Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 67 of a new online serial novel, Outside the Bubble, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
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“I know what you want to ask,” Martin said. “The story is that Yosef…I don’t know what was with him that day. He got very scared of the idea that someone would see his picture, but on the other hand, he insisted that he had to renew his passport because his uncle in America needs him. In the end he told me to do the passport with my picture instead of his, and he ran outside.”
“But how did you do it?” Dov said evenly. “Are they so irresponsible there?”
“I don’t know. I came to the desk with Yosef’s documents, but none of them had an updated picture. His last passport is from when he was eight years old. I gave them my picture, and that’s what happened…”
Dov and Hinda were quiet. “You realize that this passport is useless, in any case,” Dov said, his voice sounding distant. “And without going into the details of this strange story, in your place, I really wouldn’t have done this.”
“I’m sorry.” Martin’s voice was low. “I was in a really tough situation there, and I couldn’t think of any other way to handle it.”
“The question is how we get another passport for Yosef now. It certainly won’t be simple,” Dov said. “And it could get you in trouble as well.”
“Right now Yosef can’t fly anywhere anyway,” Hinda murmured. “With all his concern for Michoel, Yosef is in no condition to help anyone. As it is, I’m not quite sure what kind of help Michoel is expecting from him.”
“In the worst case, we’ll just fly out to him ourselves, and that’s it,” Dov declared. “They’ll have to give us an exact address if they want Yosef to come there, right?”
“Unless they’re clever enough to make up to meet us someplace. That sounds more like the type of thing the managers of this dubious place will do.”
“You refer to them almost the way you’d speak about criminals!”
“Well, don’t you get the impression that that’s really what they are?”
“Maybe.” Dov nodded, and then turned back to Martin, as if remembering that this part of the discussion was unconnected to him. “Somehow this has turned into a very unpleasant complication,” he said in a tone that made it very clear that the conversation was over for the night. “And I hope it doesn’t pose any obstacle for you going forward.”
Martin usually had a pretty good sense of when people wanted him out of the way, but right now, that sense seemed numbed. “I wanted to ask you something,” he said, with a typical youthful, yet tactless, insistence.
“Yes?” Dov maintained the requisite coolness in his voice, but didn’t realize that his tone had risen an octave or two. Throughout this entire saga, they had tried so hard to support this kid! But now, Martin’s seeming indifference in the face of the illegal mess he had just created could drive even a normally tranquil elephant out of its mind.
“I have a problem going back to Canada, as I told you. I’m in trouble there with a few people…”
“So you said you’d fly to America.”
“Right. But I also have a few things to take care of in Canada. I need to visit my grandma’s grave, for example, and to see what happened to the stuff I left there…”
Dov and Hinda exchanged a glance. “You don’t mean to ask us to let you use this passport, do you? Because if that is what you are going to ask, you’ll understand if we suspect that you planned out this whole strange story, right?”
Martin shrugged. “You can ask Yosef himself about it,” he said, and got up.
Dov stood up as well. “And you’ll also understand if I do not accept everything he says as particularly reliable, right?”
“Fine,” Martin said, retreating toward the door. “I’m…I’m sorry again about the mess. Just know that it wasn’t from me, really. It all came from him.”
Dov was quiet. He also didn’t escort Martin to the door. Hinda stayed silent, too, her eyes fixed on the window and the lights from the port dotting the dark night.
Martin put his hand on the doorknob. “I have just one suggestion,” he said, looking directly at Dov. “If you want, before I go to Canada, I’m ready to travel as Yosef to check what is doing with your uncle. If he really is in distress, I can try to get him out of there.” His eyes continued studying Dov, from his velvet black yarmulke to his shoes. “Then I’ll go to Sudbury, in Canada, and from there again to America, and then I’ll send you the passport in the mail, and I’ll go back to using my own identity.”
“We don’t believe you,” Dov snapped sharply. “You are way too manipulative for us to give you this passport, and we won’t take the chance that you’ll do what you want under our son’s name.”
“I thought you trusted me. Even after Kornblit’s visit, when he said I’m a trouble maker, you sounded much more…um…trusting of me.” Martin sounded insulted, not unlike a seven-year-old whose teacher had scolded him in front of the whole class, and used a bunch of derogatory words in the process.
“Either I made a mistake then, or I’m making a mistake now,” Dov replied, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on Martin. “In Judaism there is a concept of kabdeihu v’chashdeihu—‘respect him and suspect him.’ For a long time, I’ve been keeping to the first part of the expression, but now you’ve made me remember the second half.”
***
Michoel pedaled the exercise bike heavily, laughing at his own poor fitness skills. It was alright; even with the gaps in his memory, he was certain that he’d never invested any time or energy into building up his muscles. Not when he was young, and not in later years either. Thinking about “later years” always made him uneasy, because his age kept confusing him. Sometimes, he was sure he wasn’t a day over forty, but sometimes he was convinced he’d celebrated far more birthdays than that.
Now it made no difference anymore. Yosef would come, they would get out of this place, and he’d be free to work on filling all those holes in his memory.
The gym instructor approached him. “Hi, Mr. Perl,” he said, in a heavy Southern accent. “How about trying to pick up speed?”
“I can try,” Michoel promised, and tried to pedal quicker. Someone came into the gym just then and made a beeline for the bike next to his. He climbed up, set the electronic speedometer, and began to pedal.
“Good morning, Mike,” Michoel greeted him breathlessly.
“Good morning to you,” the teen replied. “How is your nephew?”
“I hope he’s coming soon.” Michoel’s red face suddenly lit up. “His mother said that she was getting his medical files together, and she’d send them to me.”
“And you really mean it?”
“Mean what?” Michoel’s legs stopped moving.
“Do you really think they’ll be able to cure him here?”
“Why not?” Michoel spoke cautiously, and he became even more cautious when he saw the instructor eyeing him from the other side of the room, probably because the bike had stopped moving. He started pedaling again.
“Good,” Mike said. “It’s better they don’t realize we’re talking.”
“Didn’t you want them to heal your sister here?”
“Well, they’ve been successful with anorexia,” Mike said. “I’m not the first one to recover. Or almost recover.”
“You’re still very thin.”
“That’s fine.” Mike waved his hand dismissively. “But schizophrenia?”
“You said there are a few people here who have it, and they’ve improved.”
“True, they look more stable. But I get the impression that they are taking medication, heavy medication, if you know what I mean.” He was quiet as he pedaled briskly.
Michoel continued pedaling at half Mike’s speed, looking at the large square clock that faced them. The blue digital numbers were moving steadily, and he waited for the hour to be up. The gym instructor threw the occasional comment to him about his slow pace, and the fact that maybe he should try other exercises, but Michoel sufficed with a nod and ignored him.
Mike stopped before Michoel did. His legs slowed until the pedals fell silent. “Now I think,” he said, as he reset the digital screen, “that I don’t know how much I built on the fact that they’ll cure my sister, as much as the fact that I simply miss her.”
“So should I take you in my suitcase when I try to escape?”
“Are you really planning to try an escape?”
“I don’t know,” Michoel said, angry at himself for having blurted that out. “Not exactly escape. I want them to first cure my nephew. Then, at one point, I’ll go over and tell them I want to leave.”
Mike was already standing on the rubberized floor. “Good luck,” he said, and Michoel didn’t know if he was being cynical or serious.
“Can I use your phone later on, to see how my nephew is doing?”
“Fine,” Mike said as he walked off.
They met at supper, when Rob brought the regular bag of products he bought for them in the nearby Jewish community. They came into the dining room after most of the other patients had already finished eating. Michoel hardly knew anyone here besides Mike.
They ate quickly and quietly, and when they finished, they packed up whatever was left so they could have it tomorrow. Mike shook out the tablecloth, folded it, and put it on the shelf. Michoel stood at the door, waiting for him. “Oh, the phone…” Mike said uneasily when he joined him. “I don’t want them to see it. Let’s go downstairs.”
“Are you one of the only ones here who has a private phone?”
“Yes.”
“Why did they let you have it?”
“I don’t know; it wasn’t a question. I signed a form when I came stating that I’m not bringing in a smartphone, and that was it.”
“So why don’t any of the others get to have a phone?”
“Well, plenty of the patients don’t want a phone, because they believe that the connection with the outside world is harmful for them. And the Skulholts are more than happy about that, because they don’t trust that patients won’t give out needless information.”
“Like me,” Michoel said, as he took the phone.
***
“Oh, hi, Michoel…” his niece sounded a bit addled when she picked up. “Listen, we have a big problem with Yosef’s passport. I’m afraid he might not be able to come.” “Please don’t tell me that. No, Hinda, no!” For the first time in his life, Michoel felt what it was like to have his knees tremble. And in order not to fall, he sat down on the grass right where he had been standing.
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