Cafe Nevo (4 page)

She was fashionable; it was something to appear with Ilana on one's arm. It meant, at the very least, that one could afford her. She conferred a cachet which she believed benefited even the wives of her lovers.

And she was wise. Her exotic crossbred looks were a matter of the merest good fortune, but her shrewd exploitation of that asset was a product of the mind. As every prosperous entrepreneur in the service sector knows, it pays to specialize. Ilana realized that much of her attraction for her Jewish lovers stemmed from her Israeli background. She evoked genetic memories of the hot, fragrant desert, of brilliant light, white stone cities, and robed denizens who cast shadows of knife-edge clarity: these images combined with the subterranean current of guilt and fear that runs in the veins of every diaspora Jew to release tremendous energy, energy which Ilana harnessed and converted to cash. A simple biological process, a kind of symbiosis. Ilana loved only Jews; and the generosity of her lovers was primed by their knowledge that by contributing (generously) to her support, they were helping the economy of Israel. She had herself incorporated and billed her lovers for public relations services. By rendering their contributions tax-deductible, Ilana was able to elicit quite astonishing sums for services which did not, in the dark, differ greatly from those available for loose change in the back streets of great cities. Her lovers were as large with financial advice as they were with the means to profit by it. Ilana invested wisely; she was a wealthy woman.

Beautiful, wealthy, and in her prime, but not quite happy; and why not? Was it merely the fact that today she was thirty-six years old? But age held no fear for Ilana that her mirror could not allay. She slipped off her dress and went to look.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

“You are,” said her mirror, “for your age.” Ilana knew very well that she did not look like a girl of twenty; she'd lost the innocent grace of youth. But at thirty-six she was handsomer than she had been at twenty, and if her beauty now was sophisticated rather than simple, urban rather than rural, it suited the life she led. In her profession, as in any other, it takes time to reach the top. Ilana was an executive, and looked it. Girls of twenty, no matter how beautiful (she thought of that magnificent young creature at Nevo that afternoon), were not her rivals. They could have nothing to say to the men who sought Ilana as much for her savoir-faire as for her not inconsiderable physical attractions.
They
would be liabilities where
she
was an asset. When she was young and freshly launched on her career, thirty-five had been her outer limit. But she knew better now. She was a young woman still to the men of fifty and sixty who sought her avidly, and with exercise and diet she could retain her market value for many more years.

Why then, if this was so (and it was), did Ilana feel so bad? Something was wrong. She could not eat; she could not smoke; she felt exhausted all the time. Was it an incipient bout of flu? Or could it be the fallout of her recent experience in Frankfurt?

As if on cue, the telephone rang. Ilana visualized her mother, older now and graying, wearied by the long years spent raising five children on a postman's salary and by the time (of which Ilana knew little) that had come before.

But it was a man's voice that said, “Ilana?”

“Hello, David.” Her voice automatically assumed the husky pitch reserved for current lovers. “I've missed talking to you. Where are you now?”

“I'm back in the office. Sorry I didn't reach you from Germany, but I did try several times. I was worried about you.”

“No need to be, darling. I'm fine. I'm just sorry we missed our time together.”

“So am I,” he said, and there was a pause. Then he asked hesitantly, “What happened to you?”

She laughed lightly. “God knows; brain fever or flu or something—but whatever it was it's long gone. You were wonderful, David. You were so gentle and kind, afterward. As sorry as I am that we lost the rest of the days, I treasure the memory of that last night.”

“Don't say last,” he murmured. “I must see you. Will you meet me?”

“Any place but Germany.” She laughed.

“No, here, in London. Come next weekend.”

“Darling, I'd love to.” They discussed flights, then rang off. Ilana ran to the bathroom and retched into the sink.

It must be the flu, she thought, but what flu hangs about for weeks before stepping forward to declare itself? And what flu made her confront a roomful of perfect strangers on the Theaterplatz and scream “Nazi swine!” into their astonished faces?

It happened right next to their hotel, in one of those irresistible German delicatessens that feature the finest imported foods and wines at impossible prices. David intended to take her out to supper after his day of meetings was done, but Ilana, passing the store on her way back from shopping, decided to surprise him with dinner in their suite. She entered and joined an orderly line of well-dressed customers waiting to be served.

The line moved slowly. To pass the time, Ilana studied the other people in the store. There were two elegant ladies in summer furs, mother and daughter by their age and resemblance. There was a clerkish young man in horn-rims, who read a newspaper as he waited. There was a tall, attractive woman in a business suit who fidgeted impatiently, and a womanish little man with a miniature poodle on a leash. The dog was terminally well behaved and stood in line as if bred to it. Directly behind her stood the only reasonable prospect in the place (even off-duty Ilana saw through the lens of a professional), a tall German in his late forties or early fifties, with thick brown hair graying at the temples, who returned her look with overt interest. Behind him stood two unacquainted women, both middle-aged, one a German matron and the other unmistakably an American tourist. The American wore an oversized Star of David prominently displayed on her chest. Ilana looked at the star, blinked, and turned away.

The service was slow and the wait interminable. Ilana wanted to walk out but something held her back: the desire not to be bested by those insolent clerks, whose purpose, she felt, was to drive her out. She recognized dimly that this could not be, but the recognition did nothing to dispel the anger (and now, insidiously, the anxiety) she felt.

A man came into the store: a big man, a rich man, dressed in a suit like a uniform and owning a palpable air of command, which was bolstered by the harried air of the chauffeur who followed him in. This man strode past the line without a glance and immediately engaged one of the clerks, who was suddenly all eager helpfulness.

The line, as if it were a single organism, murmured, sighed, and fell silent.

Ilana protested—silently. At home she would have gone up to the offender, taken him firmly by the arm, escorted him to his rightful place, and delivered a tongue-lashing to boot. But to do that here she would have to speak; and if she spoke they would hear her accent; and if they heard her accent they might know she was a Jew. Without analyzing the feeling she felt strongly that this was undesirable. Ilana did nothing and, doing nothing, felt worse.

The American woman said shrilly, “What's going on here? Why are they serving that man?” No one answered or looked at her. She stepped out of line, approached the counter, and said, “This man just came in.”

The clerk ignored her. The large man gave her a desultory glance, pausing on the Star of David, then turned away with a disdainful expression and resumed his conversation with the clerk. Ilana stood stock-still, hardly breathing, staring at the neck of the man before her.

“Young man, look at me when I talk to you! I
said,
this gentleman just walked in.”

The clerk made a shooing motion with his hand, as if to a cat. The American exploded. “How dare you! I want to see the manager! Where is he? Answer me, you!”

There was not a sound in the room. Though all eyes were on the American woman, Ilana felt certain that at any moment they would turn on her. Be still, she prayed. Be still, fool.

The American turned toward the two German women, mother and daughter. “I don't understand this,” she said. “I thought the Germans are supposed to be so orderly, such
good citizens
. But I have been all over the
world
and I have never met with such insolence!”

Oh, God, woman, Ilana screamed silently, don't you feel how they hate you? She was terrified; she felt as if at any moment black-booted storm troopers would burst in and seize the woman and herself; and though she recognized the irrationality of her fear, that did nothing to allay it.

Mother and daughter looked at one another; then the elder said, in cultured English, “This man is very important. He is in the Government. He has no time to wait, and we would not wish him to.”

“My husband happens to be a very important man,” said the American, “but whenever he goes to the store, he waits on line like everybody else.”

“No doubt that is suitable for your husband,” the elder woman immediately replied, and turned her head away.

Ilana was sickened by her own craven silence but could not resist an exceedingly strong pull toward camouflage. It seemed effective; the man behind her leaned forward and whispered a few words in German, of which Ilana understood only
Ausländer.
She turned to him and said,
“Ich bin ein Ausländer”
and at once he fell silent and looked away.

The American had renewed her demand for the manager, and both clerks had left off serving and were arguing with her. Though they clearly understood her, they answered only in German. Ilana felt the anger of the waiting customers focus on the foolish woman, who now turned to appeal loudly for their support.

Someone said, “
Juden
.” Jews.

She didn't know who said it. It didn't matter. Her fear dissolved in rage. She stepped forth from the line, and so bright was her shining anger that even the American woman ceased talking to stare at her.

“Pigs!” cried Ilana. Her finger swept over the customers on the line and the two clerks. “You haven't changed. You're still the same filthy Nazi scum.”

Though she spoke in English it was evident that everyone understood her. Their faces blurred before her, so that all she saw was a single composite expression of shock, fear, and, yes, hatred.

Half a minute of silence, then: “The poor woman's mad,” said the German mother. “Call the police.” One of the clerks reached for a counter top telephone.

“Drop it!” Ilana screamed, and he did. The big man grunted and walked quickly out of the shop, his chauffeur scurrying behind. The dog began to bark. Its owner snatched it up, clutching it to his chest protectively. The American woman stood frozen with her hand over her mouth.

Ilana split in two. One half of her stood and watched the other rant and rave at a roomful of people, most of whom, she
knew,
were guilty of no more than impatience. That self had no control, no ability to interfere, only a helpless capacity to observe and suffer. Ilana's autonomous voice spewed out a medley of English, Hebrew, and Arabic curses and damnations, poetic in their combination and astonishing in their variety. She spoke fluently for quite a long time before the woman in the business suit took a tentative step forward and said in a sensible tone and passable English, “Try to calm down. Breathe deeply.” Sirens sounded in the street, coming closer. The two Ilanas came together with a jolt. Suddenly empowered, she turned and bolted from the shop—

Straight into David's arms.

David took over. He pacified the police and dismissed the two clerks, who had regained their tongues and were demanding an arrest. All the customers had quietly slipped away, except for the American, who fluttered nervously, distressed but helpless, and the German woman in the suit
. She
went up to the officer in charge and said authoritatively, “I believe this woman is Israeli.”

“She is,” he said.

“Release her. There was some provocation, an unpleasant incident. She had cause to be upset. And we do not know her background. You had better let her go.”

David's German was fluent. He told Ilana to wait and approached the officer. “The lady is distressed. The incident is over, and I am going to take her home.”

“Is she your wife?” the man asked officiously.

“It doesn't matter who she is. This is who I am. If you need me, I can be reached at the Frankfurterhof.” He handed over his card.

“Now just a minute—”

“Officer, I have not yet heard what happened in there. When I do, I may wish to press charges. I suggest you do nothing to exacerbate the situation.”

The policeman looked at the card in his hand, then at David's face. He said, “There is no need for charges on any side, sir. You may go. Please take care of the lady. We are sensitive to incidents of this kind; we would not like it to happen again.”

“It won't,” David said.

 

“Would you care to tell me what happened?”

“I would if I could, but I can't.”

They lay side by side on the king-sized bed in the suite. David had guided her, ashen and stunned, through the lobby and up to their rooms. He undressed her without a word, put her in the bath, left, and came back with two large whiskeys on a salver. “Cheers,” he said. Ilana tried to apologize, but he shut her up and began to soap her back and buttocks with good-natured, unpressing lust. After a while she began to cry. David took her out of the bath and led her to the bed and made love to her with a tender passion that astonished them both, having had no precedent in the relationship. Ilana, usually supremely conscious, active, and unmoved during love-making (though skilled at pretending otherwise), allowed herself, in her exhaustion, the sinful luxury of passivity and in the end achieved a long moment of utter forgetfulness. When she came back, she was herself again.