Don't Ask Me If I Love (16 page)

She looked at me from above her newly lit cigarette.

“Wasn't it romantic enough?” I asked.

She laughed. “Well.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Life is a bit mechanical, nowadays.”

She laughed again.

“Bastard.”

“But I did enjoy it.”

She nodded her head.

“Thank you.”

“Being romantic isn't so practical any more,” I said. “What with life getting shorter all the time, for young people.”

“You're telling me.”

“On the other hand,” I meditated, “for the older generation, life is getting longer.”

“What a miscalculation on God's part.”

“The average remains the same, though. In this world, it's the average that counts.”

“Yes. The world belongs to the average.”

She puffed small rings of smoke and watched them dreamily.

“You are a lovely girl.”

She turned two green eyes on me. Small bits of mascara were smeared on her cheeks.

“I think I will turn off the light,” she said, “or would you like to go home?”

“No,” I said, moving closer to her, “not right now.”

“WHAT the hell is this?”

The voice that woke me had an impatient, rigorous impact that didn't go well with my dream. In the dream no one had been impatient or vigorous. It was a pleasant dream; I hated to let it sneak away. I opened one eye and cast it wearily on the alarm clock. The hands indicated that it was just six-thirty. I closed my eyes and sank back into my pillow.

“I haven't got all day,” my father said, and slapped me disrespectfully on my cheek with something he held in his hand. I gave up snoring and opened both eyes to look at the something that slapped me. My father was wearing an expensive gray suit, a colorful silk tie and a stiff-collared white shirt. He had his black brief case with him, and I realized he was already late for work.

Usually, his day started a six in the morning and ended around midnight, after he had exhausted his workers and assistants. Since I seemed to be the cause of his delay, I thought I might just as well be polite.

“Morning,” I said.

In his right hand he held a thick magazine. He waved it in front of my eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “What is this story business here? Come on, tell me all about it.”

I sat up and took a look.

“Well,” I said, “it's a short story I wrote. They published it. I haven't seen it yet.”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes unamused. “Forgot to mention it to your beloved parents and they sort of wonder why.”

“Wanted to surprise them.”

“Ahha.”

He went over to my desk and put his case on it, then he sat down on the chair. I glanced again at the clock. He was really full of surprises this morning.

“Your mother is quite upset,” he went on, staring at the ceiling. “She seems to have taken the description of the parents in the story a bit personally.”

“Oh, come on now.”

“I know, but she thinks so, and she is hurt because you didn't tell her about it. She regards it as a slap in the face.”

“Oh God.”

“There is some similarity in the background.”

“Then be glad I didn't try a murder story. I did consider it.”

He stared at me.

“This wasn't supposed to be an autobiography,” I said lightly. “It's just a story, you know.”

“Maybe it expresses an attitude that isn't very desirable,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I really don't care. I am probably not such a good father, it doesn't matter. But your mother is more sensitive and she's seen such hard times in her life. She is a very good woman.”

“Yes,” I said.

He finally looked at his watch.

“Well, I have to go.”

He stood up and took his briefcase.

“It must be terrible for you.”

“What?”

“You have wasted almost half an hour.”

I got out of bed, and stepped into my pants. He had stopped by the door where he stood watching me. The face was composed as usual, but behind it the little wheels in his brain were hard at work. I could almost hear them click. I couldn't guess what he was thinking.

“Actually,” he said, “I think it's a pretty good story you wrote.”

He was out of the room before I could catch my breath.

The short story, as it turned out (quite unexpectedly, as far as I was concerned) got some attention, and what criticism there was was most complimentary. It seemed, however, that many readers came to the conclusion that one of the writer's aims had been to sneer at the Israeli army, the Israeli spirit, and the Israeli youth. They found the attitude expressed a cynical and unhealthy one. I decided to ignore their reaction.

People close to my family would say to me, “We enjoyed reading your short story,” or a similar phrase which amounted roughly to, “We don't approve, but we have to say something.”

I bumped into a neighbor in the grocery and I heard her saying as I walked out, “Things come too easy to this boy. He has no appreciation and no gratitude.”

I ignored that, too.

Publication did give me enough confidence to feel ready to go on with that novel, and the sooner the better. I didn't care about the rest.

One morning, my mother said, “Assaf, it makes me sad to get the feeling that you don't really care about people around you. I don't know why you are like that. Did anyone ever do you any wrong?”

“No,” I said, “but I am not doing anyone any wrong, either. Maybe, I am just not as considerate as I could be.”

“You are so self-centerd,” she said in the same quiet, sad way that used to make me feel like climbing up to the roof and taking a shortcut down. “I don't think you have any friends, or social life. That is unhealthy, and not right.”

“I am O.K.,” I said. “I am fine.”

“People should care for other people,” she said. “The world will crumble when people stop caring.”

“It's crumbling anyway, and it's not up to me, Mom.”

She just shook her head.

I went back to writing my novel. Short stories were fine, I thought, but they couldn't make you. Two hundred pages of a book in English might do the trick.

But, I thought a few days later, maybe my mother did have a point. It did seem a unhealthy way of life, to spend the evenings with a typewriter. Ruthi was a possibility, but once I let my mind wander in that direction, I knew it was not her I wanted. If you have to do it, I thought, let's have it right for a change; let's have the real stuff, once.

On Thursday morning, armed with this decision, I stepped into the TWA office, with my mind made up to play it cool.

“Hello,” I said to Joy, parking myself in the chair in front of her desk.

She looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. She didn't seem surprised or happy to see me. She didn't seem unhappy either. She just sat there.

“Long time no see,” she commented from behind a pack of papers.

I leaned forward.

“Say, listen.”

“Yes?”

“I want to go and spend the weekend in Caesarea. We have a summerhouse there. It's quite nice, by the beach.”

At least she was listening, because she stopped writing and put her pen down. I couldn't see her eyes because there were eyelashes in the way, so I continued, just the same, though my self-confidence was fast disappearing.

“I thought maybe you'd like to join me.”

She just looked at me. I tried to force a smile that probably didn't even reach my mouth. She burst out laughing.

“Why do you smile so unnaturally? You'll ruin your face!”

I didn't think it was entirely to the point, so I let it ride.

Her face turned serious again and her eyebrows went up.

“Problem is, I was already planning to go some place this weekend.”

Not a good enough approach, I thought.

“Well, that is too bad,” I said.

“Life is too crowded nowadays,” she offered sympathetically.

I pushed my chair back and stook up. I took a slow look around the room. It was a pleasant little office with lots of colorful advertisements of beachy countries.

O.K., I thought, say good-bye nicely and run along.

“I wish you would come though,” I heard my voice saying.

She looked surprised.

“Well.”

“That's as romantic as I get,” I said, embarrassed.

She considered that for a moment.

“Then, maybe I should come, in that case.”

“Please.”

“O.K.”

“I'll pick you up around noon?”

“O.K.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

She scratched her nose and smiled at me brightly, as though she had expected me to visit her all along. I looked at her and shook my head. I was hooked.

“See you then.”

“Yes.”

The summerhouse had two small bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. It stood behind a small hill that protected it from the view of other houses. On the other side, the waves almost reaching the stony wall, was the sea.

When you were inside, all you could see through the windows was the sky and the water and the sand. People rarely walked around there and the illusion of utter solitude was seldom disturbed.

I loved the house. I always regarded it as my place. I used to think of it as a castle. When I was alone there, sitting with my feet dangling in the water, the rest of the world quietly took off.

That was why I didn't go there too often. I feared that staying there too frequently would break the spell and make it common, just a house on the shore. I hadn't been there in the last few months and neither had my parents. They had had no time.

We arrived there after sunset. It was an unusually stormy evening and the rain poured ceaselessly. I set up the fire in the living room while Joy took a shower and changed. Then I went to the kitchen and prepared salad, sandwiches, and eggs. I brought the food and some plates into the living room and arranged it all on the floor.

I picked up the guitar that was hanging on the wall and sat down by the fireplace. I started playing softly. It wasn't too good to begin with, and I was out of practice. She came into the living room, wearing blue jeans and a red blouse, with her hair up. The bright flames from the fire twinkled in her eyes as she came and stood close by, stretching her arms to me.

“Can you really play that thing?”

“I'm not very good,” I said.

She pulled up a chair and sat near me, smiling into my eyes.

“Sing,” she said coquettishly. “Please sing me a song.”

“What song?”

“A love song,” she said dreamily, closing her eyes, still wearing that faint smile. “Yes, I would like that,” she added softly.

She leaned her head on the back of the chair and the leaping flames threw an occasional glow on her profile.

I sat close to her feet, watching her, plucking the strings uncertainly. Then I started quietly crooning, a few lines that found their way into my mind.

Oh baby baby baby,
It isn't easy at all
For a doll is so soft in her heart and her brain,
She will go on sighing and crying in vain,
Even though all has been washed by the rain,
And the rain long ago stopped to fall.

And baby baby baby
It isn't easy at all,
If you want to be strong there is just one way,
To have walls round your heart and be sure that they stay.
And don't let a doll come and push them away.
For when they crumble you fall.

But baby baby baby
It doesn't matter at all
For sitting down here and gazing at you,
And hoping that some day you might love me too,
Makes this the best night I ever knew,
The most beautiful of them all.

I got quite carried away while I was singing, but I was glad when I finished. My voice had been pitched too high, and the tune didn't strike me as particularly good. I put the guitar down on the floor.

“Not bad, for the spur of the moment,” she said in a voice so low it almost escaped me.

“I do better when I have time to think.”

“Do you?”

“I am writing a novel or two at the moment. Maybe you can read some of it, sometime, somewhere.”

Her mouth curled slightly.

“Maybe.”

I picked up one of the plates and shoved it toward her. “Eat and be happy.”

“Yes, be beautiful and shut up,” she said.

We ate, looking through the french windows at the sea and the rain and the black sky. The waves were high and foamy and threatening as they broke thunderously on the shore. “This is enchanting,” she said. “The sea.” I went to the kitchen and made two cups of coffee. I brought them to the room. We drank in silence.

“The food was good,” Joy said, putting her cup down. “And so was the coffee. Really.”

“One has to do something right.”

“Is it some kind of a biography?”

“What?”

“This novel or two you're writing.”

“Yes. No. I don't know,” I said uneasily.

She was sitting with her feet close to the fire, moving her toes in and out near the flames.

“What is really the matter?” she asked.

I shrugged. I was doing a lot of that, that evening.

“When I was small,” I said, “I was going to grow up to be brave and handsome and clever and generous. I was going to pick out my friends only from among people who were also like that. Then, one day, I was going to marry a beautiful, kind-hearted, sweet girl, with blond hair and blue eyes. It was all going to be great.”

I felt stupid about the whole story, but I went on anyway.

“She might have looked a lot like you.”

“Then what happened?”

I drew back a bit, and smiled at her.

“Nothing. Children are not very practical.”

She was still rather near me. Her face was flushed. I stood up and walked to the other side of the room.