Part 13 (2/2)

”Cinderers”

Nir Yaniv.

Nir Yaniv is an Israeli writer, editor and musician. His first short story collection, Ktov Ke'shed Mi'shachat (Write Like a Devil), came out in 2006, and he is co-author (with the editor of this book) of a short novel, The Tel Aviv Dossier. He served as editor of the Israeli SF Society's website and later edited the magazine Chalomot Be'aspamia. He lives in Tel Aviv.

They say you should always start small. Burn a tree, perhaps: a parked car, road signs, a traffic light. Not us. We, for starters, burned Mr Kalmanson's flat--including two fine leather chairs, forks and knives (two dozen pairs), a life-sized (ugly) wooden horse, and Mr Kalmanson himself, of course.

”Oy,” said Huey, ”add a little six kilohertz, and I can't hear the bedroom.”

I heard the bedroom just fine, and also the kitchen, the living room, and the toilets. Mics and earphones of the highest quality, and a stills camera--black and white, of course. Louie gave it some more six K, and exactly then Kalmanson's stupid wife chose to take her leave of this world with a deafening cry.

”s.h.i.+t!” roared Huey and tore away the earphones.

”I thought she'd scream higher,” said Louie. ”It sounded like, I don't know, B-flat?”

”Almost two K with annoying overtones. I hope we can take it out in the editing.”

”We'll see,” said Louie, and Huey put on the earphones again. In the flat the shuddering bodies fell still, as did one of the mics in the kitchen, burnt despite its thermal casing. Annoying, but what can you do? The fire began to die as the gas filling the house was consumed. One kilometre north, I saw the lights of the fire engine turning in desperation. Nails on the road. The firemen are our brothers, but the siren would ruin our recording.

Later, equipped with backpacks, sleeping bags, a grenade launcher, and much good will, we lay in wait under cover of a giant Sony billboard by the highway, announcing that ”This Is No Television--It Is Reality.” Drexler's tanker leaves Ashdod at one hundred kilometres per hour toward Haifa. Half an hour later, Schwartz's truck exits Chedera toward Tel Aviv at ninety kilometres per hour. Drexler carries cooking gas, and Schwartz, detergents. When and where will they meet? And how?

Boom.

Huey didn't let me film in 8mm. Noise. In my opinion there is nothing like the grainy look of real film, but sometimes you have to make allowances. I used high-resolution video, and Dewey had to take care of the rest of the sound equipment by himself. A clean recording, aside from the part where the burning Schwartz, flying out of the truck's window, landed on one of the mics and crashed it. Nu, n.o.body's perfect.

Louie disappeared in the middle of dinner. One moment he was there, absentmindedly playing with his broccoli whilst examining the flamethrower for tomorrow's job, and the next his plate was orphaned.

”Do you think he'd mind if I ate it?” asked Dewey.

”Eat,” I said. ”It's good for you.” I never understood those vegetarians. I pa.s.sed him the plate.

”Say,” said Dewey with his mouth full, ”doesn't it strike you as odd...”

”What?”

”That he, like, disappeared?”

”Who?”

”What do you mean who? Where's your brain?”

”Listen,” I said, ”Let's not play games. If you want to ask me something, be specific.”

Dewey knows me, and knows there is no point in arguing.

”Louie. Disappeared. Don't you think something here doesn't add up?”

I thought about it. ”No,” I said. ”He probably took a break. He'll be back soon.”

”Look,” said Dewey. ”I wouldn't be surprised if he disappeared any other time, but in the middle of dinner?”

You could say that for Dewey--occasionally there was something to his twisted logic.

”There is something to your twisted logic,” I said, ”but I don't think we can do anything about it.”

”He's not right,” said Dewey.

”Don't exaggerate,” I said. ”He did a nice job with the trucks today. Doing is everything, the rest is nothing.”

”No--yes--that is, sure. That's not what I meant.”

”Don't be a pain,” I said. ”Why don't you finish here instead?”

And I went.

When I came back I found Louie leaning over building plans and writing comments in a little notebook. Huey was looking over his shoulder. ”What's that?” I asked.

”The lift shaft for tomorrow. I'm just working out how much of Eve we need.

”Eve?”

”Extreme Velocity Explosives,” said Huey.

”That's right,” said Louie. ”EVE.”

”Oh,” I said, and looked around. Huey wasn't there. ”You know,” I said, ”doesn't it strike you as odd...”

”What?”

”That he, like, disappeared?”

”Listen,” said a voice.

”Who?” said Louie.

”What do you mean who? Where's your brain?”

”Listen,” said Louie, ”Let's not play games. If you want to ask me something, be specific.”

I know him, and I know there is no point arguing.

”Huey. Disappeared. Don't you think something here doesn't add up?”

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