THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) by Shlomo Kalo
Authors: Shlomo Kalo
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of a
suspicion that they had been duped.
One Sabbath, leaving a
house in which a game had taken place, with twelve thousand dollars in his
pocket, he was knocked down by a drunk driver and killed instantly. His body
was taken to the pathology lab, and was returned the following day to his wife
and two children. Everything was intact – identity papers, small change. Of the
money that he won, those twelve thousand dollars in hard cash, not a cent was
found on his body.
His family and fellow
players saw no point in claims and investigations; it was agreed that these
“would not bring the dead back to life”.
May he rest in Paradise!
This chapter is a modest memorial to him.
Chapter Eleven
We strolled in the old
city, thronged as it was with people of every sex, race and age, noisy and
confident in their superior origin, trading in all kinds of weird and wonderful
merchandise – some of it stolen and offered at eminently reasonable prices, to
say the least.
Most brothels in Zurich
(such premises do exist), are located in the old city, and as in any profitable
and self-respecting business, each brothel individually advertises its wares,
in the most direct, unmediated and tangible way possible: an impressive display
of colour photographs showing the goods up for sale, in every imaginable
posture.
As we often had occasion
to cross the old city, we felt a certain sense of unease, confronted by the
shop windows of the spacious houses of ill repute, until my wife took the
initiative and suggested:
“Look at all the flesh on
show here!”
I refused.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m not interested.”
“Take a look first, and
then decide if you’re interested or not.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I can sense the curiosity
that you’re charged up with.”
We stopped in front of the
display window of one of the more respectable whorehouses. My wife asked me to choose
something. I refused.
“It can’t do any harm,”
she insisted, “it’s not as if you’re going in there. Just tell me which girl
and which pose appeal to you.”
I refused again. And it
was obvious I was going to keep on refusing, if necessary, from here to Alaska.
And since, under pressure from my wife, I glanced in passing at the lurid
display, it can be stated with confidence – there isn’t the faintest hint of
anything authentically Swiss there, taking its honoured place among the
artistic creations of Swiss artists and displayed in impressive nude
sculptures, at the corners and in the gardens of the city. Perhaps it’s to the
credit of the Swiss, or perhaps it’s the reverse: the Swiss are fed up with
Swiss people of the feminine gender and they chase after something, anything
else to experience, so long as it isn’t Swiss. One way or the other, you won’t
find in the shop windows of Zurich’s brothels anything reminiscent of the buxom
feminine form that is archetypically Swiss.
Every Saturday we visited
the colourful flea-market and bought items for which, in the final analysis,
there was no demand in our own country.
We weren’t bored, we
appreciated everything, and always promised ourselves we would return next
year, a promise which we have kept in the letter and in the spirit, for more
than a whole decade. We felt at home in Zurich. We enjoyed everything, and
especially the pure air, clear of smog, redolent of fragrant groves. Anyway,
this year was a departure from the familiar, agreeable and appropriate routine.
One way or the other, a few days of relaxation made their invigorating
contribution, until that Tuesday when the telephone once again ripped apart the
smog-free air with typically Swiss brusqueness, and my wife and I knew that our
serenity was about to be broken. Shmulik was on the line and he gave me a stark
warning, one of the starkest imaginable.
“Beware,” he said,
“especially of anyone walking behind you. If this situation arises, do
everything you can to shake him off, as quickly and
suspicion that they had been duped.
One Sabbath, leaving a
house in which a game had taken place, with twelve thousand dollars in his
pocket, he was knocked down by a drunk driver and killed instantly. His body
was taken to the pathology lab, and was returned the following day to his wife
and two children. Everything was intact – identity papers, small change. Of the
money that he won, those twelve thousand dollars in hard cash, not a cent was
found on his body.
His family and fellow
players saw no point in claims and investigations; it was agreed that these
“would not bring the dead back to life”.
May he rest in Paradise!
This chapter is a modest memorial to him.
Chapter Eleven
We strolled in the old
city, thronged as it was with people of every sex, race and age, noisy and
confident in their superior origin, trading in all kinds of weird and wonderful
merchandise – some of it stolen and offered at eminently reasonable prices, to
say the least.
Most brothels in Zurich
(such premises do exist), are located in the old city, and as in any profitable
and self-respecting business, each brothel individually advertises its wares,
in the most direct, unmediated and tangible way possible: an impressive display
of colour photographs showing the goods up for sale, in every imaginable
posture.
As we often had occasion
to cross the old city, we felt a certain sense of unease, confronted by the
shop windows of the spacious houses of ill repute, until my wife took the
initiative and suggested:
“Look at all the flesh on
show here!”
I refused.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m not interested.”
“Take a look first, and
then decide if you’re interested or not.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I can sense the curiosity
that you’re charged up with.”
We stopped in front of the
display window of one of the more respectable whorehouses. My wife asked me to choose
something. I refused.
“It can’t do any harm,”
she insisted, “it’s not as if you’re going in there. Just tell me which girl
and which pose appeal to you.”
I refused again. And it
was obvious I was going to keep on refusing, if necessary, from here to Alaska.
And since, under pressure from my wife, I glanced in passing at the lurid
display, it can be stated with confidence – there isn’t the faintest hint of
anything authentically Swiss there, taking its honoured place among the
artistic creations of Swiss artists and displayed in impressive nude
sculptures, at the corners and in the gardens of the city. Perhaps it’s to the
credit of the Swiss, or perhaps it’s the reverse: the Swiss are fed up with
Swiss people of the feminine gender and they chase after something, anything
else to experience, so long as it isn’t Swiss. One way or the other, you won’t
find in the shop windows of Zurich’s brothels anything reminiscent of the buxom
feminine form that is archetypically Swiss.
Every Saturday we visited
the colourful flea-market and bought items for which, in the final analysis,
there was no demand in our own country.
We weren’t bored, we
appreciated everything, and always promised ourselves we would return next
year, a promise which we have kept in the letter and in the spirit, for more
than a whole decade. We felt at home in Zurich. We enjoyed everything, and
especially the pure air, clear of smog, redolent of fragrant groves. Anyway,
this year was a departure from the familiar, agreeable and appropriate routine.
One way or the other, a few days of relaxation made their invigorating
contribution, until that Tuesday when the telephone once again ripped apart the
smog-free air with typically Swiss brusqueness, and my wife and I knew that our
serenity was about to be broken. Shmulik was on the line and he gave me a stark
warning, one of the starkest imaginable.
“Beware,” he said,
“especially of anyone walking behind you. If this situation arises, do
everything you can to shake him off, as quickly and
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