Don't Ask Me If I Love (34 page)

“I don't know. You can do anything, everything. Get your M.A. in psychology or study acting. Maybe we'll go abroad for a while, I don't know.”

“It'll be all right,” she said. “I am not worried. It's just that I never intended to get married so soon. Anyway, not consciously. And so I'm not really sure what I want to do. But I'll find out. There is no hurry.”

“There is an acting group in Jerusalem which speaks English,” I said. “They put on plays from time to time in different places. I have never seen them but I've heard they're not bad. Maybe you'd like to try and join them.”

“What is the name of the group?”

“I don't remember, but it would be easy to find out.”

“Will you find out for me?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, darling.” She laughed and came from the bed to the place where I was sitting. She hooked an arm around my neck, pulled herself up and planted warm kisses on my mouth. “I am in a good mood again,” she announced. “See?”

“Yes,” I said amused.

“Shshshsh,” she said, putting a long finger in front of her mouth. “Now you go back to your miserable studying while I fix us some delicious strawberry ice cream.”

She got to her feet and marched out of the room. The bell rang.

I went over and opened the door.

“Can I come in?” my mother asked. She had a huge round cake in her hands.

I stepped aside.

“Sure, with that cake, you'd even be welcome.”

“Hello, dear,” my mother said to Joy who came out of the kitchen. She offered her the cake.

“Oohh,” Joy exclaimed, taking it, “thank you. That will go beautifully with the ice cream. Here, put it in the kitchen,” she told me. And turning to my mother: “Won't you sit down?”

I did as I was told and went to the kitchen.

“No thanks,” my mother was saying when I reappeared in the room. “I just dropped in for a moment. What I actually came for,” she added, turning to me, “is to tell you that your father received tickets for the premiere of a new Israeli movie. I forget the name, but it's about the Six Day War. He thought you might be interested in going.”

“Certainly,” I said. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“That would be nice.” Joy said.

“Well, here you are then,” my mother said, taking two elegant-looking white cards out of her wallet. “Starts at eight-thirty, I believe.”

“Thanks. Aren't you coming too?”

She shook her head.

“I think I'd rather stay home. Your father has a meeting tomorrow evening. You can tell me about it afterward.”

It turned out to be a rather fancy event. The audience consisted of guests connected with the film industry, and people who could afford the costly tickets. The Prime Minister and some other celebrities were also there.

We sat in one of the first rows in the gallery. Joy wore her most elegant dress, a silver maxi, and her silver shoes and silver earrings. Every head turned when we passed through the hall. She looked stunning.

The film was called
The Dead and the Living
, and it was adapted from a novel of the same title that had been written by an Israeli author shortly after the war. I had not read the book but had heard a lot about it. It had been one of the most successful best-sellers in the country, the previous year.

Before the screening started the producer of the film made a short speech emphasizing the importance of this moment in his life, and tried to spice it with a few anecdotes. He finished by expressing his hopes that the audience would enjoy this work of art.

After the first ten minutes I lost interest in the movie. It was the usual sentimental, heroic story of gallant brave men and gallant women fighting for their lives and future with only God at their side. When the intermission finally came I told Joy I wanted to leave, but she wanted to stay. She said that if I ever wanted to make films I could also learn a lot from bad ones. I slumped down into my seat again.

“Pardon me. But you are a lovely young woman.”

I looked in the direction the voice was coming from. A tall, dark-haired middle-aged man was standing next to Joy's seat, looking down at her with polite curiosity.

“Good evening,” Joy said, gazing up at him.

“I hope I am not intruding.” He spoke English with a distinct American accent. “Are you an actress?”

“No,” Joy said, and then she smiled back at him, “not yet.”

“I was sure you were,” he said, raising his thick black eyebrows admiringly, “forgive me.” He offered his hand. “I am Derek Bennett.”

“Joy Ryke,” she said, pressing his hand. “How do you do?”

Derek Bennett, I thought. I have heard the name before. Who the hell is he?

“Joy Ryke?” he was saying, still holding her hand, “are you by any chance …”

“I am his daughter-in-law,” she said. “This is my husband.” He turned and looked at me.

“Assaf Ryke,” I said, offering my hand. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“I am happy to meet you,” he said. “I know your father.”

“Oh,” I said.

We shook hands.

“I am a producer,” Derek Bennett said. “This is my first visit to this country.” He looked around absent-mindedly. “I find it fascinating.” He turned back to us. “Do you have anything to do with movies?”

“We are trying to get started,” I said. “I write a bit, and my wife wants to be an actress.”

A bell rang three times.

“I'll have to go back to my seat,” he said. “Look, why don't I invite you for a drink after this is over and we can have a quiet talk.”

“Why don't you?” I said, smiling.

“Right, I'll meet you at the exist.” He turned away.

“Well,” Joy commented.

“I've heard of that guy before,” I said. “He must have produced a pretty important movie, but I can't remember which.”

We looked at each other and then she winked at me and burst out laughing.

“You'd better watch your tongue then,” she said.

The lights in the hall went out. On the screen, the young handsome heroes began dying again, saving their country in the process. I wasn't interested in their troubles.

“Shall we go to my hotel?” Derek Bennett asked, when we were standing on the sidewalk in front of the cinema. “We can sit at the bar there.”

“That would be fine,” Joy said.

“I've got a car here,” I said. “It's a bit small, though.”

He slapped me lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, I don't mind that,” he said, in good spirits. “Let's go.”

I drove to the Ring David Hotel, careful not to have an accident on the way.

We sat in the bar and ordered scotch and gin and ginger ale. Bennett sat with his back to the corner.

“So what did you think of the film?” he asked.

“Lousy,” I said.

“Why?”

“It's too sentimental and too heroic,” I said. “It doesn't look real and therefore it doesn't involve you. A movie has to involve you in order to become a box office success. Plus, it's too common. It has been done and done before. People have already gotten the message that we are all heroes. An antihero would look much fresher and more attractive.”

He nodded his head thoughtfully.

“What do you think?” he asked Joy.

She smiled at him over her ginger ale. “I agree with my husband.”

Derek Bennett laughed and took a sip of his scotch. He had a pleasant laugh. It made him seem younger.

“So do I,” he said. He turned to Joy. “You must be from New York?”

“Washington State originally,” Joy said, “but I grew up in New York.”

“And came here on your own?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About a year ago.”

“A Zionist family?”

“Not at all. Not even a Jewish family, in fact.”

Derek Bennett raised his glass to his mouth. A flicker of interest showed in his eyes.

“What brought you here?”

“Curiosity, at the beginning,” Joy said, “but I loved it from the first moment I came. It is a fascinating country.”

“It is,” he said. “I am here for the first time and I am addicted to it, completely. It fills my mind.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Mind you,” he said, “I was born a Jew, but it never meant anything to me. I lived completely without religion, and I liked it that way. I had even changed my original name to make it sound more”—he chuckled—”practical. And now, after all these years, here I am and I am obsessed by what I see around me.”

We watched him talk.

“Want another drink?”

“Please,” I said.

Joy nodded, absorbed in her thoughts.

He raised his hand and signaled to the bartender to bring three more drinks. Then he turned to us again.

“How did you two meet?” he asked. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'm just curious.”

“He picked me up on the street one Friday night,” Joy said, squeezing my arm gently. “It was in the Old City. I used to live there.”

“Oh.”

“I was still in the army, then, on a weekend leave,” I said. “Didn't have much to do so I was driving with a friend around town, bored stiff.

“It was nice,” Joy said, looking at me.

“Listen,” he said. “I've been in this country for only a week and I'll be leaving in two days, but I have made my mind up to make a movie about it.” He paused. “I'd like to do that very much.

“I don't want it to be anything like the movie we saw tonight,” he continued. “It should be funny and realistic and as contemporary as the two of you.”

“I wrote a book,” I said tentatively. “A novel. It's called
Running Out of Miracles
. It will come out in about six months. But I have the galleys at home.

“Oh,” he said, visibly impressed. “Is it in English?”

“Sure.”

“What about?”

“A contemporary Israeli story,” I said, “about young people, with no heroes.”

“Oh?”

For a moment no one spoke.

“You see,” Derek Bennett said finally. “I would like to do this movie in a way that would help the Israeli film industry as much as possible. I believe it needs encouragement, especially the young people who are trying to get started like yourselves. Money is not my problem, and this time, it is also not my objective. I have made lots of money on movies. This one I would like to do for more idealistic reasons.”

“I see,” I said.

“I'll have to read you book,” he said.

“That would be great.”

“Have you ever written a movie script?”

“Not really,” I said. “I've written short ones, for myself. But I've read scripts and I've read books about scripts. I think I could do it.”

“Well, we'll see,” he said, “but first, I have to read your book.”

“I'll bring it to you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,” he said glancing at his watch, “what's wrong with tonight?”

“Well,” I said to Joy when we were driving back to our flat, “it looks like this is our chance.”

“Don't get too worked up,” she said. “We don't know anything yet.”

“I think he means what he says.”

“So do I,” she said, “but we still don't know what's going to come of it.”

“This is our chance.”

“It would be beautiful.”

“It will,” I said, parking the car in the small street where we lived. We went up to the apartment. I took the galleys I had received from the publishing house off the shelf. Joy kicked her shoes off and sat wearily in the armchair.

“I'll go over to my parents' ” I told her, “after I drop this off at the hotel. I have to find out from my father who this guy is.”

“All right.”

“I'll be back in about an hour.”

As I walked out I looked at the calendar that hung on the wall by the door. It was Wednesday, September 16, 1970.

When I walked into the hotel, Bennett was still sitting in the bar, having his third drink by himself. I gave him the book, wished him good night and went out again. I drove slowly to my parents' house, going over the whole evening in my mind.

The last of my father's guests was leaving as I entered the house. I walked into the kitchen and helped myself to a bottle of Coke. After I heard the door shut and locked I got up from the table and went into the living room. Both my parents were there having a quiet conversation. I sat down on the sofa facing them.

“Hullo,” my mother said, “Where's Joy?”

“At home. She was tired.”

“How was the film?”

“Not worth mentioning,” I said. “You were better off here.” I turned to my father who was sitting in his armchair looking tired. “Do you know a man by the name of Derek Bennett?”

“A bit. He is a movie producer.”

“Big?”

“I think so.”

“Successful?”

“Richer than me.”

“What is all this about?” my mother asked. “Why are you asking about this man?”

“I met him at the premiere,” I said. “He is interested in making a movie about Israel. Maybe I can do the story.”

“Oh,” my father said.

“Is he reliable?”

“I should think so.”

“You ought to be studying for your exams,” my mother said to me anxiously. “You shouldn't waste time now.”

I got up.

“No,” I said, smiling at her, “I won't waste time.” I walked over to her and patted her on the cheek. “Don't worry, Mother.”

“I never know what you're up to,” she said sadly.

“That's because I'm never up to anything,” I said. “Well, I'll be on my way.”

“Will you show him your book?” my father asked.

“I hope he is reading it right now.”