Hostage Read Free Page B

“Or went to the wrong city.” “No,” said Blanca, “you know Shalti: He makes two appointments at the same time, in two different places.”
    The dinner ready, the table set, they were waiting only for me. Finally, Blanca decided to call Grandfather first. Did heknow where I could be at so late an hour without giving a sign of life? Then she called the local library, then close friends.
    Everyone said the same thing: “We haven’t seen him since.” As time went by, all three stood at the window looking down on the street, increasingly filled with anxiety. “He’s never done anything like this before,” Blanca said. “Something must have happened to him.” Koli suggested calling the police. Ahuva said they should call local hospitals. They decided it was best to call the local police precinct.
    Blanca: My husband is very late in coming home. We’re very worried.
    The policeman: His name?
    Blanca: Shaltiel Feigenberg.
    The policeman: His profession?
    Blanca: Storyteller. He gives talks in the community.
    The policeman: Did you say storekeeper or storyteller?
    Blanca: Storyteller.
    The policeman: Is that a profession?
    Blanca: He says it’s more like a calling.
    The policeman: Maybe he fell asleep in his office?
    Blanca: He has no office. He works at home.
    The policeman: A girlfriend?
    Blanca: What? I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine it …
    The policeman: Okay, okay. Sometimes that’s the simple explanation. I guess not in this case. I will do a little research. If you have no news in the next few hours, call us back.
    The two girls wanted to know why Blanca had lost her temper on the phone. “I’m like your uncle. I don’t like rudepeople who, because they have a bit of power, think they can get away with anything,” she answered.
    Blanca and Koli went to police headquarters, where their anxiety was taken more seriously. (Ahuva stayed home to answer the phone, just in case.) The scene was chaotic, but they found their way to the missing persons department. A polite officer, in his early forties, with a mustache, greeted them professionally.
    “First, the good news. Your husband isn’t on any of our victim lists. He hasn’t been attacked, fallen off a bus or suffered a heart attack in the middle of the street. Could he have gone for a walk by the sea? Or gone to relax in a swimming pool?”
    “My husband doesn’t swim.”
    “And I assume you’ve contacted all your relatives, friends and relations?”
    “Yes.”
    “Could he be working on a project that requires a meeting, an unforeseen trip?”
    “No. Let me explain. His projects are in his head. He’s knight of the imaginary, a magician of the word. He sometimes goes out for a bit of air or, as he says, to talk to the birds so he can better interpret their chirping, but it’s never for long. If he’s going to be late, he always warns me.”
    “And today?”
    “He might have gone to the library this morning. He came home for lunch. Then he went out again.”
    “For what reason?”
    “Sometimes he works better when he walks.”
    Koli added, “And also when he talks to children.”
    “What children?” asked the officer.
    “Any children. When he sees a sad child in the street, hewants to hear his story, to learn from him and to drive away the child’s sadness.”
    “And then? Does he try to see him again?”
    “No. Never. My husband has only one obsession: fantasy. He has seen and lived through too many of the world’s sorrows and bereavements, you understand; he believes it’s his mission to side with those who suffer, to tell their stories. The deprived, disoriented children.”
    “Where does he find these children?”
    “Anywhere. In poor neighborhoods. In schools. In parks. But once he knows their stories he never tries to see them again.”
    “Kind of odd,” the policeman says.
    “He does the same thing with old people.”
    “A peculiar kind of guy.”
    The officer finished what he was writing and looked