Authors: L.L. Fine
Chromosome: Did you wait long?
Liron _annoyed: Yes! Where the fuck were you?!
Chromosome: Sorry, I was detained in the lab.
Liron_annoyed: What lab? What's all this BS?
Chromosome: Got you curious, didn’t I?
Liron_annoyed: Yeah, you did.
Chromosome: Great. What would you like to know?
Liron_annoyed: Everything. Starting with that laboratory of
yours.
Chromosome: That's easy to start with.
Liron_annoyed: So start, then. Where is it?
Chromosome: First of all, formally there is no lab at all.
It doesn't matter where it is. For your readers, it can be just a secret lab
somewhere, and that's it.
Liron_annoyed: OK. Now tell me about the code you mentioned.
Chromosome: Code?
Liron_annoyed: Yes, the letter you sent, you talked about
the code you cracked, the one of Bobby the Chimp.
Liron_annoyed: And why did you call him Bobby. You couldn't
have chosen a better name?
Chromosome: Sure we could have. And we did. I gave you a
fake name.
Liron_annoyed: : -))))) An alias for an APE?
Chromosome: Didn't I tell you EVERY detail here is fake? If
I give you the real name then Security will understand that what you’re writing
about is not imaginary but real, based on information you somehow got.
Liron_annoyed: But they can’t PROVE it.
Chromosome: They don't need to. But listen, that’s why I
chose you in the first place. You are an author who already wrote some fantasy
or sci-fi shit, and it's known you're interested in science and genetics and
God and stuff.
Liron_annoyed: How do you know it's known?
Chromosome: I tracked down the sites you tend to visit.
Liron_annoyed: All the sites?
Chromosome: : -))))
Liron_annoyed: Fuck you!
Liron_annoyed: So what about that code? You never told me.
Chromosome: It’s related to the genome.
Liron_annoyed: That, I've already realized. But the genome
is a great thing. You were talking about something specific.
Chromosome: The code of death.
Liron_annoyed: ???
Chromosome: The mechanism responsible for your life span.
Liron_annoyed: Mmmmm.
Liron_annoyed: Interesting.
Liron_annoyed: You mean the mechanism of aging?
Liron_annoyed: Hello?
Liron_annoyed: Helooooooooooooooooooo?
Liron_annoyed: I guess it’s the boss again?
Liron_annoyed: Well, I'm waiting!
Mitochondria: Sorry.
Liron_annoyed: Why did you change your nickname?
Mitochondria: I was being tracked, so I had to change chat
servers. It's nothing actually, this crap happens to me a lot. They won't catch
me THAT easily.
Liron_annoyed: I admit that I have no idea what you are
talking about. What chat server? Who is tracking you?
Mitochondria: I don't really know. It started a few months
ago but I avoid it easily. This is also why I turned to you. I don’t want them
to catch me before I have a backup.
Liron_annoyed: And I'm the backup? Oh well.
Mitochondria: Listen, sweetie. I'm going to give you an
amazing story like you have never heard in your life and I'm going to risk my
life for it. But this story has to go out and eventually you will understand
why.
Liron_annoyed: Because eventually we all die?
Mitochondria: I'm glad you're laughing about it but it is a
serious.
Liron_annoyed: Death is a serious thing.
Mitochondria: You say things you know nothing about. So just
shut up and listen and I hope you keep track of these conversations.
Liron_annoyed: Don’t worry.
Mitochondria: So we were talking about the death code. And I
emailed you about how our ape died just as we expected him to do. You have any questions
about that?
Liron_annoyed: It’s not really as you expected, it was a few
minutes short, as I recall.
Mitochondria: In terms of the experiment, it is negligible.
Mitochondria: Tell me, do you have ANY idea how amazing this
discovery is? I'm starting to feel I am wasting my time talking to you.
Liron_annoyed: NO! No, you are not.
Mitochondria: Really?
Liron_annoyed: I am listening. Seriously, I am. No joke.
Mitochondria: : -))
Liron_annoyed: So... Bobby died. What were the implications
of this?
*
Zomy looked again and again at the champagne cork in his
hand. Minutes after he had finished answering all the questions, he went back,
with relief, to his office. It was not a large room. An alcove with a door
would describe it better. An alcove that contained his entire world in recent
years.
A messy world.
The center of the room was taken up by a large executive
chair, well-padded with black leather. Zomy bought it himself, after he refused
to settle for the simple government chair that was issued to him.
"If I'm going to be buried here," he told
everybody, "then I may as well feel comfortable."
The problem was the chair was almost bigger than the room.
There was hardly any space left between it and the desk. Therefore, Zomy had to
squeeze himself into it by jumping from the top. He liked it, though. It was
like jumping in a sports car. A small price to pay for convenience.
The other piece of furniture in the room was a bit hard to
see. It was too crowded with papers, books, pens from various periods in the
history of the complex (some were still good, though) an ergonomic keyboard, a
standard keyboard, a mouse, and a monumental computer screen, showing a
painfully large number of windows.
Under the table it was relatively tidy. Four locked drawers
held their secrets below the right side of the table, and on the left loomed a
Babylonian tower of disks.
The walls were decent looking, too. White, absent of any
picture, statue or mask. Only one small Hamsa opened a curious blue eye,
somewhere on the right wall.
“It's over," a woman's voice surprised him. "They
went away, everyone."
*
Liron_annoyed: You two are an item, eh?
Chromosome: No, not at all.
Liron_annoyed: You can't fool me. You're talking about her
too much.
Chromosome: I'm talking about her too little, believe me.
Liron_annoyed: What do you mean?
Chromosome: That she deserves a bigger part in this story,
but in order to protect her I conceal it.
Liron_annoyed: Have you told her yet?
Chromosome: About us???
Liron_annoyed: No, about you! That you love her.
Chromosome: Nonsense!!!
Liron_annoyed: I told you, you can't fool me here. It
screams from your words.
Chromosome: Nah. I don't love her. She is great, that's
true, but that's all.
Liron_annoyed: Is she married?
Chromosome: No.
Liron_annoyed: Involved with someone?
Chromosome: Not anymore.
Liron_annoyed: : -)))
Chromosome: What are you smiling about, little pervert?
Liron_annoyed: Just because.
Chromosome: Then wipe that smile, there is nothing between
us.
Liron_annoyed: When you want to share, just tell me.
Chromosome: No problems, Doctor Love.
Liron_annoyed: : -)
*
Zomy looked up into Lia's green eyes.
"Look what I found." He handed her the champagne
cork.
Lia took the cap in her hand, turned it slightly between her
long fingers, and finally put it into the right pocket of her doctor's coat.
"A souvenir," she said, lips curved down.
A keen ear would recognize the remains of an accent in her
speech. Not while she was normally talking - only at certain moments, when
emotions were mixed into her words. Only then you could notice there was
something not entirely Israeli there. Something foreign.
"You took it badly, this death scene."
"Listen...Bobby was here for quite some time. And he's not
just a dog. He's almost human. Like a… little boy. Our little boy."
"Even little boys die sometimes."
A brief silence took over the room. They dipped in each
other's eyes, but each of them swam in his own world. For the first time in a
long time, Zomy allowed himself to think about the real reason that led him
into the little filthy, overcrowded room. He groped for it without a thought,
his OWN souvenir, hidden in a golden pendant to hang around his neck.
"Let's have a drink," Lia finally blurted out.
I thought a lot about what you said and maybe you're right.
I had Lia on my mind for quite a long time and I'm pretty sure she thinks about
me, too. For example, the same night after Bobby died we went to a bar and
didn’t talk at all. We just sat there silently and looked at each other.
There were several times I was sure she wanted to tell me
something but she never did. Then I took her hand and stroked her fingers, and
she let me. I remember I stroked her hand and she started crying, shaking a
little. It scared me. I never saw her crying before, and besides, I hate seeing
people cry. I’ve had enough crying in my life.
But Lia comes from a different family, she mourns no one,
and always seemed so happy. So why was she crying? I don’t know. But at that
moment, I knew I could caress every part of her body and she would cooperate. I
knew that even then - and that's why I would not do it.
You're right, Doctor Love. I have a little crush on her. But
if I want Lia, I need her to come to me out of her own will. I hope you
understand me.
This is what I wanted to tell you now.
*
I spent a few days without any signal from Chromosome. These
were not short days. The train of thought that he turned on inside me started
moving faster and faster, as it took me to places I never thought I would visit
again.
Who was he? What did he want from me?
I read the correspondence between us. I must admit the
communications deterred me a bit. Although I'm sure, still, someone was joking
with me, I couldn't confirm buds of truths in his story. I did a little
research myself on the genome. I tried to check with friends, to find out if it
was even a little possible to fish out so much personal information about me.
There were more questions than answers.
Days passed, and instead of forgetting the case, let it slip
away, I became obsessed. I started infesting more chats. I started to be more
daring with my names.
Chromosome: You're not serious!
Looking for Chromosome: Where did you disappear to?
Chromosome: What is that name? Are you crazy?
Chromosome: Forget it, you don’t want to know.
Looking for Chromosome: It's so that you'll know I'm looking
for you.
Chromosome: OK, then. I know.
Looking for Chromosome: So where you been?
Chromosome: Well, forget about it.
Looking for Chromosome: You started to hide information?
LOL!
Chromosome: Not hiding. It's just a family matter.
Looking for Chromosome: Passing through the genes, eh?
Chromosome: Sort of. My father's memorial.
Looking for Chromosome: Oh… sorry for your loss.
Chromosome: That’s okay, it was quite a while ago.
Looking for Chromosome: Still…
Chromosome: It's more painful than strange, because I've
seen myself in his place.
Looking for Chromosome: ?
Chromosome: He died from cancer, you see. Lung cancer.
Looking for Chromosome: I don’t understand.
Chromosome: I'm going to develop it in a few months.
Looking for Chromosome: What!?!?!??!
Chromosome: What what?
Looking for Chromosome: If I understood correctly, you said
once you're going to develop cancer (!) in a few months?
Chromosome: In about 5 months.
Looking for Chromosome: I'll let you tell me the truth. How
do you know?
Chromosome: The same way we knew that Bobby would die.
Looking for Chromosome: You didn’t exactly explain it
before.
Chromosome: Don’t worry about explanations.
Looking for Chromosome: Do I look worried?
Chromosome: Sure you’re worried, now I've shown you how your
life's as open as a whore’s legs.
Looking for Chromosome: At least I won’t die of cancer.
Chromosome: Fuck you.
He disappeared from the conversation.
I didn’t blame him. I hadn't shown appropriate sensitivity.
A man returns from his father's memorial... and I go with him to battle like
this. Not to the point, rather silly, given what is happening to him - and what
he can do to my bank accounts, if he decides to. It’d be a pretty scary fight -
you don’t know if he tells the truth, but you do know he can hit you very hard.
Yeah, pretty scary.
But even then, my real concern was that he just cut off contact.
Altogether.
Do you understand? I became obsessed. After those days of
lack of communication, his story, or the story he invented for me, fascinated
me. The man was, in general, fascinating. Any way I look at it. Although the
special attention he gave me might make me shiver, it just made me addicted to
it.
Suddenly, I was afraid he’d just disappeared, leaving me
with a thousand questions, which would never be settled. Or, worse, would begin
to be resolved, written somewhere else, by someone else ...
Intolerable, in short.
Luckily, I got an email from him.
I owe you an apology, I was nervous and had no energy for
your nonsense. These memorials always make me nervous, not just because it's my
father who died, but because it's this situation with the family and everything
- I ran away. I don’t know if you can understand.
Who do you think I am? Obviously you have no idea. So I will
surprise you. I'm what they call Exrel. Formerly religious. Not just religious
with a yarmulke, but a real Haredy, from Bnei Brak. Panevezys Community,
if it means something to you.
Surprised, eh?
Obviously it would be. No one who sees me today could
imagine that by the age of 18 I was completely in black, with all the costumes
and rituals. I was what they call a student prodigy, an Iluy.
Words, words…what do you know about words, you man of words?
I started reading at the age of two. I'm talking about
reading, not Learning To Read. At the age of five I had a special teacher for
all kinds of wordplay that you'll never be interested in. But they were my
whole world. Marked me in the Panevezys Dynasty as 'privileged'. My father
showed off like a (modest) peacock, he was the envy of all.
Well, the cancer took care of it pretty well.
Some pray, some cry, but cancer hasn’t stopped.
They took him for all kinds of ‘treatments’, even to those
who oppose Panevezys; he did all sorts of voodoo rituals… nothing stopped the
disease. That's how I met Rabbi Eligad for the first time, and I felt he
penetrated me with his vision, but only for a moment, and then he took time off
to take care of my dad. But once in a while he threw me a strange look.
One day, when my dad got back from Rabbi Eligad’s
house, he told me that the rabbi asked about me, which is a great honor. But
with my father's illness I had completely forgotten until later.
Day after day I sat at my father's bedside, talking to him
about what I learned, quibbling with him. He was no longer at the peak, and I
knew he was tired, so it wasn’t good for him - but he insisted that I be with
him every day, with or without books, and we’d talk about the Talmud, the
Mishnah, even the Zohar.
And - try to understand – at that time I was already an
expert debater. It was hard to beat me, even if a great rabbi was against me.
Sometimes I had to agree with him out of respect. And my father also liked to
talk like that, and we quibbled for hours on interpretations and commentaries
and a little gossip on the rabbis when no one was around to hear. But it was
hard for him, and he was bleeding at times and twice he fell asleep and I was
afraid he was dead.
But he didn’t die, he told me that as long as he knew that I
would come to him, he wouldn’t die. And so I came to him every day and he did
not die. It wasn't easy, especially when he began to fall apart before my eyes,
and the coughing up blood frightened me, but I didn’t dare leave the room and
just held his hand and told him to be healthy and by the grace of God the
disease would disappear.
Just one day I allowed myself to be late to my father's
bedside. I took a turn for half an hour around the streets and took some air. I
remember that day because it was winter and the cold wind stung my ears, and I
played a bit in the rain and then the sun was bright and there was a rainbow. Such
a special day.
When the rain started erasing the rainbow I ran back home,
to my father's bed, but the house was full of people, and my mom was crying and
my older brothers were sitting on the floor with torn clothes.
That's all for now.
I hope you'll understand my attitude earlier, and once again
I apologize.
*
Life without his father was emptier.
Not that Zomy was used to filling his days the same way,
every day, at his father's bedside. On the contrary, Zomy hated every minute of
seeing his father wither before his eyes to a crumbling skeleton of a man, like
a vision of flesh falling from dry bones. Zomy hated the long hours of
quibbling, endless talk in the dark, narrow room where he lay. Jail room.
Narrow, dark dungeon. Hundreds of scented holy books guarded it. Old, silent
books filled the overflowing room, leaving just barely room for his father.
Life without his father was emptier, not of time, but of
purpose.
As long as his father was breathing, Zomy had a purpose.
Determination filled his days, shaping his dreams at night. He was
all-powerful, equipped with divine permission to destroy the cancer that gnawed
his father, every fiber of his being devoted to this task.
Every day the determination burned within him, a cocktail of
desire that his father fed, a raging fire that left him, at eleven years old,
stuck to his mission, day after day. He was going to beat the cancer, no matter
what. No matter what.
And he lost.
Day after day he’d endured. Sat two, three, four hours with
his thinned-out father, reading passages, valid interpretations, proving to his
creator that he was not created for nothing. The child is a prodigy, Father had
bothered to say from time to time, when his aching head allowed the effort. The
child is a prodigy.
Until that cursed day, when the prodigy could not stand one
more second without the fresh air of freedom, and went to look for it in the
rainy sidewalks. And the winter was so pleasant to his senses! Rapturous in the
sharpening-cold air, in the flow of puddles under his clumsy shoes.
Only a few more minutes, he thought, just a few more breaths
of the wet soil's scent, of the urban grass's touch, of the sight of the
spectacular rainbow gracing the tops of houses. Only a few minutes of freedom -
and then I'll go back, he promised himself.
When he returned there was no place to go back to. His
father died, was taken to other provinces. And in his childish mind, prodigious
as it was, Zomy knew why. He was a guard asleep at his post, the messenger who
neglected his mission. His father died because Zomy was not there on time, was
not there for him. Death, that black ambassador of extermination, filtered into
the room in his absence, and picked his father.
This was the answer. It was his sin. Until the day he died,
years later, Zomy did not know comfort.
In the meantime:
An hour chased the next, minute-to-minute dissolved, and
empty, black, rotten emptiness trickled into the prodigy's life. Not because of
the long hours of battle that are no more. But because the war itself was no
more - the struggle, without which there was no purpose to existence. Without
father, what was the point in learning? Without the hope of his life, what was
the point in an effort?
The processions of words that Zomy had gulped only a few months
before, seemed hollow, bitter suddenly. Quibbling became stale, for what use
was his commentary on this verse, or anything else, if it had no purpose?
And faith, yes faith. Vengeful God was his God, vengeful and
unforgotten. A God who didn't excuse the little boy who wanted some fresh air.
A strict God. An awe-filling god. And Zomy's faith wasn't hurt. On the
contrary, faith turned into knowledge, definitely. Yes, God was in heaven. Was
also on the earth. Was everywhere. Even in the cancer flattening the body of
his father.
And in taking the father, God left him with nothing but air.
Things that form the heart of the child: one small trip, in
the streets, became a whole day trip. And from a day, it's easy to move to two
days. What is the difference between two days and a week? There is a
difference, but not great. Not all at once, not all in slamming the door. There
are doors that open slowly, there are freedoms you have to drink from
sparingly, a little bit.
The streets of Bnei Brak, their twisted twists turned into
his home. Feral cats had been his friends. He loved to rub against them,
stroking all the way along, feeling the tail disappearing under his fingers,
only to feel a little head popped up again by his wrist, with pat-demands. He
stroked again and again.
He waited, waited to see. When would someone, anybody,
notice that the little prodigy didn’t appear in classes, didn’t come home on
time.
The experiment failed.
The father left, leaving emptiness in everything. The house
which once bustled with life, had gone quiet. There was no one to push the
prodigy onwards.
"If not my father, who will pull for me?" he
muttered to himself, and went back to pet the cats gathered around him, hiding
under the grocery store's stairs. Stroked again and again, repeat and
comforted.
Occasionally the grocery owner went outside wearing a wig
and armed with a wicker broom, banishing the cats in strange sounds:
"Kishta, kishta, shunra!" But it didn’t last long. His friends were
rushing back and grouping around him, and in his heart he was laughing at the
woman, her heavy flesh and breath. Kishta kishta, Lilith.
Not everything was successful in this new lifestyle. The
food issue, for example, was somewhat problematic. But Bnei Brak, the poorest
city in the country, took care of its poor better than any other city. A few
eyebrows were raised when Zomy approached, for the first time, the soup
kitchen. After all, a boy his age! But the fourth time it happened, he became
part of the scenery, gratefully accept the hot soup, the mashed potatoes, and
sometimes the chicken or small charitable gift or another.
After dinner, he would continue to explore his small kingdom
on the streets, here looking at the ports, there enjoying the sun jittering in a
muddy puddle. Thoughts, buzzing so in previous months, slowly quieted in the
din of the street. For a few moments, he could have sworn it, he was touched by
happiness, a little touch of gold.
And so little Zomy felt, in that bitter morning. His pocket
was full of chicken scraps, saved from the soup kitchen and well wrapped in a
plastic bag, which he kept for his cats. They would dearly love to taste them,
he knew. His cat kingdom, which began with three adult cats, had become a
mini-empire of several dozen velvety fans, waiting for him, regularly, in their
hiding place under the stairs grocery store.
Always at the same afternoon hour, he knew, his hideout was
filled with small paws, eagerly awaiting his pocket findings. And every time he
had a new, surprising surprise for them. Meow, this time he had a fine dish for
them, the result of the generosity of the lady cook: chicken necks! Booty for
which there was no demand, except by cats. Meow, he rushed to his kingdom.
Intimidating, eerie silence, greeted him. In fact, it was
not silence. He could hear in the dark, dragging noises and vomiting.
Scratching on exposed concrete, the sound of wheezing.
With a feeling of mounting horror, he pulled out a box of
matches, holding one of the few remaining, and lit it.
On the ground, hiding under the stairs in the depths of the
grocery store, lay his subjects, whimsical, white foam dripping from their
mouths. Their eyes were wide, some dead, some still rolling agony. He held the
match, seeing all over the kingdom, witnessing the extent of the killing, the
destruction. All the cats were there, he knew. The mothers he first met months
ago, to the last offspring whom yesterday he held in his hand and gently
cleaned inflammation from their eyes.
The match burned his fingers, fell from his hand and was
silenced on the sandy ground.
Zomy stifled a scream.
There were footsteps on the stairs, slight shaking of the
sloping concrete roof over his head.
"Do you think we should call the city services?"
"Not yet, let the substance work. Call them this
afternoon."
"They won’t stink?"
"Don’t worry, the days are cold now. Call the city
services in a few hours, it’ll work out. Cats don’t come back."
The stairs trembled beneath the heavy legs of the grocery
store owner and her mysterious ally, leaving in their place a different kind of
vibration which began in the belly of Zomy, and raided every little organ of
his. Like his father, so the cats. Like his father.
Years later, on a casual summer day, the grocery store owner
found that all her money had been withdrawn from her bank account, her house
had been sold to an international company, and her grocery store owed millions
to different suppliers (of which about five hundred thousand shekels was to a
particular rat poison manufacturer). As she turned to the police for help, the
police computer remembered an urgent detention order against her name for the
extreme avoidance of income tax.
4/4/01. MSN chat
Nucleotide: Interesting name you chose this time.
Mr fate: I am trying. And you are...?
Nucleotide: The one from Bnei Brak
Mr fate: Ah. What does your name mean?
Nucleotide: Nucleotide is a small piece of DNA.
Mr fate: Ok...
Mr fate: I must ask you something.
Nucleotide: Ask away.
Mr fate: You really ruined her life like that?
Nucleotide: Yes.
Mr fate: Ok… it's a bit risky to upset you… isn't it?
Nucleotide: LOL!
Nucleotide: I'm not as evil as you think.
Mr fate: Not evil… just vindictive. Dangerous.
Nucleotide: Only to those who I have a really good reason to
take revenge on.
Mr fate: And there was a reason? Not that I don’t love
animals, I’ve had a dog for years, but still - what had she done to deserve
this? Overall, the cats were a nuisance.
Nucleotide: Cats are a nuisance… even people can be a
nuisance… but is it right to kill them with rat poison?
Mr fate: We both know it's not because she killed the cats.
It's because she killed your dream.
Nucleotide: I thought about it a lot, and I consulted with
Rabbi Eligad. He said - and I think he's right - it's both.
Mr fate: Who is Rabbi Eligad anyway? You mentioned him
before.