Shimshon sits behind the counter of the bookstore when the first quake shakes the shelves. His rare first edition of Groteska, a heavy hardcover by the so-called “Israeli Lovecraft” falls down and he has to get up from his chair to catch it. Shimshon curses and strokes the book’s spine. He puts the book behind the counter and sits himself back down and lights another cigarette. What the hell? Earthquakes?
Shimshon returns to his computer screen. The letters dance on the monitor in pretty black on white. He’d written four books so far, and published them himself. Why let someone else handle his babies? Burroughs did the same thing, and for Shimshon, Burroughs is the closest thing to a god. This, his latest book, is going to be the best one yet. Conch is about a boy in Tel Aviv discovering a large shell that had come out of the sea. When he blows into it strange things happen. Ancient entities that wear no discernible form rise from the sea and converge on Tel Aviv. The army is helpless against them, and it is left to a small band of survivors to try to escape through the desolate ruins of the city. The hero, named, naturally, after his creator, is called Samson. It is a good biblical name.
There is another tremor and the sound of an explosion outside and Shimshon jumps and the cigarette falls into his coffee and he hardly even notices. A terrorist attack? Another one? This is so bad for business. And rent is so high here on Dizengoff Street. They should never have built so many coffee shops here. It’s like an invitation to the goddamned Palestinians to bomb. He doesn’t advocate killing them all like some of the extremists do, but really! In the old books in his shop Tarzan had fought the murderous Arabs numerous times. They are like animals. They have no honour. He gets up cautiously and goes to the door. There are no customers in the shop. He hates it when they complain about the smoke. His shop, his rules. Like Tarzan, he is the king of his domain.
What the — ? He can’t believe it. There’s a tank, a goddamned tank driving down Dizengoff Street. They’ve really done it this time! They should all be killed like vermin! Bloody Arabs! What the hell happened?
There’s a voice coming out of the tank on some sort of amplifier. The voice says: “Stay inside! Lock your doors! Do not panic! The army is dealing with the situation!”
What situation? He runs back to his desk and switches on the radio, but there is nothing but static. It’s Iran! he thinks. The bomb! “I repeat, do not panic!”
Shimshon begins to hyperventilate. Save the book! he thinks. Must . . . make . . . copy. Must . . . backup. There is the sound of another explosion outside and he feels panic rising and his heart is going fast — too fast — and he falls to the floor. What is happening? The book — no, must look first — he crawls towards the door and, through the glass windows he sees the tank, but it is impossible, the tank is rising in the air and — somehow — it’s torn, as if it were made of papier-mâché, the cannon coming apart, the tract wheels falling off and the armoured plates crumbling to the floor — it is like watching a butterfly being played with by a child, the way he used to do it, the way —
There are screams outside now. Somehow, they sound to him like the cry of Tarzan, a modulating, loud, piercing sound. He clutches his chest. He can’t breathe. Through dimming eyes he sees something impossible — a soldier in the olive-green uniforms of the IDF flying through the air, away from the tank, like Tarzan swinging on the jungle vines, coming straight —
There is the sound of breaking glass, and a hundred small, sharp pains flower in him but he is strangely calm now, detached and very far away. His last thought is of the Jane he never had.