Don't Ask Me If I Love (12 page)

The cards are against you, you can see that. You are only what you are. That's why you can't accept it.

Only way is, win as much as you can, as long as you can.

Make the best out of it.

The book, I thought, that was the first thing to do. That, and Joy. But first the book.

It will be a quick way to ascend. Just write it the right way. It shouldn't be difficult. There will be no need to search for a story. It's right there, inside you. I could see all of it in the crystal clearness of my mind. It was simple.

From then on I started counting the days to my release. It made the time go slower.

I left the prison after thirty-two days. They had taken off the days I had been in the guardroom in the camp. One day was for traveling.

Three days afterward, I was discharged from the army.

I was lifting weights in my room, when my mother knocked carefully on the door.

“Yeah?”

“Dinner is ready,” she said softly, not opening the door.

“O.K.”

“Will you come down?” she asked softly.

“In a minute.”

“All right.”

I heard her retreating footsteps.

Everybody around was talking to me softly, ever since my homecoming three weeks before. Even my father was patient and rather pleasant. I occasionally caught him exchanging meaningful looks with my mother who was quieter and more tolerant than ever. There was a tense expression on their faces whenever they spoke to me. I thought that maybe they were worried.

I spent almost all of my time in my room, behind an ever closed door. I had a portable typewriter and a pile of white, smooth sheets of paper lying on my desk. They had remained white and smooth throughout the three weeks, except those that had been crumpled and tossed into the wastebasket. I found it hard to get started. I couldn't concentrate. I did a lot of physical exercise. I specialized in weights. I worked with them for a few hours every day. It was an effective way of releasing energy.

I was supposed to be in the university for those three weeks. The year had started officially on the twenty-fourth of October, four days before I got out of prison. My mother had signed me up for economics, after she and my father had had a long talk. I didn't want to go to the university. I didn't care about economics. I wanted to write my novel. But I didn't do that either.

I put on a red, flowery shirt and looked at the mirror. My hair had almost reached its normal length again. I intended to let it grow a lot longer.

I kicked my tennis shoes off and went downstairs.

My parents were already sitting at the table. My father was really coming home more than usual lately. I couldn't remember when in the past I had had dinner with my whole family as often as in the last few weeks.

I was seeing him almost every other day.

I sat down and stared at my plate which was loaded with a large, juicy steak.

“Please, everybody start,” my mother said in her low caressing voice.

She looked at me with her sad brown eyes.

Everybody started and thought to himself that the meat was pretty good. Having meat for every meal, in the fighting State of Israel, was not bad living.

“How's it going?” my father asked. He was chewing his piece of calf with visible pleasure.

“How's what going?”

“How are you doing, generally?”

“Beautifully,” I said. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

My mother lowered her eyes to her empty plate. My father straightened up in his chair and looked directly at me.

“You'd feel a lot better if you were doing something,” he said.

“I'm playing with weights,” I said, “probably too much.”

I rolled up my right sleeve, and contracted a muscle.

“See?”

He switched back to eating after giving my mother a brisk look that meant “I did my best, didn't I?”

About an hour later, when I was doing my exercises to the beat of some hip music that blared from the radio, he knocked on the door and walked into my room without waiting for an invitation. He turned off the radio and sat down on the chair near my desk.

“O.K.” he said. “Sit down, relax and let's talk.”

I shrugged; “Well, why not?”

I went and sat on the floor at the other end of the room.

I looked at him. He was staring back at me, lighting himself a big Havana cigar, self-assured and at ease. As always, I felt respect, despite myself.

“Look,” he said finally, puffing a big cloud of smoke, “tell me what you have in mind, and I'll tell you what I have in mind, and then let's see if we can find a way to make the two work together.”

“I don't have much in mind, right now.”

He took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at me.

“Let's not waste time,” he said curtly.

It was then that he really got to me. Hadn't I made up my mind to win? Why waste time? One, two, three, go.

“I haven't got it so clear in my head yet, but I want to be a writer, and I want to make movies. Those two can probably interact well. It's possible I will want to go into politics one day but that day hasn't arrived yet. I don't like the business, and I don't feel that sociable, either.”

“O.K.,” he said. “ I have nothing against your writing or making movies. Meanwhile you might as well start studying. It never hurts to learn. When you have a clear plan with which studying interferes, or with which you might need help, come to me and we'll talk.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you kindly, sir.”

His eyes fell on the typewriter in front of him.

“Have you started anything?”

“No.”

He returned the cigar to his mouth.

“Does what I say make sense to you?”

“You always make sense.”

“Yes, I make my living that way,” he said. “So we have an agreement?”

“Why not?”

He got to his feet and walked to the door.

“O.K., then, I'll be seeing you.”

Don't make it sound so much like a threat, I thought.

He walked out, leaving a gray cloud of smoke behind him.

Actually what he had suggested did sound reasonable. Studying wouldn't have to take more than a couple of hours a week. Except for exams. It was worth spending those few hours to keep everyone warm and happy. What's wrong with having a B.A. or an M.A. or a Ph.D. anyway? Might even come in handy.

I picked up the car and took a ride around town. There were a lot of girls in the streets and some of them looked pretty good. At least from a distance. The image of Joy popped to my mind but I tried not to think about her.

“You might even fall for her,” I warned myself.

You can't afford to let yourself fall for anyone.

The only way is to play it cool, just like in the movies.

Then you've got a chance.

Maybe.

I was going through Katamon at fifty miles an hour when a girl waved at me. Katamon is one of the poorer sections of the city. It is inhabited mainly by people who came from North Africa or the Arab countries. It is considered lower class and undesirable by the Europeans. But then girls don't have to be high society for what I wanted. I stopped the car, slamming hard on the brakes and nearly running her over.

“Yes, doll.”

I put on my mechanical, meaningless smile.

She was full and pretty and vulgar-looking, but I liked her. I thought she would make a good screw.

“Going to town?” she asked.

I stuck my head out of the window so that it almost touched the full breasts that were stuffed into her cheap, red dress.

“Anywhere you say, doll.”

She laughed.

“You're funny.”

She walked around and stepped into the car.

I stepped on the gas.

“What's your name?”

“Zehava.”

“Beautiful.”

Zehava, in Hebrew, is similar to Goldilocks, but only dark girls carry this name, for some strange reason.

“I am Assaf.”

“You're from Jerusalem?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Never seen you around.”

“Yeah, that's too bad, isn't it? Any special reason you want to go to town, doll?”

She giggled.

The perfume she wore hadn't been imported from Paris but it was very strong, so it made its point just the same.

“Going to visit a girl friend. Why do you ask?”

“Well, how about you and me going for a beautiful ride, and the hell with your girl friend?”

“Like where?” she asked.

“Oh? Out of town, doll. Doesn't matter. This being a warm, dreamlike night, and with the moon full and all that.”

“You're funny,” she said again.

“No, I am poetic. But not funny, doll.”

“All right,” she said, leaning back in her seat, “let's go. I like driving.”

I know, sister.

I drove the car through the outskirts of town and then out. She worked as a hairdresser eight hours a day. She adored Raquel Welch. (What an actress!) She loved dancing.

She had to share a room with her eight brothers and sisters. That was a drag.

There were many other things she told me while we were driving into the night, but I wasn't listening. I could have guessed them all, probably, had I wanted to. But I didn't want to. I didn't want to hear her talk.

The legs that were crossed and resting neatly on the seat beside me were brown and very nice. I glanced at them from time to time, thinking that I really didn't dislike her at all.

Actually, what did the people in my neighborhood have against Oriental Jews? They are a bit less educated on the whole. So what? That isn't their fault, after all. Give them better schools and fewer children per family and they'll catch up in no time. They are also a bit poorer, on the whole. Maybe more than a bit. But didn't I hear you say that it's not the money that makes the man, it's not the money that really counts?

Just the soul.

Probably one of the major reasons for there being no deeper division between the European and Oriental Jews was Israel's constant need for self-defense. You cannot divide the soldiers who fight into classes. In Israel everyone gets a fair chance to die a brave man, and that unites the people. I stopped the car on a side road and turned off the engine.

“O.K.,” I said to the girl beside me, “no need to use all the petrol.”

She stretched and didn't say a word.

“Don't you think it's a terrific night?”

“It's nice,” she allowed.

I leaned over and kissed her fashionably on the mouth. She had warm, full lips, which were quite willing and rather pleasant. After a while, her tongue started brushing my teeth and that really got me worked up. I pulled her to me and undid the buttons of her dress. I was having trouble with the hook of her bra, when she pushed me forcefully away.

“No!” she said simply.

To Assaf the Great.

I pulled back and leaned on the door on my side of the car.

“What's the matter?” I asked politely.

“I don't want it like that,” she said seriously.

“Like what? I love you. I'm crazy about you.”

“Don't be funny,” she said in a small voice. She began quietly buttoning her dress.

“What's wrong with sex?” I tried. “That's what it's all about. This is the twentieth century, remember? You don't need those formalities any more. Time's awasting.”

“No. I don't want it like that.”

I stared at her coldly, trying to figure out if there was anything to lose. Then, making up my mind, I leaned forward and pushed her down on the seat, going after her with all my strength. I lay on her pushing her dress up, but she was too powerful and too strong-minded. She drummed on my face with her fists like a lightweight pro. I had hardly reached for her panties when I gave up.

“O.K.,” I said, rising to a sitting position. “The war is over.”

She breathed hard, but didn't say anything. I looked at the mirror to see if my ears were swelling up. They weren't yet, but they had a funny pink color. I started the engine.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm taking you home.”

I kept my thin, mocking smile as we rode along, but I wasn't impressing myself with it.

“I'm not a prostitute,” she said hollowly.

“I didn't think you were.”

“It's even worse, then.”

She's really taking it seriously, I thought. She isn't joking.

“Don't get excited,” I said.

“Just because you have this car, that doesn't make you the king of the world.”

“That's right.”

“I thought you were a nice guy.”

I was beginning to get tired of the conversation.

“I'm not a nice guy. Don't worry.”

We finally reached the big apartment building where she lived and I stopped the car gratefully. She seemed in no hurry to get out.