, 2023

Hiking in Israel: Nahal Prat (in pictures)

Nahal Prat, commonly known as Wadi Qelt, is a stream in a Judean Desert ravine not far from Jerusalem. The stream, with its spring and natural pools, is a popular destination not only for hikers, but also for families eager to cool off in the easily accessible pools. Especially picturesque is St. George Monastery, an active cliff-hanging complex inhabited by Greek Orthodox monks.

Less accessible, and certainly more challenging, is the central part of the stream. As part of a group of 16 hikers, I made the steep descent from Kfar Adumim (knowing that there would be a steep ascent at the end of our circuitous route). This area of the stream is wild, although the paths are well-marked and there are metal rungs set in the rocks in sections where the path was narrow or climbing was needed. At a few spots we needed to cross the stream, jumping carefully from rock to rock. And there was one pool for those willing to take the plunge.


While the weather was cool making our desert hike quite comfortable, at one point we were surprised by an unseasonable downpour. This made parts of the hike a bit dangerous, not because of the fear of flash floods but because the rocks were very slippery.

Climbing the hill back up to Kfar Adumim after a 7.5 kilometer hike, I looked down at the ravine and said to myself that I will gladly come back for another enjoyable hike in Nahal Prat.



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