If This Is An Animal 1n3hs

If This Is an Animal

PATRICK M. OHANA

www.lulu.com Morrisville, NC

© Patrick M. Ohana 2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

First published 2018

Generated by Lulu.com in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-387-95388-2

Contents

Prologue

One – Desire

Two – Dismay

Three – Despair

Four – Death

Five – Deliverance

Epilogue

Glossary of New Words

To

Jean Améry

Prologue

If This Is a Jew

You who live unhindered In your enormous homes, You who find hope in domes Full of mirth un-splintered, Deem if this is a Jew: Who lasts against all odds, Who underrates your gods, Who knows and always knew That you will kill for sport. Deem if this can be you: Without remorse or hue, Without disgrace or sort, Without any good cause Like every German was. Reflect upon these words! I commit them in thirds:

Engrave them in your brains, Outwear them like their chains, Incise them on your veins. Remind them to your kin! Or may your home turn shed, May sickness strike your head, May your tribe make you thin!

One

Desire

1

He wanted it. He wanted her. He wanted a car. He wanted a house. He wanted a boat. He wanted to be rich.

He wanted her. He wanted to live forever. He wanted to kill them all.

She wanted a baby.

He didn’t want a baby. Well, not yet. He wanted a divorce. He wanted to be alone.

“You don’t love me anymore.”

“I don’t love you enough.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I would have left you if I didn’t love you anymore.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“We’re all bastards of the world.”

“You’re a real bastard.”

“I’ll have to check my DNA against that of my father’s to be sure of that, but I’m confident enough that I’m my father’s son. Are you?”

“Fuck you!”

“Not anymore. Not for a while now.”

“And whose fault is it?”

“Mine. Yours. The world’s.”

“The world’s?”

“So, it’s your fault too.”

“A morsel at most. The world’s?”

“For holding marriage in such high regards.”

“Go to hell!”

“I’m already there! We’re all in hell. Can’t you see the smoke? Can’t you smell the char? Can’t you taste the ash? Can’t you hear the cries? Can’t you hear the cries?”

2

On several occasions during his tender years, his wonder years, his lustful years, and even when he was much older, though lust hadn’t lost its intensity, his mother had told him on more than one occasion that she should have had a miscarriage. She never used the word abortion. How could she? Her vainly virtuous nature would never have allowed her to use it or go through with it. A seemingly accidental miscarriage, however, seemed forgivable. He would never have fallen in love, made love, or fallen out of love. Do we ever fall out of love? We grow older and become both discriminately and indiscriminately forgetful. She would have done him a favor. Life may not be worth living. We are brought into this world without any say, and as soon as we breathe the outside air and learn of our intrinsic transience, we are doomed to be miserable knowing that we are going to die no matter what we think, say or do. The lucky ones are trained

to cope with the last train, and the unlucky ones don’t need much guidance to wilt and die like the animals that we are. There are also those who invent and cultivate their immortality. Yet memories dim and ultimately disappear, and save our families and familiars, if any, it becomes as if we had never existed. We leave pieces of our pithy presence, but these are only vestiges of what we may have been. Our realness dissolves with our last breath and can no longer be grasped let alone gathered being smaller than a speck of dust. We turn out to be like Vitas’ Autumn Leaf, “broken into thousands of fragments with only emptiness left in our eyes, and as if pricked by needles we wonder where all the beauty disappeared to, torn to shreds by melancholy, erased from memory like an autumn leaf in the wind.”

3

Is beauty real? There’s always something less than adequate: a swallow-theworld mouth, any-which-way-they-can teeth, down-on-their-luck designer breasts, toys-for-us nails, snuff-the-fire feet, and anything else we can easily come up with to dampen our blinded keenness. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Chubby chance! The beholder only sees the beauty. Same thing! Perhaps! Vilain nez ne gâche pas beau visage (ugly nose does not spoil beautiful face).

4

There are undisclosed numbers of females and males who suck cock. It must be reasonably nauseating for most cocksuckers, but pleasure rules and cock-sucking is clearly a must for most so-called individuals.

She held his cock with both hands, not because it was too big, far from it, but because she wanted to impart at least to herself that it was all hers, owing in part

to its prettiness without the hideous prepuce. She put it in her mouth very slowly and began to suck it until he couldn’t contain his pleasure any longer and was made to release a plentiful amount of his semen in her mouth. He didn’t want to fill her mouth with it, but she insisted upon it as if it was a cure for cancer. She did, after all, go ahead and swallow it. A cocksucker is a cocksucker is a cocksucker. It’s almost certain that someone, a physician perhaps, must have contemplated sperm as a cure for something. If only it could cure us from ourselves.

5

He had grown to love the culmination of sexual pleasure, and virtually lived for it. He could fondly his first ejaculation, lying in bed rubbing his clothed erection against the softer pillow he had borrowed from the bed of one of his sisters, and recall an isolated event, seven years earlier, when he couldn’t reach orgasm, but that was rather pleasurable nonetheless. One of his sisters’ friends, Sarah, was staying overnight as she often did on Saturdays. He had just turned six years old, and she decided to be especially good to him, giving him a big wet kiss on his innocent cheek and promising to see him to bed later that night. He loved Sarah and often wished she’d been his sister as well. She also taught him the tongue game. He did as he was told, opening his mouth to show her his tongue, and she did the same, opening her mouth to show him hers. She then proceeded to touch the naive downy tip of his tongue with the readyhoneyed tip of hers. “Isn’t it sweet?” she asked. “Yes,” he replied, very surprised by the fact. “Two tongues touching each other often taste that way,” she explained. Later that night, as promised, Sarah came to his bed to wish him good night. He took out his tongue and she seized it in her mouth, sucking it as if it was the best candy. He told her that he loved her and she kissed him on his eyes and nose. “Will you promise me to keep everything we do secret?” she asked. “I will,” he replied. “And will you promise to wait for me until I grow up and become a man?” he asked. “I will,” she said, smiling, and kissed him on his forehead and mouth. “I wish I could be a man in a blink of an eye,” he said. “You will grow soon enough,” she said, and put her hand on his tiny erection. He put his hand on hers and moved it up and down, perpetrating upon himself a new type of pleasure. Making sure that no one was nearby, she helped him lower his

pajama shorts and then proceeded to caress his erection. She had moved her head close to it, but then moved it away. She helped him raise his shorts up, and then covered him and kissed him good night on the mouth, giving him her tongue to suck for a few seconds.

He felt awful during the days that followed that initial brush with orgasm. He knew that he had done something wrong. And when he couldn’t stand the weight of his guilt any longer, he made his mother promise not to be mad before telling her the essence of his misbehavior, that is, that he loved Sarah. His mother seemed pleased and nothing more was said.

It’s customary to measure the length of a cock in inches or centimeters, which seems quite sensible in many if not most cases. He, for one, measured it against the sole of a female’s foot. If her foot was longer, then she had big feet that were often ugly as well, and the size of her shoes always confirmed the former.

6

His need to feel and sometimes see his sperm spew out of his penis into the outside world, onto towels and pillows, into socks and pillowcases, and over bathroom sinks and bathtubs offered but moments of momentary satiety. His desire to ejaculate was barely satisfied when a female was present. Her pussy was heavenly, but it was hard to come at it whenever he felt like it. He enjoyed foreplay, and was always a worthy player, but orgasm, the concrete climax, was such a brief affair that he longed for it again a short time after its culmination. Don’t get me wrong! The road leading to this ionate apex was very pleasurable, but it’s the end that stole the show, especially when both of them peaked at the same time.

Those days were behind him now. He longed for them from time to time, but

there were ideas worth fighting for even if the price appeared in the form of an obsession. A woman would most likely be unable to entertain such an obsession, so he had to go at it alone. She wouldn’t trust her abilities to become an overwoman. Yet in the combat between orgasm and obsession, the former always triumphed, but it was a narrow win given that orgasm was often relegated to its primitive state.

7

A broken heart can’t always be mended and a battered spirit can’t always be patched, and they shouldn’t be in one case in particular. Of course, there are other cases that should warrant such a stance, but luckily for their victims, they all pale in comparison. A great deal has been said, written and projected about the Holocaust, and rightly so, but it wasn’t a sacrifice, and thus, a more befitting term is the Hebrew word for catastrophe and calamity, namely Shoah. It seems that outside of Israel, only the French use the right term. Shoah! Is it because of Claude Lanzmann’s nine-and-a-half-hour documentary, Shoah? Is it because at least half of the French were collaborators? Is it because Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir were two of the ugliest collaborators? Un couple de collabos crasseux (a couple of filthy collaborators)! “Un homme, ça s’empêche,” (A man, refrains) repeated Albert Camus. The Nazis, called Nasties from now on, have growled that the extermination of the Jews was a necessary sacrifice for the benefit of humanity despite the multiplicity of facts to the contrary. The Nasty propaganda had no bounds and was readily adopted and commonly espoused by the populace in , called Genocitis from now on, and throughout the rest of Europe, called Eurat from now on. They all got off quite unscathed because most of the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and other less branded groups and individuals were annihilated, leaving so few emaciated survivors and so few worthy witnesses to call on the only tolerable demand; not justice, since there is no such yearning among animals; only vengeance in all its shades of red, only the sweeping destruction of Genocitis and the greater part of the rest of Eurat could have even begun to address the greatest crime ever committed. The rest of the world was as guilty whether their eyes were closed, preoccupied or gored. Certainly, some of them were fighting against the other Axis powers, some of them even against the same one, but the copious reports of

the brutality being brewed and then brought against the Jews had begun in the early 30s; the nightmare materialized every night until it became the norm under the sun, the moon and the stars. Very little was raised except for their spirits. Naturally, almost everyone was happy to see the Jews rounded up as criminals, shot for any perceived resistance, gassed in moving trucks, and deported in cattle trains, thirsty for endless days, to their dire deaths in extermination camps.

8

How can such a colossal crime be forgotten? How can it be pardoned? Even extermination camp survivors don’t have the right to forgive; not for what they endured, let alone for all those who perished. The only tolerable price for such atrocities is death. While it doesn’t need to be harsh, it does need to be absolute. There is no room for exceptions. Every Nasty should have been executed. Every Genocitean should have been killed. Every Euratean should have been slain. Every human being should have been put down.

“But who would have done it?”

“I would have done it.”

“You couldn’t have done it.”

“Oh yes! I could have done it.”

“It’s too late now.”

“Is it?”

9

“What remains bewildering about her is her partiality to using a mezuzah as her masturbatory instrument in both holes, and she’s not even Jewish.”

“Perhaps she knows what’s in it and gives it her love. Remind me what’s in it!”

“Commands to adore God.”

“Is she fucking God, then?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Anally?”

“That’s the most bewildering part.”

“You’ve seen her do it?”

“Naturally.”

“From beginning to end?”

“Obviously.”

“You must have liked it, then?”

“Not at all.”

“So, why did you watch it?”

“Because I’m a Jew.”

“So, you resented it?”

“Somewhat, yet not for what’s in it, but for what it represents.”

“For fucking a Jew?”

“Not a Jew; she was fucking me. For fucking the god of the Jews.”

“But you don’t believe in God.”

“I don’t, but that’s not the point. Most Zionists didn’t believe in God yet ended up settling on the scriptural spread because of what it represented.”

“Would it be different had she been Jewish?”

“Naturally, because she would have been fucking a symbol of her god.”

“Are you still with her?”

“No.”

“She’s a beauty in all other respects, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t.”

She was lovely, but that’s the problem with everything. It may have been nice, but then something appalling was done that canceled everything that was good. How can one think of the notable Nietzsche and then of the nauseating Nasties and end up with a positive disposition? Yet, many a one, most a one, can and do

emerge with an optimistic outlook. After all, isn’t it in the past, and didn’t it involve the loathed other? Can’t the same be said about the decimation of the Natives in both Americas by the Eurateans, and the Armenian genocide committed by the Turks, the latter even having been reflected upon by the leader of the Nasties as carte blanche for the Final Solution, since no civilized country or even recognized group had said or done anything about it? Yet Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Pinochet and too many others have done it to their own people, and thus their crimes should seldom be considered in the same vein.

10

“What remains bewildering about him is his fondness for using phylacteries to hang them.”

“Isn’t he Jewish, after all?”

“So much stranger because of it.”

“But he’s also an atheist.”

“It’s a curious fact about some Jews and perhaps most of them, being atheist as well. While Judaism is a religion, it’s also a weighty belonging to that tradition and its people.”

“Weighty, indeed.”

“Surely more than a pound of flesh.”

“More like a ton.”

“More like six tons.”

“Still no one beats Louis Sasportas.”

“But he’s not real.”

“Not yet at any rate.”

“Do you agree with what he did? With what it’s written that he’d done?”

“It’s very hard to disagree with any of it.”

“So, should children pay for the crimes of their parents?”

“Children who wouldn’t exist had their parents been punished for their despicable crimes may have to.”

“These children remain innocent, nonetheless.”

“But it doesn’t in any way diminish the scope of these crimes, or their fundamental unremittingness.”

“The crimes still remain those of their parents.”

“All in the family? All in the culture? All in the country? All in the so-called continent? All in the world? And life goes on?”

“It has to.”

“‘Lest we perish of the truth’.”

“Yes.”

“We should have perished.”

“But we didn’t.”

“Only because no one was ready to claim the monster heap of pounds of flesh.”

“Will anyone ever be ready or willing to do so?”

“One at least can hope.”

“That a Louis Sasportas will rise?”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed.”

11

Where does the success of Bayerische Motoren Werke, or BMW as it’s known around the world, stem from? Where does the success of other Genocitean companies come from? Hard work? Luck? The Genocitean way? Genocitis annihilated six million Jews and so many others, and it’s as if that in return the world had given them a prize, many a prize. Moreover, the remaining Jews and their progeny purchased, are purchasing, millions of Genocitean-made machines and products, from Adidas to ZF Friedrichshafen AG, including machines and products constructed on the same assembly lines that had been used to manufacture the engines for the gas chambers. Half of BMW is owned by Goebbels’ offspring. And the same story repeats itself in other Genocitean companies. Is it tolerable? It looks like it. But looks can be deceiving, as they say. Is a day of reckoning at hand, and foot? Is a period of payback pending like ing away? Not likely in the scheme of things, but I can hope and do more to make it, reality.

12

“One would think that anti-Jewish comments, let alone sentiments and beliefs, would have and should have disappeared following the Shoah. Yet they remain rampant like most diseases.”

“Is anti-Jewishness an ailment?”

“A disease of the mind, most likely.”

“Can it be cured?”

“Not likely if it’s still thriving after close to three generations following the Shoah and since a few thousand years following the advent of Hebrewness and Jewishness.”

“What’s a Jew to do, then? Take it the same way as it was always taken. With a grain of salt? With humor? With gunpowder and all its cousins!”

“Not anymore! Never again!”

“What, then?”

“Thrive against all odds.”

“Jews have been doing just that and what did it get them? Every kind of abuse, mass graves, gas chambers, and even crematoria to dispose of all their corpses. Paul Celan poignantly pointed it out in Death Fugue:

‘… more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into the air then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined …’”

13

“Run home to your family,” urged the police officer. “Death is coming,” she quickly added. Death? Since when do we know when death is coming? Isn’t it always a surprise? Of course, some of us know that they’re dying of a disease, or that they’re dying when they’re actually dying, but most of us are clueless. Death is coming? What’s that about? But the way in which she said it could only have meant that it was really close. But how? How soon? As I ran home to my family, I noticed other people rushing to and fro. Everyone looked worried; some people were even crying. It was distressing, to say the least.

I lied. I knew that death was coming. Entire areas were disappearing along with all the people within those areas. Only the other animals were spared in their areas. And it all started in Genocitis.

14

“What about all the good things that happened after the Shoah?”

“Surely not the UN.”

“Surely not.”

“Chemotherapy? Fast food? Across-the-board pollution?”

“No.”

“The PC in all its forms? The Internet?”

“Yes, with some reservations.”

“But do these and other so-called good things outweigh or even equal the Shoah?”

“No, but they convey change and hope.”

“Like the wars and genocides around the world, Friday the 13th, or the omission of a 13th floor in most buildings with more than 12 floors, although the 14th floor is the 13th floor, or further stupidity in all its expressions?”

“No, but there are new countries, democracies with equal rights, and then there’s globalization.”

“New countries with undemocratic agendas, democracies with only the semblance of equal rights, and the jury is still out for a smoke on the issue of globalization.”

“So, nothing is good?”

“Carl Sagan, Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Daniel Dennett, Lawrence Krauss, Michel Onfray, Martin Luther King, Philip Roth, Milan Kundera, Jean Améry, Imre Kertész, Primo Levi, Gérard Haddad, The Hours, The Matrix, The Pianist, Les Invasions barbares, Amadeus, Charlie Chaplin, Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg, Stanley Kubrick, Pink Floyd, Harmonium, John Lennon, Vitas, Arik Einstein, Ennio Morricone, Gregory House, George Costanza, Louie De Palma, all versions of Star Trek, Robin Williams, Bill Maher, Doctors Without Borders, Greenpeace, and quite many others are good. Much more than good in some cases!”

15

To All of Them

To all my failures, my misses, The roads that traversed me downright,

The planes following the hisses, All those who disciplined my might.

To all my silences, my lies, The misunderstandings that stuck, The book-Auschwitzes and their ties, All words for which I gave a fuck.

To time wasted to be the same, The Wall and every other wall, The vistas unseen, with no name, All things that coxswained to the fall.

To the world and its deserved pains, The tots who never got to term, The love that never sized the gains, All those who should have remained sperm.

To all my demeanors, my fears, The things that seem to be too late, The guise needed to hide the tears,

All my overlooked acts to date.

16

I could not bear the unjust death of my Jews. Yes, my Jews. Though they could be yours as well. I’m willing to share. I had not survived the atrocities of a death camp, but I was, nonetheless, stricken by the disease suitably christened Auschwitzitis. I could only lay claim to the memory of their existence as countless clusters of kikes and the like, since there were no graves, unless, of course, many a one counted the clouds as their rhapsody in blue.

My Auschwitz-related ailment, disorder, illness, malady, sickness, syndrome couldn’t lend itself to any effective treatment, let alone a cure. How could it? My suffering was insufferable, and I couldn’t even imagine the agony, anguish, distress, grief, sorrow, torment of my Jews, and your Jews. How could I? How could you?

I often look at the carefree clouds and deliberate about the Jew smoke within them, and then feel the wafting wind and reflect about the Jew dust within it. Yet, even the smoke and the dust of our Jews have dissipated, and unlike Walt Whitman, they can’t bequeath themselves to the dirt so they could grow from the grass that they love, and if we want them again, we can’t look for them under the soles of our shoes.

How can Kübler-Ross’ stages of grief be even considered in a loss of such a colossal scale? Denial? Impossible! Anger? Forever! Bargaining? Unbearable! Depression? Surely! Acceptance? Never!

17

The following is a story—surely not a true story—conceivably told by an Auschwitz survivor. It goes like this.

God and Satan have an impromptu meeting around the beginning of 1944, over 56 years before their usually scheduled meeting at the start of each century. Satan, flabbergasted by the sheer enormity of the carnage going on in the death camps and especially Auschwitz, requests the meeting.

Satan: How can you let it go on?

God: What do you mean?

Satan: What do I mean? You are losing them, but surely, you’re not losing them to me.

God: I no longer meddle in their affairs.

Satan: Their affairs? They’re annihilating your so-called chosen people.

God: Are they?

Satan: My goodness! They are and at an alarming rate. They’ve created a hell of their own; they’ve created Hell and are sending to it every Jew that they can get their claws on, as well as every Gypsy, below par, and freethinker.

God: They’ll eventually stop.

Satan: I’m not sure that they will, and if they do, it may be too late for the Jews.

God: They’ll be stopped sometime next year.

Satan: So, you don’t mind it at all.

God: I do.

Satan: But not enough to save them.

God: Why do you care?

Satan: Even I recognize that they haven’t done anything that warrants such barbarity.

God: You didn’t mind all the other injustices that occurred in the past.

Satan: I did to some degree, but they all pale in comparison.

God: Do they, now?

Satan: That’s it; you’ve lost it. There’s no doubt about it.

God: Careful, there!

Satan: Even I wouldn’t create or oversee an Auschwitz.

God: It can’t be that bad.

Satan: Have you even taken a look? It must be stopped.

God: It can’t be.

Satan: It must be.

God: I forbid it.

Satan: How about a bargain?

God: I won’t be fooled again.

Satan: I’ll let you have all their souls if you stop it right now.

God: No!

Satan: No?

God: No.

Satan: I’ll let you have ten percent of all my souls as well.

God: No.

Satan: What do you want, then?

God: You’re the one bargaining.

Satan: You have to give me something.

God: Do I? Very well. I’ll stop it the moment that a whiff of smoke billowing from the Auschwitz crematoria reaches the nostril of a Maori infant.

Satan: In New Zealand?

God: Yes.

Satan: You’ll stop it and purge it from history?

God: I won’t do the latter.

Satan: You’ll stop it the moment that a whiff of smoke billowing from the Auschwitz crematoria reaches the nostril of a Maori infant in New Zealand and then purge it from history.

God: No.

Satan: My goodness! Aren’t you the devil?

God: Watch it, now!

Satan: So, you’ll only stop it the moment that a whiff of smoke billowing from the Auschwitz crematoria reaches the nostril of a Maori infant in New Zealand.

God: Yes.

Satan: How lucky you are that most of them are oblivious.

God: I’m God, after all.

Satan: That you are.

God: Are you being facetious?

Satan: Not at all! I’m Satan, after all.

God: That, you are.

Satan: That, I am.

God: You are being facetious.

Satan: God only knows.

18

Please, write your name! The service will commence shortly.

Walter Benjamin


Bruno Schulz


Lea Deutsch


Petr Ginz


Lidia Zamenhof


Hana Brady


Victor Perez


Anne Frank


Victor Goldschmidt


Paul Celan


Jerzy Kosinski


Primo Levi

They kept on coming, writing their names, and filling the place until it looked like a memorial incarnate.

Are we gathered here this nightfall to pay boundless tribute and most sincere respects to your mythical reappearance, or utter anguish and most persistent bereavement to your up-in-smoke disappearance? You’ll have to select your group before the end of the service.

Those who were fortunate to know you were bound to love you, and those who never heard or cared about you, would have loved you as well had Judeopathy and its ilk not been imbibed by them like an immortality elixir.

Let us take a precious instant to gather our thoughts and reflect upon each and every one of you! Dig into your pasts and find an event, an occasion when you were content if not happy to be part of this world!

The gathering was silent like a graveyard at dawn, that is until a melody could be heard all around, bringing smiles and then tears to everyone present. A few of them even ed in:

You can’t always be what you are. You can’t always be what you are. You can’t always be what you are. If you try sometimes, you might find That you are what you are, oh yeah.

The à-la-Bellagio-Las-Vegas buffet table was inviting to say the least, but most of them looked at it as if it was a pitiless mirage or a hypnotic painting. Jerzy Kosinski touched the table and then hid beneath it, Paul Celan wrote the words Bei Wein und Verlorenheit (over wine and lostness) on the tablecloth, Petr Ginz gazed at the moon through the enormous windows, and Victor Perez punched one of the cakes.

Very few of them attempted to taste the assortment of dishes, and it didn’t matter if they were meat-grounded, vegetable-founded or fruit-based. The panoply of fare was even nauseating to some of them. Did they think that the fish looked fishy, that the meat had to be imported, that the vegetables seemed out of place, that the fruits were out of season?

As this get-together was quickly winding up—no one spoke to no one else—it looked devastatingly clear that everyone had chosen the up-in-smoke disappearance group, that is everyone except for Jerzy Kosinski who must have

seen himself rightly belonging to the mythical reappearance group.

19

On my way to Touch, I drove through a little town by the name of Look, and as I expected, there was nothing to look at; in Hear, there was nothing to listen to; in Smell, even the smell of the new industrial revolution was lacking; and in Taste, tastelessness was quite evident. What had the world come to? Did we become madder? These questions and their vicissitudes ached in my mind, but answers were difficult to accommodate, and thus the pain lingered on like a pounding heart.

I stopped for supper at Meatless and decided to spend the night at a Respite motel. I was determined not to play their game. “I will not rest,” I said to the man or the woman, I wasn’t sure. “You don’t have to,” the man or the woman said. “I won’t,” I said though I knew that I would be sleeping soundly that night. Room B4 looked clean, so I took a long shower before going to bed. I slept well and felt rather content while the world remained insensible to my quest.

I resumed my way after a quick breakfast, feeling somewhat uneasy knowing that my destination was getting nearer. Touch had not changed; the dim atmosphere, the dimwit population, the dimmed houses remained the same, and you may have guessed that nothing was worth touching. At B2 Name Way, a diminutive middle-aged woman opened the door and let me in. “Mr. Dream is expecting you, Mr. Same,” she said. Anxiety set in even before the appearance of Mr. Dream, but when he handed me what I had come for, I felt angst taking over like a moist cold. I held it close to my heart and wished it to be genuine. Mr. Dream used to be my uncle, but following a bitter divorce from one of my aunts, it was as if he had lost the label. I left soon after, clinging to what my uncle had given me with the rest of my life.

The stars of David were bright and unbending in my heart, or I should say, my mind, when I reached home, relieved to close the door behind me. I showered, ate and went to bed, pressing what my uncle had given me against my grateful lips before putting it under my pillow and ordering the television to show me the last episode of New, the weekly listing of everything different, or I should say, renamed. There were 44 renamings of people and places during the previous week, but due to the lack of new names, Mr. Poll, the President of the New Naming Committee, declared yet again that this week would be much poorer with only 14 renamings. This so-called renaming process had been going on for the past 26 years. Renaming had become a necessity, a way of life, and a remunerating activity. A minority of so-called solons held that a new, civilized and humane society needed a new identity in order to forget its horrific past. Renamings appeared everywhere likely and unlikely, affecting everything in the world. Only words that lacked any historical context were readily adopted, bestowing simple meanings to the new names of people and places, and turning the world into a guileless amalgamation. I ordered the television off and enjoyed a few hours’ sleep.

I knew what was ensuing as soon as I awoke. I felt rested and was ready to come to with what my dear uncle may have given me. He had the power to grant me my wish and rename me, but my new name was actually an old one. I was bringing back the past, and perhaps beginning a new future. I could see it in my mind: a neighbor called Dawkins, a friend called Hitchens, a daughter called Goldstein, a nephew called Harris, a Mozart, a Bach, a Beethoven, a Darwin, a Whitman, a Chaplin, a Dickinson, a Nietzsche, a Twain, a Freud, an Einstein, a Roth, a Kundera, a Levi, a Sagan, a Kertész, a Krauss, a Houellebecq, an Allen, a Spielberg, a Rodriguez. How exciting it was to contemplate all these names, and I was the first to start it all, I was Sasportas.

20

Looking at them, an old Genocitean couple, I could easily perceive a glimmer of the Nasty within them. Although they weren’t old enough during the Shoah to be

of any consequence, they were the offspring of parents who contributed directly or indirectly to the butchery. Their fathers were surely of the Nasty Party, or effusively uniformed Nasties. But unlike the doom that was awaiting most of their victims, their progenies were given life, and a long one at that.

The old Genocitean couple noticed that I was looking at them and asked if something was amiss. What could be wrong? I replied. You annihilated most of the Jews of Eurat and so many hapless others, and the world forgave you. We should have bombed you and all your collaborators out of existence. They didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t expecting them to. What could have they said? Sorry? When so much woe is brought upon others, apologies can never be uttered honorably, or considered to be as such.

I should have stabbed them there and then, but they would have represented but a drop in the ocean of blood that should have covered Genocitis and its cronies if not the entire world. A more far-reaching action was in order. We had the technology and the power that comes with it, but the will, the desire, the determination, the courage to retaliate against the most monstrous crime ever committed was lacking or is dormant. How many more years will have to before we awake and act?

Is it too late? Has the tide turned? Are we better than them? Have we forgiven them?

What have they done? Paid us off? Criminalized Shoah deniers? Built a concrete-pillars memorial?

Did we listen when their smoke cried out to us from the clouds, when their blood cried out to us from the ground? What have we done? Nearly nothing! Nothing at all!

Two

Dismay

1

A wide-ranging research project aiming to document the total number of Nasty camps and ghettos had uncovered a devastating number of such facilities, which leaves everyone, even the tamed, staggered. Over 42,000 dehumanizing sites were spawned and sustained around Eurat between 1933 and 1945. Nasties, whether Genocitean or of some other Euratean descent, surely could not have managed and guarded all these Euratean destinations without the of other Eurateans who were more than eager to stand in and do God’s work.

“Is God to blame as well?”

“No! And only because there’s no such thing. Had it existed, I would have killed it a long time ago.”

“It?”

“What else?”

“How would you have killed him, pray tell?”

“With prayer! Nonstop spells of supplication to kill itself!”

2

“Because they could not stop their deaths, death will soon stop for them.”

“Will it?”

“It remains to be felt. It remains to be seen. It remains to be heard.”

“What about the other senses?”

“Some will probably be able to smell it and even taste it. One can only hope.”

“You rest your case.”

“I’ve only started.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Were you, now?”

3

“We tend to die after our parents, and everyone seems to agree that it should be so, but I always preferred the idea of dying before them, so not to undergo the kind of suffering that would stem from their loss. What about their suffering following the loss of their child? They brought me to this world and therefore my ing should precede theirs. Of course, there are parents who should away first, but those are beside the point being made here.”

“What is your point?”

“I was thinking of the millions of children who were starved and slayed, scorched and slaughtered during the infinitely merciless Genocitean reign.”

4

“All trials are trials for one’s life, just as all sentences are sentences of death,” wrote Oscar Wilde from his cell. That is, if you get a trial and if the sentence is not systematic death.

It has been said that psychology has a long past but a short history. When it comes to death, its history is short indeed. Although death has been occupying humanity in numerous fields for many centuries, psychology only began to

seriously explore it in the past few decades. While Freud gave death a prominent place in the spectrum of drives and anxieties, most psychologists chose, perhaps unconsciously, to disregard it. Death entered mainstream psychology when the study of adulthood started to give notice to the elderly and gave birth to gerontology. The idea of death may have developed psychologically, but it seems to have stiffened in its latent stage.

“Death is eminently imminent,” said the narrator of Woody Allen’s Vision of Death or How to Philosophize with a Feather, and much more so if you happen to find yourself in a death camp. We are trained to postpone death’s inevitability, to repress its meaning, to negate its propinquity. Is it too simplistic to say that death is the end of life and that life is the beginning of death? Some of us may attempt to go beyond the initial glance at our own demise, but still tend to contemplate death as a negative juncture, a bad experience, a diminishing occurrence. Is death so terrible? Absolutely when it comes for you from all directions armed with torture and gas.

“Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me,” wrote Emily Dickinson. If only it had stopped for the millions of victims of the Nasties with but the semblance of kindness.

5

We regard ourselves as the species par excellence. The Nasties and their strains went further and subdivided our species into higher and lower subspecies. God created everything, so many of us believe, and this “greatest being conceivable” designed us to be special. Each one of us got a brain that could think of itself and potentially ponder about many other things in extraordinary ways. Other animals were apparently not awarded with such a phenomenal aptitude. We were the chosen ones, wholly capable of practically infinite development that would lead us back to our Creator. Yet the brains inside our heads had to be more than just a mixture of organic substances. Thought and all that it entails had to originate

from somewhere immaterial, a place where our consciousness could be relatively tranquil and far from the strains of existence. We therefore determined quite intuitively that our brains were separate from our minds. Dualism in of body and mind was widely adopted until the timely advent of brains like Hobbes, Darwin, Crick and Dennett, just to name a few.

There is a clearer likelihood that consciousness is bound to the brain than separate from it. The dualistic view mostly stems from our egocentric attitude about the world, whereas the materialistic one arises from our inquiry into the nature of the world. We tend to regard the world with hopefulness and dismay, hoping that a better world awaits us while fearing that the opposite is true. This contradictory standpoint alone illustrates our perceptual downfall. We have grown in many respects but have yet to cut the creationist umbilical cord. Our imagination may take us where no one has gone before, and our intellect may make sense of it, but our stubborn clinging to the past pulls us back into the abyss of ignorance. Most of us are still unable to let go or even entertain our mortality. Our so-called consciousness is but a product of evolution, and presently, it can be successfully argued that the brain powers it. However, somewhere near the culmination of evolution, if such a peak is ever forthcoming, consciousness might free itself from the material world and exist in a sphere of pure energy, and only then would it be truly separate from the brain. Pending that splendid moment, we might as well power our consciousness with empirically plausible ideas.

6

It seems that the brain has no central cell where all information comes together, and biological psychology points this out quite clearly. However, the brain seems to add things up until it reaches the last pathway where everything comes together. For example, color, fine detail, as well as movement and depth add up wherever the brain ends its visual analysis of a given object. Can the same be said about being Jewish? Is there a Jew in their family tree? Yes! Are their physical features obviously Semite? No! Is their success crushingly apparent?

No! Does their submissive demeanor show any defiance? No! One yes is enough. To the gas chamber!

7

The Jewish Hitch

More than seven decades following the near extermination of Euratean Jewry, that is the Shoah, numerous subsequent events have shown that people still have trouble accepting the survival and characteristic comeback of the Jews. They fail to realize that the countless, often fatal sufferings of the Jews have made the remaining ones somewhat stronger and instinctive masters of adaptation. Theoretical interpretations of these facts have focused around sociocultural and interactional hypotheses. Several studies assessed people from all walks of life for the degree of their anti-Jewishness using the Judeopathic Scale (Levin & San, 1984). It was often hypothesized that Judeopathy would be relatively low for most participants and similar for both sexes. While the latter hypothesis was definitely ed, the former hypothesis was not.

Judeopathy, whether gargantuan or Lilliputian, often catapults itself to the forefront more than Judeo-empathy given the widely shared belief that Jews are different. What if they were different? Would it warrant their annihilation? Are people so demented and frankly envious and covetous and resentful to even entertain in their little and or belittled minds the obliteration of Jewry? Is it at all possible that since Jews had given so much to the world, including God under several manifestations, death in all its forms would be their just recompense?

What about the following yesteryear statements, which echo on the true-false Judeopathic continuum much closer to the true than the false even decades following their formulation?

Too many Jewish employees can ruin a business.

If Jews want to stop being persecuted, they should make sincere efforts to rid themselves of their conspicuous and irritating faults.

A nice residential neighborhood is best if it prevents Jews from living in it.

War shows up the fact that the Jews are not patriotic or willing to make sacrifices for their country.

The best way to eliminate any Communist menace is to control the Jewish element that guides it.

Jews prefer the most luxurious, extravagant and sensual way of living.

Much resentment against Jews stems from their tendency to keep apart and exclude Gentiles from Jewish social life.

Universities should adopt a quota system by which they limit the number of Jews in fields that have too many Jews.

The Jews must be considered a bad influence on Christian culture and civilization.

In order to handle the Jewish problem, Gentiles must meet fire with fire and use the same ruthless tactics with the Jews that the Jews use with Gentiles.

The Jewish districts in most cities are the result of the clannishness and sticktogetherness of Jews.

Jews may have moral standards that they apply in their dealing with each other, but with Christians they are unscrupulous, ruthless, and undependable.

On the whole, the Jews have probably contributed less to the world than any other group.

One thing that has hindered the Jews from establishing their own nation is the fact that they really have no culture of their own; instead, they tend to copy the things that are important to the native citizens of whatever country they are in.

A step toward solving the Jewish problem would be to prevent Jews from getting into superior, profitable positions in society.

The true Christian can never forgive Jews for their crucifixion of Christ.

Jews go too far in hiding their Jewishness, especially to such extremes as changing their name, straightening their nose, and imitating Christian manners and customs.

It is not wise for Christians to be seen too much with Jews, as they might be taken for Jews, or be looked down upon by their Christian friends.

When Jews create large funds for educational or scientific research it is mainly a desire for fame and public notice rather than a sincere scientific interest.

There is something different and strange about Jews; one never knows what they are thinking or planning, nor what makes them tick.

The Jewish problem is so general and deep that one often doubts that democratic methods can ever solve it.

A major fault of the Jews is their conceit, overbearing pride, and their idea that they are a chosen race.

One of the first steps to be taken in cleaning up the movies and generally improving the situation in Hollywood is to put an end to Jewish domination there.

There is little hope of correcting the racial defects of the Jews, since these defects are simply in their blood.

One big trouble with Jews is that they are never contented, but always try for the best jobs and the most money.

The trouble with letting Jews into a nice neighborhood is that they gradually give it a typical Jewish atmosphere.

It is wrong for Jews and Gentiles to intermarry.

One trouble with Jews in business is that they stick together and connive so that a Gentile does not have a fair chance in competition.

No matter how assimilated a Jew may seem to be, there is always something basically Jewish underneath, a loyalty to Jewry and a manner that is never totally changed.

Jewish millionaires may do a certain amount to help their own people, but little of their money goes into worthwhile national causes.

As a general rule, most hotels should deny ittance to Jews.

The Jew’s first loyalty is to Jewry rather than to his country.

It is best that Jews should have their own fraternities and sororities since they have their own particular interests and activities that they can best engage in together just as Christians get along best in such all-Christian organizations.

Jewish power and control in money matters is far out of proportion to the number of Jews in the total population.

Jewish leaders should encourage Jews to be more inconspicuous, to keep out of professions and activities already over-crowded with Jews, and to keep out of the public notice.

The Jews should give up their un-Christian religion with all its strange customs and participate actively and sincerely in the Christian religion.

There is little doubt that Jewish pressure is largely responsible for the United States getting into the war with Genocitis.

The Jews keep too much to themselves instead of taking the proper interest in community problems and good government.

Jews seem to have an aversion to plain hard work; they tend to be a parasitic element in society by finding and or creating easy, non-productive jobs.

Jews tend to remain a foreign element in society, to preserve their old social standards and to resist the national way of life.

Districts containing many Jews always seem to be smelly, dirty, shabby and unattractive.

It would be to the best interests of all if the Jews would form their own nation and keep more to themselves.

There are too many Jews in the various governmental agencies and bureaus, and they have too much control over national policies.

Anyone who employs many people should be careful not to hire a large percentage of Jews.

One general fault of Jews is their over-aggressiveness, a strong tendency always to display their Jewish looks, manners, and breeding.

There are a few exceptions, but in general Jews are pretty much alike.

Jews should be more concerned with their personal appearance, and not be so dirty and smelly and unkempt.

There seem to be some revolutionary streak in the Jewish makeup as shown by the fact that there are so many Jewish Communists and agitators.

The Jews should not pry so much into Christian activities and organizations, nor seek so much recognition and prestige from Christians.

Jews tend to lower the general standard of living by their willingness to do the most menial work and to live under standards that are far below average.

8

We despise death because we are born to die. Nonetheless, we want to have children, knowing that they will die as well. Accordingly, shouldn’t we be against having them to avoid their demise while giving a lordly blow to death at the same time?

9

The Pros and Cons of Being Human

Given the overwhelming influence of humanity on the natural development of many other animals, the issue of global evenhandedness becomes consequential in many ways. Is global fairness a positive undertaking, a negative endeavor, or does it swing on a wider spectrum? It is quite evident that we are ruthless animals. However, should justice be subjected to this fact by way of a global fairness system, or introduced to it more slowly following the somewhat customary and democratic process? Are we disregarding the possibility of harm being done to most animals in favor of complete fulfillment for a selected few? The females-and-offspring-first principle is turning into the privileged-first standard. Freud’s insight about early childhood can’t be ignored any longer. If our progenies, all of them, constitute our future, let us guarantee them one.

Like many issues that seem to preoccupy our psyche, whether we ruminate about abortion, the death penalty, gay rights, healthcare, religion, or even Freud’s merit, we are also divided into many subgroups, which can be familial, cultural and or territorial in nature. Do we only thrive through conflict at the expense of others and the Other?

Collectivities are constantly brokering their future while pitting themselves against individualities. Both forms of being are highly regarded by their respective holders, but are being slowly, sometimes swiftly, compromised under a hybrid corporate umbrella. Ecological disparities appear and disappear like two evanescent seasons, namely autumn and spring, while winter and summer may surface haphazardly during any longish period of togetherness. Yet our success as a species may depend in part on our combined environmental differences. After all, the combination of our capabilities brings forth both our genius and downfall.

If we value the future wellbeing of our children as much as we say and think that we do, the decision to put an end to excessiveness is surely the right one. How can one individual own several homes when most individuals can barely afford to rent one? How can one individual collect cars when most individuals can’t afford to lease one? How can we live as devoted consumers when the goods that we purchase are made for us by slaves? How can we believe in a god or say that we do when there is so much that points to the contrary or at least to the improbability of its existence?

Governmental policy should therefore be geared towards the eradication of inequality in all its forms, and parents should be held able for their children’s dire future. Unfounded icons like most religious figures and numerous superstars can’t remain sacred or ired. We should offer our respect to our real heroes, that is individuals who changed our lives for the better using science more often than not.

10

The world’s countries can be divided into three categories: those that one could visit one day, like Australia, Canada, Iceland, New Zealand and Sweden; those

that one could only visit half-heartedly, like , Italy, the Netherlands, Norway and Spain; and those that one could never visit under any circumstances, like Genocitis, Austria, Hungary, Ukraine and Poland. How can one forget or forgive an atrocity like the Shoah? The blood of the dead flooded the Danube from the Genocitean Black Forest Mountains to the Ukrainian Black Sea. Connected capitals of carnage, Berlin, called Bogville from now on, profited the brute by picking him and his personal Judeopaths to implement the most heinous crimes ever committed; Vienna vivified the vicar butcher, baptizing him in the Donau; Budapest bludgeoned its Jews into the Duna that gobbled them like borscht; Kiev contributed its criminals to the extermination effort, shooting its Jews in the forests; while Warsaw prided itself for all the ashes in its clouds and their whiff in its nostril, the other one serving to smell the stench of Christianity. The comparative conclusion of this concentrated coldheartedness occurred a mere 75 years ago, not 750. These crimes are unforgivable and will remain so till the end of time. All the roads in Eurat lead to the extermination camps, the gas chambers and the crematoriums. This continent wannabe has become a Jewish graveyard without the graves, a Gypsy garden of remembrance without the memories, a crutches cemetery without the names. As Woody Allen’s most unforgiving Jewish character, David Dobel, intimates: “The crimes of the [Nasties] were so enormous that if the entire human race were to vanish as a penalty it could be argued that it would be justified.”

11

“Circumcision.”

“What about it?”

“Enough said.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s good for you, after all.”

“Apparently.”

“Christians hated the Jews so much that they sacked circumcision and other beneficial Jewish truths.”

“But how could the Jews have divined that circumcision would be beneficial?”

“Perhaps esthetics leads to the truth, after all.”

“It does look prettier circumcised.”

“It looks more bearable.”

“Especially for a cocksucker.”

12

Jacques

In the future will live an individual—perhaps he or she is already among us— who will initiate the end of humanity, which may have already begun. You would deem it flawed, the reasoning that would lead this individual to this dire decision, any such reasoning in all probability. However, would you also consider it objectively, taking all facts—many of them given that we can’t even imagine all of them—into before deliberating on whether this individual would be dead-on or irrational? What facts, you may dare to ask, would this individual require to reflect upon to bring about such a monumental verdict? You should be able to infer some of the facts by now, but let’s just mention a few: the Shoah (of course), the near decimation of the American Natives, slavery, the Armenian Genocide, World War II, World War I, the Nanjing Massacre, the Manila Massacre, the Rwandan Genocide, the Bosnian War. Eight of these ten factual events took place in the 20th Century, a century that can be easily branded as the bloodiest century of all. Do we butcher much larger numbers of people as we advance technologically and become more numerous, and if so, shouldn’t we put a stop to it by destroying ourselves as quickly as possible— nothing else will do—before we destroy everything else on this planet, including all the other animals that we’ve been slaughtering in the billions in death camps especially tailored for them? These interminable and systematic butcheries of cows, pigs, goats, sheep, chickens, turkeys, ducks, rabbits, and many other living things, are vicious and cruel, and their Auschwitzes never end. Our inborn and conditioned desire to consume these living creatures must cease. Vegans are paving the way, but their rainbow remains out of sight.

How can one initiate the end of humanity? Ranting about it all day long, all night long, and even in one’s dreams won’t do the trick. Someone and even a number of individuals may hear you out and conceivably agree with you, but it will never suffice. The tide must turn more forcibly. A revolution could make it happen, since it often strives to change things for the better, though it can also change things for the worse, but surely not for the extinction of all humanity. Terrorism might work, but many individuals are needed to carry it out, and it’s not so easy to undertake. What then? Luck! Luck? Yes, luck! The end of humanity is already upon us without the need for any individual to initiate it.

What prompted you to mention this at all, then? Just in case we needed help to hasten the inevitable. We? I! I and anyone else out there who can see where I’m coming from and where I’m going.

13

Immortal

I’ve no family or friends. I’ve had very few friends during my long life, but that’s the past. All of them are dead, except for one. Yet, I’m nobody. Well, I’m somebody, but no one you could know unless you are relatively immortal as yours truly. Immortal? More than that! I can trace my roots back to the beginning of life, to the Little Bang. You can say that I came in a bang, a small one, but in midst of the big one. It felt grand. This overview has been waiting to be written for a very long time. The idea came to me when I was about 26 years old; that’s close to four billion years ago. I have been watching Stephen Hawking and his contemporaries like a hawk. Every year they get closer to the truth of the matter. They will probably discover my essence, and I suspect that they already possess a significant insight. I still don’t have a name. I never bothered to stick to one in particular. I never needed one. But I knew that I would need one at one point in time. The only other thing that I can tell you about myself is that I’m overweight. I carry many years.

My friends are not too far off in the past. Between you and me, before the 19th century, you were mostly savages. Of course, there were exceptions, but none that I befriended. Ignorance ruled. At first, you obliviously championed the sun, the moon and the stars as gods. Then, you fearfully paid tribute to natural events like volcanoes and earthquakes. And finally, still riding the thoughtless train, you switched to invisible gods and decided to bestow some of their so-called powers to fellow individuals. So as long as you bowed and believed in such deities, I waited. I am still waiting for most of you to wise up. And you’re still savages in so many respects.

14

Joseph Ben Shabbat was born in Casablanca in 1963, his last name, meaning the son of Sabbath in Hebrew, already announcing his Jewishness to the world, and thus, his liability to be detested for it for the rest of his life. But Jojo, his nickname by anyone who knew him, would find a way to justify any hatred that had ever crossed his way or hit him in the face.

At a young age, five according to his father and four as avowed by his domineering mother, Jojo was already helping his father sell dress shirts in a small store in the Mohammed V International Airport. Jojo loved black dress shirts almost as much as he loved white dress shirts but disliked all other colors that could be bestowed on a dress shirt or any other garment for that matter. His father noticed this curious fact and questioned him about it. Black is the strongest color, he had replied, refusing to change his mind after learning that it wasn’t a color, after all, but the absence of all color. White is the color of milk, he had continued, giving life to all living things, again refusing to change his mind upon learning that it was the combination of all colors. Suffice it to say that both black dress shirts and white dress shirts were bestsellers, with Jojo loving every sale he had made for his father and recounting it to his mother as soon as they returned home after a long day at the store.

“The poor prick didn’t know what hit him when he bought four shirts, two black and two white, after stopping to look at a blue one,” he had told his mother on one occasion.

“Watch your language! And what if he couldn’t afford it?” she had said.

“When one es through an airport, one can surely afford four shirts. And besides, he was a fucking Arab.”

“Watch your language!”

“Yes; they might hear me.”

“You never know.”

“One of the reasons why we should leave Morocco as soon as possible and move to where most of our family lives.”

“ is also full of Arabs, and we’re Arabs too, Arab Jews.”

“I’m no fucking Arab and I’m surely not going to watch my language.”

His five much older siblings, his four sisters, Sister Number One (S1), Sister Number Two (S2), Sister Number Three (S3) and Sister Number Four (S4), and his brother, B, were already married—not positively or favorably in most cases since the two Ps in happy were separated by a hyphen and the two Rs in married too—and living in Paris.

His parents left for Paris when he turned 13, enabling them to throw him a Bar Mitzvah bash with all the family attending. His father opened a new shop, and Jojo continued to sell black dress shirts and white dress shirts. Business had even

improved at the Orly Airport, empowering Jojo to skip school whenever he deemed it right, which was practically every day, to keep his selling savoir-faire going strong both for his father and himself, his mother not always approving and often imploring him to mend his ways and return to school where he could learn something more worthwhile than his peddling. Poppycock, he thought, but read a lot of books whenever he could, especially in the bathroom, the odor of his dung or a knock on the door eventually reminding him where he was and that reality was waiting outside, often worse than what he was reading from Nietzsche, Freud, Camus, Philip Roth, Kundera, Gombrowicz, Philip K. Dick and many others.

15

S1

S1 was born in 1940. It wasn’t a good year, but luckily for her and the two sisters that followed, they were born in Marrakech, not Munich—called Murdertown from now on—Minsk, or Marseilles. Furthermore, S1 was born on the same day as her mother. You may ask: Why are you referencing her mother and not their mother? It is simply because she was a different mother to each of her six children. Their father did his best, naturally, of course, to be the same father to all his children, but their mother didn’t even try. It was obvious that she had a favorite. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Everyone is entitled to a favorite; even a mother. The only potential problem lies with the children. How will they take it? S1 got married in her early 20s and moved to Paris where she gave birth to two boys. Enough about a sister that he didn’t particularly like for being a collaborator.

S2

S2 was born in 1942. It wasn’t a good year either, but luckily for her and the sister preceding her and the sister following her, they were born away from Eurat. S2 was sent, though shipped would be more befitting, to budding Israel in 1956 where she spent the next ten years as an orphan. S2 also got married in her early 20s, but her husband was an asshole of the first kind. She gave birth to a daughter, and they moved to Canada in the early 70s where she gave birth to two additional daughters in the early 80s. They ended up settling in Paris. Enough for now about a sister that he particularly liked for being somewhat fair. She was also the fairest of them all.

S3

S3 was born in 1944. It wasn’t a good year at all, but luckily for her and the two sisters who preceded her, they were born in North Africa. S3 got married in her early 20s as well, but her husband was an asshole of the second kind. They moved to Paris as well in the mid 60s where she gave birth to two boys, followed by a daughter in the early 80s. Enough about a sister that he didn’t particularly like for being an asshole of the third kind, or perhaps the second; he could never make up his mind.

S4

S4 was born in 1947. It wasn’t a particularly bad year, except that she turned out to be the worst of them all. She moved to Paris in her late 20s where she married an asshole of the second kind though it could be argued that he was much closer to the first. She gave birth to a daughter in the mid 70s followed by a son—a regular asshole—and a daughter in the mid 80s. Enough said for now, except that she started as a decent human being but ended up a bitch of the first kind, using Jojo, with the help of her husband, as a camel; no, a horse; no, a donkey. What’s the difference between an asshole and a bitch? Anyone can be an asshole, but only a woman can be a bitch as well. S4 was surely both. Don’t get me wrong! Only a man has the ability and honor to be an asshole squared and

even an asshole cubed.

B

B was born in 1950. It wasn’t an especially bad year either, except that he, an awful boy and an appalling man, turned out to be an asshole of a different kind. I’m still looking for the perfect adjective, though narcissistic and idiotic may convey the gist of it. Unfortunately, they were all stupid to some high degree, espousing the views of the Right, Extreme Right on some issues, when most intelligent individuals could never agree with most of their so-called beliefs. He got married three times. His first wife gave birth to a daughter and a son, and his second wife gave birth to a son. His third wife may have been lucky enough to leave the marriage unburdened by his offspring.

Mother

Their mother was born in 1918, a bit over a month before the end of World War I. It was a really bad year. She had two miscarriages after B and before Jojo. Six children were enough. Jojo may even have been an accident, and there was talk of a desired miscarriage, but as mentioned earlier, her miserably moral nature would never have allowed her to go through with it. Jojo even pissed on the attending physician as soon as he was pushed out from her womb. Perhaps, he already knew what to expect in this repulsive existence. Her childhood had been harsh, which may explain some of her preferential attitude and different demeanor towards each of her children. Yet, she was loved by most of them. She ed away in 2013.

Father

Their father was born in 1914, a few months before the start of World War I. It became a really bad year. He married their mother in 1939. It was another bad year to say the least. Yet, they remained together until his ing in 2003. He taught his children by example to seek peace and never speak badly about others. Even when he became difficult to deal with following his drawn-out struggle with dementia, his smile could light up any room, including his private one in the nursing home. He was a good man. He was a better man in many respects.

God

Since God and any idea of it are pure twaddle turned into trickery, there isn’t anything interesting to say about it that hasn’t been said before by Nietzsche, Freud, Hitchens and their fellow followers of reason. The idea of God is so demented that it can help fabricate even worse ideas. For example, there are Shoah deniers who went as far as to say that God made it all up to test our faith. Some spineless god it would have been had God existed. And don’t dare to ask how God had done it! God can do anything.

16

“Give me some change!”

“Only if there wasn’t a yarmulke on your head.”

“Where else would I put it?”

“In one of your pockets, for one.”

“Not me!”

“If there wasn’t a yarmulke on your head, I would have handed you some change. But since it’s not the case, I’ll let God help you.”

17

What if, perhaps, just perhaps, being a believer in God was better for our psyche by making the tribulations of life and the uncertainties of death somewhat more bearable. Yet, the worst thing about death is the disappearance of one’s experience for which God is no help whatsoever. Some of us may not consider this to be important, but I, for one, do, and immensely at that. It may be especially true for those who lose loved ones before their time. For example, a man who loses his wife to a consuming disease and is left alone with their memories. Thus, life is the enemy, not death. Death is only the outcome.

18

The worst Auschwitz, the continuing Auschwitz, the everlasting Auschwitz, are all around us, and most of us collaborate with pronounced pleasure, whether it’s the real thing, that is the killing line, or the uncaring thing, that is the buying line. We raise them, most of them, in order to slaughter them and consume them. Some of them are abused for their milk, others for their eggs, and yet others for their honey. We rarely show mercy, and some of them try to escape. We are like the Nasties in many respects, except that the Jews and the Gypsies and the homosexuals and the other minorities have been replaced by our fellow animals.

Some of us even consume apes, our closest evolutionary relatives, as well as cats and dogs. Disgusting, to say the least, on all s!

19

When he was driving his new, fully-loaded, black Acura circa 2012, Jojo always watched the distance (mileage) gauge as it rose, from the initial 12 kilometers displayed at the time that he had purchased it to significant numbers representing historical years for him, and probably others.

1066: The Norman conquest of England

1346: The Black Death

1492: The expulsion of the Jews from Spain, the so-called discovery of America, and the beginning of the decimation of the American Natives

1564: The birth of William Shakespeare

1616: The death of William Shakespeare

1756: The birth of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

1770: The birth of Ludwig van Beethoven

1791: The death of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

1827: The death of Ludwig van Beethoven

1844: The birth of Friedrich Nietzsche

1856: The birth of Sigmund Freud

1865: The assassination of Abraham Lincoln, and the official abolition of slavery in the USA

1879: The birth of Albert Einstein

1889: The birth of Charlie Chaplin

1894: The Dreyfus affair

1900: The death of Friedrich Nietzsche

1914: The birth of his father, and the beginning of World War I

1915: The Armenian genocide

1918: The end of World War I

1939: The beginning of World War II, and the death of Sigmund Freud

1942: The ratification of the Final Solution, and the birth of S2

1944: The Normandy landings (D-Day)

1945: The end of World War II, and the beginning of the Nuremberg trials

1948: The Israeli (Jewish) Declaration of Independence

1949: The birth of Christopher Hitchens

1955: The death of Albert Einstein

1961: The Eichmann trial

1963: His birth, and the assassination of John F. Kennedy

1967: The Six-Day War, and the assassination of Che Guevara

1969: The first Moon landing

1973: The Yom Kippur War

1977: The death of Charlie Chaplin

1980: The assassination of John Lennon

1981: The assassination of Anwar Sadat

1994: The Rwandan genocide

1995: The assassination of Yitzhak Rabin (he never gets over it)

2000: The end of the 20th century

2001: The start of the 21st century, and the September 11 attacks

2003: The death of his father

2004: The Indian Ocean Tsunami

2005: Hurricane Katrina

2008: Barack Obama wins the presidential election to become the 44th president of the USA

2011: Osama bin Laden is captured and killed

2012: The present

20

JNM

Judeopaths No More (JNM) is, or was, an organization established in Eurat following World War II. The exact date and identity of its principal agents, or any other agents for that matter, remain unknown to this day. It is also uncertain if JNM is still in existence. Its main objective is, or was, to assassinate anyone

who acted violently against Jews living outside of Israel. No assassinations were reported in the last decade that could be tied to JNM, or that even fitted their aim. Thus, it is safe to suppose that JNM is no longer in existence. Former could still meander among us, but their objective had been abandoned.

Let me start by stating that Jojo was one of them. He’s possibly one of the reasons that led to the end of JNM. I may be jumping the gun; I already did. Yet, I wanted you to know from the beginning. You also know where he comes from, and you can guess where he is. The objective now is to tell you what happened to him in between, and later, of course.

It is 1984. James Keegstra, a Canadian high-school teacher, is charged under the Canadian Criminal Code for encouraging hatred against Jews by communicating anti-Semitic ideas to his students. During class, he has described Jews as people of deep evil who had fabricated the Shoah to gain sympathy. He even tested his students on his theories and opinions regarding the Jews. He is convicted at a trial before the Alberta Court of Queen’s Bench. The court rejects the argument advanced by Keegstra’s lawyer that the promotion of hatred is a constitutionally protected freedom of expression. Keegstra petitions to the Alberta Court of Appeal, which agrees with Keegstra, and he is acquitted. The Crown then appeals the case to the Supreme Court of Canada, which rules in 1990 by a 4-3 majority that promoting hatred could be justifiably restricted under the Charter. The Supreme Court restores Keegstra’s conviction, and he is fired from his teaching position shortly after. But that’s it; no prison sentence; not even a fine.

Jojo learns about the case in Tribune Juive, a French Jewish newspaper. He is angrier than usual, voicing his disgruntlement everywhere he goes, including his father’s shirt shop. Fellow Jews and some non-Jewish customers sympathize but mostly see it as resolved.

“Justice prevailed. He got fired. What else do you want?” a number of them ask him.

“I want him dead.”

“That’s going too far.”

“Too far? Nothing that is done with these Judeopaths could be considered as going too far. Nothing!”

“We can’t kill everyone that speaks against the Jews.”

“Can’t we, or won’t we? Perhaps they were right all along. We’re eternal victims. Only the Jews living in Israel know how to defend themselves.”

Someone from JNM must have heard him, since he receives a note at the beginning of 1991, instructing him to meet one of them at the Invalides metro station and destroy the note. Like most people, he had never heard of JNM, but he waits at the metro station for close to two hours before giving up and going home. Following the final instruction on the note, he tells nobody about it. A few days later, he receives another note, instructing him to meet one of them at the Avenue Émile Zola metro station and destroy the note. This time, a man shows up a few minutes late, shakes Jojo’s hand, and leads him to a nearby café.

“My name is David, and you are Joseph,” the man says as soon as they sit at a table.

“Please, call me Jojo!”

“OK, Jojo. We think that you can help us.”

“I never heard of you. What have you done for us?”

The waiter comes to their table and they order espressos.

“We keep a low profile. We work behind the scenes. We facilitate things. We cause specific events that always, almost always, go unnoticed. We like our actions to be overlooked. We don’t look for recognition. We just implement things. Keegstra isn’t one of these things. He’s a small, bottom-feeding slime of no consequence. Canada has done what’s right. No further action is required in his case.”

“Who’s a big fish?” Jojo asks.

“Not now. I just wanted to meet you first, and then have us decide if you’re suitable.”

“My last name is surely a giveaway,” Jojo says with a smile.

“You won’t be using it if we decide that you can help us.”

“It makes sense.”

“Where do you see yourself ten years from now?” David asks.

“Living in Israel and managing my own store.”

“Like a real Jew,” David says, smiling.

“I suppose. Although I think that many real Jews live outside of Israel.”

“True! Is there anything that you won’t do?”

“I could never harm a child.”

“We would never ask you to. Anything else?”

“It’ll be hard for me to harm a woman.”

“I don’t think that we ever did. Anything else?”

“I could never travel to Genocitis.”

“Where?”

The waiter brings them their espressos.

“You know, that unredeemable country that exterminated six million Jews and millions of others.”

“Good one!” David says. “Even if you were asked to do some good there?” David asks.

“It would be very hard for me.”

“Noted,” David says.

“Do you take care of problematic Jews as well?”

“Very rarely. It only happened once.”

“OK, then!”

“I’ll send you a note regarding our next meeting.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Very soon,” David intimates. “We are a secret organization, so no word to anyone,” he adds.

“You can count on me,” Jojo declares.

David asks for the bill, but Jojo insists on paying.

Three

Despair

1

Jojo is often ecstatic, feeling that his life may finally begin to make sense and be driven by something worthwhile. His mother notices his changed disposition and inquires about it.

“It’s nothing. It may be because of a woman that I met recently.”

“Is she Jewish?”

“Of course,” Jojo replies.

“What’s her name?”

“It’s not serious yet.”

“But she has a name,” his mother says.

“She must have one, but I still don’t know it.”

“You must like her, then.”

“Possibly,” Jojo says.

“Alleluia!”

Jojo had never brought a woman to meet his parents, so it may be understandable that his mother was worried. His father knew about several of his one-night stands, but wasn’t worried about him, keeping these women secret from his wife, but assuring her that Jojo will settle down one day.

Jojo receives the note at the beginning of the following week, instructing him to meet David at the Bolivar metro station. This time, David leads him to a building nearby. They take the elevator to the top floor and enter a large apartment that is furnished like an office. No one else is there. David makes coffee and they sit at a large circular table opposite each other.

“We decided to test you in one operation. If you succeed to carry out your mission, you’ll be accepted; if you fail, you’ll never hear from us again.”

“OK! Are we meeting anyone else?”

“No! Each one of us only knows one or two others: the recruiter and one recruited if one also becomes a recruiter.”

“So, you make decisions without seeing each other.”

“Yes! We use notes and disposable phones.”

“No wonder I never heard of you.”

“We are very careful and rarely take action. The target has to be extremely and morally essential.”

“You had mentioned that my name will change.”

“Yes! You’ll be Jacques from now on; Jacques Messier.”

“I like it.”

“Good, but it’s not essential that you do,” David says, smiling.

“I imagine,” Jacques replies. “It may be a good omen though,” he adds with a broad smile.

“How do you see your personal life being affected by this?”

“It won’t be. I work for my father and live alone.”

“We know. How would you explain your eventual absences?”

“A trip to Israel or New York will always suffice.”

“Very good! Of course, your expenses are always covered, and we pay between 50 to 100 thousand dollars per successful mission. The amount depends on the particulars of the mission.”

“It feels wrong to be paid for this.”

“Everyone gets paid, no matter their feelings about it, or financial situation.”

“I see. What’s my mission?”

David hands him a note and asks him to memorize it and then hand it back to him. As soon as he gets the note back, David tares it to very small pieces and burns them all in the lit fireplace.

“Always burn the notes, and if you can’t, flash the torn pieces in the toilet and make sure that they are all gone.”

“OK!”

“The same goes for the disposable phones. Remove and burn the SIM card and then break and throw the phone. If you can’t burn the SIM card, cut it into small pieces, flash them in the toilet and make sure that they are all gone.”

“OK!”

David hands Jacques a couple of phones and some cash but doesn’t say anything.

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“No!” David replies. “We know that you know how to use a gun. You’ll receive a note with further instructions very soon.”

“OK!”

Jojo felt elated on his way back to his father’s shop. His father noticed it and asked him about it. Jojo dismissed it, explaining that it might be due to a woman he’ll be seeing very soon.

“The same one that your mother asked you about?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.”

“Yes. Well, I hope so.”

“She must be beautiful,” his father said, smiling.

“An angel.”

“Is she Sephardic?”

“I don’t know. She’s from Israel though.”

“And she lives here?”

“I don’t know.”

“There are many things for you to learn about her.”

“More than you know.”

“Good luck, then!”

“Thanks, Dad!”

Jacques had agreed to assassinate a Nasty living in Genocitis. Am I jumping the gun again?

2

He received the note a few days later. He was to fly to Murdertown the following day and wait for a phone call in his hotel room. He told his parents that he was flying to Israel for a few days.

“Because of the woman?” his mother asked.

“Yes.”

“Alleluia!”

“You can say that again.”

“Alleluia!”

“Very funny.”

He felt sick. Not because he was going to kill a Nasty, but because he was going to be in Genocitis. “The end justifies the means,” he considered. “I would be there only to get rid of this slimebucket. No! The juice of the slime of a garbage bucket,” he fumed.

He got the phone call a few hours after he had arrived to his hotel room. David told him where to find a small package that had been hidden in his room and hung up. The package contained a gun, a silencer, bullets, a hunting knife, a lighter, a pair of gloves, and a note that included instructions relating to the gun and the Nasty’s location, as well as a reminder to destroy the phone and the note. He loaded the gun, memorized the information relating to the Nasty, and destroyed the phone and the note, flashing the pieces of the SIM card and note down the toilet.

3

The early bird may get the worm, but for Jacques it was actually the early Jew will get the Nasty. He studied the Nasty’s house but didn’t notice any movement within. No sound could be heard either; not the barking of a Dobermann, not even the stirs of a mouse. The Nasty wasn’t home, or was perhaps slumbering,

carefree. The area surrounding the house was peaceful as well. Life was blameless. Jacques walked up to the door and listened for any sound. It was quiet, save the chirping of a bird perched on a tree in front of the house; a crow; perhaps a Jewbird. He looked at the crow and the crow looked at him. Jacques looked around and then walked to the back of the house. He walked up to the door and listened for any sound. It was quiet, save the chirping of a bird perched on a tree in front of the back of the house; another crow; the same crow; surely a Jewbird. He looked at the crow and the crow looked at him.

“Are you going to be my witness?” Jacques whispered to the crow.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” the crow laughed.

“Not so fast! I have to get him first,” Jacques whispered to the crow.


“You’re so sure that I’m going to get him,” Jacques whispered to the crow.


“I promise to be more religious if I can get him today,” Jacques whispered to himself.


“And the crow is my witness,” Jacques whispered to himself.

He put the gloves on and tried to open the door; it wasn’t locked. No one was in the kitchen, no one was in the dining room, no one was in the living room and no one was on the stairway leading upstairs. No one was in the first room, no one was in the bathroom, and no one was in the second room. There was someone in the master room. He heard the sound of snoring. Jacques approached the bed and considered the covered Nasty.

“What is your name?” Jacques roared.

The Nasty stirred and woke up. He put eyeglasses on his Nasty face and looked at Jacques.

“What is your name?” Jacques roared.

“Nickolaus Schulz,” he mumbled.

“No, you’re not! What is your name?” Jacques roared.

“Heinrich Müller,” he replied.

“Heinrich Müller. You’re so far from Henry Miller. Don’t you agree?” Jacques

asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your name, in English.”

“Ja.”

“When were you born, Nasty?”

“28 April 1900.”

“I didn’t ask for your birthday. The year was enough. Where were you born?”

“Munich.”

“You mean, Murdertown.”


“I call that city Murdertown.”

“Ja.”

“You lived half of your life, all your life following the Shoah, in peace. Haven’t you?”

“Nein!”

“You escaped, changed your name, and lived carefree for 46 years. Haven’t you?”

“Nein. Ja. But I wasn’t carefree.”

“Justice was looking for you, so you were careful and carefree.”

“Ja. Nein. I wasn’t carefree.”

“You regretted what you had done?”

“Ja.”

“Did these regrets help anyone besides you?”

“Nein.”

“Carefree you were.”

“Ja.”

“Alone?”

“My wife died ten years ago.”

“And you endure. Any children?”

“Nein.”

“Any children?” Jacques roared.

“Nein!”

“You have two adult children.”

“Ja.”

“And you love them.”

“Ja.”

“I will kill them too if you don’t answer all my questions.”

“I will answer your questions.”

“How do you sleep at night?”

“Not well.”

“You were sleeping when I entered this room.”

“After a sleepless night.”

“What did you do?”

“In the war?”

“The extermination of the Jews, the Gypsies, the handicapped, the political prisoners and all the others was not part of the war.”

“Nein.”

“Why then?”


“Yes, you know,” Jacques roared.

“We were evil.”

“That’s a word to sum it up. The Nasty were evil.”

“Ja.”

“What should have been your punishment for what you had done?”

“Death.”

“What should be your punishment for what you had done?”


“I think that you know. You just mentioned it.”

“Death.”

“Not by slow decay any longer,” Jacques scolded. “By fire or by water?” Jacques roared.

“Water.”

“In daylight or in the nighttime?” Jacques roared.

“Nighttime.”

“I’m not going to wait till the nighttime,” Jacques roared.

“Daylight.”

“By accident or by something blunt?” Jacques roared.

“Water.”

“You’re going to die in many ways,” Jacques roared.

“Something blunt,” the Nasty said.

“Blindfolded or facing the mirror?” Jacques roared. “Be careful about your answer,” Jacques added.

“Facing the mirror.”

“Good answer,” Jacques avowed.

“By your hand or by mine?” Jacques roared. “Again, be careful about your answer,” Jacques added.

“By your hand.”

“Very good answer,” Jacques avowed. “Now get up and walk to your bathroom!”

Jacques roared.

4

To torture a man, you have to know his pleasures. Stanislaw Lem

“By water,” Jacques roared, forcing the Nasty’s head into the toilet. The Nasty didn’t offer much resistance during the long seconds that he was unable to breathe.

“By something blunt,” Jacques roared, shoving the gun between his ribs and pulling the trigger.

“Facing the mirror,” Jacques roared, lifting the Nasty up and pushing his head close to the mirror.

“Any last words?” Jacques roared.

“Nein.”

“Go to hell,” Jacques roared and emptied the gun into his head.

He lighted the bedsheets and the newspapers that he found in the living room,

put all the gas burners on, and left the house, whispering “Fly away, Jewbird” to the crow still perched on the tree in front of the back of the house. The crow looked at him and flew away. He threw the remaining contents of the small package from the hotel room into a garbage can far away and went on his way. The sky was cloudless.

5

His parents looked excited following his return to Paris. “It’s promising,” Jojo told them. “But there’s a lot to be accomplished before I can present her to you,” he added.

The following day, he received a note, instructing him to meet David at the Bolivar metro station. David shook his hand as soon as he met him, congratulating him on his very successful mission. At the apartment, he handed Jacques an envelope with $60,000.

“It’s really not necessary,” Jacques pressed.

“It’s very necessary,” David insisted.

“What now?” Jacques asked.

“I think that you’ll be accepted unanimously.”

“Great!”

“I’ll send you a note to that effect very soon.”

“OK! When is my next mission?”

“I’ll let you know. But it won’t be any time soon.”

“Too bad. They are dying of old age.”

“We know. Be patient!”

6

Jacques was informed through the note that he received a couple of days later that he had been accepted to the JNM. Jacques Never Misses, JNM, he mused to himself. Even in French, Jacques Ne Manque jamais, it worked quite well. But no mission followed during the rest of the year and the succeeding year. He had no way to David, so he went to the apartment near the Bolivar metro station to ask him why it was taking so long. The apartment was occupied by a family who didn’t know the previous owner. Jojo wasn’t known for his forbearance, but Jacques had to learn to be patient.

His father began to ail following his 80th birthday and could no longer work in the shop. He had already cut his workweek in half when he turned 75, Jojo

assuming the other half. But Jojo didn’t see himself working wholly without his father, so he asked his parents to sell the shop.

“What would you do?” his mother asked.

“Don’t worry about me! I’ll manage.”

“You should get half of the proceeds of the sale.”

“There’s no need. I’ve decided to move to Israel and open a shop there.”

“Israel? You’ll need money to do it.”

“I have some savings from various winnings.”

“Does the woman have anything to do with your decision to move there?”

“To some degree. But I would come to see you often and you would too as soon as Dad feels better.”

“God willing.”

God didn’t care to will it, or there was no god to will it, so his father’s health slowly deteriorated. Reassured by the physicians that nothing life-threatening was looming in the near horizon allowed Jojo to move to Israel and open his shop.

He kept selling black dress shirts and white dress shirts, but it didn’t feel the same without his father by his side. One morning, a few months after opening his shop, when he was opening the door, he noticed a crow perched on a tree standing proud across his shop.

“It can’t be you, Jewbird,” he called to it.


“You finally decided to make Aliyah as well,” he said, laughing.


“Unless you’re here to remind me of my promise to become more religious given that I got the Nasty on the same day.”


“I didn’t forget. Moving here was the first step. Now, it’s time to do it.”

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” the crow laughed and flew away.

From that morning on, he closed his shop every Friday before sunset until Sunday morning. He was Joseph Ben Shabbat, after all. He did the same on all holidays, ing synagogue prayers accordingly, and becoming more religious than he had ever been. His parents were pleasantly surprised by the change when he visited them.

“What brought this on?” his mother asked.

“Living in Israel has a lot to do with it.”

“Did anyone or anything else contribute to it?”

“You must be alluding to the woman.”

“Yes. And she must have a name.”

“She must, but I still don’t know it.”

“So, you never went out together?”

“Not yet.”

“You must love her if it’s taking all this time.”

“I think that I do, but I’ll only know for sure when I finally ask her out. I couldn’t before because she’s religious.”

“Did she notice you?”

“I think that she did. I smiled and she smiled back.”

“You don’t think that she would have gone out with you before you became religious?”

“Given the wig and the clothing that she wears, my becoming religious may be my only chance.”

“Will you remain religious if it doesn’t work out with her?”

“Of course!”

“My hat to you,” his mother said, which brought a smile to his face when he thought of the panoply of ornate hats that she wore throughout most of her adult

life.

“Which one?” he asked, laughing.

“All of them,” she replied, smiling.

His father’s ailment was stable, but clear symptoms of dementia were apparent from time to time. He also made arrangements to see S2 in a café on Les Champs-Élysées and invited her to come and see him in Israel. They were happy to see each other, and she promised to come and see him later that year following the High Holidays.

7

Jojo had finally met his fabricated woman in the synagogue. It was the late afternoon of Rosh Hashanah in 1995. He was praying for his father and for a note from David. Following the service, he noticed her getting some food for her mother, he later learned, and herself. He offered to help her carry the food and she accepted.

She was striking in several ways. Her beauty, though fairly hidden beneath her wig and unrevealing clothing, was obvious nonetheless. Her demeanor was modest, yet she exuded exuberance. Her voice was mesmerizing, but some effort was required of him to hear it. Her hands were scenic in that he wanted to kiss them from every angle. Her smell, which he was able to accidently ascertain when he kissed her hand goodbye, was invigorating. It wasn’t easy to kiss her hand given their religion’s strict rules. His insistence, however, that it will keep him sane until he sees her again, lowered her gotten rigorousness, though his

honey-colored eyes must have helped by betraying his earnestness to see her again.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that he couldn’t live without her by his side. He may have felt it the first time that he saw her, yet it was during one of their conversations that he knew that he’ll do anything to become her husband. Her laughter was so infectious that he prayed during Yom Kippur to be plagued by it for the rest of his life. He so longed for it that he would always have jokes and musings ready to trigger it when he finally saw her.

He asked for her hand on the Friday evening that coincided with the sixth night of Hanukah. They had just finished supper at her parents’ apartment, where he had been invited every week for the past month. She readily accepted, allowing him to kiss her in front of them and the rest of her family. Jojo felt joy filling his heart unlike anything that he had felt before. He was all smiles from then on and would be grinning even more upon finally receiving the note from David, though not before making her his wife. I’m jumping the gun once again, but it’s so stirring that I just can’t help it.

8

“Her name is Leah Levy,” he had told his parents over the phone.

“Nice name,” his mother had said.

“And she’s a beauty,” he had quickly added.

“When will we see her?” his mother had asked.

“We’ll come and see you next week.”

“What does she do?” his mother had asked.

“She’s a teacher at a school for the blind.”

“Oh!” his mother had exclaimed.

“How’s Dad?” he had asked.

“He seems to be getting worse,” his mother had replied.

They arrived to Paris on Sunday, December 31st. Jojo wanted her to see the celebrated city of lights on New Year’s Eve. Leah liked his father almost instantly, but his mother was another story, which won’t be related at this juncture. He showed Leah around some of Paris during their stay. They took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, circled the Arc de Triomphe, wondered at the Louvre, shopped at the Centre Georges Pompidou, walked on Les ChampsÉlysées, and rested at the Jardin du Luxembourg. Leah was even more beautiful in the heart of these picturesque places. Jojo loved her immensely, more than anyone or anything else in the world, and she loved him too. She also loved Paris.

9

They were married in Israel on February 29, which coincided with S3’s 52nd birthday had he given a shit, not that it would have mattered anyway. Why mention it, then? Because Jojo, as you’ll find out soon enough, was an asshole too. But as you’ll discover, he was a special kind of asshole. Aren’t they all special assholes one way or another? True! Though a special asshole can be likeable and loved.

“Why are you getting married in Israel and not here where all your family is?” his mother had asked over the phone.

“Because she has a family too and they’re all here.”

“So, her family is more important than yours?”

“Her family is also my family, and they’re as important as you.”

“Then, there’s no reason for us to come to your wedding,” his mother had said.

“I guess not. Dad could come with S2 if he feels up to it.”

“S2?”

“Sister Number 2.”

“Is that how you call your sisters?”

“Yes. They can call me B2 if they wish.”

“Your father can’t take the trip.”

“Let him decide!”

“He’s too frail.”

“Maybe it’ll make him feel better.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was talking about him, not you.”

“Go ahead, ask him!”

“Dad!”

“Yes, Jojo.”

“Would you come to Israel to my wedding?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good. How are you feeling?”

“I feel better now. Jojo and Leah and a few grandchildren.”

“You have 14 grandchildren already.”

“These will be from you.”

“OK, Dad! I promise to give you a few more.”

“How many?”

“God only knows.”

“True.”

Jojo had already warned Leah’s family that his clan, except for his father and S2, consisted of a bunch of assholes. “Hamorim” he called them in Hebrew, which literally means asses (donkeys). “You can’t call them that,” a few of her family had said. But asses they were, and an understatement in all likelihood.

The wedding was joyful, nonetheless, and Leah scintillated like the North star. She would have been the sparkle of Paris had they wed there. Instead, she was the glitter of Tel Aviv and the dazzle of Israel, as well as the glister of Eilat where they honeymooned for five days.

Day 1: They made love several times.



Day 4: She had her period, but he insisted that they make love, nonetheless, even though their religion forbid it. He explained that the reason may have been rightly sanctioned in ancient times, but that nowadays, there was no justifiable reason to forbid it, save the disgust by the man at seeing the woman’s blood, which he didn’t feel at the least given his unsurmountable love for her. They made love several times.


10

Jacques received the note on October 17th, instructing him to meet David at the Argentine metro station in Paris on October 21st. Jojo told Leah that he had a business meeting in Paris and that he would visit his father at the same time.

“Please, come with me!”

“I’m afraid to fly given the pregnancy, and I can’t stay at your parents’ place.”

“The fetus will be fine, we’ll stay at a hotel, of course, and I know that you love Paris.”

“I love you more. Go without me but call me often!”

“Are you sure? We can visit Versailles. You’ll love it.”

“Next time, my love!”

“OK, ma bichette (my little doe)!”

Jojo had a few hours to see his parents and S2 before his meeting with David. His father was happy to see him but still ailing, his mother was another story that doesn’t require a retelling, and S2 was the fairest of his Ss as usual. David shook his hand and congratulated him on his marriage. Jacques thanked him and followed him to a small apartment outside the station. Once again, David handed him a note and asked him to read it and then hand it back to him. As soon as he got the note back, he tore it to very small pieces and flashed it down the toilet. There was no fireplace in this apartment. He also handed Jacques a couple of phones and some cash, and that was it.

Leah sensed that something was wrong when he called her for the fourth time that day, and it wasn’t because of the number of calls. She didn’t say anything, but Jojo sensed her apprehension.

Jacques landed in Bogville the following afternoon. He felt sick again, but not only for being in Genocitis once more, but for being in its capital. “More garbage bucket slime juice to scorch,” he thought, fuming.

He got the same brief phone call from David a few hours after arriving to his hotel room. He told him where to find the package and hung up. It contained the same items as those he had found in the previous one plus a copy of the Old Testament. Jacques didn’t understand at first but perceived its purpose after a moment of reflection.

He was studying the Nasty’s house very early the following morning. “All these abominable, merciless scum buckets live in houses,” he thought, fuming. He noticed some movement within, so he patiently waited behind a few trees. He looked up from time to time at the branches of the sunken trees above him and those standing depressed in the vicinity, hoping to see Jewbird, but no bird was laughing. A few Genociteans left their homes, and a few of them ed by, reminding him that half a century earlier, they would all have been Nasties, most of them at least, and that he couldn’t have been there, and not because he

wouldn’t have been born yet, but simply because he or anyone like him would have been Jewish.

At one point, as the afternoon was trading favors with the morning, he decided to knock at the door and try his luck, but then decided against it when a woman arrived and entered the house. He waited for several hours and left, fuming, of course.

Early the next morning, behind the same trees and with no semblance of Jewbird to provide any , he approached the door and listened for any noise. When he couldn’t hear anything, he sneaked to the back of the house, approached the backdoor and listened for any sound. He heard a faucet running and the noise of dishes. “Someone is in the kitchen,” he thought. He tried to look inside through the small window, but couldn’t see anything clearly, save the hands of a woman. He returned to his hiding place behind the trees and waited. The woman that he had seen during the previous afternoon, finally left the house before the end of the morning. He put his gloves on, returned to the backdoor, listened for any sound, and tried to open it. This time, it was locked. He tried to force the door open but was unable to.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” a crow laughed.

“Jewbird!” he almost shouted.


“Any suggestions?”


“Maybe I should break the window.”


“It’ll be too noisy. Maybe I can break the lock.”


Instead, he went to the front door and rang the bell. No one answered. He rang twice more but got no answer. He returned to the backdoor and forced it open. It caused some noise, but not enough to alert anyone outside or within the house. He walked in, slowly looking into each room, but the house seemed as empty as the house of the first Nasty. “He must be sleeping upstairs in the master bedroom,” he thought.

“What’s your name?” Jacques roared to the man lying on the bed. “What’s your name?” Jacques roared again after a few seconds when there was no reply.

“Artur Axmann,” a reply finally came.

“Weren’t you the national leader of the Nasty Youth during the war?” Jacques

roared.

“Ja.”

“No denial? You did deny it though after the war, didn’t you?” Jacques roared.

“Ja.”

“But now at 83, you’re too old to deny it, aren’t you?” Jacques roared.

“Ja.”

“Why weren’t you punished?” Jacques roared.

“I was in prison and I paid a fine.”

“A few years in prison, and a fine, and only after you were caught under the alias of Erich Siewert. Did your punishment fit the crime?” Jacques roared.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“That’s what you say. But let’s suppose that you didn’t. All those who were under your leadership committed atrocities and killed numerous people, and especially Jews, didn’t they?” Jacques roared.

“Some of them.”

“Some of them? The chutzpah! The insolence!” Jacques almost shouted.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want your punishment to fit the crime,” Jacques thundered.

“An eye for an eye?”

“The chutzpah! I should kill you instantly, but no, I want to hear more!” Jacques said, trying to calm down.

“I have nothing more to say.”

“Of course not, you monster of the first kind.”

“Many years have ed.”

“It didn’t stop Nasties like you and your fellow Judeopaths from slaughtering the Jews wherever you could find them and hunt them for almost two thousand years after Jesus, a Jew, not a Christian. And you want us to forget your atrocities after 50 years, you vicious Nasty? You want us to offer you the other cheek, you monstrous Nasty? Never again, you slime bucket!”

“Ja.”

“You were the axe man alright, but now the ax is pointed at you.”

“Ja.”

“Who was that woman?”

“What woman?”

“The woman that left here earlier?”

“A nurse.”

“A nurse that stayed with you overnight?”

“Ja.”

“You’re lying!” Jacques roared again.

“My daughter.”

“So, you get the chance to have a child, but all the millions that you helped annihilate, don’t?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“We’ve discussed this lie already. Most of those who were under your leadership committed atrocities and killed many Jews, and thus, you are a killer too,” Jacques roared.

“Ja.”

“Where’s your wife?”

“She died two years ago.”

“Another unpunished dead Nasty.”

“She wasn’t a Nazi.”

“Even if she wasn’t a Nasty, being with you and having a child with you made her one.”

“Nein.”

“Any last words?”

“Nein.”

“I didn’t expect anything more from a Nasty like you,” Jacques said and took out the knife.

“Nein!” the Nasty shouted.

“OK!” Jacques said and took out the Old Testament. “I’m not going to read from it if that’s what you were thinking that I was going to do with it,” he added.

Jacques hit the Nasty on the head with it, but seeing that it didn’t cause much of anything, he stabbed the Nasty in the right side of his chest to avoid his heart, though one could argue that there was no such thing as a Nasty heart. The Nasty covered himself with the comforter and whined.

“Are you trying to hide from me? You can’t hide from death any longer, you piece of shit. I hope you’re thinking of the millions of women, children and men who vanished forever because of you and your ilk.”

The Nasty was moaning now. Jacques took out the gun, attached the silencer and shot every bullet into the covered Nasty. He uncovered the Nasty’s head to make sure that this Nasty was dead and set his bed on fire. He set fires around the rest of the house, put all the gas burners on, and left.

“Goodbye, Jewbird,” he whispered to the crow still perched on the tree in front of the back of the house.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” the crow laughed and flew away.

Except for the copy of the Old Testament, he threw the remaining contents of the small package from the hotel room into a garbage can far away and went on his way. The sky was cloudless.

11

He received a note following his return to Paris, instructing him to meet David at the Argentine metro station. Again, David shook his hand as soon as he met him, congratulating him on his very successful mission. At the apartment, he handed Jacques an envelope with $80,000.

“Did you eliminate many Nasties?” Jacques asked.

“Not enough,” David replied. “Too many to mention by name following the end of the war, but there was Kurt Blome in 1969, Heinz Lammerding in 1971, Josef Mengele and Heinz Reinefarth in 1979, Gustav Wagner in 1980, and Erich Traub in 1985.”

“Josef Mengele?”

“We made it look like an accident.”

“Why?”

“We strive to make all of their deaths look like accidents. We are not looking for publicity. Justice is the sole motive.”

“Do I have to wait for another few years for the next one?”


“Am I the only one eliminating them?”

“No! But there aren’t many of you left. Many of us left in different ways.”

“Is it goodbye, then?”

“Yes.”

“Visit me in Israel if you can.”

“I can’t promise but I’ll try.”

12

Researchers from the United States and Switzerland assessed surveys conducted at two timepoints, 1996 and 2006, which asked respondents about a range of issues, including their opinions of Jews. The polls, known as the Genocitean General Social Survey, reflected the views of 5,300 people from 264 towns and cities across Genocitis, allowing the researchers to evaluate differences according to age, sex and location.

By focusing on those respondents who consistently expressed negative views of Jews on a number of questions, the researchers found that those born in the 1930s held the most extreme anti-Semitic opinions, even more than 60 years after the end of the Nasty supremacy, propaganda and atrocities.

It’s not only that Nasty schooling worked. Subjecting people to a totalitarian regime during their formative years influenced the way in which their minds worked, argued Hans-Joachim Voth, one of the study’s authors from the

University of Zurich. “The striking thing is that it doesn’t go away afterward.”

13

In the movie, Arrival, it is hypothesized that a language, an alien one in this case, can be powerful enough to oversee time, including the future. Can the Genocitean language lead to genocide? It’s not a scientific question since there was only one such occurrence, namely the Shoah, and it was probably caused by several other factors and not the Genocitean language. Yet, one could argue that the Genociteans, or Nasties, committed additional genocides against the Gypsies, homosexuals, handicapped and political undesirables, and that the list would have been longer had they won the war.

How can the language of Goethe and Nietzsche lead to genocide? How can the language of Freud and Einstein lead to the Shoah? Freud and Einstein were Jews first; the Nasties made it official. Are these realities sufficient to make the question scientific? No! Nevertheless, it could be so. It may also be the coarsest language to the ears, of non-speakers, of course. Japanese is another coarse language, but in this case, only when spoken by men.

14

“You can’t marry her,” his mother had said.

“Why can’t I?” Jojo had replied.

“She’s too old.”

“Too old?”

“She’s at least ten years your senior.”

“Is that all that counts for you?”

“No, but it’s the most important thing.”

“You wouldn’t have mentioned it had it been the other way around and I was at least ten years her senior.”

“That would have been acceptable.”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re perpetrating sexist views that have no reason whatsoever and at the end of the 20th century. And it sounds much worse coming from a woman.”

“I’m still right.”

“With your limited knowledge and thinking, you are. What about love?”

“What about it?”

“I love her and she loves me. That’s the most important fact.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Dad married you for love. Didn’t you marry him for love?”

“Yes, and he was four years my senior. He wouldn’t have married me had I been at least ten years his senior.”

“You don’t know that, I doubt it, and that’s beside the point.”

“Oh, yes I know.”

“You don’t know Jack Schitt.”

“Watch your language!”

“My language is fine. You should think before speaking. And if what you think is hurtful in any way, you shouldn’t speak.”

“So, you’re going to tell me from now on what I can say and when I can speak?”

“No! You should think before you speak because if you don’t, you won’t speak to me anymore.”

“So, she’s more important than your mother?”

“Yes, she is.”

“How quickly you forget.”

“How quickly I .”

15

Jojo and Leah were happy—the two Ps in happy not separated by a hyphen— and perhaps happier when she gave birth to a cute baby girl a few months later. Her entire family rejoiced, whereas his, most of his, that is, didn’t. They named her, Im’ut; literally “if you” in Hebrew.

Fatherhood

Sweet life, although without reminiscence, I await you, saddened, but with a smile. Lacking objective meaning, life’s essence May lie in the feeble mind. The short mile, Or the kilometer, will never change The quintessence of time, which forever Exists in life, but loses its vast range Within the space-time of death. How clever Were the Jews? How senseless the Nasties were? Does it matter that some of them were fed To the ground as future peat, or to bear Genocide arms cutting their lives for red Kilometers? Minds that travel in feet Should feel foolish when they finally meet.

16

Leah gave birth to a baby boy the following year. Jojo insisted that their son be circumcised at the hospital in case of complications. Most of her family didn’t agree, but Leah did, and her was all that he needed. Her family eventually agreed when he related the dangers of home-based circumcision. Her family rejoiced, whereas his, most of his, that is, didn’t. They named him, Aviv; literally “spring” in Hebrew.

Freud

Like mathematics, every field of knowledge would love to pride itself on being peerless and free from any other influential sphere of study. Anthropology was heading in that direction when it encountered Freud, or when Freud went out of his way to encounter it. Of course, most fields owe something, directly or indirectly, to the exact science of mathematics and or the more objectivesubjective sphere of philosophy but can still voice their adopted independence. Freud changed all that for anthropology. Although he was specifically studying the human psyche, he was also examining all the developmental and cultural aspects of Homo sapiens, and thus stepping into the realm of anthropology and creating psychoanalytic anthropology.

While Totem and Taboo could be considered the cornerstone of Freud’s anthropology, one could argue that Freud is fundamental for any study of Homo sapiens. From the Interpretation of Dreams to Moses and Monotheism, Freud elucidated, mostly intuitively, the evolutionary pattern of the human psyche. He was often criticized, still is, for lacking scientific methodology, but his ideas were, still are, so heroically captivating that goosebumps are often just one potential side effect of their grasping. It is still maintained in some Freudian circles that whoever vehemently disagrees with Freud is basically in denial.

17

Leah gave birth to a second baby girl the following year. Jamais deux sans trois (never twice without a third, or, when it rains, it pours). Her family rejoiced, whereas his, most of his, that is, didn’t. They named her, Dvora; literally “bee” in Hebrew.

The Little Lilac

Her blue lilacs rustle in the kind wind, inviting me to participate in their timely disposition. I approach them with my nose, to breathe in their astral scent. I would even like to savor their colorful appearance, but I only touch their intricate texture instead. Their beauty, suring any painter’s picture of it, makes me yearn to be one of them: blue, carefree, riveting. A bee buzzes by and barely contains its surprise at the celestial display, almost crashing into one of them. It hovers for a while, perhaps unable to make a choice as to which one to lay upon its sweet figure first. Somehow, it chooses the shortest one, not to show its lack of bias, but because it is the most enticing one with its modest demeanor. I now begin to wish that I was a bee, so I, too, could bathe in the heavenly pool of pollen. I gaze at them, embracing each other’s gift of life, enjoying each other’s prompt present, imagining each other’s sense of pleasure—voyeur. The bee, splendor-drunk, withdraws almost falling, having stripped the little lilac of its life-giving elixir. But as it flies towards its home sweet home, the little lilac’s bluish hue fades away, proclaiming to the world its successful union. It has done its share of procreation, and now, it is ready to fall asleep and dream about the departed lover lost to the wind. And as it begins to slumber to the sound of its wishful friends, I realize, again, that loneliness is worse than death, and that love, only love, is the answer.

18

Dark—and still unknown—energy is hypothesized to permeate all of space and accelerate the expansion of the universe. Current measurements indicate that it contributes 68.3% of the total energy in the observable universe. Dark—and still unidentified—matter comprises about 27% of the mass and energy in the observable universe that is not ed for by dark energy, ordinary matter and neutrinos. What if dark energy and dark matter exist to keep any other Big Bang from occurring within an existing universe. What if Big Bangs occur within an existing universe, and that we are a part of a Big Bang within the Big Bang. Consequently, could a Big Bang occur within a Big Bang that occurred within

the Big Bang? Could it characterize another way of perceiving the idea of a multiverse?

Questions and more questions! We ask them as soon as we can, and only stop asking them when we’re dead, or until we find the answers. But then we tend to ask other questions. Nevertheless, many people, if not most, stop asking questions too early, settle for wrong answers, or are asking the wrong questions. What would be the right questions, pray tell? Questions that can be answered scientifically! That’s it and that’s all!

19

Is there a website where people can exchange their lives? Not where only two people can exchange their lives with one another, but where couples can exchange their lives with other couples as well. The exchange occurs in every conceivable respect for a period of one day, one week or one month and can be repeated if both parties agree. There will be such a site very soon if it doesn’t already exist.

20

Is there a website where people can exchange their religions? The exchange occurs in every conceivable respect for a period of one day, one week or one month and can then be adopted for the rest of their lives. There will never be such a site. Never say never!

Four

Death

1

What’s with shitting? Not shit! The act of shitting! Though it’s not an act. Doesn’t it diminish us as Homo sapiens, the animal kingdom’s most radical creature, its most innovative organism? Some would even proclaim us to be its towering achievement. Are we to be lauded, notwithstanding our obvious faults, though we shit like any other animal? It’s not the stench of shit, or its composition, or even its three states, namely solid, liquid and gas, though one could argue that there are other semi-states.

How can we be proud of ourselves knowing that we shit? How can we ire anyone that shits? How can we even hope for a better future when it’ll always be full of shit? We are full of shit most of the time. Even after we shit, we still contain shit within us, forming, advancing through our intestines towards the asshole and then into or onto whatever there is in our lives. Our underwear is often shit-stained, and we have diapers both for babies and adults. Some of us don’t even wash our hands after taking a shit.

Some of us like shitting, and even shit itself. Some of us love shitting and shit itself, and even have a fetish for shitting and shit. How can some of us fantasize about shitting and shit? Is the anal stage of infants at play here, showing yet again Freud’s uncanny insight? Are these shitting and or shit aficionados anal retentive, to say the least? I digress.

As long as we shit, we remain animals no matter what we say or do. No shit! Exactly! And since there is no way for us to stop shitting, let’s not shit ourselves that we are superior to any other animal and accept that we are simply shrewder, and meaner, of course. Much meaner! Not all of us! Not even most of us! Many of us! And it’s plenty.

The day shit is worth money; poor people will be born without an asshole. Gabriel García Márquez

2

“What are the names of Jojo’s parents, sisters and brother?”

“Who gives a shit? I don’t!”

“What about Jojo? He might mind.”

“Would he? Perhaps for his father and S2.”

“So, what are their names?”

“Father and S2.”

3

Jojo was happy. Why wouldn’t he? With a beautiful loving wife and three cute children, happiness was practically a given. But being happy involves more than a beautiful, loving wife and three cute children. Not much more, but more, nonetheless. Truly, a beautiful loving wife would have been sufficient to make Jojo happy. Leah, on the other hand, probably needed more than an OK-looking loving husband to be happy.

Leah

She could stop his heart without her wig and clothing. He’ll never forget the first time that he saw her naked. Typically, she would have waited until her wedding night to appear naked before him. Yet a few months before their wedding, following their routine meeting every weekday after he closed his shop, she asked him to take her to his apartment. “Are you sure?” he replied, surprised. “Yes and no, but the yes is winning.” She prepared him some food while he was taking a shower, but he could only look at her when he reappeared fresh and excited. She smiled timidly and went to his bedroom. He paused unexpectedly, feeling hypnotized by her act. “Are you coming?” she called to him when enough time had elapsed and he was still missing. “I’m unable to move,” he replied. She covered herself with one of his shirts and returned to the living room. He smiled and hugged her for what seemed like a long time. She trembled in his arms, but then kissed him for what seemed like eternity. They went to his bedroom and sat on his extra-large bed. She took off his shirt but felt exposed. He hugged her hurriedly to both cover her and finally touch her silvery skin. She hugged him back and took off his bathrobe. He kissed every part of her face and body, somewhat unable to contain his happiness. She felt his glee, closing her eyes and giving him free reign over her body and soul. He would have eaten her if it was possible to do so without hurting her, and thus, he only tasted her surfaces, penetrating her hollows with his tongue to taste her even more.

“What about him?” you may ask. “What did she do to him?” Enough! More than enough! And this age is titled Leah, not Jojo.

4

The following years could have been good ones, and even the best ones, as they were shared with lovely Leah, the children, and her family. His shop, however, began to lose some business. He also received a note from David, asking him for a meeting in Paris the following week. Most of the world was reeling from the September 11 attacks, and he was going to be asked, no doubt, to kill another Nasty. He asked Leah to accompany him, with the kids if she preferred, but again she declined, reminding him of the children’s very young age and of the impending Yom Kippur.

“We can’t wait until they’re all grown up. I want you to see more of Paris, and this is the second time that you can’t see Paris again,” Jojo implored. “And we’ll stay at a hotel close to a synagogue,” he added.

“You know how much I love you,” she replied.

“Yes, and I adore you too.”

“But the children are too young to travel far from home even if it’s only for a few days, and especially to a hotel. You have to go. It’s your job, and you’ll also see your father, your sister, and anyone else you like in your family.”

“I miss you too much when you’re not with me.”

“I miss you too,” she replied.

“But it’s the last time. Please!” he said.

“I can’t promise that if your next trip is within a few years.”

“I won’t go next time if you don’t come with me.”

“We’ll cross that bridge, then,” she said and kissed him for a long time.

Jojo left for Paris on September 20th. He visited his father at the Jewish nursing home, where he also saw his mother. Was it like killing two Nasties with one stone? He wouldn’t (I too wouldn’t) kill any bird. No, since his father wasn’t a Nasty! His mother wasn’t a Nasty either, but she was a bitch. His father’s condition was stable, as stable as dementia could be, but he had long moments when he thought that his wife was cheating on him. “She’s not!” Jojo would tell him. “Mother is not cheating on you.” But he would maintain his belief. Oddly, he didn’t seem to be angry at his wife; he was angry at an orderly that walked by, and even pointed his finger at him, telling me that he was her man. When Jojo’s mother arrived about 15 minutes later, his father’s expression changed, becoming happier now that she was finally by him, “in his apartment,” he once called it, when he asked Jojo to come in. His father had been complaining that an orderly was hitting him during the night. Was he the orderly with whom his wife was supposedly cheating on him? An orderly was fired a few months later

following an investigation that was triggered by protests from several patients’ families.

He met S2 and her youngest daughter, Meira, in a small café on Les ChampsÉlysées.

“I can’t believe that you’re married with three kids,” S2 said while they were enjoying their coffees.

“I can’t grasp it either sometimes, but Leah is the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Jojo replied.

“What did you think of our father when you saw him last?”

“He’s lonely without his wife.”

“But she comes to see him every other day, and the rest of the family sees him very frequently so that someone sees him every day.”

“That’s not enough for anyone who had been accustomed to be surrounded by his family his entire life up to a year ago.”

“Mother isn’t as mobile anymore with her osteoporosis, and she’s in her 80s on top of it.”

“I agree. Father, however, doesn’t understand it like that because of his dementia and upbringing. He used to be the head of the family, but now he finds himself a burden relegated to a room within a nursing home. Put yourself in his shoes! How would you feel?”

“I know, but what can we do?”

“My wife told me not too long ago that she would have welcomed him into our home if it wasn’t for our mother. Did anyone of you even considered it?”

“No one did,” Meira said.

“I thought as much,” Jojo replied.

“Why didn’t your wife come to see him, then?” S2 asked.

“Leah loves father even if she never came to see him at the hospital or the nursing home. She refuses to see him so helpless, and she doesn’t want to see anyone else.”

“Life stinks,” S2 said.

“People stink more than life on many occasions,” Jojo replied. “I hate most of

you, sisters, brother, and even some of your grownup kids. What a bunch of mean phonies!” he added in utter disgust.

“Do you hate us too?” S2 asked.

“I said most of you, not all of you.”

“What about mother?”

“It may be hard to hate one’s mother, but let’s say that I don’t love her.”

“You know what they say. Hatred is love in disguise,” S2 said.

“Is it? In other words, I love the demented head of the Nasties because I hate him so much,” Jojo replied.

“Nasties?”

“Those that perpetrated the Shoah.”

“Oh; off course not!”

“So, it only applies to family .”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit! I hate these so-called family because they’re callous and thoughtless, and it would be a waste of time to mention all the other qualities that they don’t possess.”

“They could say the same about you.”

“They did and they still do, but we know who’s telling the truth and who’s cementing the position of an asshole and a demented right-wing extremist. By the way, you’re also a somewhat right-wing extremist, except that you’re not an asshole, or at least you try not to be one all of the time.”

“You exaggerate,” S2 replied.

“Do I? I live in Israel and you all are the right-wing extremists for crying out load. That’s what I call chutzpa. You have no right to be an Israel-related rightwing extremist and not live there. Outside of Israel, you can only be a centrist, or slightly leaning to the left, but nothing else. Any other opinion is not welcomed and only damages both Israel and Jews abroad. Israelis will decide their fate, no one else, and especially not Jews living away from Israel and its multilayered problems.”

“I don’t know what to say,” S2 replied.

“Don’t say anything! Meira is not saying anything and appears smarter for it. You say things, and clever isn’t an adjective that would describe them.”

“Thank you,” Meira said almost silently.

“Thank you! So, we’re all dumb and you’re smart,” S2 said very calmly.

“You are both welcome. Intelligence is a thorny measure, but I can safely say that my intelligence sures that of all my siblings combined.”

“If you say so,” S2 replied.

“I do; I do say so.”

5

Jacques met David at the Argentine metro station once again. From there they proceeded to the apartment outside the station where Jacques was handed the usual note. He memorized it and returned it to David who tore it to very small pieces and flashed it down the toilet. He then handed Jacques a couple of phones and some cash, and that was almost it.

“In Canada?” Jacques asked to confirm.

“Yes.”

“Finally, no fucking Genocitis!” Jacques said.

“Yes.”

Jojo called Leah to inform her that he was leaving Paris for Montreal, explaining that a good business deal was at hand there.

Montreal

Autumn starts to surface—the fall of leaves That soon enough disappear with the thieves of winter—heavy snowflakes of white piss That cover the dead leaves in a true hiss. Spring springs into existence in April, Bringing to life the trees and the creatures That harmonize—memorize spring’s peril In the hands of summer’s sunny features. Autumn reappears, and winter awakes,

And when it falls asleep, spring bites with green Leaves all the living things, and summer’s clean Conscience heats them with sunfire and grapes. This cycle continues to rotate, roll, And revolve like the sound of rock ‘n’ roll.

Jacques landed in Montreal on September 24th, two days before Yom Kippur. He got the same brief phone call from David a few hours after arriving to his hotel room. He told him where to find the package and hung up. It contained the same items as those he had found in the first one, except that this one contained a copy of the New Testament. Again, Jacques didn’t understand at first, but then perceived its purpose.

The Nasty’s house wasn’t on the Island of Montreal. Perhaps because Montreal wouldn’t such a nasty animal. Don’t get me wrong! Montreal had its share of demented individuals, Marc Lépine who in 1989 had massacred 14 women in the Polytechnique engineering school, being a prominent example. Many Nasties had settled in Canada after the war, but large cities were usually avoided so not to be in proximity of too many people. The Nasty’s house was located in Longueuil, a suburb directly across, named after a village that is at present the seat of a canton in the district of Dieppe in Normandy. Marc Twain had argued that truth was stranger than fiction. I wonder if he meant that it was also more ironic.

“Another abominable merciless scum bucket living in a house,” Jacques thought once more as he was contemplating the Nasty’s secure residence. It was late in the morning of September 25th, just a day before Yom Kippur. Could he accomplish his mission and then pray to atone for it the following day? He wasn’t going to commit a murder. He was going to carry out a sentence. It was probably a mitzvah, a precept of a good deed done out of religious duty. He

didn’t care either way. Some things may transcend any religious fervor even if religion is often the direct or indirect instigator of slaughter.

There was a lot of movement within the house, so he waited impatiently across the street in a bus station, which he had to leave on two occasions to avoid with people that were actually waiting for the bus. He looked up from time to time at the mostly leafless branches of the trees that stood erect as if they were praying the Amidah (Standing Prayer) to the Indian summer to prolong its ephemeral reign. He hoped again to see Jewbird, but no bird was laughing. Did it fly to a warmer terrain, or was it simply looking for food? A couple of people entered the house during the late afternoon, rendering his mission impossible. He returned to his hotel room, hoping that his luck would improve the next morning.

It was just before eight a.m. when he arrived to the bus station. Canadians, not Genociteans, were leaving their homes on that Friday morning, about ten hours before the beginning of Yom Kippur. A few of them entered the bus station to wait for the bus as he was leaving it to avoid them. There was no noticeable movement in the Nasty’s house, so he approached it. Not seeing anything at the front, he walked to the back, but here too, it was quiet. “The fucking Nasty and his family are still sleeping peacefully,” he thought. “Not for much longer,” he whispered to himself when he heard a crow laugh.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha.”

“Jewbird!” Jacques almost yelled, happy to recognize his friend.


“He who laughs last, laughs longest. No wonder that you laugh so much,” he whispered to the crow.


“You got it,” he whispered laughingly.


“It’s time,” he said to Jewbird and walked back to the front of the house.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” he heard the crow laugh.

He looked around, put on the gloves, took out the gun with the silencer already attached, and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman opened the door a long moment later and let him in, trembling when she saw the gun. Jacques was trembling too.

“Who else is in the house?” he asked as soon as he closed the door behind him.

“Just my father still asleep upstairs,” she replied, still trembling.

“Hermann Michel?” he asked.

“No! Michel Weber.”

“Is he 89 years old?”

“Yes.”

“He must be the Preacher, then.”

“No! He was a nurse.”

“Yes. That was his occupation before and after the weaving of his lies.”


“Your father was called the Preacher because of his polite and refined speech. He must have omitted that part of his life. During World War II, he would sit at a table, convincing the soon-to-be-terminated newly arrived Jews to calm down, promising them that all their belongings would be returned to them after the shower, and that it was time for Jews to become a productive component of the war effort. He assured all of them that they would be going to live and work in the Ukraine, which aroused some confidence and even enthusiasm in many of them. They often applauded and sometimes even danced and sang. He was a Nasty SS staff sergeant who gladly participated in the annihilation of Jews at the Sobibór extermination camp during the Nasty operation known as Operation Reinhardt, the codename given to the secretive Nasty plan to mass murder most

Polish Jews in the General Government district of Genocitis-occupied Poland. The operation marked the deadliest phase of the Shoah with the introduction of extermination camps.”

“You must be mistaken. My father worked to save people, not murder them.”

“He may have saved Christians before and after the Shoah, but he certainly did not save any Jews during its lingering butchery.”

“You are mistaken. My father is a good man.”

“Just suppose that you’re wrong and that your father was a Nasty. What would you think of him, then?”

“I can’t suppose that of my father. I’ve known him all my life. He’s not capable of what you’re saying.”

“Let’s ask him, then! Lead the way!” Jacques said.

She acquiesced reluctantly. It’s characteristic of our species to be unwilling to do something and yet do it especially when a gun is pointed at us. He followed her upstairs to the Nasty’s bedroom, the master bedroom, of course, where they found him still asleep.

“He’s been ill,” she said as they entered the room.

“At 89, it’s almost a fact of life. The victims of the Nasties didn’t get the chance of being ill at 89.”

“Dad,” she called to him in a worried voice. He stirred in his bed and slowly opened his eyes. “This man is saying that you were a Nazi,” she said, trembling. He looked at her and then at Jacques.

“Isn’t your real name, Hermann Michel?” Jacques asked.

“My name is Michel Weber,” he replied with his eyes closed.

“Still lying at your age?” Jacques roared.

“Please,” she said. “He is not lying.”

“How would you know? You only met him when he became your father in his 40s or 50s, and then, you simply grew up.”

“Please, my daughter has nothing to do with it,” the Nasty pleaded.

“No, she doesn’t. Tell her, then! Tell her what you’ve done! She needs to hear it from you.”

“Only if you promise not to hurt her,” he said.

“Hurt her? Why would I hurt her? She isn’t a Nasty war criminal,” Jacques roared. “And even if she were, I’m here for you, not her,” he added in disgust.

“Yes, my name used to be Hermann Michel.”

“The truth won’t set you free, merciless scum bucket,” Jacques roared.

“Please,” his daughter implored.

“Please what? Spare his long life?” Jacques shouted, unable to contain himself.

“How could you, father?” she cried out.

“He could and he did countless times,” Jacques replied.

“Are you going to hurt him?” his daughter asked, tearful.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Please, don’t!” she implored.

“You are asking me to spare this Nasty mass murderer who sent entire families to the gas chambers?”

“He’s my father,” she pleaded.

“What about all the fathers that he murdered?” Jacques roared. “And the mothers, and the children, and the grandparents, and the aunts, and the uncles, and the cousins, and the friends, and the neighbors?” Jacques added, shaking.

“It happened long ago,” she replied.

“You are a Nasty’s daughter; no doubt about it,” Jacques said, scornfully. “To hell with you both,” he then muttered, shooting the Nasty twice. His daughter shouted, surely at him, but it was as if she was shouting at the world. He shot her too, having realized when she had led him to the Nasty’s bedroom, that he would have to kill her too. It wasn’t part of his mission, but she would be an eyewitness, unless she agreed that her father’s execution was long warranted. She didn’t, of course. Is there a daughter that would agree? She even thought that her father’s crimes had happened long ago. A whopping 56 years after the end of the Shoah was considered a long time. Fucking Nasty offspring! Her too, he shot twice, though he stopped himself from emptying the gun. He wasted the remaining bullets on her Nasty father. Once again, he lighted the bedsheets and the newspapers that he found in the living room, but there were no gas burners to put on, so he also lighted all the paper tissues and towels that he could find as well as the copy of the New Testament that he had brought with him and left the house. Jewbird was nowhere to be seen. The crow must have flown away to

prepare for Yom Kippur, Jacques quipped to himself. He threw the remaining contents of the small package from the hotel room into a garbage can far away and went on his way. The sky was cloudy.

The hotel was not too far from a synagogue, except that this congregation was Ashkenasty, and thus, patronized by Jews of central and eastern Euratean descent, and he, being of the Sephardic persuasion, had grown accustomed to the musicality of the prayers of the latter. Nonetheless, it was a better option than Yom Kippur prayers by himself in his hotel room. Likewise, the uncalled-for acrimony between the two communities had been declining over the past few decades both in Israel and abroad. However, wondering aloud while taking his shower, Jacques Messier or Jojo Ben Shabbat pondered whether it was even possible for him to atone in this period of introspection and repentance, in this 26-hour Day of Atonement, in this Sabbath of Sabbaths, for his crime, namely the killing of the Nasty’s daughter, in an Ashkenasty synagogue. Would it have been easier to atone for her in a Sephardic one? The killing of the daughter’s Nasty father did not constitute a crime in his mind.

Evening prayers on September 26th followed by morning-to-evening prayers on the morrow were palpably depleting for most parishioners, especially that fasting had to be sustained for 26 hours plus the time that elapsed at the end between the departure from the synagogue to the arrival home, which could augment the duration of the fast by over an hour for those who lived far. For Jojo, it amounted to 26.5 hours, except that no feast was waiting for him at the hotel room, tough it would have been a feast for a vegetarian. He perceived it as part of his punishment, and another part, being away from his wife and the rest of his family in Israel. He knew that there were additional parts, hoping that none would affect his wife or the rest of his family in Israel.

He received a note before leaving Montreal, instructing him to meet David at the Argentine metro station in Paris. David seemed different when he shook his hand upon meeting him at the station. He also didn’t congratulate him on his successful mission. Jacques didn’t say anything until they entered the apartment.

“May I ask what’s wrong?” Jacques asked, knowing very well the answer.

“I think that you can tell me that,” David replied.

“I had no choice. His daughter saw me,” Jacques said, distressed.

“You shouldn’t have entered the house knowing that she was there,” David replied, disappointed.

“I know,” Jacques said, lowering his eyes. “It’s not an excuse but Yom Kippur was at hand, so I decided not to wait, hoping that he was alone,” he added.

“You had to make sure like you did before. Didn’t you make sure before?” David asked.

“I did. I don’t know what happened this time. I also missed my wife more than usual. I don’t know what to say. I’m very sorry,” Jacques replied, feeling regretful.

“Your action may bring an end to our organization,” David declared.

“You can’t stop your work because of my thoughtless deed,” Jacques implored.

“I think that we will. This grave gaffe will bring our end. Also, there aren’t many Nazis left who are worth it anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jacques replied, almost in tears.

“It’s too late. Return to your family! At least, you’ll have them to console you.”

“Is there anything that I can do?” Jacques asked.

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me!” Jacques pleaded.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Take care of yourself!” David replied and handed him an envelope.

“Not this time,” Jacques almost screamed.

“I insist,” David said.

“No!” Jacques replied.

“You must take it. It’s the only thing that will always remind you of your crime,” David replied.

“The fourth part of my punishment,” Jacques said, almost gleefully.

“The fourth part?”

“My praying and begging throughout my wakeful hours during the fast were the first part. My meager meal at the hotel was the second. My being away from my wife was the third. This is the fourth part. And there will surely be other parts.”

“You must love your wife because you don’t mention the children.”

“I love her the most.”

“More than your children?”

“Yes.”

“Very interesting! I don’t think that I’ve ever heard of a husband who loved his wife more than their children.”

“Now, you have. And the children were also for her.”

“Goodbye, Jacques! No! Goodbye, Joseph! No! Goodbye Jojo,” David said and handed him the envelop.

Jojo accepted the fourth part of his punishment, shook David’s hand, bid him goodbye, and left the apartment. The envelop contained $100,000.

6

Back at home, Jojo couldn’t leave Leah’s side for an entire 26.5-hour period. He even followed her to the bathroom and under the shower, though she had asked him with the cutest conceivable coyness to leave the bathroom. She was somewhat surprised to see him so amorous of her but couldn’t say anything ill about all the attention and love that she was receiving from him, nor think anything ill about all the attention and love that she was receiving from him, the latter on of his absolute sincerity.

“Did anything happen when you were away?” Leah asked when the children were asleep and they were together in bed.

“I prayed in an Ashkenasty synagogue.”

“Ashkenasty?” Leah asked.

“I refuse to pronounce the name of those who committed the Shoah.”

“The Germans?”

“Them too.”

“Oh, the Nazis?”

“Yes!”

“And Ashkenazi contains the word Nazi.”

“Yes!”

“But it’s only by chance.”

“I know, but still, I refuse to pronounce that word and a few others.”

“Since when?”

“A few years before I met you.”

“What caused this?”

“I’m not sure, but one day I just felt that the Shoah was unbearable to me. I couldn’t stand the fact of it. I wished that it was made up. But there were too many facts to it, and one fact was enough. I thought that at least I could remove some words linked to the Shoah from my vocabulary, replacing them with more meaningful ones. Nasty for you know what, Genocitis for the country that shat them, Eurat for the so-called continent that raised so much antiSemitism and so many Judeopaths that ultimately headed toward the Shoah and are still with us for who knows how many more years if not forever, and a few other words.”

“You never told me.”

“It never came up.”

“What happened in the synagogue?”

“Nothing! I prayed for my sins.”

“Any sin in particular?” Leah asked, smiling.

“I’m not sure.”

“You can’t have that many.”

“I think that I only have one of the biggest.”

“What happened?”

“I may tell you one day, but not any time soon.”

“Why can’t you tell me?” Leah asked, troubled.

“I just can’t, and it doesn’t involve you in any way.”

“It’s that personal?”

“Probably the most personal something can be.”

“OK, my love!” Leah said, smiling again.

“Thank you, my only love!” Jojo said, rather aroused.

“Are we going to make love?” Leah whispered.

“Of course, my love,” Jojo replied. “This, here, being close to you in bed, is the best place in the world,” he added.

There was no better place anywhere in the world. He couldn’t even imagine such a place without her in it with him. She hadn’t realized it yet, but he worshipped her. From her golden hair to her little feet, he loved everything about her.

He wasn’t religious before meeting her; schlepping to the synagogue on Yom Kippur only so his parents won’t feel ashamed of him while surrounded by their neighbors, friends and family. They even thought at one point that he was an atheist when he told them that he didn’t need God’s forgiveness.

“What?” his mother had exclaimed.

“You mean, why,” he had replied.

“Don’t be a wise guy,” his father had said.

“He, or whatever God is, should be asking for our forgiveness. But I can imagine

that he doesn’t because he knows that many of us wouldn’t give it.”

“How can you say such a thing?” his mother had fumed.

“Because God is mean-spirited, and even worse, a collaborator who allowed and even aided the Nasties in their professed Final Solution.”

“God had nothing to do with it,” his mother had declared.

“How would you know? And even if he didn’t, he still let it happen, forever. Even one day would have been intolerable, and he permitted it to befall us Jews and so many others for years. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, and bloody Yom Kippur after bloody Yom Kippur, of being shot in the streets or in the forests, and those were the lucky ones, of being shoved into special trucks that gassed them while they were driven to holes dug in the ground by fellow scared-out-of-their-wits Jews, of being rammed like livestock into cattle cars and hauled thirsty and hungry to extermination camps to be gassed and cremated, with the stronger ones being temporarily spared so they could be used as slave laborers until the next selection, or until exhaustion, starvation and disease, the real trinity, finally ushered to their deaths and your so-called God. Come on! Open your mind and see the truth!”

His mother turned her head and walked away, and his father lowered his head and closed his eyes, saying, after a long silence, “I hope that you are wrong, my son.”

“Father! Deep down, you know that I’m right.”

“How long have you felt this way?” his father asked.

“Since I read a few important books and began to see things for what they are and then think for myself. What would be the point of having a brain and not use it? We would be like the so-called animals that we butcher for food and sport.”

“Life would be unbearable if you were right, my son.”

Jojo’s religiosity was entirely for Leah’s sake. He adored her and would have done almost anything to be worthy of her. Yet, as their years together accrued, and their love for one another ripened, she also began to think for herself after being introduced to ideas that she had never thought possible. Nietzsche and Freud lighted the flame, and Dawkins, Hitchens, and a few others, nourished the fire. Religion may have given her purpose for most of her life, but the realization that it was mostly rooted in fabrications and criminal misdeeds dismayed and saddened her at first, before she understood that the Beatles and John Lennon were right when they sang that all we needed was love. He loved her and she loved him. There was also the love of her children and family, but she also grew to understand that his love was the most significant of them all.

Every time that he held her in his arms, he felt as if he was holding everything that there is to hold. Every time that he kissed her mouth, arose in him the desire to kiss her until the end of their lives. Every time that he buried his face in her blond-bleached hair, it reminded him that he was probably the luckiest individual in the world. Every time that he touched her perfect breasts and sucked the nearly skin-colored nipples, it elicited his happiness to be alive. Every time that he moved his head between her thighs, he lost himself in resounding serenity. His nose was inundated by her sweet femininity, his ears were bathing in her bliss, and his eyes were mostly closed as he was trying to who in God’s name he was.

Every time that she held him in her arms, she felt as if she was holding her life. Every time that she kissed his mouth, arose in her the desire to kiss him until she couldn’t breathe anymore. Every time that she moved her hands through his abundant black hair, it reminded her that she was probably the happiest woman in the world. Every time that she caressed and played with the hairs on his chest, it elicited her desire to be united with him as one. Every time that she moved her head between his thighs, she lost herself in pure selflessness. Her nose was floored by his swollen masculinity, her ears were immersed in his ecstasy, and her eyes were mostly closed as she was trying to memorize who she was.

However, there is one act that he would have executed for her, but that she could never have carried out were their lives switched. Reduce his family! You know; kill them; one by one, or in bunches like fish! No! Like snakes; it’s more befitting!

“But not my father and S2; they would be the exceptions.”

“I would never want you nor let you kill any member of your family, including your mother. I don’t need anything else as proof of your love for me. I know that you love me un peu, beaucoup, ionnément, à la folie, infiniment (a little, a lot, ionately, to madness, infinitely). I know. You don’t speak to most of them, and that’s more than enough.”

“I can’t stomach their nastiness and stupidity, their meanness and ignorance, their inhumanity and senselessness.”

“You have to. And that indifference is the worst punishment.”

“Not as much as death.”

“I don’t know; indifference lingers, but death is swift.”

“But death is death.”

“I suppose. Please change the subject!”

“I would love to talk about the stars, but I have the shiniest one near me in bed.”

“You are mine too.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

“But mine is the shiniest.”

“And mine loves me best.”

“You win,” Jojo said and kissed her as if there was no tomorrow.

Call it life or reality, it didn’t seem to tolerate happiness for very long. The money that Jojo had received from David helped to keep the shop afloat, but he knew that it was being wasted on an outdated business model. Most people preferred to shop in shopping centers and malls. Moreover, Leah had taken three maternity leaves following the birth of their three children. Jojo would have ed any decision on her part concerning a temporary or permanent leave of absence, but Leah never considered it, which turned out to be beneficial during the approaching leaner years.

Im’ut, Aviv and Dvora were growing up as most children tend to do, requiring both emotional and economic attention, which they never lacked from both Leah and Jojo who loved them almost as much as they loved each other. To circumvent any chance of becoming unable to provide for the wellbeing of his family, Jojo began to think outside of the box. Most of us think in boxes, with the difference being, for the most part, the size and location of the box. Outside of his box, Jojo saw what most of us usually see. What? A cruel dog-eat-dog world. And that’s assuming that we are all dogs, when in fact, most of us are sheep, or some other ineffectual ruminating creatures, or worse, lions and Nasties. Jojo thought that he had to become a lion for his family more than for himself, that he had to become a lion for her, Leah, the love of his life. He had killed four people, though he, and perhaps many others, would only consider that he had killed one; the last one; a woman. Is it worse to kill a woman than a man? Yes!

7

Jojo’s father died in 2003 at the age of 89.63. It seems that only the good ones die first. Leah cried more than he did, but not because she loved his father more, or was a woman. She lovingly understood that from then on, he had only her and the children in the world, and perhaps only her given that he mostly had eyes for

her. He refused to go to the funeral, and only visited his father’s grave in Jerusalem for the first time with S2, and the only time given that he refused to see it again and reimagine the body of his father being ravaged by the ground. He had witnessed his father’s brain being atrophied by dementia and didn’t want to envision the rest of him being withered within a grave.

Jojo closed the shop a few months later, still undecided on what he was going to do next. The end of JNM, his father’s death, and his permanent estrangement from his mother left him clinging to Leah for dear life, which may not have been as dear after all that had transpired. He was very interested in the ever-growing World Wide Web, the evolving Internet, anticipating its power in the near future, and wanting to start something, perhaps worthwhile.

Throughout his life, but especially since the beginning of the new century, Jojo had the feeling that he was reliving his life. He didn’t discuss it with anyone; not even Leah; fearing that his déjà vus and recollections were symptoms of a disease; perhaps a type of dementia unlike his father’s illness, who, as far as he knew, never complained of déjà vus. Jojo’s once-repeating memories occurred during movies that he was watching for the first time, and in places that he was seeing for the first time. He was sure that it was the first time in most cases. What scientific inquiry, or lack thereof, could explain his once-recurring remembrances, save a diseased brain? Eternal recurrence, one of the concepts considered by Nietzsche, contended with its most extreme manifestation: “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence— even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!”

What if we repeat our lives endlessly, or at least twice, not getting a second chance to change any of our previous decisions, but just reliving them for no

one’s sake except perhaps our own. It was—still is—brain disease versus recurrence, eternal or not. The possibility of the latter, however slim, was fascinating, to say the least. Jojo even mused that he didn’t recollect any bad occurrences, notwithstanding those that arose in movies, because they would have hurt as much as the first time. Apparently, our brains were not masochistic when bad memories were concerned. Many, if not most individuals, tended to little things, such as single images or scenes, including faces and places, as well as smells. Yet, some of us, and at least Jojo, ed much more than others.

It remained mostly ridiculous in Jojo’s mind that he may be reliving his life without being able to change anything about it given that his déjà vus came and went like brief headaches, except that any semblance of pain was psychological and not physical. Jojo was almost sure that his brain was ill, keeping his conclusion to himself, and not seeking any help in the matter, whether it was gray or white.

Quantum entanglement—a physical phenomenon that occurs when pairs or groups of particles interact in ways such that the quantum state of each particle can’t be described independently of the other, or others, even when the particles are separated by a large distance, and instead, a quantum state must be described for the system as a whole—was another remote possibility. Moreover, the measurements of several physical properties, such as position, spin, momentum and polarization, completed on entangled particles, were found to be appropriately correlated. What if it’s also true for very large groups of particles in the form of various animals, and that apparently, we are the only Earthly animals capable of exploring it? Of course, recurrence in this case, could also involve a multiverse where identical or almost identical instances of everything would exist across an unknown and perhaps unknowable number of universes. Yet, the most plausible explanation for his dogged déjà vus was almost surely a disease affecting his brain.

Unwilling and imaginably unable to start anything too novel, Jojo decided to

continue selling black dress shirts and white dress shirts over the Web. He cut his expenses by more than half, retailing black dress shirts, white dress shirts, and a number of other clothing items online from an office instead of a store. He created a website titled Best Dress Shirts with the help of a few books and an acquaintance, retailing some items almost at cost while selling others with a large markup, which tended to even things out and afford him a good return. However, strong competition from behemoth stores, both brick-and-mortar and online, started to consume some of the potential sales, bringing his business close to bankruptcy by 2010. Having amassed by then some online-related knowhow, he decided to create an unusual website titled Think Of.

Think Of would be a social networking service, serving as a singular profile and communication forum where would champion the lives of their departed, of individuals who meant or still mean something if not much to them and perhaps others. Think Of would be available to the general public from its online platform where would promote the lives of departed individuals and thus create life links for those who matter to them and often others.

Think Of would represent a life compendium of dearly departed individuals, a global grid of those who are no longer with us, a social network where would post biographies, photographs, videos (or video links) and/or audio clips (or audio links) of their departed loved ones, as well as ired individuals, and thus offer them a tribute.

could consider their lives, discover links between them, discuss their importance, read newsfeeds relating to their ions (disciplines), if any, and make with other championing .

could also advocate for their sadly missed individuals, create online monuments to their memories, recount stories about them, and thus give them new life. could even discover family whom they had never met or even knew existed. The departed could thus aid to link the living—those

that still remain—by helping create webs of alliances, networks of individuals who share a similar appreciation of particular departed individuals.

The website’s tagline, which would also appear in several forms (e.g., colors, fonts, and backgrounds), would be: Think Of is here for you so you can think of them.

Jojo even launched a 36-day, $360,000 funding campaign through Kickstarter, a company that was helping various artists and entrepreneurs find the resources and that they required to turn their ideas into real projects. Jojo also reasoned that if Facebook and the like were connecting the living, Think Of would strive to link the departed while linking the living.

He offered five rewards to potential backers, using the number 18, which also represented the numerical value of the word Hai (alive, in Hebrew), as the multiplier of four of them. Accordingly, backers could pledge $18 to have the photos of two of their chosen departed featured on the website’s Departed page, and each linked to a full page about the departed, which would include a biography, up to 18 photos, and a video or link to it and/or an audio or link to it, for a period of 30 days. Backers who pledged $180 would have the photo of their chosen departed featured on the Homepage and linked to a page about the departed, which would include a biography, up to 18 photos, and a video or link to it and/or an audio or link to it, for a period of 30 days. Backers who pledged $1,800 would have the photo of their chosen departed featured on the Homepage and linked to a page about the departed, which would include a biography, up to 18 photos, and a video or link to it and/or an audio or link to it, for a period of 360 days. Backers who pledged $12,600 (700 x $18) would receive an invitation to become an advisor in of the project’s design and implementation during the first year and perhaps beyond. Any such backer would also receive one of each of the other rewards. He wanted this latter reward to total $18,000, but the pledging limit was $13,000, so he had to settle for the closest yet representative amount. The only other reward required a $10 pledge, offering backers the opportunity to have the photo of a chosen departed featured on the Departed

page and linked to a full page about the departed, which would include a biography, up to 18 photos, and a video or link to it and/or audio or link to it, for a period of 30 days.

Based on his business plan, he also explained on the Kickstarter project’s page that the business of providing free Internet content with the ability to generate revenue from advertising sales and d product sales was a complicated enterprise that had many operating facets. Typically, online media content was immune from general changes in the economy, as it was provided for free. And if people chose to continue to access the website, the business would be consistently able to sell advertising space. As such, much of the market analysis would be geared towards the entry plan of the business and the expansion of its member base.

After all, the advertising industry was one of the world’s largest service providers in the global economy. For example, there were over 11,000 firms providing advertising and marketing services to clients in the USA alone. The industry generated over $98 billion of revenue for the USA economy. Moreover, over 120,000 people were employed throughout the industry, with an average annual payroll of $54 billion.

One of the most interesting aspects of the advertising industry was its ability to develop simultaneous traditional and experimental forms of advertising. The advent of the Internet had allowed businesses to communicate effectively with a number of advertising firms that provided specialized advertising activities. Many sites were taking advantage of the concept of providing entertainment content in order to generate revenues. Many major Internet portal sites had reached market valuations nearing $100 billion and revenues reaching into the tens of billions of dollars.

According to the PricewaterhouseCoopers 2009 annual report on Internet marketing budget statistics, Internet advertising was closing in on TV advertising

and would become the largest entertainment and media-advertising segment. In 2009, total Internet advertising revenue was close to $59 billion. The figure would increase to over $194 billion by 2018, meaning that it would close in on TV advertising revenue as the largest advertising segment. This would be a significant advance from 2009 when total TV advertising revenue was $132 billion. About 80% of this revenue would be from keyword search advertising, with the rest of the income being generated from rich media, banners, classifieds, sponsorships, referrals and email ments.

Mobile advertising would overtake classifieds by 2014. Global mobile Internet advertising revenue was forecast to leapfrog classified advertising to become the third-largest Internet advertising channel. But after particularly strong years from 2010 onwards driven by the launch of the iPad, annual mobile revenue growth would be falling back to the levels seen before the iPad’s introduction, and rs would have to do more than simply migrating large-screen banners to handhelds.

Search would retain its dominant position. Global paid search Internet advertising would have the largest share of total Internet advertising revenue at over $48 billion in 2013. While its overall share of the market would diminish as video and mobile advertising become increasingly important, continued growth would see search pull further ahead of the other categories of Internet advertising in of revenue generated, hitting close to $74 billion in 2018.

Within Internet advertising, video would see the sharpest growth. Global video Internet advertising revenue would rise at a 23.8% compound annual growth rate (CAGR) by 2018, ahead of mobile’s 21.5% CAGR. The largest video service, YouTube, would spend years perfecting its pre-roll ad format. TrueView ads would be deployed widely, and new consumer devices would multiply distribution.

rs would be looking to programmatic and native advertising to improve

display ad performance. While search would offer spending and targeting efficiencies, rs would grow frustrated with the worsening performance of online display ads. In response, many would be moving toward programmatic ad-trading platforms that offer greater planning control, while others would be adopting native advertising formats, so named because they would match the form and function of the experience.

Tracking s in a multi-device world would present new challenges. Targeting s of the first generation of Internet devices would be relatively straightforward thanks to desktop Web browser cookies. But many new mobile devices would lack cookie tracking, while the use of multiple devices by individual consumers would further complicate any targeting. In a more splintered world, efforts would be under way to help rs improve their targeting of consumers.

With Internet technology having become a saleable commodity, several websites could develop within the market, providing services somewhat similar in scope to those that would be offered by Think Of, though none would comprise the main purpose of Think Of. The current market trend among these websites would allow s to their own content, such as personal information, music, and proprietary videos. As time progresses, Think Of would continually update its Web portal and integrate new technology to allow s more functionality for their online experience.

Jojo also created a short YouTube video featuring a deserted tropical resort, asking viewers near the end of the video: “Where is everyone? Help me bring them back!”

Since, in all probability, you have never heard of Think Of, you could easily surmise that it didn’t work out. Only a trifling fraction of the required amount was pledged and then cancelled per Kickstarter’s policy, which stipulated that pledges totaling the full requested amount ($360,000) or above would be

required to turn them into actual funding. Far from enough people were aware of Think Of, and the great majority of those who knew about it didn’t pledge anything, which could regrettably signify that the departed were not seen as worthy subjects of a social network. Apparently, life was only for the living, with most people typically caring to post their own photos and discuss their own lives.

What was Jojo going to do? One of his s had recently begun to work as a Forex broker at FEGM (Foreign Exchange in Global Markets), or what it really stood for, namely Fantasy of Every Gullible Monkey. Trader losses were guaranteed because the dealing room at most of these binary options firms controlled the trading platform like a casino that manipulated its roulette wheel. In 2011, Jojo started to work as a French Forex broker given that one’s first language often determined the language in which one would be brokering trades. Brokers couldn’t use their real names, and thus, Jojo ended up calling himself Pierre Fox after considering Jacques Messier for a few seconds. The following calling script template and diagram were given to all new brokers:

This is (your name) from FEGM. How are you today? We are an international investment company in the financial markets.

I am calling you because you left your information on one of our advertising banners to receive information on a method of earning extra income each month.

Do you have experience in trading?

(Without experience) The majority of our clients started like you, without any experience, and that is why our company has put in place an exceptional offer of free training provided by a professional trainer who will teach you all the facets

of trading as well as offer you several bonuses.

(With experience) Very well! How did you trade? With a broker, in Forex, or in the stock market directly?

Could you turn on your computer? I would like to show you our website.

(The client says that s/he is not near her/his computer) Oh, OK! However, there are other advantages that I would like to talk to you about, such as protected positions, in which you could only win. But for that, you have to be on our webpage. Can you be in front of your computer within two hours? I’ll call you at ________, at which time please make sure to be in front of your computer. I’ll talk to you soon.

(The client says that s/he is near her/his computer) Please connect to the Internet if you’re not already connected and access our website at www.fegm.com

What do you see?

(New client) (A) Please enter your details as you did on our banner ad. (B) Check the box: I Accept the General and Conditions, which stipulate that you are at least 18 years of age, have valid and unexpired proof of identity, have proof of residence, and have a Visa or MasterCard to receive the bonuses that are only offered to cardholders. Do you have such a card? (C) Also check the box: Add the Verification Code and enter the following code (_ _ _ _). (D) And press the large Us button.

(Former client) Tap the box and enter your email and .

What do you do for a living, Mr./Mrs. ________? (Flatter the client)

What do you see? You are in the stock market in real time. You see before you the table of quotations, which consists of pairs of currencies, one currency opposite another. In your opinion, why are there numbers that sometimes change to green or red? Very good! Because a green value represents an increase, and a red value, a decrease.

I would like to explain how this market works. It is like going to the market and buying nice tomatoes for 2 euros. You return home, and a few hours later, your tomatoes have gained in value and are now worth 4 euros. You go back to that same market and resell your tomatoes. What profit did you make? Yes; 2 euros! Well, you see that it is very simple. It is the same here, except that instead of investing in tomatoes, you will invest in currencies, one currency versus another, as well as in commodities like gold and oil, and in company shares such as Airbus and Apple.

I would like to talk to you now about an incredible offer of 5 positions protected against loss. That means that your first 5 investments will be guaranteed. They can only be winners because in the event of a loss, it is our company that will absorb it. In any case, you will recover your starting capital, and of course, all profits will be yours.

Do you see the Withdraw button, at the top on the right? You can use this button at any time to withdraw your profits.

We are a company that is regulated by the European Union and referenced by the Bank of , which is why we are required to request 3 documents in good standing from our clients, including a valid identity card, a proof of residence, and a proof of payment.

Do you have an idea of how much you would like to earn extra each month? (Make the client dream big) What would you do with this extra capital? Buy a new car? Take a trip to Bora Bora? Buy a house?

So, tell me, do you have an idea of the amount that you would like to place to activate your ? Please know that most of our clients start with 1,000 to 1,500 euros because they understand that it is a nice sum to start with to make significant profits. You understand that the more you invest, the more you will win, and the less you invest, the less you will win.

We offer you free training, 5 protected positions, and an additional gift: a bonus that consists of trading money. For example, for an investment of 1,000 euros, you will receive a bonus of (X) euros, and for a placement of 1,500 euros you will receive a bonus of (Y) euros.

So, we agree Mr./Mrs. ________. We will activate your with the sum of ...

Press the Deposit button!

Complete the form!

Select the payment method (Visa or MasterCard)!

Congratulations! Now, we need to finalize your registration.

(Complete the KYC (Know Your Client) forms with the client).

(Require the 3 documents by email).

Your manager will you as soon as possible.

Pierre Fox was so adept at enrolling new clients that within less than a year, he was mostly just supervising the French brokers at FEGM’s main office, and a year later, he was just managing a new office opened in Netanya, the so-called Israeli Riviera, especially for French-speaking immigrants who had problems finding a job; a normal job, that is. Forex brokering was practically the opposite of a normal job. Whether religious—most of them were—or not, all brokers, whether they wore a skullcap, a headscarf, or nothing on their head, were trained to believe, or think, that they were performing a good service in helping people make extra money, when in fact, all clients ended up losing their investments given that the Forex online platform was rigged to allow a few wins, demonstrate that there was much money to be made, and induce potential clients to deposit additional funds. After all, it takes money to make almost work-free money.

Most of Pierre’s brokers knew that he was masterful at this work, but except for one of them, yours truly, maybe two of them, they also believed that they were working for a legitimate business. Pierre was simply highly skilled at sales, no matter if a real product was involved or just a false representation of it, notwithstanding that in this case, there was no legitimate representation to be had. It was striking to see all the religious brokers arriving after morning prayers every weekday to fleece French-speaking people from around the world, stop for afternoon prayers, and then continue to swindle people. Depending on the season, Fridays were half to three-quarter workdays, with a half-hour interlude at noon to celebrate the coming Sabbath, followed by a sanctimonious hustle. When their weekly sales were less than adequate, some of the brokers even worked on Saturdays following evening prayers and or Sundays, after being reminded several times each day that their minimum monthly sales—cons—had to be reached to guarantee their continued employment.

The boiler-room atmosphere of this office was heightened by nightclub music, especially the volume—soft songs were rare—which was so extreme that all new brokers, as well as several of the others, had considerable difficulty hearing the people they were trying to rip off. Many potential clients asked about the

background noise, receiving numerous, often inventive explanations for it. Yours truly, for example, had replied on such an occasion that one of his clients had just made his first million Euros and was being celebrated in an adjacent office. No broker had an office; not even Pierre. Brokers were seated somewhat uncomfortably at small desks in rows of ten, which surely did not coincide with the Ten Commandments given that “Thou shalt not steal” was obviously not being followed. With close to 60 brokers, Pierre divided the large room in two, using his best two brokers as assistant managers. They had to compete against each other and cumulate the highest number of group sales each day, each week and each month, offering various daily bonuses to both brokers and potential clients to help boost the daily, weekly and monthly totals.

Pierre carried an old baseball bat that he contentedly hit against the back of the chairs of many brokers to wake them up to make sales. Yet, no broker was asleep. Taking their cue, his assistant managers used broomsticks. Moreover, all male brokers had to wear a black dress shirt or a white dress shirt, with two such shirts paid by the company once a year. Female brokers had to wear a black blouse or a white blouse, with two such blouses also paid by the company once a year. With hundreds of calls every day and very few sales—two though the first one was apparently credited back when the client wised up—yours truly resigned after five weeks. Pierre asked yours truly to stay at least for the rest of the month, believing that sales would pick up, but yours truly could not stand the perverse chair hits or the deafening mostly awful music on top of the supposed defrauding that constituted this occupation, which was confirmed a few years later when The Times of Israel exposed this industry as employing thousands of people to fleece hundreds of millions of dollars and euros from naive would-be investors around the world using diverse crooked practices.

Pierre knew that his new success would sooner or later face a death blow. After all, all things, good or bad, come to an end, and larceny is surely not an exception. Shameful prison and hefty fines for all superiors and managers worried him at times, but the news of a potential crackdown and closure of all binary options companies troubled him immensely. He thought of jumping ship before the coming storm, as well as warning all the brokers about their imminent troubles. They could only lose their jobs given their apparent obliviousness to

what was really befalling their clients. Yet, the news would open their eyes, making them collaborators if they chose to remain at their desks. What was Jojo going to do?

8

The four so-called elements, namely earth, water, air and fire, and the fifth, ether, added later to differentiate the air below the clouds from the air above them, may have been considered the five main elements but were surely the five most feared elements: to be covered by earth and buried alive, to be inundated by water and drown, to be blown by air and become bloodless, to be burnt by fire and consumed alive, and to be exiled into the ether and asphyxiate, though the latter could only be executed by the Gods.

One thing that Jojo knew for sure, perhaps the only thing that he knew for sure, was that life without Leah would be unlivable and futile. He couldn’t imagine his life without breathing in some of the air that she was breathing out. Thus, air was the most important collection of elements for Jojo, and perhaps, for most of us. It also flowed through his nostrils and carried Leah’s blissful scent. Is there anything more smell-worthy than the scent of a woman? The scent of a man for a woman? It doesn’t even come close.

Jojo informed all his brokers about the darksome state of affairs, but many of them had been aware of it, having read and or seen the news, hoping that his organization was legitimate and not full of air (and shit). But FEGM was Fucking Everybody Good or Mean. A few of the brokers, three women and a man, needed water to calm down. Some of them opted for fresh air, though they only smoked cigarettes—firing their short lives away instead of breathing in the spring—and crushed the butts into the earth. Lives to ashes and ashes to dust? Not in the so-called promised land where bodies were buried within the earth. A few of them said their goodbyes and quit.

9

What would or should be the most horrendous crime against an individual? Harming a child, and especially a little girl. I may be biased in of the little girl given that I’m from the male persuasion and that I dislike most men. Yet, at least in my case, I would have mentioned the little girl even if I had been from the female persuasion. Jojo would certainly have opted for a wife. To think of it, I would add a wife; a big girl.

I could thus understand and accept the an-eye-for-an-eye mindset in the case of a murdered child or wife.

10

“My sky has fallen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Leah is dead.”

“What?”

“She’s been killed in a terrorist attack.”

“No!”

“Woe on me.”

“And the children?”

“They’re dead too.”

“Oh my God!”

“There is no God; there never was.”

“In the recent attack in Jerusalem?”

“Yes!”

“What were you doing in Jerusalem?”

“Praying to a non-existing God.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Not physically if that’s what you mean.”

“My sincere condolences for Leah and the children!”

“My life is over. There’s no point without her.”

“When is the funeral?”

“Who cares? It wouldn’t bring her back.”

“Nothing will, but it’s necessary.”

“Not to me. I didn’t go to father’s funeral, or mother’s, and I refuse to witness Leah’s body being lowered into the ground.”

“Will her family understand?”

“I don’t care. The sensible will.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. I can see you soon.”

“If you really feel that you must because I can’t perceive any possible consolation.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see her in my dreams.”

11

“Suck my dick!”

“What?”

“You heard me. But even if you agreed to suck my dick, I wouldn’t let you. Even my dick deserves better. It’s an expression of derision. Most of the time.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Did you?”

“I believe so.”

“You think so. Belief should only be applied to religion given that no proof whatsoever is required. Faith is more than sufficient for that cockamamie duplicity.”

“Religion again?”

“Always, or at least as long as people take it seriously. Come on! God and his gofers in the sky, and the Devil and his underlings underground? One has to be dumb and blind to believe such nonsense. And guess what? Most people are dumb, and apparently, unseeing as well. They are the fucking masses who get to elect assholes like Trump because smarter Russians can sway them with a few ads on fucking Facebook. A bunch of twits tweeting to each other lies and misdemeanors, with the topmost twits stirring the sparks of World War III.”

“Religion can’t be all bad, and you were also religious.”

“Are you sure of that? Do you Hitchens? One of the greatest individuals who had ever lived on this miserable planet! One of his books explains it very well. You should read it. I won’t waste the little time that I have left explaining it to you. It’s been translated to fucking French as well. It’s called God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything. And there are other firstrate thinkers with the same message. Nietzsche, Freud, Russell, Dennett, Dawkins, Harris, Krauss, and Varoufakis via economics, just to name a few! And I became religious for Leah. I would have done anything for her.”

“My eyes won’t let me read anymore.”

“Are you sure that your closed mind isn’t the main reason?”

“Some things are better left unknown.”

“Of course! It’s a notion that’s as moronic as faith. ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven’. What would be the point of our higher brain, then? It would be almost as meaningful as that of other animals. Though we are still far from really knowing what other animals are capable of thinking. Even trees, and other plants in all probability, may think and help each other. There’s a growing body of research about it.”

“Yes, I heard something about the latter.”

“Only the latter?”

“The rest too.”

“Why is it so difficult to it that one is wrong and or ignorant about many facts and plausible theories? That’s how science functions. It theorizes and tests, trying to prove the theories, and when they’re proven, they can be disproven with new findings.”


“And you don’t want to know. It’s inexcusable, to say the least!”

“Whom of us do you hate the most?”

“S4 followed closely by B. Heartless daughter and son of a bitch!”

“Doesn’t it make you a son of a bitch as well?”

“Surely, but I’m just the son, not the bitch.”

“Isn’t it the same for them too?”

“No, since they are bitches in their own right.”

“But why all this animosity towards me as well?”

“You must be an imbecile to ask why. Wait! You are a moron. I’m sorry, S2, but you are a dimwit and you know it.”

“We can’t all be as smart as you.”

“Being facetious doesn’t suit you. I’m only particularly knowledgeable, which doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m smart. But smarter than all of you combined is a certainty. People can amass knowledge; not silly facts, but real knowledge. Most people, that is since some people are simply a lost cause, with ideas and actions that can approach sheer foolishness and or fascism.”

“Am I a lost cause?”

“It appears so given that many of our talks didn’t even put a dent into your religious beliefs and Extreme Right-like inclinations.”

“You can’t be right on everything.”

“That’s your point? You are indeed an idiot. I rely on facts, not opinions. The only time that I didn’t was because Leah had unexpectedly materialized within the equation. It was almost like magic. I could finally perceive happiness, and the price was my pretending to believe in God. A small price to pay to have Leah in my life! Love conquers all. It’s also a fact.”

“I also believe that.”

“It’s a fact, not a belief.”

12

People and everything else may be like particle couplets, which wherever they are, affect each other, and so, in a parallel universe, we have doubles, and of course, an almost infinite number of copies in a multiverse. Which one is the original? Perhaps none, perhaps all, perhaps one with infinitesimal differences in age and sameness!

What’s the worst “calamity”? Ignorance!

No!

What, then?

The lack of love!

13

The Voice said: “The outcry against humanity is so great and its sin so grievous that I will analyze if what it has done is as bad as the outcry that has reached me. If not, I will at least know.”

Marva approached The Voice and said: “Will you sweep away the righteous with the wicked? What if there are one billion righteous people in the world? Will you really sweep it away and not spare it for the sake of the one billion righteous people in it? Far be it from you to do such a thing and kill the righteous with the wicked, treating the righteous and the wicked alike. Far be it from you! Will not The Voice of all do the only right thing to be done?”

The Voice said: “If I find one billion righteous people in the world, I will spare the whole world for their sake.”

Marva spoke up again: “Now that I have been so bold as to speak to The Voice, though I am nothing but dust and ashes at the end, what if the number of the righteous is one hundred million less than a billion? Will you destroy the whole world for lack of a hundred million people?”

“If I find nine hundred million righteous people in the world,” The Voice said, “I will not destroy it.”

Once again, Marva spoke to him: “What if only eight hundred million righteous are found in the world?”

The Voice said: “For the sake of eight hundred million righteous, I will not do it.”

Then Marva said: “May The Voice not be angry but let me speak. What if only six hundred million righteous can be found in the world?”

The Voice answered: “I will not do it if I find six hundred million righteous in the world.”

Marva said: “Now that I have been so bold as to speak to The Voice, what if only four hundred million righteous can be found in the world?”

The Voice said: “For the sake of four hundred million righteous, I will not destroy it.”

Then Marva said: “May The Voice not be angry but let me speak just once more. What if only one hundred million righteous can be found in the world?”

The Voice answered: “For the sake of one hundred million righteous, I will not destroy it.”

When The Voice had finished speaking with Marva, it departed, and Marva took his way home, thinking along the way that he should have asked The Voice not to destroy the world even if only one million righteous were found, deeming that there were not one hundred million righteous in a world dominated by demented multibillionaires, senseless social media squadrons, and ruinous irrationality.

14

Jojo would have preferred to find out that Leah was in another man’s bed than dead. He thought as much on several occasions, wrestling with the idea that he could have fought such a truth. But any type of combat didn’t lend itself to occurring when death was the adversary. How can one battle it? Eating well, that is a mostly organic whole-food diet, could only improve and prolong life but never beat death. Moreover, one could struggle against death before it struck, but not following its decisive assault. In such a battle, one would be beaten even before it had begun.

He dreamed about her frequently, waking up as soon as the dream was over, as if it was a nightmare. He often complained to himself and her family that he never heard her speak in his dreams, and all of a sudden, he heard her voice from then on. Two dreams left him and her family dumbfounded. In the first dream, Leah comes back to life. Jojo is beside himself with joy and awe, but she doesn’t seem surprised. He tries to call her family, so she can speak to them and astonish them as well, but his smartphone is suddenly too simple, lacking all the basic features most of us are accustomed to, and thus, he can’t make the call. He then wakes up, enormously sorrowful that it was just a dream. His burning longing to see her again translates into this delightful dream, with his unconscious being even kinder than before. In the second dream, he lives alone on the seventh floor of an odd building in which he has an apartment with three parallel rooms, the first featuring the living room and a kitchenette, the second being his bedroom, and the third, discovered later in the dream, being her room at the hospital in intensive care before she died. The bathroom, opposite the three rooms, is shared by all tenants on the floor. He sees himself washing his face and brushing his teeth next to strangers, wondering what came over them, Jojo and Leah, to accept such a living arrangement. When he enters the third room, he sees various bedsheets on the floor with worms crawling in a straight line. He tries to kill them by stepping over them, but they are too numerous. He then tries to cover them with the sides of the sheets, but it’s too wearying. Back in the first room, he sees several strangers preparing to eat their breakfast. They offer him some, but upon seeing the oily meat, he declines, mentioning that he follows an oil-free vegan diet. They laugh at him, except for an African man who defends him, saying that he’s vegan too, offering him one of his sandwiches. He thanks him but declines. He then asks everyone if they don’t mind helping him get rid of the worms in the third room. They seem to accept reluctantly. He then wakes up, bothered by the dream and especially the worms. His deep desire to see her again translates this time into a dreadful dream, with his unconscious being much harsher than before.

Jojo stopped dreaming about her for a while, often thinking about the last dream, trying to interpret it and then forget it. He lived alone, which could explain the lack of a private bathroom, a room where he often enjoyed observing Leah bathe, where they made love under the shower and in the tub, and where they used the same toothbrush on purpose. He even liked to chew her gum, except when it was cinnamon-flavored. She liked to chew his gum too, seizing it from

his mouth during a kiss. The three rooms in the dream resembled those in the hospital where she died. The strangers represented the various individuals that frequent a hospital. The worms embodied her demise. Couldn’t her death have been symbolized by something less explicit? he thought. Couldn’t it have appeared as a bird of paradise, her favorite flower, or even the epitaph on her tombstone?

Mourning without you is my life Hardened without you is each lip Shortly I will you my wife Binding our atoms may blip

He wanted to bellow and bawl. But who would hear him, except his neighbors? Who would really care? What would it accomplish? There was no tactic to resurrect the departed. Even a clone would be inadequate, lacking all that she was except for her aspect. It was unbearable. He wanted to die.

15

If the Right is somewhat wrong, the Extreme Right is extremely wrong. As for the Left, it is mostly dead, and the Extreme Left is extremely wrong as well. Almost everyone on the Left and a few on the Right are talking about Shalom (peace), which is surely a Halom (dream) when both sides—there is actually more than one side on each side—are refusing to play footsie, cooperating instead with their dicks. But a ménage à trois implicating two dicks, or a single one, seldom ends with the satisfaction of all parties. The two-state solution has become a wet dream, and the one-state solution is a cul-de-sac. The fading of one side may be the only way out of the swamp of violence. Which side?

The Jewish Israeli side will not cede and cannot cede for several reasons. The Hebrews, the ancestors of the Jews, and the Jews after them, were in the socalled holy land before the Arabs, the Muslims, and the so-called Palestinians. The Jews were dispersed by force and displaced by illusory choice, always promising themselves “Next year in Jerusalem” and reciting “If I forget thee, Jerusalem, let my right hand be forgotten!” There was always a certain population of Jews in the holy land, whether it was seized by the Christians, the Arabs or the Muslims. Jews were killed and reviled around the world, requiring a sanctuary, a country to call their own. What other country could it have been if not Israel? From the Kingdom of Israel, and the name of most of the scattered tribes, but called Palestine from 5th century Ancient Greece. Even Zionists, who were mostly secular, thought of resettling in Israel. “If you will it, it is no dream, and if you do not will it, a dream it is and a dream it will remain.” Jews around the world had been dreaming of an Israel for close to 2,000 years, albeit the Arab numerals and the Ancient Greece comma. Jews finally willed it, moving to Palestine throughout the centuries but especially in the 19th and 20th to escape the panoply of persecutions in Eurat, and mostly later in Arab countries, purchasing Palestinian land, often swamped and malaria-stricken, and farming it, thriving against all odds, with help from diaspora Jews and a number of Good Samaritans. Everyone living in Palestine could have been called a Palestinian. Nonetheless, in 1948, when most Arab countries attacked the newly declared country of Israel, Muslim and Christian Arabs outside the UN-mandated lines were labeled Palestinians, while Jews with numerous Muslims and Christians in their midst were naturally identified as Israelis. Jews only have one country, and a small territory it is. Palestinians and Israelis! Israelis and Palestinians! What a travesty!

The Palestinian side will not concede but can concede for several reasons. The Palestinians are mostly Arab Muslims who live in the so-called holy land and in surrounding Arab countries, some of them also residing elsewhere in the world. Many Palestinians left Palestine or escaped it following Israel’s 1948 War of Independence and 1967 Six-Day War, some of them keeping their house keys for the day on which they would return to claim their cottages back. The keys have corroded and most stone cabins have disappeared. Their Next year in Palestine is covered in blood, and their If I forget you, Palestine, let my children become

martyrs! is forever fulfilled. There was a larger population of Muslims in the holy land since its capture by the Arabs, but Muslims could live in any Arab country and in any Muslim state. Some of them, however, called Palestine, the ancient Kingdom of Israel, home. Arabs and Muslims were, and are, mostly religious, and their holy city is Mecca, not Jerusalem, which is not even mentioned in the Koran. Their If you dream it, it is Allah’s will, and if you do not dream it, a will it is and a will it will remain echoes in crimson since 1948. Palestinians only will it with violence, teaching Judeopathy and attacking Israelis and Jews with stones, knives, so-called exploding sacrifices, and insteadof-food mostly home-made rockets and missiles. Living in Palestine throughout the centuries, they had nothing to escape from, save the decreasing crusades, that is until the exodus of surviving Jews from Nasty Eurat, followed by others from Arab countries. Arab Muslim Palestinians even schemed and planned with the Nasties the extermination of the Jews in the holy land and Arab countries. Everyone living in Palestine could have been called a Palestinian, but in 1948, when most Arab countries attacked the newly declared country of Israel, Muslim and Christian Arabs outside the UN-concocted lines were labeled Palestinians, while Jews with numerous Muslims and Christians in their midst were rancorously classified as Israelis. Arabs and Muslims have many countries in large territories. Israelis and Palestinians! Palestinians and Israelis! What a distortion!

The so-called UN—Un-united Nations—and could-be-called VN—Veto Nations —is another farce, since five countries, namely the USA, Russia, China, the UK and , can veto any so-called UN resolution even if most other countries it, which would have been a wise control measure against aggressive governments had these five veto powers promoted liberty, equality and fraternity completely, unlike the French who professed these values but seldom followed them. When the UN voted in 1947 for the partition of Palestine into two, Arab and Jewish, states and a singular international istration of Jerusalem, the division was accepted by the Jewish representatives notwithstanding its limitations, but Arab leaders and their so-called governments rejected it, refusing to accede to any form of territorial split. The Arabs attacked Israel in 1948, and several wars and clashes ensued, with no peace in sight over seven decades later. Sacrifices were offered on both sides, the Israelis turning too many of their sons and daughters into soldiers and corpses, and the Palestinians turning many of their civilians into murderers and martyrs.

Nevertheless, the Jewish Israeli side is the only side that could desert its land, since its true expanse had not been physical for close to two millennia, spreading to an unrestricted mental dimension that could dominate any indefinite domain. A democratic referendum would be mandatory, involving all Jews around the world, with Jews defined as individuals who have at least one Jewish parent and who deem themselves as Jewish, or any individuals who converted to Judaism, with the votes of Israeli Jews doubly added. Prior to this plebiscite, all Arab and Muslim countries that voted against Israel at the UN in 1947 and beyond—all ten countries did—and all other countries that voted correspondingly—three did —would be required to acquire Israel at a colossal cost, and provide Israeli Jews, along with any other Israelis who wanted to accompany them, with indubitably available arable land at least the size of up-to-date Israel, that is including Jerusalem, the so-called West Bank and the Golan Heights, as well as assist in the relocation of the Western Wall and any other significant structures.

However, the Palestinian side could also abandon its acreage, since it has— should have—a home in the vast territories of Arab and Muslim countries, as well as a longing for a so-called homeland that is, nonetheless, relatively brief. A democratic referendum would be mandatory, involving all Palestinians around the world, with Palestinians defined as individuals who have at least one Palestinian parent and who deem themselves as Palestinian, with the votes of Palestinians living in East Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza doubly added. Prior to this plebiscite, all countries that voted against a Palestinian state at the UN in 1947 and beyond—the same ten countries—and all other countries that voted congruently—the same three did—would be required to acquire East Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza at the right rate, and provide Palestinians with indubitably available arable land at least the size of East Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza, as well as aid in the relocation of the Al-Aqsa Mosque and any other important edifices.

The UN, including the USA, Russia, China, the UK and , would accept the results of such a referendum, whether Israeli or Palestinian (two referendums would be particularly improbable), and facilitate the monumental enterprise of

the Israelis or Palestinians. It is noteworthy that an initiative for a new Israel would be much more challenging given the need for a more than adequate area in a shrinking world. Only Australia, Canada, Russia and the USA contain potential areas for a new Israel. Most Jews, however, would probably exclude Russia for obvious historical reasons. Many Jews would potentially exclude Australia as well given its somewhat geographical remoteness and rather problematic situation with its Natives. Jews would have to choose between a section in Canada or a sector in the United States, providing that there is such a hospitable place. The project of a Palestinian state could be easily implemented in countries that already host Palestinians in refugee camps yet do not consider them to be citizens, namely Lebanon, Syria and Jordan, with at least 30% of the latter’s population already being spot-on Palestinian.

Still, Israelis, who sing about peace with Palestinians, and aspire to a time of settlement, and Palestinians, who teach their children to hate Israelis, and aspire to shove them all into the sea, could simply consider a lasting territorial arrangement and peace, with religion off the table, under the table, buried in the past with all other ridiculous ideas and beliefs, which would set a precedent for the resolution of other conflicts around the world. Israelis and Palestinians, mostly Jews and mostly Muslims, paving the way to a better future! Judaism had advanced the blossoming (épanouissement) of Western humanity throughout its history, and Christianity followed suit staggeringly in the last few centuries. It is time for Islam to the journey towards the true understanding of who we are, where we come from, and where we are headed. After all, both heaven and hell are what we make them to be.

Conversely, Israel’s refusal to forego its overseeing control of all morsels of land, all tidbits of territory, could set a different precedent for the resolution of other active and ive conflicts around the world. For example, North American and South American natives, Pacific Islanders and indigenous Australians could petition for the return of their transformed territories; Tibetans could ascend and descend the Himalayas for their ancestral land; Kurds could demand a country of their own; and Palestinians could adopt Israeli-like democratic and humane values similar to many of their people who live in Israel, or migrate, with satisfactory compensation, to a neighboring Arab country, or

somewhere perhaps more welcoming.

16

shameonus.info

We should feel ashamed, most of us, most of the time, for so many appalling actions too numerous to enumerate from the beginning of civilization to the present; dreadful deeds that will continue, in all probability, into the future. Some of us have learned to be civilized, but many of us, perhaps most of us, have not shown any benevolence for an array of reasons both innate and learned, with the latter most often not by choice.

Jojo felt ashamed to be alive in a world without Leah, and that disgrace begot additional indignities both personal and general. On the personal side, he considered events in his life that involved his family, both good and bad, reflecting upon his purported faults while negating their culpabilities, vice versa, and then struggling to cancel out all the events. The result was shame; the only result he could expect vis-à-vis his family even if their misdemeanors and crimes may have sured his in some subjective measure and or objective scale. Most of his shame, if not its entirety, could not be remedied on that their parents were deceased. Moreover, he didn’t miss S1, S3, S4 or B, or any of their children, including S2’s, both the offspring whom he knew and those whom he never met. His shame was unredeemable. What would be the point of a deceptive pretense in every case? Too much time had elapsed to it any semblance of a reconciliation. Besides, S1, S2, S3, S4 and B were significantly dissimilar from one another and didn’t have much with one another. Jojo was 15 years old the last time that they were all together in the same house. He was even the one who mentioned it, with S2 reiterating it. A so-called reunion for the sake of what? Family? It was surely, at least in their case, overrated. Anything between them couldn’t be genuine. Resentment would overshadow any smile. Bad feelings would dwarf any worthy sentiment. Numerous years of

neglect would eclipse hours or days of togetherness. They were blood relatives. Nothing more! They shared most of their genes as well as an incomplete genealogy. Their existence, however, was split into an unknown number of lives. Jojo had lived at least four lives: a conformist life before Leah, a fulfilling life as a JNM operative/assassin, a fabulous life with Leah, and an alleged life after Leah. He couldn’t comment or think about the lives of his blood relatives because he didn’t know much about them following their estrangement, and the little that he knew and or learned from S2 was deficient in depth, though he thought that any complexity would surely be shallow.

On the general side, shame, the lack of it, that is, in the globalized world was too thinly spread and thus left unimpeded, especially that it often found its origins in the ancient world through roots of ignorance and viciousness. Shame on me! Shame on you! Shame on them! Shame on us! The website, shameonus.info, was Jojo’s stab and shot at the shortage of shame. “Are you ashamed?” appeared on every webpage in most languages like the credits of a bad movie, or in one’s selected tongue, except that the answer, the only answer, that is “Yes” or its equivalent in other tongues, was good. A better answer, of course, would have included an explanation. An answer could be entered anywhere on the page, and when it was “No” or its equivalent in other tongues, or any similar denial, “You should be ashamed of yourself and your kind!” or its equivalent in other tongues appeared on the page.

“Ashamed of what?” one could think or even reply. However, answering “Yes” gave access to numerous pages with vivid descriptions of events, facts and realities to be ashamed about. Large issues like Judeopathy and racism could be zoomed in like maps to get and often discover their essentials and particulars. Injustices were classified into many categories, including age, sex, identity in several forms, and various statuses. There was also the SHame Inventory Total (SHIT) questionnaire, consisting of 100 statements like “I think that the Jews rule the world” and “There is enough data to suggest that religious belief is detrimental to mental health.” SHIT could only be filled out on the final page, which could only be accessed after all other pages had been viewed for at least 36 minutes each, 36 being the numerical value of Leah in Hebrew. There was sufficient content on each page to warrant the 36 minutes, and thus, it wasn’t as

arbitrary as one could have thought, or believed.

Ads relating to shameonus.info appeared in numerous papers around the world and in several social media. “Shame on me!” “Shame on you!” “Shame on them!” “Shame on us!” circulated like bad news, which may have been good news. Individuals weren’t being shamed (though some should have been mentioned), but anyone championing shameful events, refuting shameful facts, and or ing shameful realities (any group as well) would potentially feel ashamed of being such an asshole and or collaborator for the épanouissement of such colossal assholehood, providing, of course, that shameonus.info was being unrestrainedly accessed.

Why even bother? Humanity’s crimes were immensely massive, continued to be both immeasurable and senseless, and would persist with nastiness and skill, with any struggle against their construct condemned to collapse. The most malicious and terminal epidemic, formidable and camouflaged infection, pathological and pitiless ailment was both bipedal and bipolar. We started our life flat on all four sides, crawled on all four limbs to reap a new perspective, and then stood on two feet to refine the defeat of Nature, except that our brilliance was and would always be fused with folly.

Was Jojo ashamed of anything? He was ashamed to have been born. He knew it as soon as he understood the implications of the Shoah. Of course, he had no choice in the matter of being born. But having prided ourselves for being Homo sapiens as well as the most intelligent creatures on Earth, we should all have committed suicide, or at least sterilized ourselves out of existence. We may be realizing the latter indirectly, but we are also obliterating all the other creatures. And our achievements in science (especially in biology, chemistry and physics), art (especially in cinema, literature and music), and sociology (especially in archaeology, linguistics and psychology) can only pale in comparison with our failures (especially in economics, education and politics).

“Shame on us for hunting other creatures for food and sport, and our kind on some occasions, but especially for crowding and breeding most of those creatures in horrific conditions to be slaughtered, severed and circulated toward the horrifying holes in our heads, for incarcerating some of those creatures in an assortment of zoos, and for subjugating many of those creatures to becoming our pets!”

“Shame on us for decimating, converting and confining countless Natives of North America, South America, Central America, and the islands adjacent to the Americas, for viewing them as savages, for mistreating them as we do all other creatures, when we were and are the true barbarians!”

“Shame on us for capturing, chaining and shipping a multitude of Africans, for enslaving those who remained alive after their terrifying abductions, for breeding them like horses, dogs and cats, for liberating them only in print, for imprisoning and torturing their leaders, for killing and incarcerating their youth!”

“Shame on us for allowing the Turks to slaughter myriads of Armenians without any consequences, which then allowed the Nasties to annihilate Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, physically and mentally handicapped individuals, political prisoners, and many others!”

“Shame on us for assaulting the Jews unremittingly wherever they tried to survive, for allowing pogroms to befall them in Russia and other pathetic nations, for enabling the Nasties to seize power and implement the Nuremberg Laws and the Final Solution!”

“Shame on us for attacking and despising homosexuals, gays and lesbians, for believing, not thinking, that they are faggots to be burned, that homosexuality is

a disease, that it can be cured, as if we had ever cured anything, that LGBTQs are contaminated and contagious, that they should not be allowed to flourish!”

“Shame on us for tolerating genocides, and they are numerous (e.g., Tibet, former Yugoslavia, Rwanda), for enabling dictators and their brutes to butcher countless civilians, so-called insurgents, and whomever did not look or act right, for letting their murders transpire repeatedly!”

“Shame on us for all the gruesome wars, grisly war after grislier war, gory battle after gorier battle, bloody conflict after bloodier conflict, thousands killed and millions slain, soldiers and civilians, men and women, adults and children!”

“Shame on us for not doing enough if anything concerning war criminals wherever they were and are, who lived and live free of remorse and punishment, apathetic about their countless victims, some of them even hoping to resume their butchery with the help of their relatives and ers!”

“Shame on us for allowing terrorists, state and illicit, organized and lone, clever and demented, to prosper and massacre countless numbers of individuals of all ages, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, so callously, for the sake of some insane notion, frequently religious and thus fabricated in all matter and scope!”

“Shame on us for raping women and girls, for viewing them as objects, for abusing them to no end, for considering them inferior, for hiding their features from others, for treating them like handmaids, for striking and beating them, for not loving them as they should be loved, for impregnating them with more of us!”

“Shame on us for terminating trees, thinking timber, processing lumber, using the wood, and thus, wasting their lives! Trees communicate with one another and help those in need like many animals. The distinction between all forms of life should be rescinded. Life is life, and death is death.”

“Shame on us for snubbing and denying the past, ancient and recent, though we are reminded of both at many turns, for permitting what had happened to us to happen to others among us and around us!”

“Shame on us for closing our minds, for looking up instead of looking down, for not looking straight in front, face to face, animal to animal, life to life, death to death!”

“Shame on us for nursing our vicious stupidity, for compensating senselessness when it should be despised, when it should be treated medically, socially and or psychologically!”

“Shame on us for lying from our childhood until our demise, for lying to others and for lying to ourselves, for lying for fun and for lying for injury, for lying for the sake of lying and for lying for the sake of a benefit!”

“Shame on us for envying the luck, labor and worth of others, as if we could all be so lucky, creative and wealthy! We may all have the potential to be great, but circumstance and character may hold the keys.”

“Shame on us for defecating the animal parts that we devoured, the animal fare that we digested, the animal products that we gobbled, the animal merchandises that we consumed, for dumping the animal remains, for processing them as

fodder for other animals, including herbivorous ones!”

“Shame on us for laughing at humorless stories and sullen events like Dieudonné double M’bala reinventing the Nasty salute, Larry David making fun of the Shoah, and Joe Blow declaring dullness embodied!”

“Shame on us for giving birth to more of us, for not always using birth control, for not getting a vasectomy or not becoming a lesbian, for not adopting discarded or orphaned children, for not opting for childlessness, for not committing suicide in droves!”

“Shame on us for having kids who are as despicable as their fathers, mothers or both, for having them witness our stupidity, for letting them watch our callousness, for permitting them to imitate our mediocrity!”

“Shame on us for nurturing our offspring to be as obese as their fathers, mothers or both, for feeding them poisons in the form of meat, most meats, dairy, all dairies, eggs, most eggs, oil, most oils, and other processed foods and beverages, all processed foods and beverages, which not only are filled with lethal toxins, but are harmful to health and wellbeing without these poisons!”

“Shame on us for our lack of empathy, for not living virtuous lives, for not being able to put ourselves in others’ steads, whether they are blood relatives, of the same species, or other living entities!”

“Shame on us for being ugly inside, whether we are better or ordinary looking outside! Beauty is frequently superficial, yet the inner eye has no iris and can see beauty without light. ‘Goodbye Irene! I’ll see you in my dreams’.”

“Shame on us for ruining the environment in the air, in the waters, and on and within the land in most areas on Earth, and for planning to do the same on the Moon, Mars, and otherworldly bodies!”

“Shame on us for not caring for all the arts, for not appreciating poetry, for not endorsing dance, for not clustering in the theater, for not cherishing fiction! ‘We possess art lest we perish of the truth’.”

“Shame on us for forgetting the decent deceased, the good gone, the respectable late, for neglecting most of them, for avoiding some of them, for disrespecting a number of them, for misquoting several of them!”

“Shame on us for celebrating the worst of us, for giving them new life when they should have been sallied, for commemorating them when they should have been cursed, for even mentioning their names when they should have been haphazardly renamed or numbered!”

“Shame on us for everything else! There is so very much that we have ravaged, are wrecking and will desolate on this cerulean sphere.”

“Shame on us for still being alive! The predisposition to live is the characteristic of every form of life, yet we decide who lives and who dies, which creature thrives and which creature perishes, as if we were indifferent deities, omnipotent gods. Did we create gods and God to amplify our power? Did those of us who embraced God for all the good and bad reasons understand that life was valuable in all its forms? Did those of us who renounced God for all the rational and empirical reasons recognize that life was precious in all its manifestations?”

17

Before 1948

Like a Jew trembling in fear, Praying to Zion to always be near.

1948

Like a Jew rejoicing to jeers, Knowing beyond doubt that the end nears.

After 1948

Like a Jew learning to fly, Understanding that death reaches the sky.

18

Do I Love You, Yann Moix?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, and I am not a woman?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, and I am not a homosexual?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, and I am not a member of your immediate or perhaps distant family?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, since I like many words but most of your words?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, since I love your looks, which are often overloaded with kindness crossbred by the human condition but never sparing?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, since I love your beautiful but usually sad or reflective eyes?

Do I love you, Yann Moix, since I cannot otherwise, we cannot differently?

There are of course those who do not love you, but with no good reason. It is like a gratuitous hatred of the Other. It is like racism, or even anti-Semitism (like Philip Roth, I prefer to name it Judeopathy) that you despise endlessly like an immutable torrent. Do I love you, Yann Moix, for this too?

I was born Jewish but I prefer your Judaism, your affable approach to the latter,

your BHLed* learning, your supra-Jewish intelligence, your Nietzschean discernment, your scientific humanity. Do I love you, Yann Moix, for all this and more?

*BHL is an acronym, used mostly in , for Bernard-Henri Levy.

I discovered you on the French television show, On n’est pas couché (We Are Not Sleeping). I could not sleep as before from then on without watching and listening to you. I observed your presence in this show as a chroniqueur (commentator) for all three years, alongside its host, Laurent Ruquier, standing out as a matador for the truth, and as an amazing guest with a dazzling frankness a few years earlier.

I ordered all your books, except Podium and Transfusion, that I am reading in the order in which they were published. I also ordered your movies, which I watched as soon as they were received. Serendipitously, Podium, your first movie, arrived first. It was madly amusing to say the least. Then came Cinéman (Cinemaman), your second movie, which I enjoyed immensely, notwithstanding its poor reception elsewhere. I am reading each novel with palpable impatience to read the next and fear of reading the last. Jubilations vers le ciel (Jubilations Towards the Sky; perhaps towards space in my case, where an altruistic extraterrestrial could return lost Leah to me), Les cimetières sont des champs de fleurs (Cemeteries Are Fields of Flowers), Anissa Corto, Partouz (Threesom without the final e; à la Philip Roth? Kundera?), Panthéon (Pantheon; French, Greek and or Roman?), Mort et vie d’Edith Stein (Death and Life of Edith Stein), Cinquante ans dans la peau de Michael Jackson (Fifty Years in the Skin of Michael Jackson), La meute (The Pack; since it isn’t fiction, I read it after Jubilations vers le ciel), Naissance (Birth*), Une simple lettre d’amour (A Simple Love Letter; perhaps like this one), and Terreur (Terror). I later read your following novel, Rompre (To Break Up; I would have preferred to have lost my wife that way). I may have cheated a second time by reading your 2007 essay, Apprenti-juif (Apprentice Jew) first after discovering it on the Web. A few months ago, I read your latest novel, Orléans (Orleans; a brief follow-up to

Birth).

*An opus of the first order, a masterpiece among masterpieces, a masterwork by the end of the first 300 pages, and it numbers around 1,400 pages.

You are irable. Yet, do I love you, Yann Moix, particularly?

Sincerely,

Joseph Ben Shabbat

PS

I your detrimental critique on the show, On n’est pas couché, of Saphia Azzeddine’s seventh novel, Sa mère (Her Mother), especially concerning her abysmal mediocrity in comparing the optical illusion created by jobs at an employment center to the showers in the concentration camps. Yet, you may have committed a more terrible mediocrity in your first novel by equating Nestor’s ardent desire for anal sex with the Holocaust, and his technique of delaying his ejaculation by thinking of Auschwitz and Ethiopia. It does not necessarily mean that you sanction these associations but coming from the mind of the novel’s key character, with no indication whatsoever of his less than commonplaceness up to that point, past the middle of the novel, on the contrary, presenting him as a hero, it is difficult not to construe it as your own appalling mediocrity. However, it is possible that Nestor’s lone, voyeuristic existence from that point of the novel onwards may have represented a particular type of punishment for his intolerable carnal intimations. It remains distasteful, to say the least, and hurtful, perhaps more to a Jew, though it would be difficult to find

someone, even Jewish, more Jewish than you. I may love you, after all, Yann Moix.

Eric Naulleau, le nullard (the idiot), and Aymeric Caron, le connard (the shithead), had the impertinent chutzpa, the shameful impudence, as chroniqueurs (so-called commentators), niqueurs de temps (fuckers of time), to slur Yann Moix as well as Michel Onfray—a philosopher of the first order, a humanist like no other, a public intellectual—more than once. They should have kissed their shoes and kill themselves as soon as possible, two wannabe writers of no substance, a couple of closet Judeopaths of little merit, an idiot and a shithead.

19

Jojo couldn’t see himself getting much older without Leah by his side. Part of her family and S2 tried to help, but their couldn’t be or appear to be even adequate. No individual or act, repeated and varied actions alike, could replace irreplaceable Leah. Each day pounded without her, many daily scenes, both actual and fictional, reminding him of her, prompting him to think of her in addition to his unwavering thoughts of her. Blond-bleached hair! A face in some crowd! A demeanor! An expression in a movie! A gesture! A movement! Whiteor silver-lacquered fingernails and toenails! Overflowing femininity! A song that they liked or that she introduced him to! A food that she loved—cherries! A building, an apartment or a room in which they had been together or lived! A street that they crossed tly or on separate occasions! The car in which he used to hold her left hand! The clothes that she put on so splendidly, or never had the chance to wear, which he handed to her sister and niece, and later regretted, thinking that he should have lost weight and wore them himself! Her photographs from childhood to womanhood, which he rarely viewed, unable to stand the fact that she was no more, but that he used nonetheless as the wallpaper of his mobile phone! Her shower gloves, which he kept using, and that he couldn’t throw away when they became tattered! Her shampoo and conditioner that he kept unused, which had expired as well! The sound of her voice that he longed to hear and that he seldom listened to in short videos that they had filmed

during their trips! A lock that he cut from her hair in the hospital following her ing, which he only beheld a few times because it looked fragile and that he felt faint!

He was being reminded that he had lost her, when he knew that in fact, he had lost everything; everything that had made his life worth living. Vaut mieux ne pas naître que mourir (‘tis better not to be born than to die). Vaut mieux ne pas souffrir que naître (‘tis better not to suffer than to be born). He loved Nietzsche but he wasn’t Nietzschean. Entombment deep in the ground, not swift incineration, is more salutary, especially for Jews, both buried and buriers, but essentially for the maggots and other wormlike creatures.

Fuck the universe! Whomever wants to destroy certain people, a country, a species, even the entire world, is an oblivious blundering dabbler. Jojo wanted to snuff the universe, to break the Big Bang, to extinguish the epic flare-up from ever happening, from ever forming life and therefore death. But even stars die. Fuck the stars! What about Shakespeare, La Fontaine, Dickinson, Nietzsche, Chaplin, Camus, Leah? I know. They’re already dead, though, so fuck you too!

Woe on me, he bewailed. Woe on me, he bemoaned. It was Yom Kippur every day, but there was no One to pray to, and no salvation in sight. He felt invisible without her, as if he had never existed. Life may begin favorable, yet forever finishes in grief.

Their six-day trip to Jerusalem during the Spring of 2014 started splendidly. They had decided to drive and walk throughout the city, arriving to the Caesar Premier hotel early in the morning of the first day. “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s” seemed to suit this home away from home.

The Yad Vashem (Hand and Name) Shoah and Valor Remembrance Center,

followed by the Herzl Museum, seized the first day like a Jovian storm. They had all descended to Yad Vashem separately before. Stunning Leah in the 70s on a whim, that fetid decade, save cinema (e.g., A Clockwork Orange, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Annie Hall, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Saturday Night Fever, The Deer Hunter, Alien), music (e.g., Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Wings, Electric Light Orchestra, Supertramp, Eagles, Bee Gees), and literature (e.g., Philip Roth, Milan Kundera, E. L. Doctorow, Philip K. Dick, Douglas Adams, John Irving, Isaac Asimov). There were, of course, other good things in the 70s but he didn’t seem to any.

Wanting Jojo in the 80s on a different type of whim, that ordinary decade, save some cinema (e.g., Blade Runner, Full Metal Jacket, The Princess Bride), some music (e.g., U2, Madonna, Jon and Vangelis), and some literature (e.g., Ken Grimwood, Margaret Atwood, Umberto Eco). There were probably other good things in the 80s but he didn't seem to any either.

Inspiring Im’ut in 2009 following her 12th birthday on a school outing. Affective Aviv in 2010 following his 12th birthday on a school outing. And disarming Dvora in 2011 following her 12th birthday on a school outing.

Yad Vashem felt definitely different as a family. They had cried helplessly during their separate inclinations, but as a family, they wailed, looking at each other, unable to stop the tears, clinging to one another like the fingers of a hand. It had been nevertheless unbearable the first time, and not one of them could even have imagined a second helping of such an absolute evidence of heartlessness. Imah shemam vezihram (May their name and their memory be obliterated, in Hebrew), omnipresent in many minds about the Nasties, would negate “ and never forget” and the ruthlessness perpetrated by them. Yet, the mind, the Jewish mind particularly, could accommodate such a discrepancy. The Herzl Museum turned their sorrow into fulfilled hopefulness, with Herzl’s “If you will it, it is no dream” rumbling in their crania like an awakening volcano, each comprehending at a different degree that between Herzl and Israel, an idea and a reality, a wish and its accomplishment, a plea and a phenomenon, towered

the Shoah, dwarfing everything that transpired before and after its enduring dénouement.

Visiting the Hebrew university on the second day seemed more subdued, both the visit and the day. “I imagine Im’ut studying astrophysics or any other astounding scientific endeavor,” Jojo stated when they stopped for lunch during the walking tour of the university. “Can I?” Im’ut asked, her coruscating eyes exacting some of the stars in the sky. “With your commitment, we’ll do everything to make it happen,” Leah said, kissed by Jojo as soon as she rested her lips. “I imagine Aviv learning literature; Hebrew, French, English, and any other creative and reflective field,” Jojo declared after the kiss. “It would be a dream come true to spend my life reading and writing,” Aviv replied, his head inclined a little to the left, perhaps proclaiming his political penchant. “If you will it, it is no dream,” Leah said, receiving two kisses from Jojo. “I imagine Dvora busying like a bee for the advancement of peace,” Jojo avowed between the kisses. “I would be honored to help our people, and theirs, reach a peaceful coexistence,” Dvora said, beaming both beauty and beguilement, which would be advantageous during any discussion, including peace. “Peace won’t have a chance against you,” Leah said, embraced instantly by Jojo until someone from the tour, a French visitor in all likelihood, asserted out loud that L’amour ne peut longtemps se cacher ou se feindre (love cannot hide or pretend for long). Sadly, kind words alone are rarely harbingering of peace.

The Israel Museum netted the third day, with its encyclopedic collections spanning prehistory to the present day, highlighting broad holdings of biblical and holy land archaeology, and crushing any misgivings about Hebraic, Israelite, Jewish and Israeli belongingness. Jojo looked at the primeval artifacts, one contradiction tailed by another, a complete paradox of religious faith, and then looked at Leah who smiled and lowered her eyes. He kissed her ionately, whispering in her right ear, “Raise your eyes because it’s not belief that makes one content, but the truth, and your eyes are too beautiful to be lowered.” Im’ut, Aviv and Dvora loved their parents, especially when they kissed and hugged, feeling that the world was perfect at that moment, that everything was going to be alright, after all.

The fourth day showcased the Biblical Zoo, also called the Tisch Family Zoological Gardens, where the plants stole the show, providing respite from Jerusalem’s intensity and heat, especially the date palm, offering both shelter and nourishment, though in of the latter, it was well out of reach. The animals were confined like in any other zoo, but at least no one was planning to sacrifice or eat any of them. Many had been mentioned in the Bible, as if they risked extinction, but like the Jews, they only became endangered species. Each animal had surely something to impart, but King Solomon had not been around for such a long time that they did not even try. It was a sad situation to and fro, toing and froing, only the trees contributing some semblance of liberty, rising above the misery, a few of them conceivably recalling olden days when they were part of a forest roaming with sounds of freedom. Jojo kissed Leah under a number of trees and in front of several animals, a couple of chimpanzees watching them with interest, perhaps pondering whether Jojo was the alpha or a lucky ape. Im’ut, Aviv and Dvora contemplated everything perceptively, Im’ut thanking the stars for such remarkable creatures, Aviv thinking of Animalia, an animal-illustrated, alliterative, alphabet children’s book that he had received from his father, and Dvora wondering whether freedom and peace would ever envelop all the creatures of the world.

ing the comion presented to them by the zoo’s plant life, the fifth day featured walking and hiking stretches throughout the Peace Forest, which was rooted on a site that has been ascribed the biblical Azal river mentioned in the book of Zechariah. Several Second Temple period, Hebrew-inscribed tombs titivated the forest, along with the remains of an aqueduct that had supplied water to the Second Temple and the rest of Jerusalem. Tree touching tree or longing for its twigs to grow farther to foster their green amalgamation, they stood steadfast together, with “rage against the dying of the light.” Dvora hugged a tree and soon enough they were all hugging trees, young trees and old trees, small trees and large trees, short trees and tall trees, bright trees and dark trees, jaunty trees and crestfallen trees, embracing them like family , like lovers in the fall. A trek in a forest is like a walk in the park, except that there are no benches in a forest and no lumberjacks in a park. The clearing of a forest is a genocide, a restricted holocaust, a crime against plantae, planticide.

The sixth day starred the Jewish Quarter and the Western Wall. Following the 1948 war, a Jordanian commander was reported to have told his higher-ups that for the first time in history not a single Jew lingered in the Jewish Quarter, not a single building stood intact, which would make the return of the Jews impossible. He seems to have forgotten or more probably not to have known the everlasting psalm “If I forget thee, Jerusalem, let my right hand be forgotten!” along with the over 500-year-old phrase “Next year in Jerusalem!” The Ben Shabbat household strolled through the Hebraic quarter, the Israelite area, the Jewish region, the Israeli district, ing most of what they had seen in the past few days, holding the hands of bygone individuals, tightening their fists around lost molecules of sorrow, letting their tears evaporate in the most Jewish air. They were purposely approaching the Western Wall, the Wailing Wall, the sobbing barrier between two Abrahamic religions in proximity of a third one, the epitome of the cruel Father, the conceived Son and the unholy spirit. It was blisteringly hot, so they stopped at a quaint café for iced teas for Jojo and Leah and iced fruit juices for Im’ut, Aviv and Dvora. Jojo and Aviv went to the counter to place the order, and Leah, Im’ut and Dvora sat at a table nearby. An overdressed man in his late teens entered the air-conditioned premises a moment later and blew himself up. The problem with such descriptions of suicide, up-todate death, is at least twofold: the terrorist blows everyone and everything around, and the terrorist is committing everything except suicide. It was expressly a coldblooded massacre that claimed, mutilated and mangled, slashed and gashed, teared and ripped, six individuals, this time around, five Jews and one Christian, Leah, Im’ut, Aviv, Dvora, a girl from Montreal, and a man from Boston. The Muslim murderer doesn’t count, isn’t counted, and will never count. His family’s home was eventually demolished by Israel, but they received money from several sponsors and purchased a new home. Their lives continued arabesque and unabashed, with celebrations of their sacrificial son, reminiscing time after time about the godly good old days when they had dressed him like a butcher that looked like a soldier, or when Jews were simply preposterous pigs.

The bomb included nails and screws, which bolted in all directions, hurtling into flesh, bone, glass, wood, metal, gyprock and concrete. It is, however, the flesh, and it is, however, the bone, that hurt the most, the flesh fairly more than the bone. A nail; let’s call it Ahmad; let’s not, since they all bear that name. A nail

called Yasser burst into Im’ut’s brain and snuffed her life within seconds. It sped through the superior frontal gyrus, made its way into the corpus callosum, prolonged to the septum pellucidum, ed through the fornix, persisted into the thalamus, skidded by the lamina quadrigemina, entered the cerebellum, and exited via the cerebellar hemisphere, leaving destruction and death in its track. Seventeen-year-old Im’ut was gone, forever, from one of the terrorist’s nails. The bomb alone would not have killed her…. Nail all terrorists, to the walls of their houses, inside, not outside, next to their childhood pictures, six inches from the floor! Don’t crucify them; it’s too moderate! Nail them with 99 nails, 99 red balloons of blood, all in their heads!... A screw called Mahmoud ruptured Aviv’s heart irreparably, liquidating him within a minute. It raced across the typical heart structures (pericardium, atria, ventricles), turning spring into an everlasting winter. Shrapnel also hit his left shoulder, but luckily didn’t cause permanent harm. Lucifer! You don’t exist either. Sixteen-year-old Aviv was no more, evermore, from one of the terrorist’s screws…. Screw all terrorists, to the roofs of their houses, 12 screws per tile, a screw for each tribe of Israel, next to the television antenna, to scramble the reception of their hate-filled channels!... Another screw, this one called Ismail, slammed Dvora above the heart, puncturing her left lung, but neglecting to kill her. It is shrapnel that smothered her to death, amputating her sting, purging the possibility of peace. Fifteen-yearold Dvora tumbled hastily into oblivion, partly from one of the terrorist’s rivets…. Rivet all terrorists, to the doors of their houses, inside or outside, randomly, 15 rivets per body part, placing any door ornament on them, knocking on their heads before entering or exiting the house!

Leah, my Leah! Leah, my love! Leah, my life! Leah, the world! Leah, the universe! Why have you forsaken me? One of the nails, the nastiest of nails, the annihilator nail, the Nephthysian nail, the Nergalian nail, the Nenian nail, Azrael’s nail, the Palestinian nail, has taken you away from me. Not peace! Piece! A piece of every Palestinian terrorist for Leah! A piece of every Muslim terrorist for Leah! A piece of every Judeopath for Leah! A piece of me for Leah! Every piece of me for Leah! Leahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! That fanatical nail pierced her body, holed her mind, deferred her death, for the sake of suffering, for the purpose of pain, for Palestinian pleasure, for Muslim immodesty. Nail all terrorists, to the pillars of Ramallah, to the posts of Gaza, to the poles of Nablus, to the columns of Al-Aqsa, outside only, six inches from the top, facing Allah! Nail them with 36 nails, evenly distributed to form a crescent! Leah was there,

but Jojo is here; Jojo is everywhere.

She was lying on the hospital bed with a pale smile on her soft face, which he wanted to embrace interminably, as if there was no morrow. He held her right hand—the other hand had been badly hurt by shrapnel—kissing it frequently and repeatedly more than all the mezuzahs in Israel. He rarely cried in front of her, trying to remain positive as to her chances of surviving, adding his optimism to her unbending hopefulness. She asked for cherries one morning, eating three of them, perhaps one for every child that had been lost, before telling him that she was going to die soon. Don’t say that, he implored. She had voiced her worries about him to one of the doctors, stating that she was fearful for him. She had signed a do-not-resuscitate directive, which enabled the treating doctor to halt a nurse’s attempt to revive her when her heart stopped a few hours later. He was motionless. His mind was frozen. His eyes were glued on her. She had a faint smile on her forgiving face, imaginably content by the possibility, however remote, of seeing Im’ut, Aviv and Dvora again. He was dumbstruck when the doctor recorded her time of death. He was unable to even fathom the notion that she could be gone. “The future of our children had been taken away from them and from us, and now, your future had been taken away from you and from me,” he painfully thought. He tried to revive her, in vain, blowing into her mouth and pushing upon her chest. He kissed her. He talked to her. He kissed her again. He cut a golden lock of her hair. He kissed her again. He paced around her bed and back and forth in the corridor outside her room. The hospital staff let him be. One of the nurses embraced him. He threw away the remaining cherries. He never ate cherries again. He kissed her again. He only related her ing to her family when he returned home later that evening. He made arrangements that evening for her burial next to their children. He didn’t attend the funerals. He stopped praying. He never returned to a synagogue. He never celebrated any holiday. He visited their graves irregularly. He thought of suicide regularly. A year had ed since her death. He fasted on the anniversary of her death. It was his Yom Kippur. He asked for her forgiveness. He saw her in his dreams. He listened to her voice on his mobile phone. He looked at her pictures. He watched their home movies. He hated life.

Jojo couldn’t stand the idea that one day he could ponder that five years had

ed since Leah’s death, that ten years had elapsed since Leah’s ing. He couldn’t accept it for a second. How could he? How could anyone even think that life could go on, that life went on? Insensitive animals, humans are. Bacteria-like! Practical as nails! Intelligent as screws! Her death meant that their memories were now only his. He carried them in his entire body. They circulated through his blood. They filled his mind. They hurt his heart. They weighed on his back. They were heavier than the world. Even Atlas wouldn’t have been able to them endlessly. Samson would have been crushed within a minute. How could Jojo both bear and drag them? Leah’s death was his looming demise. He felt like a wandering Jew, a dying doe, a clawless cat, a death-row duck, a beat bacterium, a scrap of compost. He counted the years and months without her, often considering what could or should constitute the time limit without her, how much time would push him to shout enough is enough, how long before his suicide would be demanded.

20

Ce n’est pas la souf qui rend malheureux, mais sa banalité (It is not suffering that makes one unhappy, but its banality). Yann Moix, from Jubilations vers le ciel

“What’s the most horrible thing ever?”

“Ever?”

“Yes!”

“Death!”

“No!”

“What, then?”

“Life!”

“Life?”

“Yes! I can’t even imagine anything crueler than life. that life is not meant in the abstract! It’s life as we know it, and also as we don’t know it. Just the fact that it includes the Shoah is sufficient to render it the most horrible mechanism ever. And yet, a universe, a world, that can generate life, which can evolve to someone like Leah can’t be the most horrible mechanism ever and may be worthwhile. But what happens when Leah is no more? Can one conclude and accept that there are others out there, each Leah-like individual stimulating significance in another life? And thus, life can’t be the most horrible mechanism ever, being probably the best since it can evolve to someone like Leah. And yet, life is excrement-embodied, feces-personified, caca-squared, full of death droppings.”

Five

Deliverance

1

A woman, perhaps in her 40s, or in her 30s, he’s not sure, is around him most of the time, and when she’s not, he misses her. He can’t see her face, but he knows that she’s pretty, even beautiful. He likes her, and she seems to like him too. They often lie in bed, looking at each other as they talk, but they haven’t made love or even kissed yet. She holds his hand when she speaks. She’s gracious in her gestures, and her words are considerate. She always includes him, even stopping a conversation to look at him, smile and ask if he needs anything. He wants to kiss her, but he can’t bring himself to make the first move. What about you? he asks at one point. We’ve been mostly talking about me, he adds. I love cinema, she says. I love cinema too, he replies. It’s about me again, he says. Please, tell me about your love affair with cinema, but also tell me about yourself! he adds. What do you like? Who do you love? Who do you hate? he continues. I love chick flicks, and any profound film, she says. What about you? she asks. I love the same films, he replies. Which movies? she asks. The Hours, The Matrix, Chaplin, Woody Allen, he replies. Oh, my goodness! she says. These are my favorites too, she adds. I’m glad, he says and smiles.

Jojo wakes up, saddened that he never got the chance to hear the rest of her replies to his questions, that he never saw her face, that it was only a dream. He feels yearning and love in his chest. But for whom? he wonders. Leah? That’s a given. He’ll always love Leah. Who then has made him even more forlorn? Whom did his unconscious conjure up to make him feel loved? He carries this feeling for a few days, unable to extract anything further from his memory of the dream. It fades as the days , and with it the feeling of love that filled his

chest. He almost returns to his inconsolable self. Why shouldn’t I, he thinks. I lost her. I lost Leah. I lost the children too. What else is there? I can’t kill the terrorist. The scumbag’s already dead. The piece of shit is already fucking his 72 ugly girls. Nobody is a virgin in Paradise. His family’s house was demolished. They should have packed it with shit instead; Jewish shit, and not allow anyone to clean the house, except the fucking family, and only after seven days. I can’t hunt terrorists. They’re not Nasties, even if many of them are Shoah challengers. What, then? What am I going to do with the rest of my fucking life? They wouldn’t want me in the Mossad. They probably know about my JNM cul-desac slaying. I’m too old for the army. The decent IDF desires young beginners. Maybe I can write something. A tell-all book! Tell what? My life is almost normal. Write some verities! Toute vérité n’est pas bonne à dire (Not every truth is fit to be told). “Honesty is the best policy.” Honesty can be subjective. “Truth be told.” Truth can also be subjective. The truth is the truth. “The truth is out there.” The truth is out of reach. “Truth is ugly. We possess art lest we perish of the truth.” Dear Nietzsche was right. He had also marked The Birth of Tragedy, declared Human, All Too Human, and elaborated Beyond Good and Evil, just to name a few, and, of course, identified The Anti-Christ. Ben Shabbat would compile The Death of Comedy, affirm Inhuman, All Too Inhuman, and distinguish Only Evil, and, ultimately, reinvent The Christless, on top of some much more minor writings.

2

Faces

All faces appear mean and ugly now. Most of them appeared ordinary before, some were attractive, even beautiful, before the flood of blood that could never disappear, never dissipate into oblivion, or dimness, at least. Stretched faces, no matter if the lifting was executed with a knife, the botulinum toxin, or a filler, are the worst, in most cases. He prefers to avert his eyes than vomit, and then wonder, What the hell? Are they losing their sight or their mind? Or both? Is it a disease like anorexia nervosa? It could be named anpalaiotes nervosa (from

Greek, an- without + oldness palaiotés). Shameful too! Other animals’ faces wouldn’t require this subdued butchery. It must be because of their abundance of fuzz. The hairless ones are ugly as well. Does hair, therefore, disguise distinct hideousness? Indubitably! Indubitably? I don’t know.

If a face looks mean and ugly, the individual within it can’t be any better, in most cases. It’s often even worse with a mustache, or a beard. Some women hide the greater part of their faces, yet some of them are not ugly. Some faiths sanction the beard, as if their so-called principles weren’t sufficiently dirty. Some of these faiths also command women to hide their hair. “Hair, hair, flow it, show it, long as God can grow it.” Some people partake in hair transplantation, or attach hair extensions, while others undergo hair removal, all over the skin, all around the body, even within cracks and folds, to render the space as smooth as an 18-yearold woman’s bottom. Bottoms up!

The pronunciation of fessée (spanking in French), fesses (buttocks in French), and feces aren’t quite the same, but are rather related, nonetheless; faces too, especially when they’re ugly and full of shit.

3

Zone Religieuse (Religious Zone)¹

Guillaume Apollinaire’s first alcoholic poem, Zone, could have been titled Zone Religieuse because religion has its paws well clawed into the poem’s free seasoned flesh. Like the greater part of poetry, Zone presents us with a variety of truths that, it is stated, elucidate life for the living. Somehow, we seem to need someone to tell us a few facts, and in Zone, Apollinaire reveals a number of them in an autobiographical fashion. From Zone’s amalgamated images emerges a sanctified odyssey in which religion’s depiction is frequently ironical, and at

times, even touching ridicule. Yet, there are instances where it appears as part of an acute nostalgia. Several treatments of religion will be explored, mostly to establish if Apollinaire had a specific one in mind. Furthermore, if sobriety persists, some kind of conclusion will be delivered. Finally, a tall Pernod may be imbibed.

Religion is depicted through three themes: the realm of aviation, Apollinaire’s religious youth, and the loss of his faith. Aviation is introduced for the first time in Lines 5-6, where it is commended as more contemporary than the automobile and as noble as the empty hangars of the Port-Aviation airfield. This is clearly a satiric couplet and the beginning of a sardonic pattern between religion and aviation.

In the following couplet, Lines 7-8, Christianity is prayed to for being modern only in Eurat, and Pope Pius X is sung to for being the most modern Euratean. Here, the irony is quite striking. The idea that Christianity has evolved only in Eurat, followed by the fact that in May 1911, at the Vatican, Pope Pius X blessed the pilot Beaumont who had won the Paris-Rome air race, triggers a glorious giggle, at least on my part. It is clear that the Pope is the least modern person in Eurat, and that a continent with the Vatican still in its midst cannot be considered modernized.

Yet, the most piquant irony is still to come in Lines 40-70. Here, aviation takes a somewhat biblical and mythical journey. In Lines 40-1, Jesus is seen as the best aviator and as the world’s highest flier. The reason for this ironic record might come from the fact that Christ had accumulated almost 2,000 years of flying time, while aviation was but two decades or so young. According to Jacaret (Jacaret, G. La Dialectique de l’ironie et du lyrisme dans Alcools et Calligrammes de Guillaume Apollinaire. Paris: A. G. Nizet, 1984), we have a chain of metonymies. While Line 40 elevates Christ above the common individual, Line 41 puts the son of God down to earth.

Lines 42-3 are a tad esoteric. Rees (Rees, G., ed. Alcools by Guillaume Apollinaire. London: Athlone, 1975) mentions Pouilliart, who claimed that “Apollinaire is here ing the invocation ‘Custodi nos, Domine, ut pupillam oculi’ (Keep us, Lord, as the pupil of an eye), which he would have recited many times in the evening service of Compline. The ‘il’ (he) of ‘il sait y faire’ (he knows how to do it)—an unexpected colloquial phrase—refers to ‘siècle’ (century).” Christ’s pupil winks for the 20th time, one blink of an eye for every century. However, this time around, his wink is on of the threat to his superiority. The 20th century has brought, in Lines 44-5, the plane that becomes a bird, and like Jesus, flies in the air, eyed by the devils in the abysses. In the following couplet, these demons declare that the plane is imitating Simon Magus, who was, according to another legend, gifted with the ability to fly, and who also tried to acquire from Saint Peter the skill to work miracles, which explains the pun on the two meanings of voler (to fly and to rob). This points to one of the seven cardinal sins: envy. Apollinaire seems to hint that religion is afraid of the plane, since this flying machine proves that mortals are capable of an action believed to be wholly divine.

In the five subsequent lines, the angels are flitting around the beautiful flitter, and Icarus, Enoch, Elijah and Apollonius of Tyana are floating around the first airplane, spreading aside from time to time to let those ever-ascending priests carried by Christ. Rees points out that “Icarus is a figure who carries much symbolic weight for Apollinaire since he represents the human urge to confront the impossible, as well as (being a creature of man’s imagination) demonstrates how the writer can foretell the future. Apollinaire wrote in a letter: Je me demande pourquoi dans cette terminologie de l’aviation si incertaine encore, on n’a pas songé à rendre un hommage verbal à Icare. De son nom on aurait pu tirer des mots. Il le méritait cet ancêtre incontestable des aviateurs, Elie, Elysée, Simon le Magicien aussi ! (I wonder why in this aviation terminology so uncertain still, we have not thought of giving a verbal homage to Icarus. We could have drawn words from his name. He deserved it, this undeniable ancestor of airmen, Elie [Elijah], Elisha, Simon the Magician too!). Enoch and Elijah are said to have been carried on heavenly, fiery chariots to a place among the angels. Yet here, this mortal-made machine does not need any celestial powers in order to rise towards the sky.

In Lines 53-70, the plane finally lands without folding its wings, and many birds, real and fictional, come to fraternize with the flying machine. Among them is the mythical bird of the Thousand and One Nights, the legendary one-eyed and winged Chinese bird, the dove that symbolizes the Holy Ghost, and the Egyptian Phoenix that represents immortality. All these birds welcome the airplane as one of them, and fiction and reality become one. It is worth noting that the powerful fictitious roc, which soars in Line 58, is holding Adam’s skull in its claws. Ironically, the first man is placed in the realm of imagination.

Religious youth is first evoked in Line 26, where we discover that the young Apollinaire was always dressed with the traditional colors of the Virgin Mary: blue and white. In Line 28, we discover his intense youthful love for the church’s ceremonies. It seems that piety perpetuates itself through the church’s tolling bells. In Lines 30-9, we learn that he prayed all night in the college chapel, that he believed the amethyst to forever embrace the glory of Christ, that he befriended the sign of the cross, that he beheld the everlasting flame, that he celebrated the son of the hurting mother, that he saw the prayer-thick tree, that he surveyed the cross of honor and eternity and the six edges of the star of David, and that he experienced the death and resurrection of God. There is at times more shame inside a church than outside of it. Though he went through all these events in his tender life, he could not avoid including them in his mature exploration. In Lines 102-3, the hands of the clock in the Jewish zone of the city move back in time, and he undergoes the same revolution. While the Jews are ousted again from their ghetto, Apollinaire is receding to his childhood.

Loss of faith is first invoked in Lines 9-10. Rees remarks that a previous version of these lines was: “Mais j’ai perdu l’habitude de croire et la honte me retient (But I have lost the habit of believing and shame holds me back). Note the change of person.” Apollinaire’s sense of loss of faith is still impressive. His need to confess seems to obsess him. In Line 76, he is embarrassed when he surprisingly finds himself saying a prayer. In Line 94, he catches, through the seaweed, the sight of fish that bear the image of Christ, the fish being an early symbol of the son of God. Lines 99-101 are significant. Rees comments: “During a visit to the church of Saint-Vit in Prague, Apollinaire thought he discerned in the flaws of a precious stone, the delineation of a mad face which

resembled his own. His superstitious nature never forgot this.” Apollinaire’s unconscious plays tricks on him. Not only is he worried by the incident but also saddened by it. He even compares himself to Lazarus, who was brought back to life after four days in the ground. It is as if he was made to believe again, to regain his faith. Yet, the final Lines, 151-5, suggest a loss of belief. As pointed out by Rees, the fétiches of Line 151 were for Apollinaire and other writers and painters of his time des objets d’art. “In this context however they are seen as symbols of religions which have decayed and died. The sad exclusion contained in ‘Adieu Adieu’ prepares for the despair of the decapitated sun. The sun is a generalized symbol of hope and rebirth in Alcools and its death, implying the denial of both, closes the poem on a note of unadulterated gloom.” Additionally, Jacaret explains that in the final lines, Apollinaire also destroys, via parody, the Father figure: “Selon Freud, le sacré serait originellement la volonté perpétrée du Père primitif. Enlever le Père, c’est enlever le sacré. C’est laisser un orphelin. Apollinaire mutile le Père: le soleil.... En décapitant le soleil, Apollinaire donne à la lumière une source nouvelle. Il se fait dieu lui-même.... Comme Icare, il s’élève et lance un défi au soleil, au destin. Il refuse d’être esclave, il veut devenir le maître” (According to Freud, the sacred would originally be the perpetrated will of the primitive Father. To take away the Father is to take away the sacred. It is leaving an orphan. Apollinaire mutilates the Father: the sun... In decapitating the sun, Apollinaire gives light a new source. He makes himself God... Like Icarus, he rises and challenges the sun, destiny. He refuses to be a slave, he wants to become the master). She adds that the death of God, symbolized by the death of the sun, is metered by a cuckoo song, that the rise of Christ is parodied by everyday language, and that the puns contradict the emotion of the decapitation. It is interesting to note that Apollinaire might have had a personal reason to wish the death of the Father. He lost his own father when still young, and he might have kept a grudge against him.

While Apollinaire’s regrets for his lost faith are ascertained, the evidence encomed in Zone that religion is frequently seen through an ironic angle cannot be overlooked. Ambiguity, at times, clouds certainty, but often indicates the presence of irony. The flight through Zone lasts but a day, but a man’s entire lifespan is glimpsed. Apollinaire’s id, ego and superego are encountered, and important moments of his life are rediscovered. But throughout this inner voyage, religion is seen as it really is: the bedrock of guilt and suffering. Though one may let go of its grip at one time or another, one is still subject to her or his

religion-abused childhood. If one’s faith is dead, the memory of it prolongs the agony. But everything must die.

Apollinaire does a masterful job of recounting his past, accomplishing it with the help of numerous images that take us through Paris, Prague, Marseilles, Coblenz, Rome, Amsterdam and Gouda. But the central events take place in Paris. He may be wooing the Eiffel Tower in the beginning of the poem, but as it progresses, flirting turns to hurting. Religion has affected him tremendously. He may have lost his faith, but it seems to carry quite a weight in Zone. Nevertheless, on the whole, it ironically fades away. The message is clear: he wants to hold the same position as God; he wants to be a prophet, a creator. His kind has created flight, and by doing so has equaled God. Apollinaire can therefore end his poem with an ironic adieu that he doubles in order to make sure that he is understood. And as if it is not enough, he concludes with “Soleil cou coupé” (Sun neck cut). The sun, or the Son, has lost his head: welcome to the machine. Cheers!

4

Invisible Lovers²

To all those who believe death to be the end of life, and to all those who do not, but mostly to Sigmund Freud.

Scene One

Encounters

Scene Two

Copulation

Scene Three

Invisibility

The Characters

Jolea

A slim woman; mid-40s; quite beautiful.

Leajo

An athletic man; mid-30s; quite handsome.

Poo

A large gorilla; quite ugly.

The Scene

An apartment in a high-rise.

Scene One

Encounters

(Set is in darkness. Front door opens. Lights are switched on. Jolea is seen dressed in black. Her hair is black. Floor, walls and ceiling are black. Furniture is black, postmodern and scarce. Poo is sitting quietly in an armchair, staring into space.)

Jolea

(Sits on sofa.) I’m tired of this monotony. I wish I could be invisible. Then, I would be able to listen to singular secrets and watch stealthy lovers sweat. And if I’m still bored, I would trigger the last world war. But why should I save the fucking multitude from its misery? Let them all suffer for the rest of their lives. Yes, let Nature perform its task. If I could be invisible, I would probably end up killing myself, and they would have to sniff me in order to find me, finally happy. Invisibility is the best idea; my most wonderful thought. What a way to die! Nature! Please, make me invisible! (Intercom rings.) Yes?

Leajo

My name is Leajo Wilson. I watched you leaving the restaurant and decided to follow you. I would like to speak to you.

Jolea

Go ahead, speak to me!

Leajo

I never followed a beautiful woman to her home before this scintillated night. You had a spellbound effect over me and I wanted to gaze upon the source of my enchantment. Please, give my vision the chance of meeting you again, my speech, the privilege of tempting you into sin, and my hearing, the benefit of listening to your vibrant voice.

Jolea

(Presses intercom to open door. Knock on door about 20 seconds later. Goes towards it, opens it but keeps chain locked, looks at Leajo, unlocks chain and slowly opens door.) Please, come in! (He enters slowly, dressed in black. She closes door.) Would you like me to hang up your jacket?

Leajo

(He takes off his jacket.) Yes, thank you! (She hangs it and goes to sofa, followed by Leajo. They sit. Poo goes to sofa and sits between them staring into space.) I like the colors of your apartment, and its altitude is quite uplifting.

Jolea

Yes, the colors are vivid, and the 18th floor has a luscious view of the city.

Leajo

As for the tone of your apparel, it is very stimulating, and your physical height is extremely pleasing.

Jolea

Yes, my hue is encouraging, and my height is just right.

Leajo

What have you achieved with them?

Jolea

I have pleased many people; mostly men. And they especially love my name.

Leajo

I’m glad to be a man, and I would love to love your name.

Jolea

My name is Jolea Wilberry.

Leajo

What a beautiful name!

Jolea

It appears so.

Leajo

It is. What do you want from life?

Jolea

All I need, I have, and what I want, I get, but what I really desire no one can acquire.

Leajo

What do you desire?

Jolea

To be invisible!

Leajo

Presently, the only place I can think of where you can be invisible is your balcony. Let’s go there and watch the stars. I believe they are the only ones who possess a feeling of happiness during the entire course of their long lives. They are forever smiling, and their secrets inspire everyone.

Jolea

(Goes to balcony followed by Leajo and Poo who stands between them, staring into space.) Yes, the stars are smiling at us, but perhaps they are mocking us.

Leajo

There is no reason for them to mock us; at least not yet.

Jolea

When do you think they will begin to do so?

Leajo

The stars mock only those who are sad and those who cry. Hence, you are right; they seldom smile.

Jolea

(Pause.) Life is beautiful at night from a high floor. No one looks dying or old; everyone appears radiant in the dark.

Leajo

Yes, the world seems positive when enveloped in black. The lights decorate it like a Christmas tree, and the blinking glitters are the night’s struggle with daylight.

Jolea

High-rises are like erect penises ready to penetrate the heavens’ constellations, and cars are like spermatozoa rushing, preparing to be ejaculated into space.

Leajo

(Aroused) Yes, the city is erotic at night. Many people make love in the darkness of the wee hours.

Jolea

(Poo caresses himself.) In the country, people make love anytime between dawn and bedtime. Nature is always making love and multiplying, and they love to be part of the act.

Leajo

(Pause.) Babies love women more than they do men because their mothers bear them out of their wombs and breastfeed them. They also kiss and caress them more often than their fathers.

Jolea

That’s why men love women more than babies. The world revolves around the sexual act. Orgasm follows orgasm, but men reach it more often than women.

Leajo

Men’s orgasms aren’t as lasting as women’s, and quality is superior to quantity.

Jolea

But in the long run, quantity is superior to quality. A greater number of penetrations amounts to a considerable amount of pleasure, which constitutes a feast for the pleasure-ego.

Leajo

You may be right. Yet I believe that one re the long intercourses more than the brief ones. There’s a lot more to recall, and the scenario is much more

memorable.

Jolea

Let’s go back inside. I feel a heat wave coming over me. (Jolea goes in followed by Leajo and Poo. They all sit on sofa, Poo between them, staring into space.)

Leajo

(Pause.) Do you believe in extraterrestrial life?

Jolea

Yes! However, I hope that life is better to them.

Leajo

Do you mean life without the services of death?

Jolea

Not at all! Death is mostly the good part of life. What’s at times bad about it is its untimeliness. Death is the only paradise. The mind is finally free. No more misery!

Leajo

Do you think that the quality of life is better somewhere else in the universe?

Jolea

Yes! Life may exist invisibly, and death may relatively not be. I can imagine life existing only in the mind. One could hear it, touch and thus feel it, smell and taste it, but never see it. A pure tetra-sensorial life.

Leajo

Why invisible life? Wouldn’t blindness be sufficient?

Jolea

Blindness couldn’t protect life from intrusion. Only invisibility could hide it from the eyes of the seers and the disrupters of the natural order.

Leajo

How is invisibility a better way of life?

Jolea

There’s no real pain in losing someone close. One experiences death only when one dies, and that’s once. One never watches others die. Death becomes a personal thing, an intimate adventure. (Poo appears agitated.)

Leajo

I can see your point, but you will surely perceive mine. Life would be vague and pitiful without the vision of beauty, of the beloved, of nakedness. (Poo appears relieved.)

Jolea

Life remains circumstantial in the midst of this momentary pulchritude. In their absence, one would not experience the pain of losing them.

Leajo

Nature is a fascinating force, and life is its greatest invention.

Jolea

Yes, Nature is colorful, and death is its best feature.

Leajo

Death seems to be a logical end to life, but a happier alternative may exist.

Jolea

Death is the only way, and immortality is forever absurd. Early death proves that Nature lacks our notion of perfection since Nature doesn’t believe in flawlessness. Nature is more inclined to follow the patterns of change. We like to believe that we are invincible, but if Nature doesn’t destroy us, we will eventually succeed to accomplish it with the help of our violent nature, which is, after all, part of Nature.

Leajo

Then life possesses a greater deal of ridicule than what death holds in its bosom.

Jolea

Not if one is invisible.

Leajo

Since we are both visible, I would like to gaze upon the rest of you.

Jolea

What you see is what you get.

Leajo

There must be more.

Jolea

Do you want to drink something before we become invisible?

Leajo

Yes! My mouth is thirsty for you.

Jolea

I thought that you looked rather hungry.

Leajo

Both, Jolea.

Jolea

(Closes the curtains. Switches lights off. Everything is quite invisible except for Poo.) Now, we are relatively invisible.

Leajo

But I can see you in my mind.

Jolea

Only because you have already seen me.

Leajo

Yes, but I won’t be able to behold your nakedness.

Jolea

That’s because you have never seen me in the nude.

Leajo

I would love to nest my sight upon your nudity.

Jolea

No, you will only feel the warmth of my nakedness, only listen to its mellow sounds, only taste its creamy flavors, and only smell its flowing scents.

Leajo

Will you let me gaze at your body later?

Jolea

I won’t let you behold my nakedness, but think that you will soon use four of the five senses that you possess, and you have seen me.

Leajo

You speak softly but your words carry a tragic weight that I nonetheless appreciate. It’s part of the magic that you endlessly project over me. Let me love you tout de suite (right now).

Jolea

Let us reveal our bodies to the night. (They undress while Poo watches with delight.)

Leajo

Where are you? I can’t hear you.

Jolea

(Sings in tune with The Who’s, Go to the Mirror Boy) Hear me! Smell me! Feel me! Taste me!

Leajo

(Sings) Please me! Hold me! Touch me! Don’t hide from me! (Looks for Jolea who avoids him.)

Jolea

(Sings) Find me! Look for me! Catch me! It won’t be easy!

Leajo

Yes, keep singing, Jolea!

Jolea

(Laughingly) I’m invisible, Leajo. (Teasingly) Where am I?

Leajo

You are beautifully invisible but I possess many sensors.

Jolea

(Sings) Find me! Embrace me! Make love to me! Invisibly!

Leajo

(Keeps on looking for her.) I want to caress your body, suck your breasts, taste your pussy, and listen to your desire.

Jolea

(Avoids him while Poo is very excited but silent.) Yes, find me and I’m yours!

Leajo

Please, cease hiding from me!

Jolea

No, I will bring your eagerness to the boiling point! I will make you sweat for me.

Leajo

My mind is burning with the image of your face, my lust is ablaze with the sound of your voice, and I’m becoming a creature of love.

Jolea

The image of my face won’t bring you closer to my pace. I’m glowing. I’m here but not near.

Leajo

I’m in the dark. I’m sweating. My penis is erect. Your pussy must be wet.

Jolea

We are soaking-wet. Invisible life is great.

Leajo

I love you, invisible you.

Jolea

Yes, I’m waiting for you. My senses are ready for you. (Dim lights reveal their bodies meeting in a wave of sheer bliss. Poo walks heavily around them, never turning his eyes away from the amalgam of hot flesh. They dance to the sound of their ion, kissing and caressing each other. Poo masturbates. Lights fade.)

Curtain

Scene Two

Copulation

(Set is in darkness except for dim light over bed on which only the figure of Poo can be seen. Poo appears disappointed, lying in the middle of the bed.)

Jolea

What’s wrong? Why did you lose your erection?

Leajo

I don’t really know. (Pause.) Maybe because I can’t see you.

Jolea

Don’t you like new dimensions to lovemaking?

Leajo

Always! But I prefer to see what I’m doing.

Jolea

Can’t you use your imagination?

Leajo

I use it for things that I can’t have. I believe that I have you, and therefore I need

to see you.

Jolea

Pretend that you don’t have me! We are invisible now.

Leajo

I have you. I saw you. We were visible.

Jolea

No pretending, no coupling! No imagination, no copulation! No game, no dame!

Leajo

I can wait until the morning envelops you in its eye-opening attire.

Jolea

I don’t make love in the morning. I’m a dark person. I’m a woman who knows

what she wants.

Leajo

All right! Make it hard! Rub it and then blow it!

Jolea

What happened to your vocabulary? Did it also lose its solidity and its length?

Leajo

I’m sorry. Please, reach for my penis and revive it with your ion.

Jolea

Why? Is the poor thing dead?

Leajo

Please, stop it! I think that I love you. This won’t be a one-night stand.

Jolea

I don’t love you and it seems to me that this night is losing its stand.

Leajo

I thought that we had something serious going on. I believed that we liked each other. Was I wrong?

Jolea

If it was going, it’s gone by now. And please, don’t believe in anything except for death. It’s the only certainty we can hold to.

Leajo

What about God?

Jolea

Please! God persists in the weak mind and abating brain.

Leajo

What if God is invisible?

Jolea

We are invisible. “Godisnowhere.”

Leajo

What about the Bible?

Jolea

The Bible is a collection of short stories in the fantastic mode; an ahistorical anthology of fairy tales; an assumed chronological report of fictitious events held together by a fistful of facts.

Leajo

Is death the only thing that you believe in?

Jolea

Yes! Death is tested and proven every day. It’s the only truth that I can count on since it will never desert me.

Leajo

There are different truths for different people. I, for one, believe in God.

Jolea

Most people are very wrong. There is only one truth, and it follows us during all our lives. Death is the most reasonable end, whereas God is the costliest consolation.

Leajo

Death can’t be the end, since the end is with God, in the other world.

Jolea

Yes, the end is with God, and God rimes with flawed.

Leajo

Please, let’s cease arguing about the existence of God. I’ll accept your disbelief only because I know that you will change your mind one day.

Jolea

Yes, I hope that you’ll change your mind one night, when darkness is light.

Leajo

I’m going to switch the lights on. I want to see your nakedness.

Jolea

I assure you that if you do that, you will only see my nakedness, nothing more.

Leajo

OK! You win. (Poo appears excited.)

Jolea

We win. Kiss me! Life is short.

Leajo

(Embraces Jolea. They make love while Poo watches and masturbates.) I love you, Jolea. Move your body, baby. Open yourself to me and let me in. Come on, babe! Swallow me whole!

Jolea

My beast! My animal! My gorilla! (Poo appears agitated) Eat me! (They all have orgasms at the same time. Jolea screams with pleasure, Leajo shouts with joy, and Poo beats its chest with both fists.)

Leajo

You are fantastic.

Jolea

You are resourceful.

Leajo

Are you up for another scene of senses?

Jolea

Yes! I’m ready for my invisible lover.

Leajo

(They make love while Poo masturbates.) I love you, Jolea.

Jolea

I love you, my invisible lover.

Leajo

(Incessantly and ionately repeating her name) Jolea! Jolea! Jolea! Jolea!...

Jolea

(Incessantly and ionately repeating his name) Leajo! Leajo! Leajo! Leajo!... (They all have orgasms at different times: Poo is first, beating its fists on its chest; Leajo is second with exclamations of delight; and Jolea concludes the interlude with ionate sighs. Lights fade.)

Curtain

Scene Three

Invisibility

(Set is illuminated. Jolea and Leajo are sitting on sofa. Poo is on armchair, staring into space.)

Leajo

Will I ever see you in the nude?

Jolea

You never will. You might catch me taking a shower or a bath, but I won’t like it at all. I want us to remain invisible in of our nakedness.

Leajo

Besides your obsession with invisibility and death, what else should I know about you?

Jolea

I don’t seem to like people very much. I find them too inclined to explain their existence as a product of a divine force. Most people can’t accept just being another form of life. In any case, you know how I feel about religion and its flaws.

Leajo

Yes.

Jolea

Have you read Freud’s, The Future of an Illusion?

Leajo

I don’t think so.

Jolea

Well, you should as soon as possible. If it doesn’t open your mind, it’s probable that nothing else ever will.

Leajo

I will give it a try. (Pause.) What do you do for a living?

Jolea

I own a quite sizable chain of restaurants. You actually saw me in one of them.

Leajo

You own Les Frais (The Fresh) restaurants?

Jolea

Yes! Don’t I look rich?

Leajo

Not that rich!

Jolea

You flatter me. I don’t want to appear rich; I just want to be rich. I live quite a humdrum life, and money is the only thing that I don’t have to worry about.

Leajo

Were you always single?

Jolea

Yes! I kept myself quite invisible. One-night stands were sufficient to quench my thirst.

Leajo

Have you ever considered a longer relationship?

Jolea

No! I like my freedom. I respect my imagination too much to jeopardize it in a steady union.

Leajo

A marriage of two minds doesn’t necessarily bring forth destruction. Fusion is another possible outcome.

Jolea

How can a believer in God unite with one in decay? How can God live with Darwin? How can you really love me? If you do, then it means that you reject God, and you know very well how jealous God can be.

Leajo

Time affects us. We change.

Jolea

Yes; we die.

Leajo

There must be something after death. Life can’t be meaningless.

Jolea

The only thing that follows death is decay. In order to be relatively immortal, one has to leave something of importance behind.

Leajo

Do Les Frais restaurants constitute your immortality?

Jolea

No! I’m quite mortal. Shakespeare, Mozart, Beethoven, Freud, Chaplin and Einstein are a few of the immortals.

Leajo

And you accept your mortality?

Jolea

I have no choice in the matter. One can attempt to create historical immortality, nothing more.

Leajo

That just can’t be. Death is a stage of life; a transition. Life can’t just end.

Jolea

That’s the belief of the weak. Most of them die with great expectations. All I hope for is a decent death.

Leajo

But would you have liked to live again?

Jolea

Yes! But I abandoned that ancient dream for the sake of reality. My reality-ego finally defeated my pleasure-ego. Immortality may seem fascinating, but it’s not practical. Nature will never allow it.

Leajo

I hate what Nature intends for its creatures. It’s always the excuse for everything. What if Nature is wrong?

Jolea

The nature of this problem is already stale. It’s not about right and wrong. It concerns what is and what is not. And we are the originators of this problem.

Leajo

What do you think is and is not?

Jolea

Nature is, life and death are, God is not, reincarnation and life after death are not.

Leajo

What about love?

Jolea

Love is what lust ought to be.

Leajo

What about friendship?

Jolea

Friendship is when love is.

Leajo

Where do we stand in the midst of this philosophy?

Jolea

We were lustful. Now, we are talking.

Leajo

Is there no future for us?

Jolea

Probably not.

Leajo

I can change. I can believe in death. I can learn to appreciate invisibility. I can try.

Jolea

Why? Remain the way you are! Keep your individuality! Don’t change on my !

Leajo

But I want to keep seeing you. I want to be with you.

Jolea

We could see each other from time to time, only we should try not to end up in bed.

Leajo

Don’t think that you can resist me! I warn you that you will eventually fall in love with me.

Jolea

I like a challenge, especially when it’s breathing.

Leajo

I’m fully alive, and now (turns lights off), I’m invisible.

Jolea

Yes! I may yet fall for you. Now, hold me tight!

Leajo

Find me if you want me!

Jolea

(ionately) That’s the man I may fall in love with.

Leajo

(Approaches her) I love you, special lady. (They embrace.)

Jolea

Let’s go to bed! (Poo slowly fades away.)

Curtain

5

Les textos sont pour les crétins (Text messages are for morons)

Most individuals don’t read much anymore. Text this and tweet that! Dumb and dumber! Even email has become a bore. And fax has been done for, for some time. “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect” (Anaïs Nin), except that most individuals tend to aftertaste life from the past, until it turns bittersweet.

6

Googol³

Googol was a distinguished mathematician and a renowned humorist whose research was comical and humor mathematical. Numbers always appeared throughout his speech, and he never neglected to praise them, for his ion for them was overpowering. “I am 53 years, 11 months, 19 days, 10 hours, 38 minutes, 47 seconds old, and I am getting older by the second,” he once replied

to a reporter. “You see, numbers are powerful, beautiful, magical. Everything has a number. One day. Tonight. Three pigs. Four wheels. Pentateuch. Six pence. Seven days. Eight ball. Nine-pin. Ten Commandments. And numbers are infinite. One can spend a lifetime counting them, and there will always be much greater ones; far beyond one’s death,” he added.

Felicia, one of Googol’s students, appreciated his humor more than his research, which tended to be quite abstract and seldom interesting. Googol liked Felicia because she was quite felicitous. She would meet him anytime and anywhere without a moment’s hesitation. She was the daughter he never had, and he was the father she had always desired. Close as they were, Googol kept a certain distance; a margin for experimentation and a foot for the sake of humor. And Felicia took nothing for granted, nourishing her respect and iration for her good teacher and dear friend.

Googol believed with all his heart and mind in the power of deduction, and took it upon himself to bring people, and especially Felicia, to the same faith. As dedicated as she was to her teacher, she refused to put her trust in deduction alone, and insisted on a different kind of faith, namely, the belief in God. Googol was quite disappointed, but he knew that she would see life his way and perceive that everything could be demonstrated by deduction; even the impossible. But in order to prove something impossible, he had to use his wit very carefully, for one could prove him wrong. He hoped that Felicia would not discover the truth, promising himself to reveal it to her before his death. Felicia’s felicitousness had its limits, and she would not let go of God, who as she described, brought her to this world to experience it, and would lead her out of it as long as she remained innocent.

She was on time for her daily meeting with Googol and was soon met by a radiant smile; one which suggested success and triumph though not a word was uttered nor a task begun. “Dear Felicia!” Googol said. “I can prove that 1 is equal to 2, and therefore, that a single life is as important as two, and ultimately, in the words of John Lennon, that ‘God is a concept by which we measure our

pain’,” Googol added. Felicia was extremely sceptical, but maintaining her respect without any effort, she asked her teacher to proceed. Googol spent less than a minute on the blackboard, which as soon as he rested, shone with a blinding light—false illumination.

If A = B A² = B² A² - B² = A² - B²

Factorizing both sides A (A - B) = (A + B) (A - B)

Dividing both sides by (A - B) A = A + B A = 2A since A = B

Dividing both sides by A 1 = 2

Felicia studied the equations carefully, letting her eyes rest on the last one for a long while. Googol felt extreme anticipation combined with strong remorse, and quite surprisingly, a sensation of fear—tantalizing terror. “1 = 2,” she finally exclaimed with a smile. Her face emitted gleams of happiness and adoration, which she followed by an outburst of tears. Googol held her in his Lilliputian arms and caressed her beautiful blond hair with his large palms. Gently, he let go of her, and in huggermugger opened a bottle of red wine, which they drank to Health, Happiness and Heredity.

Googol died from a heart attack, and death, treacherous and heartless, refused to wait for Felicia who arrived to her teacher’s side to find him numb. The truth, the destruction of Googol’s deduction, did not remain in his tomb for a long time, for a few days following his funeral, Felicia showed the impossible to her new teacher who upon glancing at it revealed very easily the error, or as he called it, the trap. “(A - B) is equal to zero because it was postulated that A was

equal to B. Dividing both sides of the equation by (A - B) is therefore erroneous, since a division by zero is undefined, thus negating 1 = 2,” the teacher said.

Felicia’s life had a harmonious course. She did not become a mathematician or a humorist. Instead, she opted for the undertaking business, performing her task with great dignity. She visited Googol’s tomb every year, and there among the dead, she told him incessantly that 1 was equal to 2.

7

Looming⁴

Unstable like some sanity Unpredictable like the weather Unfeeling, untimely, unless

Rigid like a first impression Risk-free like sleeping under the bed Rousing, refreshing, regardless

Momentary like some stardom Menacing like a hungry human Manageable, managed, then more

Inattentive like government Invalid like religious science Inconstant, Iroquois, indeed

Lilliputian like all patience Lingering like an old memory Lively, lioness-like, looming

Spherical like a diet plan Suspicious like a lawyer’s conscience Semi-insane, secular, since

Diverse like an identity Direct like a new policeperson Dispatched, distributed, despite

8

Soufs Mises à nue (Stripped Sufferings)

Lamenter avec mépris et orgueil Essentiellement pour exprimer un deuil D’une femme, d’un homme, d’un petit nombre d'enfants, D’une bête, de soi-même, de l’humanité. Pourquoi souffre-t-on, cher tourment ? La souf nous guette comme la mort. Il n’y a aucun havre, à part peut-être L’oubli, l’insouciance, l’ignorance, le rite. La naissance est une humiliation. Pourtant le monde se multiplie sans cesse ; Surtout là où l’ignorance règne suprême. On apparait dans le monde tout pelé ; On le quitte dénudé à part entière. Et l’amour ? C’est à peu près comme un jour.

Stripped Sufferings

(To lament with contempt and pride Essentially to express a bereavement Of a woman, of a man, of a small number of children, Of a beast, of oneself, of humanity.

Why do we suffer, dear torment? Suffering is watching us like death. There is no harbor, except perhaps Forgetfulness, carelessness, ignorance, ritual. Birth is a humiliation. Yet the world is constantly multiplying; Especially where ignorance reigns supreme. We appear in the world all bare; We leave it stripped in full. And love? It’s pretty much like a day.)

9

On aime des femmes qui deviendront des tapis de feuilles (We love women who will become carpets of leaves). Yann Moix, from Les cimetières sont des champs de fleurs

Soufs Surmontées (Overcome Sufferings)

Comme des oiseaux plumés de paix et de terreur, Le personnel d’un Hospice de Dieu boréal

Est vêtu d’uniformes qui délavent les horreurs Par leurs couleurs, leurs humeurs et leurs idéals. Un médecin rectifie toutes les rumeurs fatales, Ou les combat avec labeur, ces morts mentales. Les infermières, elles, femmes de cœur et d’espérance, Soulagent, soutiennent leurs patients avec délivrance. Sur le mur, Jésus Christ est encore crucifié ; Sur un lit, un malade est en train de prier. Ne quitte-il pas la croix, Christ, pour le consoler ? Non ! Il saigne toujours sur le ciment pétrifié ; Il reste éternellement dans un monde à trier ; Et le malade, même guéri, demeure contrôlé.

Overcome Sufferings

(Like plucked birds of peace and terror, The staff of a boreal Hospice of God Are wearing uniforms that wipe out the horrors By their colors, their moods and their ideals. A doctor rectifies all fatal rumors, Or fights them, with toil, these mental deaths.

The nurses*, they, women of heart and hope, Relieve, their patients with deliverance. On the wall, Jesus Christ is still crucified; On a bed, a patient is praying. Does he not leave the cross, Christ, to comfort him? No! He is still bleeding on the petrified cement; He remains forever in a world to be sorted; And the patient, even cured, remains controlled.)

* The word infirmières, not infermières, is French for nurses. The wordplay on fer (iron) could not be achieved in English.

10

The route of a decent individual is always beleaguered, whatever the direction, by the stupidity of the ignorant and the bullying of the powerful. Fortunate is s/he who, in the name of a truth and some altruism, guides the pathetic through the web of obscurity, for s/he may really be these siblings’ friend and the finder of adrift folks.

Nevertheless, I will strike down with inordinate retaliation and feverish wrath those, whomever they are, who sought to harm and destroy my wife, and my best part. You will know who I am when I set my revenge against you and repay your crimes with blood on my hands.

He gave them the middle finger every day, often with both hands, pointing it at the door of his apartment, and when it wasn’t in sight, at one of the windows, and sometimes one finger at the door and the other at the window, cursing them as well. “The hell with every one of you, meaningless scum, wherever you are, alive or dead! May you watch one of your eyes explode with your other eye! May you suffer the pain of 1,000 kidney stones all at the same time! May you receive the cock of a horse in your arse while a hungry hog devours your cock and your balls!”

What could these gestures and words accomplish? Nothing? A beginning of the end! Something? Every little thing counted in this unbearable existence.

11

Jojo wanted to kill them all; every one of them; sisters and brother; S2 too; brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law; nieces and nephews; their husbands and their wives; and all their children, the grandchildren. It was too late for the mother. He would have spared his father. The children, however, would pose a problem. He knew that he couldn’t kill children. He also couldn’t kill the husbands of the nieces and the wives of the nephews, save one niece’s husband, a scumbag of the first order, probably as awful as his brother. He couldn’t kill the sisters-in-law as well, especially that they weren’t his sisters-in-law any longer following their fateful divorces from his brother. He couldn’t kill two of the nieces and two of the nephews either, since he didn’t even know them. Too many of them would be left alive, and thus, killing only some of them, or any of them, wasn’t worth it, after all. It would be easier to kill himself. Yet, it seemed grand to get rid of this garbage; it appeared desirable to dispose of this debris.

12

Twenty Nonexistent Ticks

There are surely worse so-called individuals, but perhaps it’s only the closest ones, close only by some cloudy blood, who need to be deliberated upon. It would be easier to finish them off all at the same time; summon them to a meeting and blow up the place. The problem, again, would be the children. The nieces and nephews, most if not all of them, would show up with their children, the grandchildren, as well as their husbands and wives. What about marshalling only those who would be removed from the world? Twenty nonexistent ticks on the dog, twenty nonexistent ticks. Flick them out and them through, no more nonexistent ticks on the dog.

Dear Strangers:

Recently, not so recently, I came by, I won, a considerable amount of money. Being alone, and planning to remain so, unless some misfortunate befalls me again, I don’t require much money, and certainly not the amount that I now possess. I therefore decided, after considerable considerations, to divide some, most of the money, among you, my so-called family, although blood relatives would be a more befitting term. There is, however, one condition, namely that all of you, named hereafter, have to be present at this reunion. No! Gathering! Anyone missing will nullify this plentiful funding. Moreover, no one else, whomsoever, can attend this financial fête. In case any of you did not understand, I mean no exception whatsoever: no other niece or nephew, no niece’s husband or nephew’s wife, no children, even nearby, no chauffeur waiting outside, not even a cat. Dogs are allowed.

I can see the questions undulating in your dreadful heads. How much are we getting? and or how much is he giving away? There are twenty of you. Twenty? Yes; a score! I thought of dividing the money equally between you, but reasoned that most humans disapproved of parity, even hated it. I thus decided to vary the amount, in most cases, according to your blood’s relatival level. More common

genes, more money! Hence:

S1 (the one born in 1940): $200,000 S2 (the one born in 1942): $201,000 S3 (the one born in 1944): $200,000 S4 (the one born in 1947): $199,000 B (you know; the one born in 1950): $200,000 S1’s husband (the Pain in the Ass): $51,000 S2’s husband (the Grubby Scumbag): $50,000 S3’s husband (Yabba Dabba Doo): $50,000 S4’s husband (the Ashkenasty): $49,000 Niec1 (S2’s): $99,999 Niec2 (S2’s): $100,000 Niec3 (S2’s): $100,000 Niec4 (S4’s): $100,000 Niec5 (S4’s): $100,000 Neph1 (S1’s): $100,000 Neph2 (S1’s): $100,000 Neph3 (S3’s): $100,000 Neph4 (S3’s): $100,000 Neph5 (S4’s): $100,000

Niec1’s husband (the Soiling Arse): $1

Again, anyone missing from the score will annul this pecuniary powwow.

Luckily, though luck had nothing to do with it, you all live in Paris, and thus in Paris we shall meet on May 28, 2018 at the Hotel Montalembert, 3 rue de Montalembert, in the Le Correspondant meeting room at 20:00 (8 pm).

Don’t me!

See you soon,

B2 (you know; the one born in 1963)

PS

Canadian dollars, so you won’t get as much!

13

It’s challenging to eliminate twenty individuals, most of them blood relatives no less, no more, even when their character screams, take me out, to anyone noticing, and not to the ball game. Who would discern their deprived decadence?

Who would care about these right-wing ruffians? Most of them don’t even care about one another, whether they are first-generation siblings, sisters-in-law or brothers-in-law, aunts or uncles, or cousins, though this anti-lovefest may exist in any disproportionately dysfunctional family.

Jojo would have arrived to Paris the day before and checked into a low-floor room overlooking the hotel’s entrance to be able to get a glimpse of the doomed procession as they arrived in twos and threes and perhaps a one. He would have booked the meeting room without catering, save sliced bread, salt on a plate, and water from the tap. He would have prepared a few water bombs—condoms filled with toilet water—to throw on the worst of them—most of them—as they stepped out of the taxis or their old cars into the French night.

During the day, a few hours before their arrival, he would have looked at the few trees across the hotel, hoping to hear Jewbird laughing again.

“Are you going to be my witness once more?” he would have whispered to the crow.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” the crow would have laughed.

“Don’t jump the gun! I have to get them first,” he would have told the crow.


“Are you so sure that I’m going to get them?” he would have asked the crow.


“Ha, ha, ha,” he too would have laughed. After all, he who laughs last, laughs best.

14

He thought a little more about the twenty ticks, realizing that he only detested four of them, namely S4, Ashkenasty, B, and the Soiling Arse, the four donkeys of disaster: disease, conflict, shortage and expiry. For the remaining sweet sixteen he mostly felt indifference. He did feel some love for S2 and Niec1, and much derision for S1.

A scorpion behind her girlish smile and butch demeanor, S4 hid her stinger well, concealing it in her mouth. She had stung Jojo a few times, her first lasting prick sending him to the hospital a number of times during his life, crippling most of his left leg and foot, though he learned to hide it as well as he could, except at night in bed when it claimed its time in the moonlight. His heart had been beat up for life, but he felt it at least, whereas pain, shooting all the way to his left foot’s toes, would not have been his first choice from the assortment of sensations that constitute the status of being alive.

A balletic Ashkenullity, Ashkenasty, S4’s self-glorifying spouse, could have been a mathematician and or a scientist, a few dimwits were led to believe, instead of becoming a Jackass of all trades (e.g., bookkeeper, carpenter, gold plater, lamp shade maker, slave driver). When S4 had used her sting, Ashkenasty had tested his spitefulness. If the last straw broke the camel’s back, Ashkenasty represented many of the preceding straws—contemptible crates of them. Jojo

was, of course, the camel and or the slave. Life had dealt Ashkenasty a raw hand, a few dimwits were led to believe, the same ones in most cases. Life had only done its worst.

An aging lion with mean cold eyes, B bid his mane in his past after losing his prides and with them his roar. They had nothing in common, B and Jojo, except for the same parents and everyone else that supplemented that association. B was self-absorbed and selfish, starting to believe in God only because it presented opportunities for second-hand suppressed prides. Still, only a dumbass adheres to heedless, ordinarily old ideas, repudiating details, denying evidences, declining to discover data, which could lead to the truth, or at least draw as adjacent to it as imaginable.

The Soiling Arse, Niec1’s husband, il l’a bien niqué (he got her grandly), deceived her from the start, before and after the arrival of their son. S2, her mother, had been also cheated upon by her husband, the Grubby Scumbag, the chief similarity being that Niec1 inherited a common STD from the Soiling Arse within the seven-year itch, whereas S2 sustained a dormant STD bequeathed to her by the Grubby Scumbag also within the seven-year itch but which only awoke over four decades later. A somewhat secondary similarity was that both the Soiling Arse and Grubby Scumbag received the STD from a slut, a slapper or a skank. Most unfortunate, however, was the fact that S2’s STD-triggered cancer required chemotherapy and minor surgery, whereas Niec1 could require surgery and chemotherapy if she develops it in the future.

Knowing that these real-life monsters, and a few secondary ones in the sweetsixteen roast, can live with themselves and relish it relentlessly year after year proves that vileness thrives most of the time and that most of the good die too young.

15

Jojo received a phone call from S1 and S4 and an email from S3 following Leah’s demise. S2 must have told them the news. Leah (and the children) had to die to drive them to him. As blood relatives, their plasma was surely transparent at best. He met S1 and S4 but didn’t reply to S3. It was a monumental mistake on the first and would have been a probable one on the second had he met her. He spoke to S1 and S4 for some months, but then S4 showed her intrinsic malice, the bitch of a bitch, insulting his dead wife on at least two occasions, face to face and by email, with S1 not even squinting at S4’s debauchery. S2 seemed disgusted over the phone, but her continued relationship with S4 (and S1) only showed that her so-called revulsion had only been a shortlived reaction. These beasts didn’t know the meaning of true love, save perhaps the so-called love some of them had directed toward their mother and their halfass children.

Jojo even contemplated his infancy, with S1, S3, S4 and B, the four monsters— S2 had been shipped to Israel before his birth—slinking tly around him like a flock of starved vultures, or singly disposed like a depraved badger, each monster possessing its special spite ordnance, S1 thinking “Not another mouth to feed!”, S3 trying to breastfeed him, S4 dropping him on his head, B pulling on his little penis, and whatever else he, and you, could imagine that may have taken place in and around his Moses basket.

Some individuals had declared their desire to urinate on the graves of their enemies. Jojo would defecate on his monsters’, providing, of course, that he would die after them. He was 13 to 23 years their junior, so he could expect to outlive most of them. “That’s more than enough; even too much,” he decided following his latest estrangement from S1 and S4. “I’ll never think of any of them ever again.” He also felt that his rickety relationship with S2 was heading to an end. “I will shit on your graves,” he swore. “If you die first, that is,” he quickly concluded again, but then the saying, la mauvaise graine ne meurt jamais (the bad seed never dies), flashed in his mind like a timeworn neon sign, giving him the middle finger to boot, with a filthy fingernail that had tunneled the nose and scratched the asshole before entering a spud salad with the other nine

fingernails to mix it well, since a tong or two spoons could not have accomplished it with as much spirit: Yabba Dabba Doo!

16

Niec1

“Bonjour” (Hello).

“Bonjour.”

“How are you?”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Joseph.”

“Jojo?”

“Yes. It’s been a while.”

“Yes.”

“Is it a good time for us to talk?”

“Yes.”

“I thought of you often. Especially in the past few years, and many years ago.”

“I thought of you too.”

“Did you, really?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“I’m glad. I was thinking that we could continue what we had started close to four decades ago.”


“Our love affair. What could have been a love affair.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re my uncle, and we were kids.”

“I’m glad that it’s the first thing that came to your mind. Yes; you are my niece, and we were children. We are adults now, and relatively free, and I didn’t ask you to marry me.”

“Oh my God, you are serious.”

“Yes. I want to get to know you better.”

“I can’t. We can’t.”

“We can. The only question is whether you want to. I do.”

“Oh my God! No!”

“Are you sure? I always loved you and you loved me then, from 1978 onwards, till I don’t know when.”

“Yes. I loved you. For many years. But not in that way.”

“Come on! You were the first girl in my life. And you know what they say. One never forgets the first one. We didn’t go all the way, but we got pretty close.”

“I don’t anything.”

“That’s what you told me when I brought it up three decades ago. Do you that?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t free then, but I’m free now. I’m free to love you, and much more than I did before.”

“We’re related for God’s sake, and I have a child.”

“Yes. Your mother is my sister. And I’m glad that you only mentioned the child.”

“And you don’t see any problem with that?”

“That you only mentioned the child?”

“No.”

“I may have then, and unconsciously at that, but not now. I only see all the love that we could give each other.”

“Come on, Jojo! It’s impossible.”

“When there’s love, there’s always a way.”

“We barely know each other.”

“I can our few weeks together in 1978, and 1977, as if it was yesterday, and the day before.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Let’s meet in Tel Aviv or Paris and discover if it’s impossible. I’m sure that you’ll change your mind.”

“Jojo, please, no!”

“I want to make love to you.”

“Oh my God!”

“Again, and again. Day in and day out. Night after night. For the rest of our lives.”

“Jojo!”

“Yes, my love.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy for you.”

“We can’t.”

“We can and we should.”

“You’re my uncle.”

“You’re my niece.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“Tel Aviv or Paris?”

“Tel Aviv, of course. Paris would be difficult. Oh my God! What am I saying?”

“Tel Aviv. Very soon, please! We’ve waited most of our lives.”

“I’ll call you before I leave Paris. Oh my God!”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you soon. All of you.”

“Oh my God! Jojo! I can’t believe it.”

“It’s the only thing I can believe in.”

“I don’t know what to say. No!”

“Yes.”

“No, Jojo!”

“Yes, my love.”

17

Are you sure there is no God?

It’s the only certainty that I know. It’s the only thing that anyone can be sure of. It’s a universal truth that doesn’t require any proof. There are countless ways to illustrate it. Scientific evidence of the unlikelihood of God isn’t even necessary. There’s already so much common sense out there. For example, go to the oncology department of any children’s hospital and tell the kids, you know, the hairless ones, that there is a God, that God loves them, that God works in mysterious ways! Fuck you, dumbass, if this isn’t enough for you! Enough with this garbage! Let’s talk about love.

18

Forty Fleeting Years

She called him from the Charles de Gaulle airport on the morning of January 29, 2018, just a few days following their first phone conversation, arriving to Tel Aviv a few hours later. He had called her a second time the following day after their phone conversation to drum his desire in her ears. “I love you too,” she had said to him at one point. “You could probably do with me whatever you want. I’m yours.” What did he say to her? Did he hold her to it? How could he? Enough with the questions!

He picked her up at the Ben Gurion airport. He did. But it felt as if he was the one being picked up. Her smile upon seeing him reminded him of a similar embarrassed one that she had expressed when he had brushed his fingers against her pussy almost forty years ago. None of that blushing, he thought, as he kissed her ionately, until he heard her whisper, let’s go home. But home was wherever the heart was. In the car, where he wouldn’t let go of their embrace. In the elevator, where he tried to swallow her tongue. In the apartment, where he fell to his knees as soon as the door was closed, peeling her panties off with his teeth and sliding his nose and then his tongue into her pussy.

“I want to wash first,” she whispered.

“Did anyone touch you in the past few days?”

“No one touched me in the past two years.”

“There’s nothing to wash, then. Your blissful smell hasn’t changed.” But her smell did change. It wasn’t as sweet. Memory is a bitch and a bastard.

“Did you smell me when we were kids?”

“Only your panties following your showers, and my fingers the few times that they had touched your pussy.”

“A real pervert!” she smiled. “I’ve never felt this way before. It must be wrong, Jojo,” she added.

“On the contrary, it must be right. It’s perhaps the only thing that’s right.”

“I want you inside of me,” she started to whisper and then scream, surprising herself beyond measure.

“I want to be inside of you too, but not so quickly. Let me taste you first; kiss your skin and then, lick every part of you. I want to explore you.”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m yours to do whatever you want. But I’m not 12 anymore.”

“I’m not 15 either. But I think that our desire hasn’t aged. It only got a small taste of what it could have gotten, and it never forgot it. It got repressed, especially by you. I all my dreams of you. Waking dreams, for the most part, in which we went all the way when you returned in 1979. But you didn’t return, and I was powerless, and then life happened with all its monsters and princesses. I was lucky for a while, but all good things come to an end. I want this good thing to last. It has a chance now, which it may have never had before. You can’t go back to Paris and I can’t stay here without you.”

“Oh, Jojo. I never held much hope for this. Everyone would have been against it. We had no chance. You knew it better than I did. But as you say, we may have a chance now. Do we, really? I still can’t believe it. And everyone will still be against us.”

“I don’t care and you shouldn’t either. We only have one life to live, and if not now, when? When would I bury my face in your hair? When would I lose myself to you? When would I die in you?”

“Maintenant, mon amour, et quand tu voudras et où tu voudras.” (Now, my love, and when you’ll want and where you’ll want.)

“I want you all the time, even in my dreams. I want you to be the first thing that I see when I open my eyes. I want you naked most of the time and to undress you when you’re not. I want to be your chair. I want to be your floor. I want to be your bed. I want to devour you. Our forty years in the desert have come to an end. We have reached the promised land.”

“Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime,” (I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you) she shouted.

“Je t’adore, Rachelle,” (I adore you, Rachel) he declared.

He thought of taking her in his arms all the way to bed but ed that his back could not bear all those years. He would have to carry her in parts, or roll her in the desk chair, sitting upside down in the nude, with her beautiful toes rubbing against his drowning face.

Que reste-t-il de nos amours Que reste-t-il de ces beaux tours Quelques mémoires, vieil déchoir De notre jeunesse Que reste-t-il des jeux d’enfants Des mois d’août à peine triomphant Des souvenirs qui me poursuivent Avec peu de cesse

(What is left of our loves What is left of these beautiful turns A few memories, old decay Of our youth What is left of the children’s games

Of the months of August barely triumphant Memories that are chasing me With little relentlessness)

Those lyrics, some of them from Charles Trenet’s song, Que reste-t-il de nos amours, ached in his heart. But it wasn’t the pain of losing someone. It was perhaps worse. It was the aching involved in not getting to do something that should have been done. A missed act, in this case, of extreme love and pleasure. She was giving herself to him forty years later. He wanted to bawl for all those lost years, most of their lives. Where would they be today had they stayed together? He would have seen her every year from 1979 onwards, and more frequently as the years rolled on. They would have made love in secret until her 18th birthday, at which point they would have gotten married and moved to Israel or wherever else she would have liked.

They made love for the first time. It was like going home, for both of them. She cried and he licked her tears. He cried and she nipped his ears. Que reste-t-il de nos amours replayed in his head incessantly, so he played it on his iPad and they cried a little more. He then played, changing many of the words, Smokey’s “I’ll Meet You at Midnight” and life stood still.

A winter evening on Les Champs-Élysées, A hush-hush rendezvous they planned for days. A sea of faces in a crowded cafe, A sound of laughter as the music plays.

Jojo was a student at the Université,

Rachelle was almost a world away. He recalled the way they met was warm with laughter, The words were music as she turned away.

I’ll meet you at midnight Under the moonlight, I’ll meet you at midnight… But Jojo and Rachelle will never be…

Each glimmer could light a hundred faces, Each hour that ed seemed like twenty years. Midnight was turning into empty spaces, The sound of laughter disappeared.

I’ll meet you at midnight Under the moonlight, I’ll meet you at midnight… Oh, but Jojo and Rachelle will never be…

A winter morning on Les Champs-Élysées, The empty table in the street cafe.

The daylight flowing through an open doorway, Jojo has left to face another day.

I’ll meet you at midnight Under the moonlight, I’ll meet you at midnight… Oh, but Jojo and Rachelle will only meet in so many years…

“Je t’aime,” she cried in his ears.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered, burrowing underneath her.

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Leave him?”

“Of course! Definitely! In a second!”

“And the child?”

“I’ll take him with me. It’s my child.”

“What if I asked you to leave him behind?”

“I would without looking back, but you wouldn’t ask me to do that.”

“Part of me wouldn’t, but part of me would.”

“Which part are you going to listen to? I’ll listen to it too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I told you already that I’m yours and that you can do with me whatever you want.”

“I love you and couldn’t ask you to abandon your child.”

“I know but I would if you asked me to. I know that you resent him. At least the part that comes from his father.”

“Yes. I do. Immensely. From that Soiling Arse.”

“Soiling arse?”

“Dirtying Pimp! Staining Anus!”

“You do hate him.”

“More than anyone else in the world. He hurt both you and me.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Love me.”

“That’s a given.”

“Never leave me.”

“That’s a given too.”

“I wouldn’t be sure about that. Some people leave without planning to.”

“I will never leave you on purpose.”

“You’re going to leave me soon to return to Paris.”

“Not for long, my love. Not for long at all.”

“Unless you want us to live there.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes.”

“No! I want us to live away from there.”

“OK, my everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“I can see it in your eyes. Can you see it in mine?” she asked.

“Yes. I can see love.”

“Yes.”

“I can also see lust.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Which cannot wait any longer.”

“It almost hurts.”

“I know what you mean. I feel it too.”

“Fais-moi l’amour,” (Make love to me) she urged.

He kissed her until she gasped for air, and then buried his face between her thighs. She moaned, telling him that no one else will ever touch her again. She even asked him to finish her off, since life could never get any better. He cried between her breasts and then kissed and suckled on each nipple, almost falling asleep. But then he felt her feet rubbing against him, at which point he was ready and eager to die. You can finish me off too, he told her. This, all this, is the meaning of life. You are the meaning of my life, he avowed. To think that my meaning of life reappeared when I was 15, he then thought out loud. My meaning of life appeared when I was eleven and a half, she countered. You’re not my niece. You’re my raison d’être, which dwarfs anything else. You’re not my uncle either. Were you ever? You’re my heart, my lungs, my brain, my

breasts, my pussy, my ass. Not my ass! I’m your ass too. Sit on my face! No! Come on, sit on my face! I want to feel the warmth of your ass against my face. Stand up above my face and slowly lower your ass onto it! I love your ass. I saw it for the first time when I was 14 and never forgot it. You can say that it was imprinted upon me for life. I was already yours at that point, and you were only ten and a half. I everything about you, he added. I can see that, and I so little, she said. You must have repressed it at some point. But why would I? Why would I repress my love for you? Because it was unfulfilled and impossible. You didn’t repress it. Yes, I didn’t. But I suffered a lot for it. I imagined us together for years, unable to do anything to make it real. It was hell for a long while. My poor Jojo. It’s finally over. They fell asleep, her head against his heart, his left hand against her ass, and their sweat evaporating ever so slowly in harmony with the new morning’s dew.

When he opened his eyes a few hours later, he couldn’t believe that she was asleep beside him. He wanted to bite her to make sure that she was real but kissed one of her breasts instead. What a great way to wake up, she murmured. I was making sure that you were real. I’m real. Are you real? I think so, but not in every sense, I’m afraid. You can see me. Yes, he replied. You can hear me. Yes, he replied. You can smell me. Yes, he replied. Oh, I must smell bad. You smell wonderful. You can taste me. I did just now. And you can touch me. I am. What other sense is there? she asked. Time. Time? Yes. Time. I understand, she said. Forty years is a long time, she added. Yes, he said. And we’ve been together for less than a day, she murmured. Yes, he said. You’re breaking my heart, she said. I don’t mean to, but reality is horrible. I know. I’m here now, and if we’re lucky, we could be together for forty years, she said. Women are really optimistic, he said. We are. It beats being pessimistic. I agree, he said. But isn’t it true that optimists are unaware pessimists? he asked. Maybe, she replied laughingly. And I’m not a pessimist, he said. What are you, then? A fatalist, he replied. Isn’t it the same thing? she asked. Not at all. A pessimist tends to perceive the worst aspect of things and or knows that the worst will happen. A fatalist knows that all events are predetermined and therefore inevitable, he said. Isn’t that a religious belief? And I was told that you were an atheist, she said. I am an atheist, and science, quantum mechanics specifically, has demonstrated it repeatedly. All events are predetermined and consequently inevitable. But enough with the end of things. I want to concentrate on this beginning, on you, dear Rachelle. Especially on your lips. Let me brush my teeth first, she said. I meant the other

lips. They also need some washing, she begged. Just a little kiss. No! A quickie, then. OK!

Being inside Rachelle felt like much more than going home. For Jojo, it was like seeing everyone that he had ever loved at the same time. Mozart, Beethoven, Nietzsche, Charlie Chaplin, Freud, Yitzhak Rabin, Christopher Hitchens, Robin Williams, his father, Leah and the kids, all in the same room. Furthermore, the ejaculation wasn’t the best part. The almost mechanical to-and-fro movements within Rachelle coupled with her almost mute melodious mouthings almost equaled Mozart’s Requiem’s intensity and pain. Yes. Pain. So much pain. A mountain of pain. Weakened with each to only to be strengthened with each fro. To and fro. To and fro. To and fro. To and fro. Ad infinitum… Trying to prolong each to, her with her thighs and arms pushing him further, the furthest possible, holding him in with tears in her eyes, him almost wanting to disappear within her, to become an ovum, her only ovum, her last ovum, looking at her face with awe. There is a god—God—it’s Rachelle.

They took a long bath together. She wanted him in her mouth but he refused. Why? she asked. You’re my goddess and I’m your slave, not the other way around. You’re not my slave. I love you, she said. You’re my goddess and I adore you. I want to taste you too, she said. It’s salty and disgusting, and they have tails. I don’t care. I want you in my mouth. No, my love! Please! she pleaded. Please, no! he insisted. She took his penis in her hands, gently pulling it towards her and saying, it’s mine, it’s all mine. It’s yours. I’m all yours, he replied. I was always yours, except that we didn’t know it. I never thought that I could love someone this much, that love could be this strong, she said. I knew that it could, but I didn’t know that it would be you. My sister’s daughter, and my favorite sister at that. It’s extraordinary. But I think that I loved you before loving your mother. And thus, did I love your mother because of you? I don’t know, my love. And I only care that you love me, she said. I do, and it hurts, he replied. I think that Nazareth sang it best. Listen to this song, he said, getting the iPad and selecting the song.

“Love hurts Love scars Love wounds and marks Any heart not tough or strong enough To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain Love is like a cloud, it holds a lot of rain Love hurts Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, love hurts…”

After a nutritious breakfast, they were back in bed. How nutritious? Each one ate a cup of cooked hemp seeds with half a cup of almond flour, numerous blackberries, an assortment of nuts, a tablespoon of freshly ground flaxseed, and a teaspoon of ground cinnamon, all mixed in a bowl, accompanied by a greenleaves tea with fresh mint and a teaspoon of erythritol. Nutritious indeed. Especially before going to bed with someone you love. Indeed. They made love again, and again, and again. There were many years to make up for. After all, quantity wins over quality in the long run. Nothing new, then. Just more. You assume wrongly. Tell us, then! I’m not sure that I should tell you anything more. Come on! What happened next? They made love again, and again, and again. Details, please! It’s all in the details. I guess that I could articulate some of them, but not everything. Anything will do at this point.

He looked at her naked on the bed, noticing a trace of embarrassment when she tried to cover parts of herself. There’s no reason to cover any of your perfections, he said, uncovering her. You’re a feast for my eyes and all my other senses, he added, kissing her eyes, her ears, her nose, her mouth, her mouth again, her chin, her neck, her breasts, her shoulders, her arms, her hands, putting each of her fingers in his mouth, her stomach, her thighs, her pussy, her legs, gently turning her over, her back, her buttocks, gently turning her over, her feet, her toes,

licking every one of them, again and again, reaching for every other part of her that he had missed. He then took his iPad and asked if he could film her nakedness. Please, no! she pleaded. You’re going to leave me soon, and this footage will keep me sane, he responded. OK! How can I help? Caress your miraculous breasts and gently pinch the nipples! Wow! he exclaimed while filming her. Now, slowly spread your lovely legs! Incredible! he declared while filming her. Now, gently spread your impeccable pussy with both hands! Amazing! he conceded while filming her. Now, lift your mind-blowing pelvis! I’m going to faint, he said while filming her. Now, turn onto your right side and lift your mouth-watering thigh as high as you can! Remarkable! he stated while filming her. Now, turn onto your stomach and tenderly spread your breathtaking buttocks with both hands! Mesmerizing! he affirmed while filming her. Now, in the catty position; I don’t like dogs (she laughed); arch your back downwards! I’m dying! he cried while filming her. But it would be the best death. Kill me, Rachelle! The pain is unbearable, he begged. She embraced him, dropping to her knees, trying to put his penis in her mouth. Please, no, he pleaded. You’re my goddess and I don’t want to feel it in your mouth. But I want to so much, she urged. I also want to love every part of you. No, Rachelle! I love you to no end and seeing it in your mouth would debase you. I want us to enjoy your nakedness, not mine. You’re my goddess and I’m your slave. But I love you too. You’re not my slave. You’re my man. Exactly, he said. I’m your man, not your god. She pushed him onto the bed, climbed on top of him, and put her ass against his face. He kissed it and bit it and then sucked her clitoris. She moaned and suddenly dropped her head onto his penis and sucked it obstinately, refusing to let go until he ejaculated in her mouth. He protested throughout her lustful offensive but felt overwhelmed by the blissful aroma and taste of her pussy and the ancillary pleasure that she was exacting upon him through his penis. At least don’t swallow my sperm, he shouted. I won’t, she mumbled, but swigged a bit of it to taste the sperm of the love of her life and have more of him within her.

He lay, his head upon her stomach, listening to a rhapsody in ewe. Rachelle, he called to her. Yes, my love. I love you, Rachelle. I know, my love. I love you too. I also feel the pain of our lost years. Four decades of separation. Forty years away from your love and embrace. Can we make up for so many years? We’ll do our best, Rachelle. Rachelle. Rachelle. Rachelle. I love to say it out load. I want to scream it in the streets. And when they ask me what’s wrong, I’ll tell them that I have Rachelle fever, but that it’s not contagious. That I’m the only one in

the world blessed with the disease. Je t’aime. Fais-moi encore l’amour (I love you. Make love to me again). I’m always making love to you. I did it in my dreams and I’m doing it in reality. Are you real, Rachelle? I’m real, she screamed, and my heart is going to explode very soon. Kissing the left side of her chest, concentrating on the breast and especially the nipple—the doorway to the elixir of life, the most beautiful part of any woman, who is blessed with two, one for each hand, one for each mouth, since upon seeing the breasts we suddenly feel that we possess two mouths, and we want both breasts at the same time, we push them together to make them one, we insert our penis between them to become one with them, it’s the second most intimate act after penetration, the greatest undertaking some say—Joseph gently sucked Rachelle’s nipple and wouldn’t let go. How could he? Her heart was at stake.

When she fell asleep, he looked at her toes, her utmost perfection. Her toes? Yes. They were perfectly proportioned on both feet—a miracle—and part of the perfect foot par excellence, in of their size, arching, skin tone, and even attitude. They were perfect and they knew it. Even the white nail polish complemented their perfection. He kissed them one by one, thinking that they should be copied and affixed to doorposts instead of mezuzahs. He could pray to them, the toes of his goddess, asking to be touched by them, asking her to make love to him with them. She had noticed his fascination with her feet, and opening her eyes for a moment, saw him enamored with them. You really love every part of me. I do, Rachelle. I do. Your feet may have been my first love at first sight. Perhaps because I used them to masturbate when you were asleep. Oh my God, Jojo! You were a pervert. Once a pervert, always a pervert, he replied with a smile. Do you want me to make you climax with my feet? Would you? Of course! I’ll do anything for you. There’s nothing else, he said. She rubbed her feet against his penis, the sole of her feet and all her toes, stroking the tip and his testicles, watching his engorged penis pulsate and his face take on the colors of the rainbow. His sperm spew onto her feet and bedsheets at which moment he cried, I love you, Rachelle. You are the only proof of a god, since no natural process could have resulted in you, he added after a few seconds. She took some of the sperm from her feet and rubbed it on her nipples. That was by far, at least for Jojo, the greatest human act of all time. She even looked into eyes, licking her fingers dry, and then embracing his slightly trembling body in her arms while holding his penis. Is there anything that I can do for you? he asked. No, my love. I feel fulfilled.

She made the following observation less than an hour later. I noticed that you love my ass as much as the rest of me. Well, maybe not as much as my feet, she added tittering. He had to kiss her for that laugh. You caressed it. You kissed it. You fumbled it. You squeezed it. You pinched it. You bit it. You licked it. You hugged it. You fingered it. You even talked to it. What did I say? That you loved it, of course. I do. I know that you do. But you didn’t penetrate it. You brushed your penis on it and pushed your erection against it from every direction, but you never entered my ass. Did you want me to? Not particularly! I was just wondering why you hadn’t. I don’t think that it should serve for that purpose, he replied. Maybe once or twice, out of curiosity, but never alongside the pussy or instead of it. It’s the reason why I’ll never understand the male homosexual. Lesbians, I ire. Hell, I would have become a lesbian had I been a woman. Rachelle couldn’t stop laughing. I’m serious, he said. Who in their right mind would desire a penis over a pussy? They can suck each other dry and excel at it, but penetrating the ass, the bacteria-infested hole from which shit enters the world, is simply ridiculous and revolting. I can understand that sexual desire can make one go for any hole, but the asshole isn’t that inviting. It can be cute. Yours is beautiful like the rest of you. I love you, she said. But thrusting a penis into it because it’s often tighter than the pussy is plainly wrong and unfair. It’s almost like cheating. And to think that some people go for the ass-to-mouth so-called novelty. It’s disgusting to say the least. The ass to pussy too. Unless the colon is emptied and the ass goes through a serious enema, ass-fucking is freaking foolish. But I would penetrate your ass if you wanted me to. Your wish is my command. No, my love! I was just curious, and you answered my question thoroughly, she said. He lowered his face toward her ass, parted the cheeks, and half-whispered to it, give me a sign if you want me inside of you. I’m sure that your bacteria are beautiful too. Kiss me, she told him. He kissed her for a long time. Since we were discussing various modes of penetration, there’s also the issue of the forceful fellatio where the penis has to reach the throat and beyond, he said as soon as their lips parted. Deep throat, they call it. How unpleasant it must be! Why would some men, hopefully not most of them, want to practically suffocate the individual whom they love? Is that meant to be love? I don’t think that they love anyone during that throat rape. It’s reprehensible, he added. I agree, she said. How can I leave you even for a day? You are right, Jojo. We were robbed of forty years of togetherness. I can’t bear to think of it. You have to return with me to Paris and wait for me to make all the arrangements. We’ll see each other every day. I want you with me. I want you in me at least twice a day.

We can’t waste any more time. I agree, my queen. I prefer queen to goddess, she said. And you are my king, she added, kissing him and rubbing her feet against his. I guess that I won’t need the footage of your glorious figure, after all. You won’t, she replied. I’ll always be near you.

19

Chelle

Chelle! “I need somebody.” Chelle! “Not just anybody.” Chelle! “You know I need someone.” Chelle!

There was Leah and now there’s Rachelle. Jacob may have worked and waited seven years for Rachelle, but the idea of Joseph may have waited all of existence for Rachelle. At least Jacob may have had the chance to love her a few years later. Joseph had to wait very close to forty years. What if something had happened to one of them? What if Rachelle had said no to their union? What if she had said no? No! No! No! No! Like nails on his coffin. Would he have killed himself? Some of you may even have wished it, are still wishing it. Do you, really?

Rachelle was famished. Jojo was too, but he didn’t care. He had been eating her. He prepared more nutritious food: a romaine lettuce salad with endives, baby spinach, baby arugula, and a dressing made of garlic, lemon juice, almond flour, nutritional yeast, and Dijon mustard; an orange lentils soup with red onion,

celery, tomato, and cremini mushrooms, seasoned with pink Himalayan salt, cayenne pepper, turmeric, and black pepper; black olives with garlic and artichoke hearts, seasoned with olive oil and cayenne pepper; cocoa cake made with organic eggs, almond flour, erythritol, cocoa powder, and baking powder; and green-leaves tea with fresh mint and erythritol. She observed him cooking for them while looking at every movement that she was making, as if he was recording her life, alert to every one of her actions, no matter how minute. He stopped cooking from time to time to kiss her or caress a part of her body, as if his senses of touch and taste were demanding it, jealous of the other senses that were feasting on her so effortlessly. He even fed her some of the food when they were eating. Come on, Jojo! You’re my queen. But you’re my king. The queen is more important than the king, and the reason why I don’t like chess, he replied. She laughed heartily. What else can you do, Jojo? If there was only one thing that I could do, I would hope that it would be that of loving you. Please, kiss me, she beseeched. It’s so difficult to stop when I do. I know, she said. I never knew such love. Did you? she asked. No, he lied. My heart begins to race when I see you. I long to touch you. To hug you. Kiss you. Die. In me? With you. Je t’aime, mon Jo (I love you, my Jo). Je t’adore, ma Chelle (I love you, my Chelle). I love it. Please, call me Chelle from now on. And if I’m asked Chelle mi libeh? (To whom your heart belongs? in Hebrew) I’ll reply, I’ll shout, Chelle Jo (It belongs to Jo). Please, Chelle! I want every part of you, not just your heart. You have them, Jo, she said laughingly. I’m all yours. Every cell. The bacteria too, he demanded. Fais-moi l’amour (Make love to me), she cried. I’m making love to you all the time, he replied. I know. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. It’s as if you’re making love to me without touching me. I feel you in me. And when you’re really in me, I feel you fighting with something. Fighting with time. Claiming all the lost years. Stretching time as much as possible. Consuming every second with me. Crying both inside and outside. Loving me endlessly. I’m afraid to move at times, feeling that any movement would hurt you. You look so absorbed in me, by me. You don’t forget any part of me. You look at me as if I was the entire world, as if I was all that there is. You are my happiness with a capital H. My perfect happiness. I love you, Jo, Jojo, Joseph, and I will love you until my last breath. And my love will beat death. Every one of my cells will fight for you. Even my bacteria will them. Je t’aime (I love you), she shouted. Je t’aime à en mourir (I love you to death), she cried. I have always loved you. I now. And I was right to have loved you because you have always loved me too. She kissed him ionately, sucking his tongue, but he quickly sucked hers, not letting go, swallowing her saliva until her mouth was dry. Loving you hurts, he said. I know, my love. I can see it in your eyes, she

said. She looked at his iPad and asked if he knew the French singer Juliette Armanet. I love her, he replied. Is she on your iPad? Yes. Oh my God! Please, play her song, L’Indien! (The Indian) she implored.

…

“C’est lui L’Amour de ma vie Je sais que c’est lui Tout me le dit

En lui Tout est infini Le jour comme la nuit Je suis à lui”

…

(It’s him The love of my life I know that it’s him Everything tells me so

In him Everything is infinite The day as the night I’m his)

C’est toi (It’s you), she whispered throughout the song. Tu es l’amour de ma vie (You are the love of my life), she said when the song ended. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you to love me, he said. I still have a hard time accepting that it’s real. I see you. He looked at her intently. I hear you. Tell me that you love me! “I love you,” she said. I touch you. He touched her face and kissed her. I taste and smell you. He licked her pussy. And I still have a hard time. Forty freaking years will do that to most people, and I’m no exception. It’s real, my love. I assure you that it’s real. I love you with all my heart, with every part of me. I’m yours entirely. I’m your missing link, she said. You are. You are my missing link, my everything, he replied. He then kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed every part of her, especially her mouth, which embraced four of the five senses, though some argue that the mouth can also see.

She looked uncomfortable at one point. What’s wrong? he asked. I don’t think that I’ve ever had this much gas, she replied, smilingly. It’s embarrassing, she added. Don’t worry, my love! It’s your good bacteria being content about consuming some of the foods that they love most, in this case, lentils and artichokes. What’s interesting though, he added, is that it’s almost odorless; even the number twos. And the number ones, for that matter, are also almost odorless. It’s because most of the foul odor comes from carb-filled processed foods. Whole food-based nutrition lacks this side effect and is not only the healthiest nourishment for us, but also some of the most ethical and environmental-friendly sustenance. “See me! Feel me! Touch me! Heal me!” she sang to him with gleaming eyes. He kissed her repeatedly and then lay his head on her stomach to listen again to her rhapsody in ewe.

He must have fallen asleep because when he awoke a couple of hours later, she was still dreaming and he was on his back a few inches away from her. Had miles separated them, his heart wouldn’t have ached any less. He quickly moved towards her, gently kissing her shoulder and smelling her hair, and then sitting on the bed and looking at her longingly. She was there, in front of him, his, and he still longed for her. He was looking at his niece and feeling that she was the last woman on Earth. He then felt pain in his chest. It was intense, like the pain of losing someone you love. He lay on his back and started to sob. He couldn’t control the flowing tears but did his best to remain silent. Why are you crying? she suddenly asked, worried. Because, because, because I’m happy and sad at the same time, and I don’t know which is stronger, and it hurts, it hurts within my chest, similar to the pain that I feel in my ribs when I have a bad cold and I continually cough from my chest. She kissed his chest and put her warm hands upon it, thinking to herself that life was a bitch and a bastard. Her phone had rung a few times, but she hadn’t answered. It was her son. She had called him when she arrived to Tel Aviv before meeting Jojo. When Jojo seemed better, she called him again to say that she loved and missed him, and that she had fallen asleep after the flight. She asked him a few questions and hung up after promising to call him early the next morning. She then looked at Jojo and told him that she loved him more.

“Come on! A mother always loves her child and especially her son more than anything else in the world.”

“Well, this mother is different. that she loved Jojo first; three decades before having her son with the Soiling Arse.”

She was a kid and it was consequently a kid’s love. He was a kid too, a teenager, but too immature to comprehend it, and fearful of the consequences of loving his niece. She was more mature than him. She knew what she wanted before he knew what he wanted. She even took the initiative on most occasions, gently pinching his ass or pulling his penis. No matter! She can’t love him more than

her son. She can and she will. Don’t you mean, she can and she does? Yes, but I’m not sure beyond any doubt. Ah!

You don’t have to love me more than your son, Jojo replied. It’s not the same love. He loves you, but I get to love every part of you. You love him, but you yearn to love specific parts of me, and for me to love your entirety. Romantic love has no equal since it involves all the senses and all the organs. Even your toes, in my case. Every one of them. Equally. On both feet. And it’s not a fetish. They are part of your perfection. I look at them with love in my heart, not in my penis. Even your mouth, your breasts, your pussy, your ass, trigger love in my heart before anything else. I look at them and immediately want to kiss them, touch them, caress them, taste them, and see and feel you having pleasure. I would die for you, instead of you, without a second thought. You are my other half, and without you, I could only be incomplete, half a man, part of an individual, since an individual is an oxymoron in the realm of romantic relationships. You are all that I want and all that I ever wanted. You are the one and you were always the one. She looked at him tearfully, but they were tears of joy, tears of triumph over time and everything else that stands in the way of love. She embraced him and wouldn’t let go, except that he wouldn’t let go either, breathing her into his chest, breathing her instead of air, and kissing her and kissing her and kissing her and kissing her any which way he could, mumbling, I love you, between kisses, and at one point, biting her ass and leaving marks.

Luckily, he had enough fresh food for about a week, since there was no conceivable situation that would have enabled them to go outside even for a short while, at least not during the first few days. They were living an instantaneous honeymoon without a view of the ocean or any other natural or unnatural wonder. She was the view and she was the wonder. She didn’t seek to visualize the view from his balcony because he became all that she wanted to see, observing this new man in her life and biting her lower lip from time to time to remind herself that it was him, the love of her life. She loved the way in which he beheld her, removing his eyeglasses and then approaching her to gaze upon her from up close without that artificial assistance. He needed to touch her as much as he needed to breathe. Back in the bathtub, he washed her, starting with her hair and then proceeding through her body, kissing it following every partial

rinse and at one point losing himself in her pussy, unable to let go even after she had orgasmed. Her eyes were the only part that he couldn’t kiss, unless she closed them, which wasn’t the same. He loved her eyes even more because of it. They were the only untouchable part. But he managed to kiss and touch all the areas around them like a blind man tracing and memorizing a face. He loved her face. What didn’t he love about her? He came up empty. He thought about it at one point and couldn’t come up with anything. ! She represented perfection, at least to him, and it’s all that mattered.

While it’s true that she didn’t attempt to contemplate the view from his balcony, she did raise the curtain in the bedroom at one point and looked outside. She had one of his V-shirts on but nothing else. He was in bed observing her when his eyes caught her splendid ass: two beautiful balmy buttocks separated by a stillany-heart slit. He swiftly got up and ed her, his erection finding refuge along that split sanctuary. I doing this when we were kids, except that we weren’t naked, he said. I vividly that you felt my erection against you, turning away with a smile to look at it projecting within my shorts. Lucky you, she said. I don’t much, if anything. It may be a good thing, he said. What? she asked. Not to , he replied. I ed everything, picturing every precious moment and often cursing my acute caution. You were ready at less than 12 and I wasn’t at 15. Thank God, most would have said and still say. Fuck it, I thought and said and still say. We only live once. I should have listened to your hands and eyes and smiles and made love to you, as well as your advice to be gentle when I pinched your ass, these buttocks that I love with every fiber of my being. He dropped to his knees and kissed them copiously. She lowered the curtain and looked at him. What do my hands and eyes and smiles tell you now? The same thing but with more confidence, he replied. What are you waiting for, then? she said with a smile.

I can’t see my life any other way, she told him after they had made love. She had grasped his penis, hers from then on, in one hand and his testicles in the other, asking them whisperingly if they were ready for more? He replied for them, that they strove to be always ready for her and only her, and that notwithstanding their readiness, he was always ready to replace them with his lips, tongue, nose and fingers. I never even imagined that I could be loved so entirely and so

strongly. Did you? she asked. I may have imagined it to some degree but not like this, never the way it is with you, he replied. I’m, we’re in our early 50s and it pains me that you never got the chance to make love to me before, she said, slightly lowering her head. Il n’est jamais trop tard pour bien faire (It’s never too late to do right), I suppose, she added, looking into his eyes. I would have loved you at any age, he replied. I even when you were four or five and I was seven or eight and we played doctor and I was the patient. You examined me, asked me to lie on my stomach and lowered my briefs to listen with your toy statoscope to my buttocks of all places. I may have already loved you then. It also pains me that we have lost so many years, but at least we haven’t lost all of them. We have some time left and I’ll love you during every moment of it. Will you be mine? he asked. I was yours when you kissed me at the airport. I’ll even marry you s’il le faut (if need be), she declared. Je m’en fiche de ce qu’ils penseront (I don’t care what they’ll think). Je t’aime et c’est tout ce qui compte pour moi (I love you and that’s all that matters to me), she asserted. What about him? he asked. We’re already separated as you know. I didn’t know. Since when? For over a year. Had I known, I would certainly have ed you sooner, he said, chagrined. I speak to S2 regularly, and she never mentioned it. S2? Your mother. Sister Number 2. Oh my God! It’s too funny. You numbered them? And your brother? B, or B1 if I’m included in the conversation. It’s precious, she said, laughing with all her heart. I’m not sure that you’ll continue laughing knowing that I did the same for the rest of this so-called family. There are also Niec1 to Niec5 and Neph1 to Neph5. Niec for niece and Neph for nephew. Which one am I? she asked, still laughing. Niec1, of course! It makes sense given that I’m your first niece. But I understand. Well, I think that I do, she said. I’ll tell you about it one day, when I’m sick and unable to make love to you, he ventured. Mon Jo. Je t’aime à la folie (My Jo. I love you madly). Where do you want us to live? he asked. Anywhere would be fine as long as we’re together, she replied. I agree. But I’ll let you choose the place. You have a child to think of. She didn’t reply, putting her head over his chest where she could hear his mounting heartbeats and then lowering it onto his stomach where she could hear his rhapsody in crescendo.

Chère Chelle, “ma belle Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble

Si bien ensemble”

(Dear Chelle, my belle Are words that go together well So, well together)

20

Que reste-t-il de nos amours ? (What is left of our loves?)⁵

The Characters (in alphabetical order)

Woody Allen (Woody) - American movie director/writer/actor/musician

Carli Wanks (Carli) - American porn star

Charlie Chaplin (Chaplin) - Anglo-American movie director/writer/actor/musician

Emily Dickinson (Dickinson) - American poet

Christopher Hitchens (Hitchens/God) - Anglo-American writer/debater

Jacques Messier (Jacques) - Assassin

Yann Moix (Moix) - French writer

Friedrich Nietzsche (Nietzsche) - Genocitean philosopher

Michel Onfray (Onfray) - French philosopher

Maria Aizawa (Maria) - Japanese porn star

Philip Roth (Roth) - American writer

The Scene

The Western Wall. Dawn.

Hitchens (In his late 50s, wearing a white suit, white shirt and white suede shoes.)

(Walking slowly towards the camera, stopping six feet from it.)

My name is Christopher Hitchens, but here and now, I am God. Yes; the God. I am an atheist but I am also God. How is that possible? you may ask. Again, I am God.

(The camera slowly zooms onto the backs of ten individuals, one by one, from right to left, standing in a row, two feet from each other and two feet from the wall. They are all facing it motionless.)

Let us watch what could and perhaps should occur with this mixed group, this tensome of individuals, men and women, real and fictitious, living and departed like me. They cannot see me. They can all speak English fluently but with a suitable accent, of course. They can speak any other language but are limited, unaware of it, to a certain number of words in each of those languages.

(They slowly start moving. The camera zooms on anyone that speaks.)

Onfray (In his late 50s, wearing a black shirt, black pants and black suede shoes.)

C’est quoi ce bordel ? (Subtitles: What is this mess?)

Roth (In his early 80s, wearing a black suit, white shirt and black leather shoes.)

Don’t we all recognize the Western Wall?

Moix (In his late 40s, wearing a dark brown suit, light gray shirt and gray running shoes.)

Yes. It seems we’re in Jerusalem. But your identity blows my mind even more. (Smiling) You, Philip Roth, and Michel Onfray before you, and Woody Allen! (In his early 80s, wearing a light suit, beige shirt and white running shoes.) Charlie Chaplin! (In his mid 50s, dressed as the Tramp.) My God! (The camera zooms on Hitchens smiling with a glass of whisky in one hand.) Nietzsche! (In his early 40s, wearing a dark suit, white shirt and black leather shoes.) Astonishing! I’m sorry but I don’t seem to know the rest of you.

Jacques (In his early 50s, wearing a blue shirt, white pants and blue running shoes.)

I know all of you, including these three ladies. Emily Dickinson! (In her early 40s, wearing a dark dress and black leather shoes.) You’re one of my favorite poets. I love you, Ms. Dickinson. Maria Aizawa! (In her early 30s, wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and white running shoes.) I love you too (Smiling) but in another way. Carli Wanks! (In her early 30s, wearing a blue floral dress and white sandals.) I know that it’s not your real name. I also love you like Maria Aizawa. (Has a wider smile) No! Maybe a bit more. As for me, I’m sure that none of you know who I am. I’m Jacques Messier but it’s not my real name.

Woody

Great disguises, Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin! Or are we seeing dead people?

Nietzsche

I seem to know that I had died but I am here and I do not know how.

Chaplin

Me, as well. Impossible!

Dickinson

Me too, but I am happy to be alive once more.

Carli

What the fuck?

Maria

Watashi wa kowaidesu (Subtitles: I’m scared).

Jacques

Don’t be! I’m sure that there’s an explanation for this. I’m also sure that it can’t be a simple one. Do you want me to hold you?

Maria

Yes, please!

Jacques

(Holds her in his arms.) I can’t believe that I’m holding Maria Aizawa. (The camera zooms on his smiling face. He closes his eyes.)

Onfray

Who is she exactly? And Carli Wanks? And you? I must be dreaming.

Jacques

Maria and Carli are two of my favorite porn stars, and I’m; it’s complicated.

Woody

This is getting better by the phrase and maybe the word.

Dickinson

What is a porn star?

Jacques

Women and men who perform pornographic scenes that are filmed and shown for the pleasure of others. And a film, or a movie, is a long series of pictures taken consecutively that when shown on a screen, create the illusion of moving images.

Onfray

I can surmise that all the rest of us being here has to do with you. Who are you?

Jacques

As I said; it’s complicated. My real name is Joseph Ben Shabbat, but for some reason I feel that I’m here as Jacques Messier, my professional name. I can’t tell you anything more.

Onfray

But it may be the key to all this, whatever all this is.

Jacques

I do like, no, love every one of you, so I may be indeed the key. But how and why? I can only say that I’ve been hired, though I would have done it for free, as the assassin of several very ruthless individuals.

Roth

The plot thickens.

Moix

Knowing what you love about each one of us and or why you love each one of us may help us to understand at least part of this unusual situation. I, we, can probably guess what you love (Smiling) about Maria and Carli.

Jacques

It would have been too obvious even if they weren’t porn stars. They are simply beautiful, and breathtaking (Smiling) when they are naked. Sorry cher (Subtitles: dear) Yann Moix that Maria is not your Maria, the one to whom you dedicated all your masterpieces.

Moix

Yes. Thanks!

Woody

That’s a good idea, Moix? Come on, Messier! Spell the beans! What am I saying? You’re an assassin. Ben Shabbat. Does it mean that you don’t kill on the Sabbath? What day is it?

Jacques

I’ve only killed as Messier and I’ve once killed on the eve of Yom Kippur.

Woody

We are doomed.

Onfray

Can’t we just get out of here? Though I would love to speak to some of you.

Roth

Given this implausible situation, I doubt that we can just decide to depart. I’ve also noticed that this may not be the Western Wall, but a replica of some sort. Furthermore, three of us are Jews. Woody Allen, Joseph Ben Shabbat and myself, which renders this situation even stranger.

Jacques

I would consider Moix a honorary Jew. More than that. He’s more Jewish than anyone of us. (The camera quickly zooms on Moix smiling.) I also think that the Western Wall, whether real or not, and four Jews may point to something significant.

Hitchens

(The camera slowly zooms on Hitchens, whispering audibly with a slight laugh.)

I’m also a Jew by my mother, but an uncircumcised one.

Carli

Did you hear that?

Maria

(Frightened) Yes. (Jacques tries to hold her in his arms but she politely refuses.)

Jacques

(Smiles and looks at Dickinson.)

“I heard a fly buzz when I died The Stillness in the room Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm”

Dickinson

You weren’t just saying that you loved me.

Jacques

I liked your poetry when I studied it at the university but fell in love with you when I saw a movie about your life.

Dickinson

They have made a movie about me?

Jacques

Several movies with great actresses who played you so well now that I see you in front of me, and numerous books have been written about you. I’m sure that the rest of us here also love your poetry. (Save Maria, they all nod their heads in agreement.)

Before we continue, please allow me to say a few words that I’ve been feeling for most of my life. (Turning to Chaplin.) You, dear Sir, dear Charlie Chaplin, are one of the few individuals who have brought immeasurable joy to my life via your fabulous films, both silent and sound movies, much sorrow too within that joy. I’m sure that most of us here will agree that you are and will always be the greatest movie director, writer, actor and musician of all time. I adore all your movies. (Emotionally) My heart melts when I watch you, especially as the Tramp, with the apparel that you’re wearing right now. I love you with all my

heart. (The camera zooms on Chaplin smiling.)

Chaplin

Thank you for your kind words!

Jacques

(Slowly turning to Woody.) You, dear Woody Allen, are the second greatest movie director, writer, and actor of all time. Sleeper, Love and Death, Annie Hall, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Everyone Says I Love You, Anything Else, Midnight in Paris, and so many others are obviously some of my favorite movies of all time.

Woody

Did you like Shadows and Fog?

Jacques

Surely! I even read your play, Death, a few years earlier, on which it was based.

Woody

(Smiling) Can you believe this guy?

Jacques

(Turning to Nietzsche.) You, dear Friedrich Nietzsche, are the greatest philosopher of all time. The Birth of Tragedy, The Gay Science, Beyond Good and Evil, Twilight of the Idols, The Antichrist, Nietzsche Contra Wagner, and others are some of the most thought-provoking books of all time.

Nietzsche

Thank you!

Jacques

I gather that like Ms. Dickinson you are also unaware of anything that transpired in the world following your ing.

Nietzsche

Yes.

Jacques

It pains me to tell you that some of your writings were misused by the Nasties, your fellow countrymen and countrywomen, to help devise and execute the greatest crime of all time, not necessarily in of the total number of dead, but in the sheer cruelty and mindset of operating unrelentingly to annihilate all the Jews in Eurat and eventually the rest of the world. Oh, they also murdered numerous political prisoners, homosexuals, and mentally handicapped individuals, as well as countless Gypsies, but they employed singular measures for the Jews, hoarding them throughout most of Eurat and carting them in freight trains to many concentration camps. The lucky ones died on the way from thirst and or the cold, or were massacred in the streets, or amassed and executed in forests. The unlucky ones, millions of them, reached the death camps to be gassed and cremated as if they had never existed. The Nasties obliterated six million Jews during a world war that sported over forty million dead.

Dickinson

(Crying out) Oh my God!

Jacques

There is no God (Looking at Nietzsche), and you were one of the first philosophers to proclaim it so eloquently.

Hitchens

(The camera zooms on Hitchens who speaks to the audience.) I debated with so many faith-based fools on the matter. I am God and I assure you that there is no God.

Nietzsche

(In physical pain) I am so very sorry for the absolute madness of my people.

Jacques

I refuse to even pronounce the name of your country and the so-called continent on which it operated, and almost anything else in the 20th century that has to do with it. Your sister collaborated wholeheartedly with the Nasties, which is a telling example of how one’s family can be worse than or as bad as one’s foulest foes. The whole story is so much worse but I’ll leave it at that.

(Turning to Onfray.) You, cher (Subtitles: dear) Michel Onfray, are one of the greatest contemporary philosophers and surely the most prolific. L’Ordre Libertaire: La Vie Philosophique D’Albert Camus (Subtitles: The Libertarian Order: The Philosophical Life of Albert Camus), Un requiem athée (Subtitles: An atheist requiem), Thinking Islam (He can’t pronounce anything else in French), Cosmos, Decadence. I’m not sure what’s going on but I can’t speak French any longer. I can think in French but I can’t voice it.

Onfray

Ce n’est pas vrai (Subtitles: This is not true). Mais c’est quoi ce (Subtitles: But what is this) mess? I too can’t speak French any longer. It’s my language. What’s going on?

Roth

I think that we may be limited in other languages. I can think in several languages that I did not know before and I guess that I can speak them too.

Woody

Kan jag tala svenska? (Subtitles: Can I speak Swedish?) Yes! (Laughing) I can speak Swedish.

Jacques

(Turning to Moix.) You, very dear Yann Moix, can surely guess how I feel about you. You’re a revelation, a true wonder in this cockamamie world. I love you more than a brother whom I essentially never had. The amalgamation of suffering and pleasure involved in reading your books was unparalleled for me. I salute you for writing and speaking with all your organs.

Moix

(Smiling) Merci. (Subtitles: Thanks.)

Jacques

(Turning to Roth.) You, dear, so dear Philip Roth, have brought me immense pleasure. I’ve read all your books, both fiction and nonfiction. You are definitely my favorite author and one of the greatest writers of all time. You should be the only author to receive the Nobel prize in Literature twice, and yet, they are too corrupt to even offer it to you once.

Roth

Thank you!

Jacques

(Turning to both Carli and Maria.) Finally, both of you, Carli Wanks and Maria Aizawa, have brought me another kind of pleasure (Smiling) in the past couple of years. I thank you for all the positions, close-ups and encouragements.

Carli

You’re welcome, sweetie!

Maria

(Slightly bowing) Dōitashimashite (Subtitles: You’re welcome).

Jacques

How I wish a few more individuals whom I love and will love forever were present with us. The considerable Christopher Hitchens. Possibly the wittiest individual who had ever lived. (The camera quickly zooms on a smiling Hitchens who speaks to the audience) What a nice assassin! (Jacques continues.) Hitchslapping, his ability to utterly obliterate an opponent’s entire argument in one or a few concise statements, orally or in writing, is still celebrated.

The stirring Sigmund Freud. I know that you may have proved him a liar, Onfray, and a few others before you, but I fell in love more with his literature than his psychoanalysis, though some of his intuitions in the latter surely remain remarkable.

The poignant Primo Levi. A concentration camp survivor, chemist and heartwrenching and -warming writer. His novel, If This Is a Man, could have been titled This Is a Man, since he and I and everyone truly aware, for that matter, know that this is indeed a man whether one construes it as referring to all the atrocities that men are capable of committing, or simply to all the atrocities that one man, himself, can endure.

The jaunty Jacques Brel. The greatest heartfelt singer and songwriter of the French language. Of course, I can’t recite any lines from his songs, though I can do it in my mind, but at least Moix and Onfray can attest to his greatness. (The camera zooms on their faces nodding in agreement.)

The hereditary Herbert Pagani. A wide-ranging artist. A painter, sculptor, poet, singer, songwriter and so much more. His “Plea for My Land”; I can’t pronounce it in French but I can suddenly pronounce it in Italian, his first language, Appello per la mia terra (Subtitles: Plea for My Land) is monumental to say the least. And so many other great songs both in French and Italian.

The loving and lovely Leah, my dear wife, the love of my life. I was so distraught by her murder in a terrorist attack, and the bitter irony of the event, that a few years later I imagined a new life in which I courted one of my nieces, one of my sisters’ daughters, over the phone, convincing her to fly from Paris to meet me in Tel Aviv and spend several days with me, reviving the explicit and implicit desires incompletely played out in our childhood’s sensual but mostly innocent games four decades earlier. We had even decided to remain together for the rest of our lives.

(Pensive) And so many other individuals.

Roth

I understand what you mean. I would also have loved to meet a number of individuals, but the ones present here are extraordinary as well. I was also thinking that facing this Western Wall, the ten of us make a minyan, a quorum of ten men, albeit an unorthodox one given the three women and seven gentiles.

Jacques

Six gentiles. Moix is a Jew. (The camera quickly zooms on Moix, smiling again.)

Roth

I stand corrected. Maybe this is only one of many minyans, or whatever the number of individuals brought together for some purpose.

Jacques

Since I knew of all of you and love you all, we assumed that all of you are here because of me. But this premise may be wrong, after all.

Nietzsche

From all that I heard so far, it seems to be the only plausible hypothesis.

Jacques

Yes. And if it is so, why the nine of you and not a different grouping? There are two philosophers, two writers, two movie directors-writers-actors and musicians, two actresses, one poet and one assassin. Cinema must rule in my life (Laughing). The only odd two are the poet and the assassin.

Roth

Maybe not. Isn’t a poet an assassin of some sort, combining specific words to shatter readers with their power.

“Because I could not stop for death He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves And immortality”

Dickinson

You too?

Roth

We are all in your debt.

Dickinson

You are too kind.

Jacques

What can it mean, then? There are many assassins out there, deceased and living, but luckily none that I love, so I got Ms. Dickinson instead. Someone must still love me. (He kisses Dickinson’s hand.)

Carli

(Smiling) Smooth!

Jacques

It’s not your hand that I’d kiss.

Carli

(Laughing) Very smooth. I can probably guess which part.

Jacques

I doubt it.

Carli

Really?

Jacques

Yes.

Carli

(Whispering) One of my breasts.

Jacques

No.

Carli

(Laughing and whispering) My pussy.

Jacques

No.

Carli

Not my ass? Oops! (Laughing) I said it out loud.

Jacques

No.

Carli

What, then?

Jacques

Your mouth.

Carli

(Blushing slightly) Too smooth.

Jacques

(Looking at Maria) I don’t think that you like me.

Maria

I was a bit afraid when you told us that you were an assassin, but I’m not any longer.

Jacques

I’m glad because I would easily give my life for you, Ms. Wanks, Ms. Dickinson, Charlie Chaplin, Nietzsche and Moix, and maybe (Smiling) Onfray. The rest of you, dear Allen and Roth, are in your 80s. Had you been younger in this wonderland, I would have given my life for you too. There is one exception, however. I would have given my life for Charlie Chaplin at any age. (The camera quickly zooms on Chaplin’s smiling face.)

Carli

My real name is Marsha Tilleland.

Jacques

What a sweet name! Yet, Carli Tillelland gives the tongue an extra fourth L movement.

Carli

So smooth. You can kiss me if you want.

Jacques

(Holds her in his arms and kisses her somewhat ionately.) I must have died and gone to some kind of heaven. Maybe that’s it. We’re is some paradise.

Carli

I felt something too. Maybe we are.

Jacques

You’re too kind.

Carli

I can even be kinder.

Jacques

(Smiling) Yes you can.

Carli

Do you want me to?

Jacques

If you me after we get out of here.

Carli

Don’t worry! I’ll you.

Jacques

(Smiling) Please, do!

Woody

Get a room already!

Roth

I also noticed that I, and therefore we, can’t walk very far. (He had been walking in all three directions.)

Onfray

I noticed it too. (He also had been walking in all three directions.) What a mess!

Nietzsche

I don’t see anything else near us, not even a chair, but I don’t feel tired. Do any of you?

Jacques

No! Nor thirsty or hungry.

Moix

C’est vrai, ça (Subtitles: That’s true).

Maria

I feel a little scared.

Moix

Kowagatte wa ikenai (Subtitles: Don’t be scared).

Maria

Arigatōgozaimashita (Subtitles: Thank you).

Woody

(Looking at Moix) You, now? (Looking at Jacques) Don’t you like a few more porn stars?

Jacques

More than a few, I must confess. But Carli; Marsha and Maria are my favorites.

Hitchens

(Speaking to the audience) I almost included a third porn star instead of Dickinson.

Jacques

I may know of all of you, but all of you also know of Nietzsche. (Addressing Nietzsche) “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!”

Nietzsche

What my countrymen and countrywomen committed did not stop you from appreciating my work?

Jacques

No! You appeared decades before them, you weren’t, borrowing Philip Roth’s coining, a Judeopath, you actually respected Jews, and your writings were so wise, so mind-opening.

Nietzsche

Thank you!

Jacques

There’s no need to thank me or anyone else for that matter. We should be thanking you. Thank you, Immortal Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche!

Carli

The smoothest!

Jacques

(Smiling) I’m not sure that you can deem it smooth when it’s genuine.

Carli

What a sweetie!

Woody

(Jokily) We can all turn around and face the wall while you two do something together.

Carli

(Looking smilingly at Jacques) I’m game if you are.

Jacques

Now I know for sure that we’re in some paradise. (Pause) Marsha?

Carli

Yes.

Jacques

I feel that I won’t be respectful toward them if I accept your offer. I can feel my heart beating like a drum. But I’ll take a rain check. Please!

Carli

You got it, sweetie.

Jacques

(Looking at Nietzsche) I was always fascinated by your concept of eternal recurrence. The multiverse theory may be a different, more plausible version of it. An infinite number of universes very similar to the one we live in but with some minute difference in each case. In another universe, Mozart and Beethoven could be here instead of Marsha and Maria. (Smiling) Probably not Marsha and Maria.

Carli

A smoothie!

Jacques

What flavor?

Carli

Banana!

Jacques

Of course! (Whispers in one of her ears) I would have preferred Marsha. It must be the best flavor.

Carli

(Laughing) It’s pretty good. I’ve tasted it.

Jacques

I know. I watched you do it many times.

Carli

I bet you did.

Jacques

Is it something more for me to look forward to?

Carli

Without a doubt!

Hitchens

(Speaking to the audience) They would all be flabbergasted if they knew that I produce these so-called minyan gatherings all the time. Ten is, after all, the greatest number, (Smiling) after one, of course. Why these gatherings? you may ask. that “It is absurd, even for believers, to imagine that God should owe them an explanation.”

Jacques

(Looking back at Nietzsche) Yet, it is your concept that remains the most intriguing to me. Reliving the same life over and over eternally. I often wondered if déjà vus were some aftertastes of our previous lives. I happen to have many déjà vus relating to places and movie scenes. I’ve been in many places and I’ve watched myriad movies, which would be the simplest explanation for my déjà vus. But I still prefer your idea. Perhaps because it’s more literary than real. After all, “Truth is ugly. We possess art lest we perish of the truth.”

Nietzsche

Yes, but in light of a conceivable multiverse and surely other findings and theories spanning over a century since my demise, my idea has been carried away like a grain of sand blown in the wind.

Onfray

You are being too harsh. Jacques, Joseph? is right. Your idea of eternal recurrence is more appealing.

Moix

I think so too.

Chaplin

Me too.

Woody

Life and death over and over again for everyone who had ever lived and died with no way to know it. Sure! Nothing could be more fitting.

Dickinson

“That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.”

Jacques

It’s beautiful too, and especially coming from you.

Dickinson

(Smiling) Thank you!

Roth

“All that we don’t know is astonishing. Even more astonishing is what es for knowing.”

Jacques

I love you too, Philip Roth. I don’t think that I felt it before.

Roth

(Smiling) You may have implied it.

Jacques

I said earlier that I would easily give my life for all of you except Woody Allen and you because you were in your 80s. I’m sorry and I take it back. I would easily give my life for both of you too.

Woody

Who’s talking here, Jacques or Joseph?

Jacques

Both.

Woody

Can I call you, JJ?

Jacques

You can call me whatever you like (Whispering smilingly in one of his ears) except for Jewie Joe.

Woody

But it may be the title of an movie.

Jacques

You don’t have a note in your movie-title drawer with my name on it, so I doubt it very much.

Woody

Can you believe this Joseph?

Jacques

I love you too.

Woody

I’m touched.

Carli

I know that you love me.

Jacques

Indubitably.

Carli

It’s true. We are here for you.

Jacques

It appears so.

Moix

It’s becoming evident. You seem to be mostly in love with the past, but then, most of us are.

Jacques

I’m mostly in love with the past because I’ve practically nothing in the present and I’m completely unaware of anything in the future. My déjà vus can obviously never foretell the future. They can only plug the past.

Carli

You have me, sweetie.

Jacques

You know what I mean.

Carli

You have the rest of us too. Charlie Chaplin! (Chaplin smiles, nodding in agreement). Woody Allen!

Woody

(Looks at the sky) Sure!

Carli

Philip Roth!

Roth

(Smiling) Yes!

Carli

Moix?

Moix

Yes!

Carli

Emily Dickinson!

Dickinson

Certainly!

Carli

Nietzsche!

Nietzsche

Yes!

Carli

Onfree?

Onfray

Onfray! Auðvitað! Of course, in Icelandic, a language that I couldn’t speak before.

Carli

Sorry. Onfray. And Maria!

Maria

(Bowing slightly) Hai (Subtitles: Yes).

Jacques

Thank you, Marsha! Thank you, all! (Reflectively) I was thinking that we assumed that Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin came back to life, but what if instead, the rest of us are dead?

Nietzsche

An interesting thought, but again, all this relates only to individuals that you like.

Jacques

Love!

Nietzsche

Yes, love!

Jacques

We can apply everything that has been said up to now as much to us being dead as us being alive.

Nietzsche

True!

Carli

I don’t know about some of it.

Jacques

(Smiling) True! The tactile instances would be stranger in this context.

Roth

It is still an idea to be considered.

Onfray

Mathematically, we have seven living versus three deceased, so there may be a greater chance that we are all alive.

Moix

I’m surprised that I was thinking the same thing given that I tend to lean, head first (Smiling) towards the lugubrious.

Woody

We’re dead? I’m dead? Possibly. “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

Jacques

That’s one of your famous sayings. You kill me (Smiling), except that we may be dead already.

Maria

That’s not funny. I’m afraid of death.

Carli

Honey! Is there anything you’re not afraid of?

Jacques

(Smiling) Sex.

Maria

(Smiling) Hai (Subtitles: Yes).

Carli

Nobody’s afraid of sex, sweetie.

Jacques

(Smiling) You’ll be surprised, Marsha. There’s always someone who’s afraid of something, including sex. It’s called erotophobia.

Carli

Are you serious?

Jacques

I wouldn’t lie to you.

Carli

(Smiling) Let’s hope we’re not dead because I doubt that dead people have sex whether they fear it or not.

Jacques

With you, even dead I’ll rise to the occasion.

Carli

(Laughing) I believe you, sweetie.

Woody

Come on! You two can go to that corner and the rest of us can watch from that corner.

Jacques

(Smiling) Come on! We’re not porn stars; and in front of the Western Wall? Even as an atheist I couldn’t do it.

Woody

What if it’s now or never?

Jacques

Never, then, and especially if we’re dead.

Carli

Jacques? Joseph? Which name do you prefer?

Jacques

You can call me whatever you want. You’ve been calling me, sweetie.

Carli

Sweetie, you are! Sweetie is right, and I gave you a rain check.

Woody

What a lucky guy!

Jacques

I’m not so sure about that. I’ve been somewhat lucky. I’m lucky right now with all of you beside me. But I think that my luck’s run out.

Carli

Don’t say that!

Jacques

It’s a serious situation, dear Marsha. (Looking at Chaplin) We need the Tramp to give us hope.

Chaplin

“Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.”

Jacques

(Smiling) In most cases, yes!

Chaplin

“A day without laughter is a day wasted.”

Jacques

(Still smiling) Yes, except that laughter can never have the same intensity ever again upon perceiving the extreme severity that cruelty can reach.

Chaplin

I know, Sweetie (Everyone laughs). I wasn’t looking for a laugh. Didn’t you agree to be called Sweetie?

Jacques

I did.

Chaplin

My depiction of the monsters in the Great Dictator pale in comparison to the real monsters that took over Europe. I couldn’t even imagine that their monstrosity could attain such a level when I was making the movie. I agree that laughter could never be the same after such horrors.

Jacques

I’m glad that you couldn’t imagine it. We wouldn’t have had this masterpiece if you could, or knew what was going to happen. Except for the monsters and their minions, I don’t think that anyone could have known.

Chaplin

It appears so.

Jacques

Your movies after the Great Dictator, after the war, were different but masterpieces as well.

Chaplin

I am afraid that I am not aware of anything after 1945.

Jacques

Yes. You are in your 50s? here.

Chaplin

56.

Jacques

I think that it’s safe to tell you that you made four movies after the Great Dictator. Monsieur Verdoux in 1947, a masterpiece in so many ways about a man who loses his job in the 1929 crash and s his family by marrying and murdering rich women for their money. Limelight in 1952, a masterpiece of the heart, with your best music, about a has-been comedian and a suicidal ballet dancer who share their lives to find meaning and hope. A King in New York in

1957, a masterpiece of the mind about a deposed Euratean monarch who finds shelter in New York where he becomes somewhat of a celebrity. And A Countess from Hong Kong in 1967, about an ambassador returning to America who meets a Russian countess who’s hiding in his cabin. You weren’t an actor in this film, which may have been the reason why it was your least critically acclaimed movie even though Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren played the main roles.

Chaplin

It is a bit startling to learn things about my future self, especially to find out that I will be alive and making movies at least until age 78.

Jacques

You’ll be alive beyond that age and that’s all I’ll add if you don’t mind.

Chaplin

It’s more than enough. Thank you for your kind words!

Jacques

Thank you for all the laughter and for all the sorrow! In my case, I may have had more tears than laughs watching your movies because your comedies always had both misery and happiness both in the foreground and background, which was

also what made you unique and the best among your contemporaries and beyond, and your music was always perfectly scored.

Chaplin

Thank you!

Jacques

No need, dear Sir! No need at all!

Carli

When you say that you love someone, you really love him or her.

Jacques

Yes, and I love you too.

Carli

I know, Sweetie, but not in the same way.

Jacques

I think that my love for you may be the greatest given that it encomes all of you from head to toes.

Carli

(Playfully) Oh, Sweetie! Are you trying to capture my heart too?

Jacques

It’s the best combination, heart and mind.

Carli

What about Maria?

Jacques

What about her?

Carli

Do you love her too in the same way?

Jacques

No!

Carli

That’s it?

Jacques

No, my love!

Carli

(Happily) Sweetie!

Jacques

Marsha, baby!

Woody

Come on! You can go to that corner and the rest of us can talk at that corner.

Jacques

Thanks, but no! We have to get out of here first, though I it that I’m not eager to lose sight of all of you, especially those who are no longer with us. Perhaps, it’s for them that we are here; for dazzling Dickinson, intense Nietzsche, and enchanting Chaplin; to let them know what had happened in the world since their ing, though they had never ed for many of us.

Roth

You may have a good point. We may be here because of you but for them.

Onfray

A very interesting idea, indeed!

Moix

Yes, but what is the point of all this?

Hitchens

(Speaking to the audience a bit angrily) What is the point? What is the point of anything? And to know that most of you still believe in me? God, not Hitchens! Though I know that some of you believe in Hitchens, which to think of it, is much more defensible than believing in me. (Disgusted) What did I do to merit any belief? Any faith? You invented everything about me. You even gave me a son. What were you thinking? Clearly, you were not thinking at all, which happens too frequently. Most of them here do not believe in me for so many valid reasons. Yet, one reason would have been sufficient, and it need not even have to be scientific.

But you are God, so how can you say that there is no God? you may reason. But here lies the hitch; pun intended. Your definition of God is unavoidably flawed. There is no such being or thing that is omniscient, omnipotent and omnibenevolent. Your God belongs to fiction, not reality. I am what I am, but I am not all-knowing, all-powerful and all-good. That is all that I will say about myself.

But why did you refer to yourself as God at the beginning? you may ask. It was the simplest way to waive some of your misgivings and allow the story to evolve. I do like good stories, and every story has the potential to be a good one.

Nietzsche

(Looking at Moix) I was thinking about, as you said, the point of all this. Most of the comments, if not all, were very instructive, but Onfray’s initial comment about it, that the rest of us being here has to do with Sweetie, seems to be the most plausible. Sweetie is the key.

Jacques

It’s funny to be called Sweetie by you, dear Nietzsche. It seems to only fit Marsha’s lips, and perhaps Chaplin’s, but it’s fine. Sweetie Ben Shabbat. It has a nice ring to it.

Carli

It does.

Jacques

Sweetie Messier sounds even better.

Carli

(Laughing) Yes, it does.

Moix

Maybe something specific must be said by one of us to bring this minyan to an end.

Jacques

I don’t want it to end, and I’m sure that Ms. Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin are also hoping that it could last much longer.

Dickinson

Yes!

Nietzsche

Yes!

Chaplin

Yes!

Moix

(Smiling) We must stop talking, then, at least about how to stop this.

Carli

What do you think that Sweetie and I have been doing?

Moix

Touché! I wonder if it also counts as a French word.

Onfray

Did you think it in French or English when you said it?

Moix

English!

Onfray

Then I don’t think that it counts, but again, who knows.

Woody

We can easily test it. I never spoke in French since we’ve met, so we can count the words until I can’t pronounce anything in French any longer.

Roth

Great idea!

Woody

Who’s counting?

Roth

I will.

Woody

Here we go. Je n’ai pas peur de la mort; je ne veux juste pas (Subtitles: I’m not afraid to die, I just don’t want to) be there when it happens. Oh my God!

Roth

Twelve words!

Onfray

Yes, twelve words! We have to test it in another language.

Woody

Let’s see. Hebrew! Ready?

Roth

Yes.

Onfray

Yes.

Woody

Ani lo mefahed mimavet; ani pashout lo rotse lihiyot shum ke’she’ze kore (Subtitles: I’m not afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens).

Roth

(Laughing) Twelve words.

Onfray

(Also laughing) Yes, twelve words. (Everyone is laughing.)

Woody

Hebrew is concise. Let’s see. Spanish, of course! Ready?

Roth

Yes.

Onfray

Yes.

Woody

No le tengo miedo a la muerte; Simplemente no quiero estar allí (Subtitles: I’m not afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there) when it happens.

Roth

Twelve words!

Onfray

Yes! Twelve words! So, we can only speak up to twelve words in other languages.

Roth

The Western Wall. Four Jews out of ten. Up to twelve words in other languages. This strange situation is becoming even stranger.

Onfray

(Looking at Jacques) What is your favorite language?

Jacques

Even though French is my first language, English is my favorite. So, that’s why English is the main language that we can speak.

Onfray

I think so, which shows yet again that we are here because of you.

Jacques

How I wish that Leah was here! Whoever is responsible for this, may be unkind, after all, granting me the impossible with Ms. Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin, and the improbable with the rest of you, but denying me the love of my life. Life is a bitch and a bastard.

Onfray

Yes, it’s the human condition.

Jacques

(Looking at Moix) You are probably the only one left who would know the name of a song and could still pronounce it in French. Woody Allen would know it too, since it appeared in one of his movies.

Moix

Which song?

Jacques

Charles Trenet’s, What is left of our loves?

Moix

Que reste-t-il de nos amours ?

Jacques

Yes! Yes! So, are you what is left of my loves? (Looking at each one of them for a few seconds as he pronounces their name) Ms. Emily Dickinson! Friedrich Nietzsche! Charlie Chaplin! Woody Allen! Philip Roth! Yann Moix! Michel Onfray! Maria Aizawa! Marsha Tilleland! Carli Tilleland!

Carli

Yes, Sweetie!

Jacques

I have other loves but you are the second greatest minyan minus one of my loves.

Hitchens

(Appearing to everyone) Your second greatest minyan of your loves if you count me in.

Jacques

Oh my God! Christopher Hitchens!

Hitchens

Right on both s, my dear boy! It is a good day. Is it not?

Jacques

I love you so much. Now I know that I’m probably dreaming the greatest dream that has ever been dreamed.

Hitchens

You are not dreaming, Joseph Ben Shabbat. What a quaint name! Or should I call you Sweetie as well?

Jacques

You can call me whatever your great mind and heart wants.

Hitchens

I’ll call you Joseph Ben Shabbat.

Jacques

Are you responsible for this?

Hitchens

Yes!

Jacques

But even if you are, you can’t be God since there’s no such being.

Hitchens

Right, you are, my dear boy. But referring to me as God is the closest you will get to knowing who I am.

Jacques

Can I call you Christopher Hitchens or the Hitch, then?

Hitchens

Yes, you can.

Jacques

Dear Hitch! (Pauses for a few seconds.)

Hitchens

Yes!

Jacques

Is all this on my ?

Hitchens

No!

Jacques

Whose, then?

Hitchens

(Looking at everyone) It is for you to find out.

Nietzsche

It’s easy, now. But is this over if I reveal on whose it is?

Hitchens

Here, yes, but you will live again in other spaces.

Nietzsche

(Looking at Jacques) Do you want me to reveal on whose it is?

Jacques

Not yet! Don’t we have other questions? For one, how were Emily Dickinson, Charlie Chaplin and you brought back to life? And the Hitch too.

Hitchens

That is a question that I will not answer.

Jacques

It’s easy for me too, then. I also know on whose we’re here.

Hitchens

Does anyone else know?

Onfray

I do.

Moix

Me too.

Roth

I do too.

Woody

It’s obvious.

Chaplin

I think that I do.

Dickinson

I think so too.

Carli

Is this over if we all know?

Hitchens

Only if at least one of you articulates on whose you are here.

Carli

Then I think that I also know.

Maria

I am not sure that I know.

Woody

Dear God! (Pauses for a few seconds.)

Hitchens

(Laughing) Yes!

Woody

What’s the twelve-word rule about?

Hitchens

Mostly to render the situation somewhat funnier.

Onfray

Are we here for your amusement?

Hitchens

Not mine, theirs!

Onfray

Whose?

Hitchens

The audience.

Woody

(Laughing uncontrollably) Where is the audience?

Hitchens

Anywhere!

Roth

How long can this go on for?

Hitchens

As long as none of you articulates on whose you are here, so as long as you want it to.

Roth

Is there a reason for the Western Wall?

Hitchens

It usually makes the conversation more interesting when there is at least one Jew in the tensome or minyan as you called it, and here we have three or four, or five if you count me too.

Roth

Why a minyan, initially?

Hitchens

Since ten is the greatest number after two and one.

Dickinson

“Two bodies therefore be; Bind one, and one will flee.”

Hitchens

As true as this.

Jacques

Do we this after it’s done?

Hitchens

Great question! No!

Jacques

No? So, the audience is the entire point. We don’t get anything out of this after it’s done?

Carli

I won’t Sweetie when this is over?

Hitchens

No and no!

Woody

I told you two to get it going. It’s not too late.

Jacques

So, this is like life. There’s nothing after it’s done.

Hitchens

Yes!

Jacques

Do you ever make an exception?

Hitchens

No!

Jacques

Well, this time you must make one.

Hitchens

Must I?

Jacques

Everyone here is going to me and say yes. Ready? (They all, including

Hitchens, say) Yes!

Hitchens

(Laughing) I doubt it, but who knows?

Jacques

I know. We know. We simply won’t say on whose we’re here.

Hitchens

You will tire eventually and one of you will say it.

Jacques

We won’t because I love every one of them and would give my life for them, including you.

Hitchens

I am touched.

Jacques

I also suspect that like Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin, we are copies of the originals, who are continuing to live their lives in the real world. Are you all with me? (They all, including Hitchens, say) Yes!

Hitchens

(Smiling) It is an interesting but erroneous hypothesis.

Jacques

You won’t tell us the truth, so hypotheses are all we can consider.

Hitchens

Indeed! It is part of it.

Jacques

Of what?

Hitchens

Of this.

Jacques

So, are you always what is left of our loves?

Hitchens

Rarely, and I am seldom loved.

Jacques

Well, I love you.

Hitchens

The one whom I represent or the one whom I am?

Jacques

Both! The one whom you are gave me the fortune to meet the one whom you represent and nine others whom I love as well. You gave me a minyan of loves. I’m the most fortunate here. Thank you for this! Thank you for giving me hope!

Hitchens

You are welcome, my dear boy!

Jacques

This could be heaven, after all. Another hypothesis, of course. We don’t seem to tire. We don’t seem to require nourishment. I’m only surrounded by individuals whom I love. I, we, could stay here forever and just talk about anything that comes to mind.

Woody

What about sex?

Jacques

(Smiling) We can talk about it too.

Woody

(Laughing) You know what I mean.

Jacques

Yes! But I don’t see myself having sex against that wall and in front of you and the audience.

Woody

Ask God/Hitchens for a canopy bed with opaque curtains! The rest of us could talk at some corner at the edge of this heaven.

Carli

What a great idea!

Moix

(Looking smilingly at Maria and then at Jacques) Ask him for two!

Dickinson

(Diffidently) Could I get one too?

Woody

Who’s got your fancy, Ms. Dickinson?

Dickinson

(Still diffident but smiling) Just in case I do.

Woody

“Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions.”

Dickinson

(Laughing) I agree.

Hitchens

No can do.

Jacques

I wonder if we need to breathe. (He holds his breath for about a minute.)

Onfray

It would be unbearable if we didn’t.

Roth

I agree.

Jacques

Apparently not! We can’t be alive, then.

Onfray

I’ll hold by breath too. (He holds his breath for about a minute.)

Roth

We may be alive but in a different way.

Onfray

Yes, we don’t need to breathe.

Carli

Oh my God!

Hitchens

(Smiling) Yes?

Carli

(Troubled) Sweetie, please hold me!

Jacques

(Embraces Carli for about 20 seconds, kisses her, and then puts his right arm around her waist.)

Moix

(Looks at Maria and then embraces her for about 30 seconds and then holds her left hand.)

Dickinson

Can someone hold me too?

Nietzsche

(Looks at Dickinson and then embraces her for about 20 seconds.) May I stand

by you from now on?

Dickinson

Please, do! (Nietzsche stands next to her, smiling.)

Woody

(Looking at Hitchens) We need more women, or you could have included a few homosexuals. I’m sure that (Looking at Jacques) he loves several gays. Do you?

Jacques

Walt Whitman, Oscar Wilde, Alan Turing, Freddie Mercury, Stephen Fry come to mind, though I think that pairing us wasn’t a major reason for this gathering.

Woody

Probably not, but you forget that there’s an audience, and the audience always likes some love and sex in the show.

Chaplin

(Nodding) Yes!

Jacques

(Smiling) There is some love, but sex doesn’t seem to be feasible. (Kisses Carli keenly.) Kissing, however, is the next best thing.

Carli

(Laughing) It is! (Kisses and embraces him.)

Moix

(Looking at Maria) May I kiss you?

Maria

(Smiling) Yes.

Moix

(He kisses her a few times, the last kiss lasting about 20 seconds, and then looks at Jacques and slightly bows.)

Jacques

(Laughing) Don’t bow to me! I love you. Bow to her!

Moix

I don’t think that she wants me to bow to her. (Looks at Maria) Do you?

Maria

Iie (Subtitles: No).

Nietzsche

(Looking at Dickinson) Do you want me to kiss you?

Dickinson

(Smiling) Hai (Subtitles: Yes).

Nietzsche

(He kisses her for about ten seconds and then looks at Jacques and smiles.)

Woody

(Hugging Chaplin) You are one of my favorite moviemakers as well.

Chaplin

Thank you! From what Sweetie told us, I gather that you are one of the great ones too.

Woody

He exaggerates.

Jacques

No, I don’t! If it wasn’t for Charlie Chaplin, you would be the greatest.

Woody

Thanks, Sweetie! You are sweet.

Carli

Isn’t he? (Looking at Hitchens) Are our feelings genuine in this place?

Hitchens

They are, my dear girl!

Carli

I’m glad because (Looking at Jacques) I really like you, Sweetie.

Jacques

(Kisses her) I loved you before but now I feel that I adore you.

Carli

Oh, Sweetie! I will love you too as long as we stay here given that we don’t anything after it’s over.

Jacques

No matter, Marsha! Let’s live for the moment! Perhaps it’s all that we could ever have.

Carli

(Kisses him and whispers in his right ear) I love you too!

Jacques

(Kisses her hands and then drops to his knees and kisses her feet) There are many other parts that I want to kiss.

Carli

(Laughing) I bet that there are.

Woody

(Looking at Hitchens) Come on! Be a sport and give them a canopy bed with opaque curtains! I’m not asking you to undo the Holocaust.

Jacques

(Pleadingly) Dear God! Undo the Shoah if you can.

Hitchens

Such requests cannot be granted.

Roth

Do you grant any requests?

Hitchens

No!

Onfray

So, what is the point of your appearance?

Roth

Let me guess! For the audience.

Hitchens

Largely, yes!

Jacques

(Disionately, looking at everyone) What did you expect? Perfection? There’s no such being or thing. If “nature is an enormous restaurant” as Woody Allen’s main character, Boris, explains in Love and Death, then the universe is a colossal dicer. Stars die, galaxies disappear and black holes ultimately disintegrate. And we, specks of dust, did we ever exist? Shakespeare was right. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Who wants to play? As if we had a choice. I look at each one of you and it breaks my broken heart. Some of

you died and the rest of us are going to die. It’s been a blast. “So long, Marianne, it’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again,” sang the great Leonard Cohen. Well, it’s no laughing matter. After all, “We possess art lest we perish of the truth.” Yes, “Tell the truth, but tell it slant,” declared Ms. Dickinson. Yet, “Death is a false fear. When it is here, you won’t be. When it’s not, you are here,” argued Onfray. “It was astrophysics that I wanted to do. Calculate stars. Guess galaxies. Look over God,” mentioned Moix. But this is what you would have seen. A set up setting. “I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying,” said Chaplin. I tend to cry at home or in the car. “Old age isn’t a battle; old age is a massacre,” revealed Roth. And death is murder. But Hitchens may have said it best. “Owners of dogs will have noticed that, if you provide them with food and water and shelter and affection, they will think you are god. Whereas owners of cats are compelled to realize that, if you provide them with food and water and shelter and affection, they draw the conclusion that they are gods.” Thus, most individuals are like dogs, some individuals are like cats, and the rest are dead.

Carli

(Sadly) Sweetie!

Jacques

You are the sweet one, along with Ms. Dickinson and Ms. Aizawa, but I only yearn for you. Only women can make life bearable, both for men and other women. Can you imagine a world without women? It’s the foremost definition of loneliness.

Carli

(Kisses and embraces Jacques) My Sweetie!

Roth

(Looking at Hitchens) “Literature got me into this mess and literature is going to have to get me out of it.”

Hitchens

You just have to say the magic word, that is on whose you are here.

Roth

That’s not what I meant and you know it.

Hitchens

I do, dear boy.

Jacques

Who’s the audience? Other entities like you?

Hitchens

Such a question cannot be answered.

Onfray

At this point, you are basically useless.

Hitchens

The one whom I am or the one whom I represent?

Onfray

Both, unless the one whom you represent, Hitchens, can be himself unhindered.

Hitchens

He is, my dear boy!

Jacques

What’s your take on our situation, dear Hitchens?

Hitchens

(Smiling) “There is a sense in which all of us are prisoners of knowledge.”

Woody

I think that we ed that point.

Hitchens

Yes, my dear boy! The ball is in your court.

Jacques

I don’t think that you were Hitchens with the last sentence. Can we only have

Hitchens from now on?

Hitchens

You forget that it is not Hitchens that brought you hither.

Jacques

You won’t or can’t say and do much of anything, so Hitchens would be far preferable. Too bad that he’s not separate from you because I would have loved to see you debate him, even that I know that he would have easily beaten you. I theorize that no one in the universe, or multiverse if it exists, could beat Hitchens, unless, of course, the subject was foreign to him, which he would have candidly itted if it was the case.

Onfray

I heard of Hitchens but I never heard someone hold him in such high esteem.

Jacques

If it wasn’t for the existence of dear Charlie Chaplin, I would have easily declared Hitchens to be the most lovable individual of all time, for me at least.

Onfray

From what I heard you say about the individuals whom you love, Hitchens must be a great man.

Jacques

He’s so much more. I think that I would gladly give up the rest of my life for his return to the living, but as we all know too well, sadly, no one departed can be alive again, despite the apparent recurrence of Ms. Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin, as well as Hitchens through the outer guise of the originator of this oasis. I do welcome this magnificent manifestation but know that it’s not real, especially concerning at least the four of them.

Onfray

I think that we all agree that it’s a wonderful phenomenon.

Woody

Yet, we hope that it’s much more.

Jacques

It’s much more for Ms. Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin, and in a lesser degree for Hitchens, and it’s so much more for me. I couldn’t even have imagined such a singularity and I still can’t. I must be dreaming my greatest dream.

Hitchens

You are not dreaming.

Jacques

It’s the best hypothesis that I have, and your claim that it’s false doesn’t disprove it.

Roth

I concur.

Woody

I also agree.

Onfray

Me too.

Moix

Me too.

Jacques

Please, abstain, Ms. Dickinson, Nietzsche and Chaplin, especially if you also agree, since we don’t know if Hitchens/God appreciates impudence, which may cost you in future recurrences in other singularities.

Carli

I also agree, and Sweetie’s right.

Jacques

Thanks, Marsha! I love you. And as dear Nietzsche had said, “We love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving.”

Carli

I love you too.

Nietzsche

“I was in darkness, but I took three steps and found myself in paradise. The first step was a good thought, the second, a good word, and the third, a good deed.” I also agree and do not fear the consequences.

Hitchens

You are free to say whatever your minds think and hearts desire. There will be no consequences.

Jacques

Thank you! But can we trust you? Personally, I deeply appreciate this singular situation. Yet, should the others, and especially those who were apparently replicated, feel the same? I prefer to raise the possibility, nothing more.

Hitchens

No worries, my dear boy! I highly regard freedom of thought whether it leads to notable events or dire occurrences.

Chaplin

(Looking at everyone) I think that we can trust him.

Dickinson

I think so too.

Jacques

I do too. How could I not? But we’re not in Kansas anymore, nor at the Western Wall. We don’t even know where we are.

Onfray

At least we know who we are.

Jacques

(Lightly) Sometimes I still wonder who I am. I look at my reflection in the mirror and don’t quite recognize myself. It’s as if I’m looking at a stranger who resembles me. What happened to you? I lament to myself. What has become of you? The age from childhood to adulthood seems seamless, but then, one day, the transformation becomes too excessive. You said it too well in Everyman, dear Philip Roth. “Old age isn’t a battle; old age is a massacre.” I’m in my 50s and I already feel that way. Life is not a bargain, as you all know, but since we’re here, some say, we might as well live it. Of course! What else is there to say? Hitchens had, has a unique take on this. Please, Hitchens! Tell us your issue with the party going on after you’re gone!

Hitchens

“The clear awareness of having been born into a losing struggle need not lead one into despair. I do not especially like the idea that one day I shall be tapped on the shoulder and informed, not that the party is over but that it is most assuredly going on, only henceforth in my absence. It is the second of those thoughts, the edition of the newspaper that will come out on the day after I have gone, that is the more distressing. Much more horrible, though, would be the announcement that the party was continuing forever, and that I was forbidden to leave. Whether it was a hellishly bad party or a party that was perfectly heavenly in every respect, the moment that it became eternal and compulsory would be the precise moment that it began to pall.”

Onfray

You are a great man.

Hitchens

Thank you, my dear boy!

Jacques

You are all great men and women.

Carli

Thanks, Sweetie! But I’m not a great woman.

Jacques

To me, dear Marsha (Whispering), you’re the greatest!

Woody

Come on already! Let’s walk as far as we can and let these two birds make an egg.

Carli

(Laughing) Please, do! And cover your eyes in case it’s not too far.

Jacques

(Laughing) But Hitchens will be watching.

Hitchens

(Smiling) I won’t.

Jacques

You won’t but your possessor will.

Hitchens

(Smiling) I will.

Jacques

(Kisses Carli for a few seconds) I’ll do whatever you wish.

Carli

We’ll go to the wall and (Addressing everyone else) the rest of you, please walk as far away as you can.

Moix

(Smiling) If it works, Maria and I may also want some privacy.

Maria

Hai (Subtitles: Yes).

Woody

We could soon call this the Western Wall Interchange, or the Wailing Wall Well. (Everyone laughs.)

Jacques

(He embraces Carli whose back is against the wall. Everyone save Hitchens is about 30 feet away talking to each other. Hitchens is a few feet away from Jacques and Carli.)

Oh, Marsha! You are even more beautiful and more feminine in my arms. Carli Tilleland! I would like my tongue to play the four L movements repeatedly on each one of your enticing nipples and endlessly in your exquisite pussy.

Carli

Go ahead, Sweetie!

Jacques

(He lifts her dress, kisses her breasts and then sucks her nipples for about a minute each. She removes her panties. He takes it from her, smelling and breathing in the scent.) It’s sweeter that I’ve imagined.

Carli

(Smiling) Oh, Sweetie! (He drops to his knees and buries his head between her thighs.)

Hitchens

(Only to the audience) I have been organizing these shindigs for a long time and this is the first time that two of the protagonists are on the verge of having intercourse after so little time.

Carli

(As if in pain) Sweetie! You’re going to make me come.

Jacques

Come, baby! Come! (Keeping his head between her thighs.)

Carli

And you’ll come in my mouth?

Jacques

No, baby! You’re too beautiful and it’s too messy. (Keeping his head between her thighs.)

Carli

Oh, Sweetie! It breaks my heart that we won’t know each other when this is over.

Jacques

What did you expect, sweet Marsha? Life doesn’t imitate art, after all. (Keeping his head between her thighs.)

Hitchens

(Addressing Jacques) You call this art?

Jacques

Aren’t you an artist? (Keeping his head between her thighs.)

Hitchens

I am more of a creator, a designer of social settings. You are right. I am an artist.

Jacques

Can you leave us be for a little longer? (Keeping his head between her thighs.)

Hitchens

Consider me gone. (Remains a few feet from them.)

Carli

I’m coming. I’m coming. (He keeps his head between her thighs until she moves it away and kisses him.) Sweetie! What about you?

Jacques

Are you kidding? I had so much pleasure. We could do it again later if we’re still here.

Carli

Any time, Sweetie! But next time, you have to come too.

Jacques

I came in my mind. Trust me! I’m used to coming in my head.

Carli

But I want you to come for real.

Jacques

Had I been a woman, I would have come too.

Carli

(Laughing) Yes, you would have. I would have made sure that you do. (Carli adjusts her clothing. Everyone approaches them.)

Jacques

You never know. If there’s a next time, the artist may turn me into a woman.

Hitchens

I do not change one’s sex.

Jacques

Even when you know that an individual would prefer it so?

Hitchens

Yes!

Jacques

You are missing many other scenarios by not doing so. I’m sure that the audience would love it.

Hitchens

I will take it under consideration.

Jacques

Will I get the chance to appear as a woman if you agree to do it?

Hitchens

I cannot say.

Moix

(Looks at Maria) It’s our turn.

Hitchens

The wall is long enough to accommodate more than one couple.

Moix

But you’re a voyeur, so I thought that you would prefer one couple at a time, unless you fancy orgies.

Hitchens

You can do whatever you like.

Moix

Really?

Hitchens

You know what I mean.

Moix

I don’t know what you mean.

Hitchens

Perhaps someone else can explain it to you.

Jacques

(Addressing Hitchens) He wrote a novel about orgies, the title of which I can’t pronounce because I used up my twelve words in French. The English translation would be Threesom without the e.

Moix

(Smiling) That’s a good one. The title is Partouz.

Jacques

Yes! Of course, threesom doesn’t sound as Arabic as the title in French.

Moix

(Smiling) True! (Looks at Maria) Are you ready?

Maria

(Smiling) Oui (Subtitles: Yes).

Moix

(Puts his right arm around Maria’s waist) Do you want them to walk away from our spot at the wall?

Maria

(Smiling) No. They can watch us if they want to.

Moix

(Addressing Hitchens) It looks like you won’t be the only visible, onlooker this time around. I can’t use the French word any longer.

Hitchens

I am an observer, not a voyeur.

Moix

Are you kidding?

(He takes Maria’s left hand and they walk to the wall followed only by Hitchens.

Everyone else walks about 30 feet away.)

Woody

(Addressing everyone as they walk away) Are we sure of this? I once dreamed that I was kissing the Maria in The Sound of Music.

Jacques

Julie Andrews?

Woody

No! The Maria character!

Moix

(He embraces Maria whose back is against the wall. Hitchens is a few feet away.)

Oh, Maria! Hermosa Maria (Subtitles: Beautiful Maria)! Jacques really knows his porn stars, his women. (She smiles) You are more beautiful than Carli. (She smiles again) Maria Aizawa! Even your last name is enticing.

Maria

As you know, it means small swamp in Japanese.

Moix

To me, you are a marsh, a wetland, a bayou. (He unbuttons and lowers her jeans; smells, kisses and licks the part of the panties that covers her pussy for 20 seconds; lowers her panties; and buries his head between her thighs.)

Maria

(Moaning) Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh!

Moix

(Unbuttons her shirt and white bra) My God! They are so beautiful. (Buries his head between her breasts).

Hitchens

(To the audience) They are!

Maria

(She unbuttons and drops his pants, lowers his shorts, drops to her knees and moves her head to and fro between his thighs) Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!

Hitchens

(To the audience) What a cocksucker!

Dickinson

(Looking at Nietzsche) Surely, we are not next.

Nietzsche

Surely.

Woody

“I don’t know the question, but sex is definitely the answer.”

Jacques

Doctor, doctor, what do you say, let’s put the ex back in sex!

Woody

Good one!

Jacques

I prefer Roth’s Portnoy’s proposition. “Doctor, doctor, what do you say, let’s put the id back in yid.”

Hitchens

It’s time to go.

Jacques

What do you mean?

Hitchens

Time’s up. It’s over. C’est fini. Owarimashita. Se acabó. Ze nigmar.

Jacques

Didn’t you say that one of us had to reveal on whose this occurred for it to be over?

Hitchens

I exaggerated. I jested. I lied.

Jacques

I protest. We all protest. (All nod their heads in agreement.)

Carli

At least allow us not to forget. I want to Sweetie.

Hitchens

No can do.

Woody

I always presumed that “If it turned out that there was a God, the worst that you could say about him would be that basically he was an underachiever.”

Hitchens

I already told you that I wasn’t God.

Roth

We thought that you exaggerated, that you jested, that you lied.

Jacques

But I hoped that you would change your mind, knowing very well that if there was a god, it would be merciless or indifferent. You claim not to be God or a god, yet you act like one, like God if there had been such an entity.

Hitchens

(Addressing everyone) You have a few minutes to say your goodbyes.

Woody

How thoughtful of you!

Jacques

I need more than a few minutes. Please, at least give us more time.

Hitchens

You all have ten minutes and not one second more.

Roth

I didn’t expect more.

Jacques

(Hugs Chaplin) I will always love you. Farewell!

Chaplin

(Smiling) Thank you! Goodbye!

Jacques

(Kisses Dickinson’s right hand) There are couplets and stanzas from your poems that will always ring true through someone’s lips. Farewell!

Dickinson

(Smiling) Thank you, Sweetie, and farewell to you too!

Jacques

(Shakes Nietzsche’s right hand) If there is no eternal recurrence, at least your books are everlasting. Farewell!

Nietzsche

Thank you! Farewell!

Jacques

(Hugs Roth) You are one of life’s joys. I getting another writer’s novel signed by him at a reading and asking him if he had read your latest novel. He had not but he knew you quite well.

Roth

(Smiling) Poor guy! Thank you!

Jacques

(Hugs Woody) You are also one of life’s joys. I look forward to watching your new film every year.

Woody

(Smiling) I believe you.

Jacques

(Hugs Moix) You are a painful joy, one of my favorite Jews, and my first revelation of 2017.

Moix

(Smiling) Thank you! I’m still working on being Jewish.

Jacques

(Shakes Onfray’s right hand) You were my second revelation of 2017. Please, continue writing your enlightening books and giving your educational lectures!

Onfray

(Smiling) Thank you! I will!

Jacques

(Shakes Maria’s right hand) You gave me much pleasure and were my second revelation of 2016.

Maria

(Bowing lightly and smiling) Thank you!

Jacques

(Hugs and kisses Carli) You gave me too much pleasure and were my first revelation of 2016 and I even had the luck of loving you, here, Carli Tilleland.

Carli

(Sadly) Oh, Sweetie! It’s not fair that it ends here and so soon.

Jacques

(Addressing Hitchens) Can I hug and kiss you?

Hitchens

No!

Jacques

(Smiling) I wouldn’t have asked if you were only Hitchens. I thank you for granting me some of the best moments of my life. I’m probably the one who felt the utmost wonder in meeting ten individuals that I ire and or love. Thank you for Charlie Chaplin! Thank you for Emily Dickinson! Thank you for Friedrich Nietzsche! Thank you for Philip Roth! Thank you for Woody Allen! Thank you for Yann Moix! Thank you for Michel Onfray! Thank you for Maria Aizawa! Thank you for Carli Tilleland! And thank you for Christopher Hitchens!

Hitchens

You are welcome, my dear boy!

(They all say goodbye to each other. Moix kisses Maria. Nietzsche kisses Dickinson’s hand. Roth kisses Dickinson’s hand. Woody shakes Chaplin’s right hand. Onfray shakes Nietzsche’s right hand. Hitchens disappears.)

The End

Is it another imagining of an affair that he could never have had, in an expanse where the departed exist again, where an unknown being appears as someone known, and where English, yes, English, is the main language, perhaps the first

language, after all? Could he also imagine the first love: the first woman, the first kiss, the first orgasm, which would occur nearly concurrently? But he would need to be imagining Adam thinking of Eve, or less imaginatively, prehistorically, a Hugh thinking of a Lucy.

Epilogue

Ha’safa Ha’rishona (The First Language, in Hebrew)

Ha’safa ha’rishona, hea melatefet Sfat’ha ha’rishona, hea levada Ha’safa ha’rishona, hea mehabeket Sfat’ha ha’rishona, hea bodeda

Ha’safa ha’rishona, hea melamedet Sfat’ha ha’rishona, hea shel im’ha Ha’safa ha’rishona, hea mehazeket Sfat’ha ha’rishona, hea gam shel’ha

Sfat’ha ha’rishona bem’dina haheret Ha’safa ha’rishona nofelet Ha’safa ha’rishona kvar ibda et shema Sfat’ha ha’rishona shnia haf’ha

Ha’safa ha’rishona be’makom aher

Sfat’ha ha’rishona kimhat gav’ha Sfat’ha ha’rishona lo shel’ha hea yoter Ha’safa ha’shnia, hea kvar ktouva

Ma kara, tagid li, ma nafal a’leha She’ata hoshev, adif le’ha lalehet Ma kara, tagid li, ma asou yadeha She’afhou kol davar le’shalehet

Sfat’ha ha’rishona im mishehou misham Sfat’ha ha’rishona, hea nitmenet Sfat’ha ha’rishona gam it’ha yoredet Sfat’ha ha’rishona nafla misham

Ha’safa ha’rishona mazkira Ha’safa ha’rishona kohevet Ha’safa ha’rishona mah’lifa Ha’safa ha’rishona noshemet

Ma kara, tagid li, ma nafal a’leha She’ata hoshev, adif le’ha lalehet

Ma kara, tagid li, ma asou yadeha She’afhou kol davar le’shalehet

Ma kara, tagid li, ma kara Ma kara, tagid li, ma kara Ma kara, tagid li, ma kara Ma kara, tagid li, ma kara

The First Language

(The first language, it caresses Your first language, it is alone The first language, it embraces Your first language, it is lonesome

The first language, it teaches Your first language, it is your mother’s The first language, it strengthens Your first language, it is also yours

Your first language in another country

The first language is falling The first language already lost its name Your first language has become second

The first language in another place Your first language is almost dead Your first language yours it is no longer The second language, it is already written

What happened, tell me, what befell you That you think, it is better for you to go What happened, tell me, what have your hands done That turned everything into autumn

Your first language with someone from there Your first language, it is being buried Your first language with you also descends Your first language fell from there

The first language reminds The first language hurts

The first language changes The first language breathes

What happened, tell me, what befell you That you think, it is better for you to go What happened, tell me, what have your hands done That turned everything into autumn

What happened, tell me, what happened What happened, tell me, what happened What happened, tell me, what happened What happened, tell me, what happened)

Glossary of New Words

Ashkenasty – Ashkenazi

Bogville – Berlin

Eurat – Europe

Euratean – European

Genocitean – German

Genocitis –

Murdertown – Munich

Nasties – Nazis

About the Author

Born in Casablanca in 1963, Patrick M. Ohana lived most of his stirring years in Montreal, Vancouver, and Honolulu. He received a BA in English from the Université de Montréal (he did not complete the MA), as well as a BA in Psychology and MEd in Educational Psychology, specializing in Measurement, Evaluation and Research Methodology, from the University of British Columbia. He resides in Montreal again.

He has published a semi-autobiographical novel in 2005 titled Santa Claws, and the fourth revised edition in 2017 (eBook only); a novel in 2009 titled FortyFour Forever, and the third revised edition in 2017 (eBook only); a follow-up novel in 2012 titled Unfinished Business, and the third revised edition in 2017 (eBook only); a collection of short stories in 2012 titled Strings, and an updated edition in 2017 (eBook only); and a novel in 2013 titled Freaking Forty-Four, a book uniting Forty-Four Forever and Unfinished Business, and the second revised edition in 2017 (eBook only).

Notes

[←1] One of his minor works.

[←2] One of his minor plays.

[←3] One of his short stories.

[←4] A trinity of his poems.

[←5] His one and only screenplay.

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