Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 13 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.
Yang Yang was a tall, fat Chinaman carrying a gray suitcase.
“No, no.” He tightened his grip on the handle and shook his head vigorously when Shimmy pointed to the chairs upholstered in a horrible red fabric in the corner of the lobby. “Where?”
“In the message you sent me, you knew a very good English,” Shimmy said aggressively.
The man genuinely seemed not to understand. He just nodded when he heard the word “English” and pointed to his suitcase. “English,” he said, as if confirming the word.
“We’re going to need a translator, I see,” Shimmy said, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the red chairs.
“Translator,” Yang Yang echoed, and pointed again to his gray suitcase.
“So you want us to go to the room upstairs?”
The man blinked rapidly, as if trying to understand.
“It was just a test to see if you’d point to your suitcase and say ‘upstairs’ or ‘want.’ In any case, even if you understand me and are just pretending not to, I am only willing to meet with you here, in the presence of other people.” And without adding a word, he walked over to the chairs.
Yang Yang stood in his place for a moment, and then followed. He studied the corner, examining a stone pillar that somewhat blocked the view of visitors and the reception desk, and positioned his suitcase on the floor near it. Without a word, he leaned over to it, opened it, and took out—
A dead bat?
“We know each other already,” Shimmy said, looking at the creature with repulsion. Now, from up close, he was able to see clearly that it wasn’t a living creature, but rather a sophisticated device. Something about the feet, the eyes, and the structure of the head made it obvious.
The Chinaman ignored him. He fiddled with the limp bat for a few moments and then raised his eyes to Shimmy.
“I met him already,” Shimmy repeated, and a metallic voice suddenly emerged from the pieces of plastic and metal, and said a short sentence in Chinese. Yang Yang listened and replied in Chinese. A few seconds later, the metallic voice spoke again, this time in perfect English: “It’s not that one. This is an identical copy from the production line.”
“It translates?” Shimmy asked.
The creature immediately recited something back in Chinese, probably his question. Yang Yang replied to it, and a few moments later, the answer came in English: “Yes, into forty languages.”
“I’ve heard a lot about devices that translate conversations.”
“You only heard about them?” Yang Yang had piercing eyes, whose impression did not dull even when his sentences went through the bat. “I would want to hear about your experience in the field.”
“My experience? With your robotic bat? Horrible.”
“It’s a very sophisticated device, you know,” Yang Yang said. “It translates, records, photographs, collects data, processes it, reaches conclusions, identifies objects…”
“And throws them at people,” Shimmy said. “Did the friend of this creature take pictures of itself throwing pieces of cookie at me?”
“I really want to hear about your experience in the robotics field.”
“Again about my experience? What kind of nonsense is this?”
“Yes, isn’t that why you came to China?”
“Because of the doll we are producing, yes. But what does that have to do with—?”
Yang Yang cut him off scornfully. “Your Tankum really doesn’t interest me.” The bat, apparently, managed just fine with sentence fragments, and translated perfectly: It started Shimmy’s sentence in English, and in exactly the same tone, continued Yang Yang’s response, in English. “It’s just an output device.”
“A what device?”
“Output. It simply spits back what you put into it.”
“And your bat?”
“It’s much more than that. But let’s stop playing innocent, and tell me about your part in the bug that got into it.”
“My part?”
“Yes. You have a special device that is designed to scramble robotic radar systems, or what?”
“What?”
“Exactly what I said. Now, who sent you?” Yang/the bat said.
“Sent me? Or maybe you sent the bat to me?” Shimmy felt his ire rising. “Why, where do you know about Tankum from, huh?”
“We know, we know,” the man said. “But that doesn’t interest us anymore, not after we saw the photograph of the contract. Christopher sent it to me, and I realized that it’s not anything to be concerned about.”
“Christopher? Your bats have names?”
Yang Yang just stared at him without answering.
“And you’re accusing me of something? Why? Did I go into your room in a hotel, open your suitcase, and photograph contracts? Or did I send a disgusting creature to chase you day and night? You Chinese people really like industrial spying and counterfeiting brand names—everyone knows that.”
“Stop saying ‘you Chinese.’ It’s not polite at all,” the bat, still in the suitcase, chided, and Shimmy suddenly understood who was responsible for the note in English that was given to him at the reception desk. And although the one who was officially dictating the statements was Yang Yang, the sense that the talking bat conveyed was not at all pleasant.
“And you can play innocent and say that we spied on you, but we both know that in fact, the power was in your hands the whole time.”
“What?”
“Stop saying ‘what, what.’ You know the truth better than I do, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d reveal it to me.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “And if you work with us, we’ll pay you very well. In cash.”
***
My grandson’s little eyes are closed as I lean over his elegant wooden cradle. His mother is emitting little sobs into her cupped hands as I rub the baby’s narrow shoulders, his hands, and slowly, slide my fingers over his tiny legs.
“Right that one is crooked?” Ruchi asks in a nasal tone from behind her hands.
“It’s not,” I respond, and my right hand gently catches the baby’s left leg. He’s wearing a gray and blue stretchy, and I rub the fabric over his right leg, then the left one, and then the right one again.
Is the right leg not turned a bit too far to the side?
Ruchi studies me. I notice. So I quickly take my hands away and then start again: I stroke the baby’s head carefully and then move downward. Yudi is standing next to me, looking at me tensely, as if I’m some professor from whom everyone is waiting anxiously to hear a diagnosis.
Expectation is so hard.
And what happens when there are no clear results?
Yudi never received an official diagnosis, not from the minute something began to bother me, when he was almost three, to this day. There were mountains of forms, and long sentences that maybe were considered to be definitive. But I didn’t feel that any of them pinpointed the truth, that they told me what Yudi actually had.
Only when he was ten, and we went to an evaluator who was rather insensitive, did I feel that a description of my Yudi was on the mark, painful as it was.
It didn’t mean we now had a medication or hope or any good news. But that was when I was able to start coming to terms with it, and as a result, the hope also began to come, drop by drop.
The evaluator simply called it “being a little off.”
The shadchanim, years later, also called it that. There aren’t many people who are involved in this avodas kodesh, unfortunately, and I have nothing but admiration for those who are. When these people use this term, it’s not due to a lack of sensitivity; to the contrary, all those whom I got to know through working on shidduchim for Yudi were caring, wanting the best possible for us. But because defining the problem is very important in this field, people have to use whichever terms they feel encapsulates the issues best. I understand that. Still, why didn’t anyone speak about the fact that even among those who are “a little off,” there are various levels? Sizes? And differing intensities of pain? And different areas that are affected?
I stood there with the New York-based shadchan after the chuppah. The square hole in the ceiling of the magnificent hall, over the white fabric laid with Swarovski stones, slowly, automatically, closed, and I felt something closing up inside me.
The shadchante was glowing with happiness, holding her phone open in her hand. On the other end was her Israeli sister, with whom she’d worked on Yudi and Ruchi’s shidduch. She’d called her the minute the poignant chuppah music had begun, while we mothers took our places with the glowing candles on either side of Ruchi. The phone was on speaker, and they both gave me warm, effusive brachos.
And I’d only nodded, tears in my eyes; maybe I’d also murmured “amen.”
“She’s very emotional,” the local shadchante had informed her sister. “It’s such a shame you’re not here, Tzippy! You’d wet the floor of the hall with your tears. What a beautiful home we were zocheh to help establish together!”
And I’d thought that if I’d breach, for a moment, that mask of restraint that I’d smeared on myself so carefully, my tears would not only wet the floor of the hall, they would also flow down the marble steps in waves, like a waterfall. And no, not only from emotion and excitement.
My small grandson’s face is clear of any scratches. He’s smooth and beautiful and delicate, and I daven fervently that he is the same on the inside too. And yet, his mother is sitting near me and weeping. And I run my fingers over him again and again, knowing that I do feel a slight distortion of the right leg. And although it might really not be such a big deal, I can’t even bring myself to ask about it.
***
So now that you know about my limp, you’ll agree with me that it’s only an external flaw. Here I am sitting in my house and delivering my regular lesson to you. So tell me, dear listeners: Does the fact that my leg is crooked really bother you?
thenextpage-israelbookshop.com 