Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 3 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
The wrinkle-faced Chinaman, who was happy to partake of the Osem cookies that Shimmy had placed on the table, seemed a bit detached. He was largely engrossed in his thoughts, and more or less looked only at the cookies that he was slowly consuming, as he laconically answered the translated questions that Shio Ching was asking in an attempt to mediate between the two sides.
“It won’t work out too expensive for you,” Ching translated patiently to Shimmy. “Only seventeen hundred dollars for all the shirts. Do you know how much you can charge for them in Israel?”
The old Chinese man suddenly nodded, as if he’d understood the English, and Shimmy felt distinctly uneasy.
“You know English?” he asked the man directly, and the man gaped at him for a moment, before going back to chewing on cookie number eight or nine.
“Him? No, of course not,” the interpreter said. “But he knows that I told you what he said before that. He has lots of happy clients, Simmy.”
“I don’t know…” Shimmy rubbed his forehead with his palm. “To invest another seventeen hundred dollars right now is too much for me.”
“You borrowed money from your father, didn’t you? I heard you talking last night. He agreed to give you three thousand dollars.”
“I borrowed money for the ticket for Sunday, so that I can go back to Israel.” Shimmy felt a rising anger. “There, I can talk privately on the phone.”
“So what should I tell him?” Shio Ching was hardly offended by the barb.
“That right now I’m not interested, and if I change my mind, I’ll be in touch with him. Oh, and that I thank him for making the effort to come here to the hotel.”
Shio Ching repeated the words in Chinese. The man sitting at the round table in the hotel didn’t respond at first. He just continued calmly chewing cookies. Then he stood up imperiously, proffered his hand for a shake, and without another word, left the room.
“He didn’t say anything to you?” Shimmy asked in surprise.
“What should he say? He heard you, and that’s it. If you want to do business with him, we’ll call him and make up a time to sign a contract.”
“Right now, I don’t think so. I’m going back to Israel on Sunday evening, and maybe I’ll discuss it with Gedalia once I’m there. If he says it’s very worthwhile, we’ll contact the shirt manufacturer next time I come here.”
Shio left. Shimmy davened Ma’ariv and put together a supper of sorts for himself. He wasn’t surprised to find that he didn’t have much appetite to eat the same dried and preserved foods for the fourth day in a row, and his meager appetite disappeared completely when he noticed a huge, disgusting insect slowly climbing up the glass windowpane in his room.
He got up to open the window, happy that this was even possible, and then was even happier to see that the insect was not even waiting for any dramatic efforts to banish it. It simply spread its translucent wings and flew out.
But a second later, Shimmy’s eyes grew round as a dark gray shadow approached in rapid flight from the outside, toward his open window, and flew right into his room.
Apparently, there were things even more disgusting than insects, and a bat with beaded eyes looking right at you from a very short distance was one of them. Shimmy grabbed the nearest towel and began swatting at the bat.
Immediately, the guest swooped gracelessly down to the round table. It grabbed one of the last cookies that were left on the plastic plate, and hurried with its booty to the high ceiling, where it hung upside down from the light fixture and began to turn the cookie over.
“What is this—the shirt manufacturer died of overeating, and you are his gilgul?” Shimmy asked through gritted teeth as he waved the towel around. But instead of fleeing, the bat abandoned the light fixture and now flew directly toward Shimmy, who jumped aside with a panicked yell. Not that he was afraid of bats, but it was definitely unpleasant to have one fly right into your face. And besides—a bat, China…who knew if it didn’t have corona or something!
The bat looked healthy as an ox as it made its way to the ceiling again and calmly focused on the cookie it had carried along with it. To Shimmy’s astonishment, it didn’t eat the cookie; instead, it crumbled it into tiny pieces and began lobbing them at Shimmy! He stood there, openmouthed for a moment, but quickly snapped his mouth shut when the second piece landed on his tongue.
No. This made no sense. He was surely going to wake up any second from this strange nightmare.
But it didn’t look or feel like a dream, certainly not when the dreadful creature did not miss, and with admirable precision, hit him again and again with cookie pieces: on his neck, forehead, mouth and nose. They were just little baked morsels, but when they were being thrown with force, they stung.
A gilgul? A dybbuk?
What did I ever do to someone that he’s coming to take revenge from me now? Shimmy wondered as he ran out of the room, locking the door behind him. He took the elevator down to the lobby and described the problem to the desk clerk. He skipped over the part about the crumbs being thrown at him, because he thought it might make him appear paranoid, and just politely asked that someone should please come to his room and banish the invader. Still, the clerk was surprised, and asked Shimmy twice if he was sure it was a bat.
“Bats are usually not found in this area at all,” the clerk claimed.
Shimmy waited at the reception desk to be sure that a worker would come. He did: a short, stout Chinaman with a big pole in his hand. He burst into uncontrollable laughter when he heard the clerk’s description, and Shimmy, who didn’t understand a word of Chinese, felt uncomfortable.
They went up to the ninth floor together, finding the door locked, as Shimmy had left it. But when Shimmy opened the door, he discovered that his room did not look at all like he’d left it. The suitcase was open, and his contract with Sun Jang, the manager of the “motorized toys manufacturer,” or however they said it in Chinese, was tossed next to it on the floor.
And the bat had disappeared.
***
“Abba, it’s just crazy,” Chumi said, as she rearranged the sofa pillows for the fifth time; they were a bit too shabby for her liking. “I can’t believe that Rubinson is coming over here tonight, and this is what our house looks like.”
“He’ll think we invited him on purpose, and that we need his handouts!” her sister Tzippy chimed in.
“We don’t need his handouts, baruch Hashem,” her father said from the doorway. “He knows very well that he’s the one who asked to come. When I told him that Ima works on Motza’ei Shabbos as well, and that I’m not sure it’s a good time for us to host, he offered to bring melaveh malkah along with him, so that we shouldn’t need to trouble ourselves.”
“Good, at least for that,” Chumi muttered. “He usually brings food from good places.”
Their father murmured something.
“And it’s nice that Batya is here, at least. This way, Rubinson will get to see Shmuli. I hope she isn’t going to leave before he comes.”
“I’m not,” Batya said, appearing behind her, holding Shmuli. “I have buses until twelve. Is there something I can help with, Chumi, Tzippy? I have a great recipe for a quick pizza.”
“Forget it, we don’t need to cook anything,” Tzippy muttered, straightening the tablecloth. “My father’s friend is bringing the food with him. That’s the way it almost always is.”
“Fine,” Batya said and quickly scanned the big dining room. It really wasn’t particularly impressive-looking, for sure not to host distinguished people, but apparently the story with her father-in-law’s friend wasn’t as simple as it seemed. From what she had been able to understand, this was the man who was in charge of the telephone shiurim hotline, where her father-in-law occasionally gave shiurim in English on Jewish subjects.
“Doesn’t look great, does it?” Chumi was following her sister-in-law’s gaze. “But there’s nothing we can do. You know, it’s been years since we moved here, but besides for family, he is the only person, friend, whatever, who somehow still stays in touch. Even though I’m really embarrassed every time he comes to visit.” She thought for a moment. “Although my mother still has a few good friends in America. Tzippy and I also tried to keep in touch with a few friends, but it all stopped pretty fast.”
“We were very little when we moved,” Tzippy pointed out.
“So what? I can picture a few girls from there whom I remember to this day. Even if they would have moved to Australia, the other girls would have stayed in touch with them. But what can we do—that’s just our family. We’re gray, nondescript people who others forget about quickly. Does Shimmy still keep in touch with any friends from America? I don’t think so.”
“He has Gedalia,” Batya noted. “But he’s your cousin, so it doesn’t really count.”
“Okay, can we stop moaning about our bitter fate, Chumi?” Tzippy picked up the dustpan from the floor. “Maybe instead, you should sweep one more time, before Abba’s boss gets here.”
“He’s not the boss,” their father corrected them. “There’s only one Boss. Have you heard of Rebbetzin Ruchama Shain’s book?”
The knocks that they could all hear clearly sent the womenfolk scurrying out of sight, and spared them the need to answer.
***
If anyone is listening to me, have you ever thought about who you work for? Who do you serve?
The one who pays you your monthly salary? The one who enables you to buy a new car and a living room couch?
Does the boy who always gets hundreds on his tests unknowingly make you chide your own miserable child who came home with a seventy-four on his paper?
So, who’s your boss?
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