Mesopotamia - The Redeemer by Yehuda Israely, Dor Raveh Page B

this?' she wondered. She removed her
robe and sank into the soft sheets.
    The images and experiences left
over at the end of that stormy day came up suddenly and increased.
Thales had spoken uncharacteristically harshly. He claimed,
seemingly logically, that he had to look after the security of the
station and check out the stranger. And yet, his words implied that
he didn't trust her, and was thus forced to act to the best of his
understanding, without consulting her. He had never acted like this
before. Why had he lost his faith in her? Why had he been pushed to
such manipulative actions, in complete contradiction with the
Pythagorean way?
    She knew there was no denying the
fact that there was something in him, the stranger, something that
disrupted the harmony that had characterized their lives in the
station until today. Again, she felt the nagging feeling in her
mind about the identity of the man.
    Speculation overwhelmed her mind.
His comprehension speed showed that he came from a knowledge
abundant civilization.
    She didn't think he was Gnostic,
despite Thales's suspicions. He didn't have their typical tattoo
behind his ear. But maybe he wasn't Gnostic, but was still a spy in
their service, having been forced into it by violence, torture or
terrible extortion?
    It couldn't be. But why not? She
reminded herself that she didn't know anything – just like him –
about his personal life. What was his profession, his job, his
position? Had he been trained to deal with this intensity, with the
distress he was facing in this situation, alone, with no identity,
outside of everything he knows, without everything that was, all
his loved ones and friends… she tried to imagine his family, the
training he had received. He has a strange scent, unfamiliar, a
scent of far-off places, she said to herself, and was surprised:
why in the world was she giving her opinion about the scent of a
man? And then she recalled the scent of Thales when he held her
hand.
    Sophia turned over on her mattress
restlessly. 'I am a Pythagorean ascetic, devoted only to my
duties.' But she couldn't deny the truth: the stranger thrilled
her. She was attracted to his mystery, even if he was mysterious
against his will; she thought back to his look, knowledgeable,
trusting; a look that contradicted his situation. She was shocked
when she realized that his look had caused her to regret her vows
of asceticism. She rose, got dressed, and went to the station's
bar.
     
    Barman, as everyone called him,
knew the night-owls who frequented the bar well. The Pythagoreans
didn't drink alcohol. They had to be satisfied with drinks like
coffee for alertness or chamomile for relaxation. In the evening
hours, groups of coworkers came talked and befriended others; at
night, sometimes until the small hours of the morning, came
individuals.
    "What can I indulge you with?"
Barman asked Sophia.
    "I need something to help me fall
asleep".
    "Something to curb alertness,"
Barman smiled a tiny smile through his beard, long and pale, with
streaks of white. He was short and athletic, but the loose clothes
he customarily wore hid his muscles. Hid his strength. He was
exceptional: His curly hair was wild, tiny wrinkles at the sides of
his eyes and his bronzed skin testified to the fact that he had not
spent his entire life on the space station. When the bar was full
of customers he worked with the speed of a demon, but on his face
there was the smile of a child. His wise, understanding look
induced a feeling of tranquility on his guests. He took out a
bottle with valerian root extract from under the counter, dropped a
few drops into a thick guava drink, added crushed ice and
stirred.
    "This is for the head of the head
of the station." He placed a napkin on the counter and placed the
glass on it. Like her colleagues in the station, Sophia appreciated
Barman's warm, noninvasive treatment. He never asked people direct
questions about what was bothering them. He usually managed to