Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 77 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.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
Martin got sick of walking up and down the deserted corridor, and went to his room. He needed to get whoever was watching the cameras used to the idea that there were strange behaviors in this room. Maybe he’d get under the blanket now and take something with him, so that at a later time, he’d be able to hide with his suitcase and his phone, without raising too many suspicions.
He walked around the room and opened the door to the bathroom. He walked in, came out, opened the narrow closet behind the door, closed it, opened it again, and took his brush off the top shelf. Good, an excellent item. Now the blanket. In no time he was seated in the middle of the room, with his legs folded under a little mound. He shook himself mightily a few times, making the mound rock back and forth.
Someone knocked on his head. “Hello, are you alright in there, Josef?”
“Not especially,” he announced in a muffled voice from inside. “But I’m trying to find some peace.”
“Peace from what?”
“From my exhausting life in this world.”
It was a rather unnerving remark, especially when said by a schizophrenic person. Martin knew that, and he wasn’t surprised when the blanket was tugged off his head at once. Rob, the bespectacled nurse who had welcomed him at the airport, was studying him with searching eyes.
“I didn’t mean I’m going to commit suicide,” Martin said, sounding bored, as he tugged the blanket back over his head. “I just want some quiet.”
“What are you holding there?”
Martin stuck his hand out and showed him. “My brush.”
“Why do you need a brush now? Your hair doesn’t look messed up.”
“Don’t worry, there’s no cyanide in it.”
Rob took the brush, apparently to study it from all sides.
“Hey, give it back to me!”
“In one minute. Where’s this brush from?”
“I bought it before I came here.”
“Where?”
“In a store near my house. In Haifa.”
“And why do you need it under the blanket?”
“I like remembering Haifa.”
“Do you miss it sometimes?”
“Yes.” He stuck his hand out of the blanket, and after a moment’s hesitation, the nurse put the brush into his hand. Martin curled himself back up and continued his monotonous rocking.
“What are you doing there?” Rob asked, apparently still too nervous to leave the room.
“I’m…” Martin thought about Yosef, back in Haifa. What would he have answered if he was sitting here himself and rocking back and forth? “I…I’m praying.”
***
“There are Jews here in Charleston, certainly,” Mike said to Michoel as they walked calmly down the middle of the street. Traffic had apparently stopped in their honor, and Michoel saw people standing on the sidewalks and staring at them with a mixture of amusement and disgust. The street was not a main road, but it was rather wide, and Michoel tried to remember if he’d ever visited this city before. Had he ever been in South Carolina?
The two of them were walking with a group that was chanting, “Nature is your best doctor—don’t harm yourself.” Michoel found himself rather amused by the whole situation. He was wearing, like all of them, a thick yellow shirt with the logo of the institution on it, but aside for the logo, which included two large, jagged leaves in a framed circle, there wasn’t a single word that gave away the fact that it was a hospital or a rehabilitation center of any kind. The shirts were ugly. They were strangely wide and unfitted; no matter how you looked at them, they were totally unimpressive. Michoel had no idea why the Skulholts chose to promote their method in such an unattractive way.
With the screamers drowning them out, Michoel and Mike allowed themselves to talk. “Jews came here a long time ago,” Mike continued, rubbing his shoulder, which had been banged by an overactive patient who had run past him. “The last time we went out to the city, they let me visit the oldest Orthodox synagogue in the southern United States, which is here. It’s called Brith Shalom Beth Israel. It was established in the first half of the nineteenth century, if I’m not mistaken.”
Michoel shook his head. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of it. I was born on the East Coast of America, in New York, but I have traveled around a lot, and still I don’t remember hearing anything about this shul. Is it Ashkenazic?”
“Yes.”
The muscles in Michoel’s hands stiffened. “Do you think they’ll let me pop in there to daven?”
Mike hesitated. “I doubt it. They keep an eye on the newbies, and on you especially.” He looked at the back of the doctor, who was walking at the front of the group. Skulholt didn’t even turn around once to make sure everyone was chanting in unison as expected.
“Why is that?”
Mike frowned. “I really don’t know.”
“The truth is…” Michoel lowered his tone to a whisper. “I could have escaped by now. Why did I need the whole mess with Yosef…?”
“The fake Yosef.” Only Mike’s lips were moving; they were both being very cautious. “But I don’t think you could have escaped. There is more surveillance here than you think.”
Perl ignored Mike’s first few words. “Really? I see only three staff members here.”
“And they aren’t marching next to us. And we’re still whispering like two rabbits…because it’s clear to you that there are enough people here who will be loyal enough to the Skulholts’ methods to run after you.”
“But the minute I manage to get to some sane civilian and ask for help, and people on the outside get involved, won’t it help?”
“Trust the people here to be prepared for such actions,” Mike said bitterly. “I already told you: within seconds, Dr. Jerry will be able to get the people to side with him, not you. Did you see what we look like in these shirts? Not like people who arouse much trust.”
“And this is how they think they can attract new patients?”
“Yes. Although among the Charleston locals, they don’t have much of a chance, after the ‘second Kristallnacht’ that they caused here half a year ago… No one will forget the horrific images of the shattered lobby at the Caroline Hotel, or of the bloody face of that policeman who became the hero of the night, because he was the one who was able to stop them.” He sighed. “They draw their ‘clients’ from high schools filled with frustrated youths, like me, for example, or from certain hospitals. Hey, we just happen to be talking about him, and there he is!”
“Who?”
“Ernie, the guy who goes around to hospitals and looks for suitable people…”
“Where is he?”
“Turn quietly to your left, because he’s an edgy creature. I don’t think he’s done yet with the trial from that night, but maybe he was able to prove that he didn’t actually do anything; that it was the people who suddenly lost control of themselves. That’s what they were saying then.”
“How do you know about this trial and everything?” Michoel strained his eyes, not able to decide which of the many figures walking to his left was the one Mike was referring to. “They told you all the details?”
“No, I was still on the outside then.” Mike smiled bitterly. “And I avidly read every piece of news about the trial. I admired them so much back then… Disgusting people, they all turned out to be, one by one. Believe me.”
“Is this all because they don’t let you meet your sister?”
“No, it’s all because I realized that they are not interested in me one iota; it’s all about them and their money. So, did you see him?”
“I can’t tell which person you’re talking about.”
“The tall, blond guy walking on the edge of the group. He’s also wearing a yellow shirt, like the rest of us. Dr. Skulholt is ignoring him; he probably doesn’t want to show in public that they have a close connection. There, the one who the journalist is coming over to now. They probably want to interview him about the trial and the whole mess.”
Michoel observed the tall man barking at the journalist: “I don’t answer questions. No!”
He sensed that he could not stand him, although he had no idea why. He didn’t trust Dr. Jerry and his suspicious intentions either, but he didn’t feel such a tremendous repulsion toward him like he did with this Ernie. The other patients walking around in the hospital were also more or less okay, and he even felt somewhat friendly toward most of them. But this man…
It wasn’t just a dislike. Michoel felt that if he would be the journalist standing there now, he would have literally attacked the tall, blond young man.
His hands balled into fists, and he felt his face reddening. He felt something stronger than himself at play. Maybe something was happening in his brain. Maybe something had happened, and that was the problem. He had the most intense desire to punch the guy, to shake him and shout at him. But…violence? Him, Michoel Perl? What was with him?!
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “I hate him!” he suddenly said, unable to completely control his vocal chords. Two of the men marching in front of him turned around and gaped at him in surprise, but he paid them no heed. “I hate him—do you hear me, Yosef?!”
“I’m not Yosef,” someone said at his side. “I’m Mike. Who do you hate?”
“That man! He…he…” Michoel couldn’t think straight. Something was happening to him. He felt blinded. What was that he was seeing—headlights of a bus? Had there been a collision? Was this the accident the psychiatrist had told him about? Maybe a sharp metal object had just struck him in the head? Who was doing this to him? Mike? Yosef who wasn’t Yosef?
He couldn’t fall apart now. People could not hear that he wanted to escape and that the Canadian youth who had come and said that he was Yosef had really come to rescue him. He had to keep the secrets. But…ow, the metal hurt! Yes, in the back of his head!
“I can’t… No…!” he groaned quietly. He felt someone gently grasping his arm and trying to whisper something to him. The world spun for a moment, with flashes of color. It stopped suddenly and then began to spin again. He sighed and then, without warning, crumpled down onto the road, where he had been standing a moment earlier. Everything went black. Through the blackness, he could hear screaming: “Help! Perl collapsed! Move aside—don’t trample him! Help!”
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