All Backs Were Turned (8 page)

“Did I say no?” the fat woman asked. “Did I say you can't have it? Let it be my loss.” She turned to Ursula who was still standing in the door. “What is it, dear? You look depressed.”

“No,” Ursula said, “I'm just tired. And hot.”

“I'll make you some coffee, dear,” the fat woman said. “Coffee is what keeps one alive here.”

“Right,” Israel said. “Then it's settled. Wash up and have some coffee. I'll go home and drink something too. When you're ready, just honk the horn. I'll leave the keys in the jeep.”

Back home, he took a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator in the kitchen and walked into the room. His hands trembled with anger as he poured the beer into a glass.

“You have some strange ideas about making money, Dov,” he said. “Most people are really odd; they don't like being insulted.”

“Did he say something rude to her?” Esther asked; she was still rosy from sleep, like a child.

“Not at all,” Israel said. “He only implied she looked like a whore. Apart from that, he was really charming. If she spoke Hebrew better, she'd have told him he was very sweet. The reason she didn't is that her Hebrew isn't too good.”

“Dov was right,” Esther said.

Israel turned to her. “Why was he right?” he asked. “Who gave him the right to insult somebody he's never met before?”

“I saw the way she was looking at him,” Esther said.

“And how was that, if you don't mind telling me?” Israel asked.

“As if there was something about him she didn't like,” Esther said.

“Like what?”

“His clothes,” Esther said.

“Don't try to defend me, Esther,” Dov said. “The best lawyers in this country tried, but in the end they always lost the case.”

“You don't need anybody to defend you,” Esther said. “And nobody could do it.”

“Then what do I need, Esther?” Dov asked.

“You need somebody who'd love you,” Esther said. “Though I doubt anyone would know how.”

“This is the second time today you're meddling in my affairs,” Dov said. “I haven't asked for your opinion.”

“That woman hasn't asked for yours either,” Esther said. “She was just sitting in the jeep and looking at you. And I happened to be standing by the window and saw it all.”

“Esther,” Dov said, “I have enough troubles as it is. Don't add to them. Stand by the window, stand on your head, stand where you like, but leave me alone.”

“Look, it wasn't me that was looking at you.” She regarded him for a moment in a stony, unfriendly fashion. “And it wasn't me that didn't like your clothes,” she added, storming out of the kitchen.

“There's one thing she forgot to say,” Israel said.

“What is that?”

“That she could have moved away from the window. Or turned around and looked at something else. At this picture of your brother in uniform, for instance.” He stepped up to the wall and pointed at a picture of Little Dov that hung there in a coral frame. It had been taken when Little Dov was serving his time in the army; he was dressed in a paratrooper's uniform. “She could have looked at this picture. But she didn't.”

“Are you implying something, Israel?” Dov asked. “Don't forget she's my brother's wife.”

Israel turned to Dov and looked at him in silence. He smiled, but his eyes remained hard.

“I hope she is not forgetting that,” he said after a pause. He pointed again at the picture. “It must be a recent one. Esther and Dov met in the army, didn't they?”

“Listen, Israel,” Dov said. “Esther was born in this country like me and my brother. She has learned to speak her mind. Nobody should hold that against her.”

“I understand,” Israel said. “What you're saying is that you who were born here are different from the rest of us. Different meaning better.” He heard the blare of the jeep's horn and placed the glass of beer he was holding on the kitchen table. “I have to go,” he said. “I'll drive her around Eilat and then come back. And I'll apologize to her for you.”

“Don't,” Dov said. “I didn't mean to insult her. I have no idea how it happened.”

“I will,” Israel said. “You know why? Because I'm afraid that you may suddenly decide to apologize to her in person. And that would be the worst thing that could happen, Dov. Because the worst thing is not that you offend people or get into fights; it's that later you want to apologize to them. That's when the real trouble starts. And that's what I'm afraid of.”

They heard the jeep's horn again and Israel walked out. Dov got up, went to the window, and looked at Israel and Ursula. Then he turned around and looked at his brother's picture and saw that it was somewhat askew. Israel must have shifted it a little, because the wall was slightly paler along one side of the frame. He stared for a moment at the picture, at his brother's eyes, which watched him mirthlessly, at his blond hair sticking out from under the paratrooper's cap, then he stepped up to the wall and moved the frame into place.

U
RSULA WAS ALREADY SITTING IN THE JEEP.
S
HE HAD
put on a pair of somewhat dirty blue jeans. Israel smiled at her, then looked down at his own pants; they were exactly the same shade of blue and just as dirty.

“Where shall we go first?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “What's worth seeing around here? You must know.”

“Well, there's my friend Dov,” Israel said. “But you already saw him. We could drive to the beach and rent a boat with a glass bottom through which you can watch fish and other stuff.”

“And what else?”

“The problem is, I don't know,” he said. “I don't know Eilat. It's only my second day here. And I already hate the place.”

“You're a strange guide,” she said. “I won't be in the least surprised if you tell me next that you don't have a driver's license and this jeep doesn't belong to you.”

“Of course it doesn't belong to me,” he said. “I don't think I'll ever be rich enough to drive a car of my own. But that doesn't mean we can't go sightseeing. I'm just as curious as you are about this goddamn town.”

“Okay, let's go to the beach,” she said, “and check out those boats with the glass bottoms. As long as I'm here I'd like to see something of Eilat. Though I must have begun touring the country from the wrong end.”

“You've never been to Israel before?”

“No,” she said. “I know only what my husband told me. Though he had never been here himself.”

“He's dead now?”

“He died two years ago,” she said.

Israel stopped the jeep and turned his face to her. Sweat was running down his brow and getting into his eyes; he wiped it off with his hand, but that didn't seem to help much.

“Listen,” he said, “you don't have to pay me. Why don't you see this town on your own? Half an hour would be enough. You really don't have to pay me that ten pounds.” He paused. “I wouldn't want you to think that someone was trying to swindle you. Here, in this country your husband told you so much about. It's a country like any other. And the people here are no different from other people.” When she didn't say anything, he asked, “You're German, aren't you?”

“Yes,” she said. “You guessed by my accent?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I can always tell Germans. I think I would be able to recognize them in the dark and even if they didn't say a word.”

“Do you mind that I'm a German?”

“No,” he said. “Germans never got in the way of Jews. It was always the other way around. Didn't your husband tell you that?”

“I want to see this country,” she said stubbornly. “I want to see everything my husband told me about. That's why I came here.”

“Okay,” Israel said. He started the jeep and they drove toward the bay. “I don't know Eilat, so maybe you can show it to me. I guess you could call me a
cicerone à re-bours.
But I never expected anybody would want to pay me for something like this.”

“Well, I do,” she said. “You can like Germans or not, but Germans always pay.”

“There are many people in Israel who have refused all war reparations,” he said. “Nobody in the world knows how much exactly he should get for his mother's murder. Or for the loss of an eye. Or for spending five years in a concentration camp. Maybe that's why those people don't want to accept money that's rightfully theirs. Or maybe they think the rates will go up with time and they're afraid of accepting too little.”

She turned to him.

“I can't say anything about that,” she said. “I came here to see the country my husband told me so much about.” She looked ahead at the red, dusty road; a layer of dust had already settled on her slim, weary face. “My husband, whom I loved very dearly,” she added.

“I'm sorry,” Israel said. “I shouldn't have said what I did. After all, my mother died here, in a free country. And I'm free too.”

Suddenly he braked hard; she had to brace herself against the windshield with her hand. The jeep stopped.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

He didn't answer; he was watching a plane coming in for a landing from over the bay, its undercarriage half out.

“What a fool,” he said loudly.

“Who?”

“That goddamn pilot,” he said. “Letting out the undercarriage in the middle of a turn! That's the quickest way to plummet to the ground. Where the hell did he train to be a pilot, in a coal mine? Only a dead drunk miner could have issued him a pilot's license. I haven't seen anything so stupid as long as I live.”

“Do you like planes?” she asked.

He didn't answer; he hadn't heard her question. He was still watching the plane. She looked at his hands and saw they were executing strange movements, as if they held something that was invisible but gave resistance, that had to do with the control of a machine's motion; then the plane touched down heavily on the runway, and Israel's hands came to rest on the jeep's steering wheel.

“Were you a pilot?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “And I never will be.”

He started the car again. They were driving now along the bay, tranquil and luminous; she turned her gaze toward the sea and the white houses of Aqaba on the other side of the border.

“What's over there?” she asked, pointing.

“I don't know,” he said. “It looks like an oil-processing plant or something of the sort.”

“You don't like this country, do you?” she asked.

“I dislike Eilat. I never said I disliked Israel. Actually, I've never given that question any serious thought.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I thought I should,” he said. “And it turned out to be an illusion. People should never do things they don't want to do. But there are always others who can make them do something against their will and even talk them into believing it's what they want most themselves.”

Israel stopped the jeep. “Here we are,” he said. “See that boat out in the bay? That's the one I told you about. They should be back in a few minutes.”

“Look!” she said. “There's that old couple you wouldn't give a ride to.”

He turned and saw the two people in black garb shuffling slowly along the beach. The woman was still clutching her husband's arm; from time to time she would yell something to him, bringing her mouth to his ear.

“They look as if they're in the wrong movie,” Ursula said. “It happens. You are somewhere, maybe doing your shopping, and suddenly you see someone who looks totally out of place. Just as if the projectionist got his rolls of film mixed up.”

“Don't worry about them,” Israel said. “I'm sure they don't feel the way you do. They are certain their presence is what was lacking here and only now is everything finally in perfect order.”

As the old couple strolled by, Israel saw that their eyes were red and glazed from the sun; the old man was walking with his mouth wide open like someone who's breathing his last and will drop dead the next instant.

“That bitch made him come here,” Israel said. “She convinced him he should see this country before he died, and then dragged him here all the way from New York or California. Now he can go back and die.”

“You don't like old people, do you?”

“No,” he said. “How can anybody like them? They know too much and have too little dignity. That old bitch thinks the world couldn't go on without her. That's why she browbeats her travel agent and flies here halfway across the world, spending money that'd be enough to feed five hungry men.”

“That woman could be your mother,” Ursula said.

“I'd say the same thing about my mother,” he said. “Fortunately, my mother is no longer here.” For a few moments he watched the old couple trudging slowly and doggedly along, even though each step they took must have required an effort. “Americans never say somebody's dead; they say he's gone or departed. But I prefer to think that old people really die and I'll never see them again. All those old mothers who ruined their children's lives. They won't come back.”

“I don't understand that,” she said. “My mother died when I was nine. I often wish I could talk to her. Maybe things would have been different if she had lived.”

“Oh, definitely,” he said. “She would have taken care of that. She would have done everything to ruin your life. But, believe me, none of them ever come back. They don't return, they disappear, together with their despicable bodies, their wisdom, and bad breath. Have you ever thought of how an old woman really smells? Nobody wants to think about it. No animal smells as bad as an old woman.”

“Did your mother harm you in some way?”

“The worst thing is she always did everything with my happiness in mind,” he said. “She wanted me to come here and live like a free man. I had begun to study aircraft construction and was already in my third year when she came to me and said, Israel, they are letting Jews leave. So what? I asked. Things may change, she said. They may stop doing that. Israel, do something for your mother. Let me die in a free country. She was already ill and knew she'd die soon, but she was determined to die in Israel. So we came here, and my mother died. But I couldn't go on studying aircraft construction. They don't teach it here. And that's the end of my story.”

“Can't you leave this country?”

“Where would I go?” he said. “My place is here. I'm a Jew.”

“Everybody can live wherever he wants,” she said. “You're wrong thinking the way you do. If everyone thought that way, there'd be no American nation. There'd only be Jews, Germans, Portuguese, and God knows who else living in America.”

“You've put it all very nicely,” he said, “but one needs money to go away and study. Hasn't your husband ever told you about money? It's the only bad thing Jews didn't invent.”

“You should leave Israel and continue your studies elsewhere,” she said. “You can always come back here later and work in your profession.” She paused. “Maybe I could help. My husband had many friends; I could talk to them. Some of them are rich and maybe they'd be willing to do something for you.”

“Where are they?”

“In Germany.”

He smiled. “That means I'd have to study in Germany, wouldn't I? Germany, of all places! I never thought life could be so amusing. But thanks, anyway.”

“Do you hate Germans?”

“No,” he said. “I pity them. But pity is worse than hate. What does one feel for people who murdered children? Hate? I believe God has turned His back on Germans once and for all. And that He'll never show His face to them again and will never punish them, even if they commit a thousand new crimes in the future. That's not hate.” He looked at his watch. “Where's that goddamn boat? It should have come back long ago.”

Someone touched his arm and he turned his head. Two men were standing by the jeep; he and Ursula hadn't noticed their approach.

“You're Ben Dov's friend?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” Israel said.

The man reached into his pocket, took out a wad of bills and held it out to Israel. “Give this money to the younger Ben Dov,” he said. “Give it to him and tell him to leave Eilat.”

“Did he ask you for it?” Israel asked.

“That's not important,” the man said. He removed his sunglasses and gingerly touched the Band-Aid under his eye. “The important thing is that you give him the money and that he goes away.”

“Settle it with him yourself,” Israel said. “I know nothing about this and I have no intention of getting involved.”

“And you know nothing about him slugging me last night?”

“No,” Israel said.

“Well, now you do,” the second man said. “Take the money Yehuda is offering and give it to young Dov.”

“Give it to him yourself,” Israel said.

“I don't want to see that bastard again,” Yehuda said. “I want him to disappear. If he doesn't, I'll go to the police.” He caught Israel's wrist and tried to stick the money in his palm, but Israel pulled his hand away.

“No, I won't take it,” he said.

“I'm asking you one last time: take this money and give it to the younger Dov,” Yehuda said. “Look, I have nothing against you personally; I prefer to make friends than enemies.”

Israel jumped out of the jeep and turned to the two men.

“I know what you want,” he said. “But you're not as clever as you think. You could give him the money yourself, but you prefer to pretend you want me to act as the go-between. Because you know I won't take your money. You just want to provoke me into a fight. Because you think that Dov Ben Dov will then come after you, and the police will arrest him and send him away, and then you'll be able to handle his brother without too much trouble. That's your plan, isn't it? But nothing doing. I intend to climb back into my jeep and drive off quietly, and nothing's going to happen.”

The second man suddenly slugged him in the jaw; Israel staggered and fell. He got up shakily and leaned against the jeep's hood.

“Nothing doing,” he said. “Dov won't go after you. You can hit me again.”

The man did; then Yehuda began striking Israel with the fist in which he still clutched the money; Israel again fell to the ground.

“Defend yourself,” Ursula screamed at him. She jumped out of the jeep, ran to him, and helped him get up. “Why aren't you defending yourself?”

He pushed her gently aside and wiped his mouth. “Dov won't get involved,” he said to the men. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?”

The second man again slammed him in the mouth, but this time Israel didn't fall. He held onto the steel grid of the jeep's radiator and stood there, a smile on his face. The second man hit him once more.