Cafe Nevo (2 page)

“More arak for Arik,” the young man chanted. “I'm celebrating. Have one on me.”

“What are you celebrating?”

“Freedom! Today I am a free man. No more worries, no more responsibilities—no more job.”

“Oy,”
Sternholz sighed. “You quit again.”

“Not this time. The bastards fired me.”

The waiter went and made two cups of strong coffee and carried them to the table. “So what now? Back to the kibbutz?”

“Who asked for coffee? I want arak.”

“You take what I give you and be grateful for it, boy. Why were you fired?”

“Budget cuts. Last in, first out, they said. But it was political.” Arik Eshel was a strapping young man of twenty-nine with the lean, wide-shouldered body that seemed to grow only on kibbutzniks. He had a headful of brown curls, blue eyes, and a cleft chin. Sternholz often saw him promenading on Dizengoff with some woman or another on his arm, but when he came to Nevo he had the respect to come alone.

“Too bad,” the old man said. “So now you'll go back to Ein Hashofet. Your father will be glad to have you back.”

“No, no, no,” Arik said, wagging his finger, and he began to sing, “‘I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.'“

One thing about kibbutzniks, Sternholz thought: they never could hold their liquor. He left Arik singing to himself, and went back inside.

 

It was Friday afternoon, and the pavements on Dizengoff were packed with strollers checking out the action in the cafés. Though summer had barely begun, there was enough bare flesh on display to blind a man with worse eyesight than Sternholz. Skirts were high this year, bare midriffs fashionable, and décolleté only reasonable for the climate; and wasn't it a shame, the waiter thought, that men grew old and lost their strength?

Across the street the Sabra was bursting at the seams. With its shocking pink walls and mirrored ceiling, white wrought-iron tables and chairs, and fringed umbrellas, the Sabra looked like a tart's bedroom. It attracted tourists and the young suburban dating crowd, types who could sit all night in Sternholz's sanctum without seeing so much as a glass of water. The Rowal, next door, was also overflowing. The Rowal was the oldest café on Dizengoff, besides Nevo. Modeled after Viennese pastry parlors, the Rowal was no longer the best cake place in town, but it was still the
Yekke
Mecca of Dizengoff. Sternholz called it the chicken coop because it was only women and old men who sat there, gabble gobble all the day.

Only Nevo, of all the Dizengoff cafés, still had empty tables on Friday afternoon. Its front flank was guarded by the overcoat brigade, a row of burnt-out, bleary-eyed, wasted individuals who nodded over chessboards, shivering even in the summer heat. These were the pioneers of yesteryear who fell by the wayside, their stinking but unburied wreckage the hidden cost of the great adventure. To enter Nevo one had to pass through their sad malice; no wonder most people preferred the brighter façades.

Nevo was the oldest and certainly the grungiest of the Dizengoff cafés; in fact it predated the street over which it seedily presided. When Dizengoff was being built, and Tel Aviv was nothing but a miniature white-stoned oasis of a city on the desolate shore north of Jaffa, two enterprising Polish brothers set up a workers' kitchen beside the construction site, to serve the laborers beer, seltzer, and Turkish coffee. The construction ended but the canteen remained, upgraded by the addition of an awning and a hand-painted sign that proclaimed in large red Hebrew letters,
CAFÉ NEVO.
Though retaining its worker clientele, the café soon began to attract another set, the writers, actors, and artists who by virtue of their socialist ideology styled themselves members of the proletariat, but who in fact constituted the Tel Aviv elite of their day.

The workers had to work, but the artists had nothing better to do than to hang around all day, gossiping, flirting, and arguing. When the brothers realized that not even by starving these customers could they encourage them to turn over faster, they began, grudgingly, to serve food. It wasn't long before they felt the need of additional help. They hired Emmanuel Yehoshua Sternholz, a greenhorn fresh off the boat, for twelve pounds a month.

Years passed, and decades, each with its own war. Nevo weathered them all. The Polish brothers grew rich, but one died childless, the other lost his only son in the war of ‘56. Emmanuel Yehoshua Sternholz reigned alone, the sole keeper of Nevo. Other cafés sprung up: cafés to the right of them, cafés to the left of them, cafés all around them, strung together by the colorful beads of boutiques, shoe salons, and jewelry stores. Dizengoff grew richer and gaudier and more expensive, but Nevo endured, huddled in on itself, stubbornly filling and defiling the classiest section of Dizengoff pavement with its ragtag collection of gun-metal gray fold-aways, its shabby decor and even shabbier clientele.

Not all who penetrated Nevo's front flank attained service, for Emmanuel Yehoshua Sternholz was a jealous and exacting waiter. Traditions had to be upheld, standards maintained. Tourists and gawkers lowered the tone and disturbed the regulars, whose sanctuary Sternholz was sworn to defend. Such callers were ignored until they slunk out ignominiously or, if that failed, were summarily ejected. Nor could a customer on whom Sternholz deigned to wait be secure of getting what he asked for, for the waiter reserved the right to edit all orders. He gave his customers what they needed, not what they wanted.

So it was that when Ilana swirled into the café, parting the ranks of the old men with her scent, Sternholz did not wait for her to order but hurried over with a double shot of his best whiskey (which was not very good).

She accepted it with a smile and said, “How are you, Emmanuel?”

“Don't ask. Muny was acting up again.”

“He looks quiet enough now.”

“You don't look so great.” In fact she looked beautiful, as always; only Sternholz could have seen the weariness in her walk.

“I'm okay,” she said without conviction.

Sternholz gave her a sympathetic look. He would have stayed to talk some more, but the animals were clamoring.

Left alone, Ilana looked around the café and caught Vered's eye. The two women nodded and smiled, but did not speak.

A shiny black Mercedes pulled up to the curb, honking, and Pincas Gordon stepped out. Sternholz grimaced. The fat man threaded his way through the café, slapping backs and pounding shoulders on the way, like a politician on the make. In an elegant beige linen suit, with a silk tie thrust casually in a pocket and a white shirt open at the throat, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Both his gold watch and cuff links bore his initials writ large. You'd think (thought Sternholz) that he'd be more discreet about his wealth, considering where it came from.

Pincas paused at Vered's table with a loud snort of delight. “Vered Caspi, darling! One never sees you about these days. What a marvelous surprise.” He seized her hand and kissed it. “All alone? May I join you?”

Vered dabbed at the afflicted hand with a napkin. “Yes, I am, and no, you may not.”

“My dear,” he said reproachfully, “is that any way to treat an old friend?”

She looked at him through dark glasses. “I know what you've been up to,” she said. “You disgust me.”

“Business is business,” Pincas said. “I would never allow
that
to come between friends.”

“I would.” Vered went back to her newspaper.

Pincas wandered over to a table by the bar and sat down. “Well, well, well,” he said, looking at his nearest neighbor, and was about to address her more directly when Sternholz hustled up.

“What do you want?”

“Always the gracious host,” Pincas said for the girl to hear.

“You have a complaint, take it up with management I'm busy. What do you want?”

Pincas ordered a brandy, then, smiling broadly, bent his pudgy face toward the girl at the next table. But Sternholz was back between them before he could make his move. “Don't bother her,” the waiter said into his ear.

“Sternholz,” the fat man began angrily, but Sternholz held up a peremptory hand.

“Bother her and I'll kick you out of here.”

Pincas, who saw nothing comical in this threat from a seventy-three-year-old man, straightened and said, “I'm not in the habit of bothering anyone, you old fool, much less schoolgirls. Why don't you fetch my brandy and keep your nose out of my business?”

“I wouldn't put my nose within ten miles of your stinking business.”

The girl at the next table gave no sign of having heard this exchange. She was a splash of sunshine in the gloomy tavern interior. Her hair, the rich auburn of loamy earth, fell in waves down to her shoulders; her green eyes were framed by high taut cheekbones and winged eyebrows. She wore no discernible make-up, save a touch of lipstick that emphasized a luscious lower lip. Every time he looked at her, Sternholz wanted to weep. She was as beautiful as her mother, and Yael Blume had been unquestionably the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

The girl held a sketch pad on her lap and stabbed at it furtively with a soft lead pencil. She sat with her back to the bar, a half-empty cup of coffee on the table before her. With the waiter's jealous eye on her, no one had dared approach her, but that didn't stop them from staring or asking each other, “Who's the new talent?” If she felt the attention, it didn't seem to bother her, or perhaps she was so absorbed by the faces emerging on her pad that she had no notice to spare for their prototypes. Her name was Sarita Blume.

 

“Welcome to Nevo, the bowels of Tel Aviv. This is our refuge, the bathroom of our souls. Rami Dotan, Khalil Mussara.” Caspi did not introduce Dory.

“It's a pleasure. I've admired your work.” Rami held out his hand. His English was respectable, his accent execrable.

Khalil touched the proffered hand. He stood, forcing the others to remain on their feet. “You read it in Arabic?” he asked.

“In English. The Oxford edition.”

“A poor translation.”

“Unfortunately I don't read Arabic.”

“Sit down already,” said Caspi. “What'll you have? Sternholz!”

The waiter approached.

“Coffee,” said Khalil. “Black. Strong.”

Caspi added, “Coffee all around.”

Sternholz nodded dourly and retired, not before taking a long, hard look at the Arab. Khalil Mussara was a tall, lean man, classically handsome, in his mid-thirties. He wore dark glasses and spoke English with an Oxford accent. When the waiter had gone, there was an awkward silence; then Rami Dotan said: “Caspi has explained the project to you, of course. I only want to add that we at Dotan and Weiner regard this joint Israeli-Palestinian anthology as one of the most important projects we have ever undertaken, and we are prepared to treat it accordingly. It goes without saying that your participation, and that of my good friend Caspi, are essential to the book.”

“Indeed,” said Caspi sonorously, hand on heart, “if by doing this book we can contribute an iota of understanding, if we can open one single mind to the light of tolerance and mutual respect, then we will all die happy men.” He laughed and punched Rami in the shoulder. “Relax, Rami. Khalil is as sold on the project as we are, aren't you, mate?”

Rami's smile faded. Caspi loved to mock him publicly, and he was the last man to stand for it. But Rami, being a publisher, also loved money. Any author who sold 40,000 in hardcover was entitled to his little idiosyncrasies.

“It depends,” the Palestinian said. Rami looked at him anxiously. Caspi's smile froze in place.

“Depends on what?” they said together.

“On the contents, on the format, on the question of editorial control.”

“What's he talking about?” asked Dory. “Are you doing a book with him?”

“Hush up, little pumpkin,” Caspi said, without removing his eyes from Khalil's face.

“The contents,” Rami repeated, spreading his hands. “But that is entirely up to the two of you. No politics, of course.”

The Palestinian rose abruptly. “Then it is a farce. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

Caspi caught his arm. “Just a minute, fellow. Not so fast. Things can be worked out.” Though the words could possibly be construed as conciliatory, the tone was most definitely not, being arrogant and harsh. He pointed imperiously to Khalil's chair. The Arab gave him a chilling look, but he sat obediently. “That's better,” Caspi said, smiling. He turned to the publisher. “Rami, my friend, you're full of shit.”

“I am not. What I meant is that you both will have total freedom within the parameters of the book's definition, which is modern Israeli and Palestinian literature. I'd say those are broad enough areas to give you plenty of scope, without getting political.”

Caspi laughed. “Really, man, what would you have us write about, the birds and the bees?”

“That's all you ever write about anyway,” heckled Muny from a corner.

Khalil ignored him. Condescendingly, he told Rami Dotan that apolitical Palestinian writing was a contradiction in terms. “In a country where it is a crime to call oneself a Palestinian, to teach our history and display our flag, no writer worthy of the name Palestinian could ignore his people's plight. Any writer whose work does not grapple with our oppression is merely indulging in fantasy. If your intention is to compile a collection of Palestinian fantasies, you have come to the wrong man; and I do not think you will easily find the right one.”