Don't Ask Me If I Love (30 page)

I studied it for a few minutes more. Then I started another search for my bank book. It took me half an hour, but I did find it. Four thousand six hundred pounds, it said. What else, I thought, permission from the army? There shouldn't be any trouble about that. Not now, anyway.

So that's that.

I called a travel agency and asked the girl if there would be any problem getting a student flight to London.

She said, no, none at all. I asked her to book one for me.

The next morning I went to my military camp and asked for permission to leave the country. I got it within half an hour. For those times, it was probably a world record.

I came home and found my mother eating lunch. She looked at me worriedly as she put a plate of soup on the table in front of me.

“I hope you are not tiring yourself,” she said. “You shouldn't. Not yet.”

“I am not doing anything physical,” I assured her, “and I feel fine.”

“It's for your own good,” she said defensively.

“I know.”

I started eating.

She stood by the table and watched me.

“Listen, Mom,” I said, “I'll be flying to London. I think I could do with a vacation.” I smiled pleasantly at her astonished face. “And a change.”

“But …”

“I'll rest as much as I do here.”

She opened her mouth to protest and then shut it again.

She sat down at the table, facing me.

“When do you intend to go?”

“Eight forty-five, tomorrow. It's an El A1 flight.”

There was no surprise left on her face, just a thin trace of bitterness.

“I think you could have mentioned it before,” she said in a restrained voice.

“I just thought of it yesterday,” I said truthfully, “and I had to check with the army this morning.”

“You've been home four days.”

“I need a change,” I said placidly.

“All right,” she said.

“I won't stay long. A few weeks, not more.”

There was something else bothering her. She hesitated a bit before she finally let it out in the form of a question.

“Going with somebody?”

“No,” I said. “Who with?”

It didn't hit me until the plane landed in Heathrow Airport.

Driving to Lynda, the country around me had seemed too real and compelling to be disposed of by a $210 ticket. Israel seemed to be the only country in the world. I hadn't been anywhere else for four years. But now as I looked out the window of the red coach riding through the rain to the West London Air Terminal, I realized that there were no soldiers hitchhiking. The people were actually speaking about the weather in their polite, polished English. No one was talking about the shooting in the Jordan Valley. No one was even alluding to the Suez Canal.

Suddenly a pang of excitement rushed through me. Boy, I thought, looking at the traffic in an orderly procession on the left side of the highway, this is England.

My father had raised no objections to my trip. He was rather open-minded about it actually. I had to grant him that. He said a change could only do me good. He even offered to give me the addresses of his business friends in London, in case I should need something.

I had left the Triumph in the parking lot at the airport. I didn't intend to be away from home long.

When I boarded the plane and the stewardess showed me to my seat smiling her polite, professional smile, it occurred to me that this was going to be the first time that I had flown in four years without having to bail out.

The taxi driver who took me from the Air Terminal to Hampstead was a sweet old thing.

“A bit rainy today, isn't it, sir?” he asked me joyfully as he put my suitcase in the back of the cab. His Cockney accent was refreshing. I found myself smiling broadly back at him.

“Yes,” I said, “but I hear it has rained in London before.”

“Oh yes,” he said, “it has.”

The Rolls-Royces, the red buses, the men in frock coats and Derby hats, the funny policemen, they all seemed excitingly new. Riding through the busy city, I was very glad I had come.

At Belsize Park tube station the driver stopped the car and turned to me. He lowered the glass screen between us.

“You'll have to tell me more precisely where you want to go, sir,” he said, pulling his cap down around his ears. “This is Haverstock Hill.”

I scratched my head.

“Are we close to a street called Arkheight?”

He sniffed.

“It's right there, sir,” he said pointing with his finger.

“Is there any small, reasonably cheap hotel around here?”

“There is one around the corner,” he said.

“Let's go there.”

“Right.”

He stopped by a three-story house of red bricks with a red roof. There wasn't any sign hanging in front.

“This is it,” the driver said in his funny accent, taking out my bags. “It's a pleasant place.”

“Thank you.”

I gave him his fare plus a two-shilling tip and pushed the gate open. It led through a small green garden to the door. I liked it immediately. An elderly woman at the reception desk smiled at me in a grandmotherly way and said that yes, I was fortunate they still had one vacancy.

She led me up to the second floor and into a large brightly painted room, overlooking the street. I told her that it was fine and that I would let her know the next morning how long I was going to stay.

I decided the best time to find a girl at home would be around seven, before supper. It was a kind of game I was playing with myself, pretending I was sure she would be there, sitting at the table, just about to start eating the fish on her plate. I could see it all quite clearly in my imagination.

I had lunch at a small Swiss restaurant near the tube station and then I went back to the hotel, took a hot bath, and went to sleep. When I woke up it was past seven and I jumped out of bed, afraid that my oversleeping was a bad omen. I dressed quickly and left.

Number 2, Arkheight Street was a five-minute walk from the hotel. There were only four families living in the house, so the name Strawson wasn't hard to locate.

At the second floor I stopped and smoothed down my hair with my wet hand. In God we trust, I told myself soothingly. It has to be true. It's printed on American money.

I rang the bell and waited.

I heard light footsteps. Then the door opened. A tall figure in a flowery bathrobe stood in front of me. The girl's face was familiar but she had short light curly hair and heavy dark eyelashes. There were a few seconds of absolute silence.

“It's you again,” Joy said finally. Her blush was unmistakable even under her make-up. “You've probably been counting on getting a good English supper.”

I let the air out of my lungs, slowly and quietly, so as not to make my relief roaringly obvious.

“I find London rather damp,” I said. “A bit nasty for summer, isn't it?”

“Oh,” she said.

Somewhere, inside, a kettle whistled loudly and then stopped.

“Well, come in, won't you?” she said, but she didn't move from the doorway.

“Don't tell me,” she said softly, “that you have come all the way to London just to see me.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I've come for.”

“Well,” she said, even more softly, “I'll be goddamned.”

She moved away a bit, to let me pass. I took my hands out of my pockets and stepped in.

“Now,” the soft voice said, as I brushed by the thin cloth of her bathrobe, “in that case, perhaps a kiss would be in order.”

I held her by the shoulders and pulled her to me. Her eyes closed dreamily and her lips opened a bit. Her mouth was warm and sweet. I felt my fingers tightening on her skin, involuntarily.

“Why did you disappear, damn you?” I said hoarsely when she finally pulled back slightly.

“Now what the hell is this?” a new voice said from outer space.

I looked in the direction the voice had come from. A tall blond girl was standing there, in a bathrobe identical to Joy's. She resembled Joy, but was not quite as pretty.

“What's so special about those bathrobes?” I asked a bit sourly.

“They have quality,” the new girl said briskly but her eyes stayed on me for a moment saying, and what the hell is so special about you, flatfoot? And then they shifted to Joy repeating the same idea more or less, only more insistently.

“I might as well introduce you two,” Joy said, “This is my sister, Lynda, and this is Assaf Ryke, a tourist from Israel.”

“Ah, one of those,” Lynda said, but she extended her hand and switched on a pleasant smile. “Actually I believe I've heard about you from Joy, but for a moment I thought you were the new milkman.”

I weakly pressed her hand.

“Yes,” I said, “they keep changing them all the time.”

“And with no notice,” Lynda added. “But come in. Why are you two standing in the doorway?”

It was a hard question to answer so I closed the door and we moved through a hall into a small, gay living room.

“John!” Lynda hollered at someone who was hiding behind the sports page. “Come and meet your guests.”

He jerked abruptly into a standing position and cleared his throat. He was tall and skinny and pale, every inch an Englishman.

“Sorry,” he said, putting out his hand, “how do you do?”

“Don't be,” I said, taking it. “I am Assaf. Glad to meet you.”

“Oh God,” Joy said, “I hope you haven't reformed. This isn't quite your style.”

I shrugged.

“I hope I have reformed.”

“I trust you will join us for supper,” John said, folding his newspaper neatly and placing it on his chair. I decided he must be in his middle twenties, but his hair was cut short.

“Thank you.”

“We might as well eat, then,” Lynda said.

She led the way to the table, which was on the other side of the room, near the kitchen.

After we had finished eating, Joy asked me: “Where are you staying?”

“A nice quiet place,” I said, “a few minutes walk from here. It's in Lyndhurst Gardens.”

“Oh yes, I know the place.” Lynda said.

“Then, maybe,” Joy said, tapping with her teaspoon on the tablecloth, “we could take a walk there. It's a pleasant evening.”

“That is a good idea,” I said.

She got up.

“I'll get dressed,” she said. “You stay here and amuse your hosts.”

“I'd like to help with the dishes,” I said to Lynda.

“Well, well,” Joy said nastily and left the room.

“That's sweet of you,” Lynda said, “but there's no need.”

“How long are you going to stay in London?” John asked.

“I don't know yet. It depends.”

“Oh, I see.”

Lynda stared at me with open curiosity. I found myself shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

“You are a year older,” I said stupidly, “I mean, a year older than Joy.”

“Oh heavens, does it show?”

“Of course not.”

“How's Israel?” she asked.

“All right, but you should come and see it for yourself.

“Yes,” she said seriously, “I want to. It seems quite frightening from here but Joy says that's a wrong impression.”

“You won't get shot in Tel Aviv. It's very safe for tourists and civilians. Only soldiers have trouble, but that is pretty far outside the city.”

“Like ten miles?” she asked earnestly.

“We use kilometers there, so it comes to more. It is a lot more than that.”

“We'll come and visit, maybe next summer, Johnny?”

John smiled and when he did he suddenly looked rather handsome.

“Yes,” he said, “I'd like to.”

“I am a quick dresser,” Joy said, appearing in the hall.

She had put on a black dress that did justice to her shape.

My face must have expressed my thoughts.

“So, let's get going,” Joy said.

“Thanks a lot,” I said, to the other two.

“Don't mention it,” Lynda said brightly. “We'll be seeing you.”

WHEN we were down in the street I said to Joy:

“Really want to go to the hotel?”

“Yes,” she said, “hotel rooms are good places to talk.”

I nodded.

“But we can take a longer route,” she said, “since it is such a pleasant evening.”

We walked in silence for a few moments. It was a restful area; even the pubs were quiet.

“Why did you leave like that?” I said. “I wrote you a letter from the reserves, but I never got an answer.”

“Was it a nice letter?”

“Yes,” I said, almost bitterly, “very.”

“I wasn't there any more,” she said, leading me into a narrow street.

“I left the country a week after we last met.”

I looked at the straight line of street lamps that marked the way ahead of us.

“Why?”

“My visa expired. That wasn't the only reason, of course. I lost my job again. I went to the Ministry of the Interior to ask for an explanation. The man there was fairly polite, much to my surprise. He explained to me that my taking a job might prevent a new Jewish immigrant from getting one. Immigration is an extremely important matter in Israel. It's vital to Israel's existence. He was a nice man. He said I shouldn't give up, but I should appreciate the difficulties involved.”

“But you did give up?”

She hesitated for a moment.

“You might say so. I was very low at the time. You came that night. Then I didn't hear a word. I was angry with myself. My self-confidence was badly shaken. So I left.”

In the dim lamplight I saw the blood creep into her cheeks.

“I was going to come back.”

“Why didn't you ever call?”

“I did,” she said quietly, “once. I talked to your mother. She said you had not been home for a few days. She said she didn't know where you were.”