The Glory (15 page)

“Shulamit, time is what’s been killing this film,” said Yael. “I found out that much in my trip to Hollywood.”

A sad wheeze from Greengrass. “All too true, Yael, but not our fault.”

“Explain that,” said Leavis.

“Sheva, the movie should have been released a year and a half ago.” The producer took short breaths and talked fast. “We had
the script, I had the stars. Israel was hot then, on a roll, the admiration of the world. That’s all been pissed away by the
delays here. Now the Israel story is cease-fire violations, terrorist attacks, UN arguments. Downbeat, boring —”

“Is it true, Jeff,” inquired Leavis mildly, “that the mayor of Jerusalem read the script and said — excuse me, ladies — that
it was a lot of silly shit?”

“Yes, but we’ve got the mayor’s approval, anyway,” interposed Shulamit. “His deputy fixed that. The deputy was my law partner.”

Kishote was looking for a moment to leave. This whole business had struck him from the start as preposterous; he had gone
along with it as a favor to his brother Lee, and he had merely leafed through the script, looking at the tank episodes. In
his view the mayor’s comment had been a kindly understatement.

“Sheva, it comes to this,” said Greengrass. “I can still make the film. Preproduction has run up to three hundred thousand
dollars —”

“It shouldn’t have,” interposed Yael.

“No, but delays are murder on a movie. Production will now cost two million. To break even we must gross four and a half.
That’s where we’re at.”

Leavis gave Kishote his peculiar mirthless smile. “Colonel, how would you advise your brother Lee? Go ahead, or not? He’s
in this with me, you know.”

“Why ask Yossi? He knows nothing about films,” Yael expostulated, “and all he ever does — in everything — is go ahead.”

“In my time I’ve done some retreating,” said Yossi, “bringing out my dead and wounded.” A short silence, and he went on. “I’d
have advised Lee not to get into films in the first place. But then, I’d have advised him not to get into California real
estate, and he’s become a millionaire.”

“Thanks to Sheva,” said Yael.

Leavis shook his head. “Lee Bloom is sharp and very able, on his own.”

“Furthermore, I’d have advised him not to leave his army platoon during a war,” said Yossi. “In fact, not to leave Israel
altogether. Lee and I think differently, so don’t ask me how I’d advise my brother.”

Another silence, somewhat unpleasant. Both brothers had been taken into the army back in 1948, on arriving in Israel from
the Cyprus refugee camp; and Lee Bloom, then Leopold Blumenthal, had managed to get himself on a plane to America after only
six weeks. A touchy business verging on desertion, and squared with some difficulty by Sam Pasternak so that the affluent
Lee Bloom could now come and go in Israel. Which he seldom did.

Yael burst out nervously, “Oh, abort it, Sheva. That’s what this is all about, and Jeff can’t decide that. It’s your three
hundred thousand, yours and Lee’s.”

Greengrass said, “It’s a hundred percent tax write-off, Sheva.”

“All right. Abort,” said Leavis.

“Oh, no! You’re making a terrible mistake!” Shulamit’s bosom heaved as though she might cry. “At least think it over —”

“Forget it, Shulamit,” said Greengrass. “You’ve done your best, but it’s over.”

“Yes, that’s that,” said Leavis. “It’s over.”

Shulamit bitterly sighed.

“I’ll tell you something, though, Sheva,” panted Greengrass, “I’ve become hooked on this wild place, crappy government and
all. There’s a story here, a great story. You have to find the story, and none of this Jewish boy meets Arab girl — or Arab
girl meets Jewish boy — horse manure. Romeo and Juliet it ain’t. But there’s a bloody fortune in an Israel movie. Only you
have to find the story.”

“Find the story and I’ll find the money,” said Leavis. “I’m not discouraged.”

“I can introduce you to some brilliant Israeli writers,” said Shulamit. “Like my nephew Chaim.”

“Another time,” said Greengrass. “I fly home tonight.”

Don Kishote and Yael rode down together in a crowded elevator. When they emerged into the lobby he inquired, “Well, so what
did the doctor say?”

She patted her belly. “I’m healthy as a horse. I could drop it in a field anytime and start licking it clean, but his best
guess is two more weeks.”

“Good. Have dinner with me?”

“Thanks, I’ve got to go over some accounts with Sheva. He’s leaving for Singapore in a few hours. I’ll have coffee with you.”
In the lounge she ordered a pastry with her coffee, laughing and slapping her stomach. “I don’t want it, but this pest does.”

They chatted about the film fiasco, Yael maintaining that she had always been against the idea but Lee had overborne her.

“How’s Aryeh?” Kishote asked.

“Oh, he’s in heaven.” She touched Kishote’s shoulder ornament. “When I told him about that third leaf he jumped to the ceiling.
It looks mighty good, dear. Do you go to the Sinai right away?”

“No. Three days up north to turn over my post. Then before I report to Southern Command, a few days of rock-climbing in Maktesh
Rimon.”

“Maktesh Rimon? Kishote, that climbing is for kids, very tough kids. Be sensible, please.”

With his old uncivilized grin he said, “
You’re
telling
me
to be sensible?”

“Look, when I’m in the hospital having this baby, I don’t want its father falling off a cliff in Maktesh Rimon.”

He turned serious. “Maybe I should stay around until you have it. That can be arranged.”

“Nonsense, why? You need recreation, Yossi, just stay off cliffs.”

“I guess I can go skiing in Switzerland.”

“
Much
better.”

“Say, Yael, Shayna Matisdorf’s here, and —”

Yael interrupted, frowning. “I know, we came in on the same plane. What about her?”

“I’m just thinking that while you’re in the hospital, she might stay at the flat with Aryeh.”

“Whatever for? He’s a big boy.”

“Would you mind?”

“You’ve already talked to her?”

“I’m not sure where she is now. I’m asking you first.”

“That’s thoughtful. Well, as you wish. I have no objection.” She struggled out of her chair. “Thanks for the coffee. Tell
me, don’t you think Nasser will be tempted to start something, with that old yenta as our Prime Minister?”

“Not to worry. Ben Gurion once called Golda his only cabinet minister with balls.”

“Ha ha! I hope he was right.”

“He was. You’ll see.”

S
hayna was staying in a richly furnished villa on Mount Carmel, owned by Guli Gulinkoff. Professor Berkowitz had parked her
there on his rich American relatives, the Barkowes, who had reluctantly come to live in Haifa for a while because Dzecki had
begun his three years of army service.

“He’s our son, even though he’s slipped his trolley,” Leon Barkowe had observed to his mutinous wife Bessie, when she tried
to balk at the idea. “He can’t be all alone while he’s adjusting to army life. He needs support. We’re going, and that’s that.”

Dzecki had appealed to Gulinkoff to house them magnificently and Guli had done so, at a very steep rent. Leon Barkowe, a mild-mannered
balding little man, was finding Gulinkoff a congenial landlord. They shared a taste for certain Havana cigars unobtainable
in Israel — except by Guli, who kept him provided — and they were even talking about investing in real estate together. Once
a divorce lawyer, Leon Barkowe had made a lucrative switch to Long Island real estate, and he thought Haifa was full of opportunities,
a view Guli was warmly encouraging.

“To me, she might as well be talking Chinese,” Bessie Barkowe fretted. “I’m sorry, but I swear I can’t stand the sound of
Hebrew.”

On a black-and-white TV set Golda Meir was addressing the Knesset, and an oddly assorted group was watching: unshaven Guli
in his worn leather windbreaker, the skullcapped professor and his wife Lena in jeans and sweaters, and Shayna with a faded
apron over an old housedress; whereas the Barkowes were holding to their Long Island style, tie and sport jacket for Dzecki’s
father, a smart black pantsuit for the plumpish mother.

“Never mind, she isn’t saying much,” observed Professor Berkowitz.

“She is too. She’s brilliant,” snapped Lena, in her most prickly kibbutznik manner. “That woman will save Israel. Shut up.”

Leon Barkowe was giving the Berkowitzes cousinly help in their divorce process, working with a Haifa lawyer. The sluggish
pace of Israeli law promised to keep them yoked for a while yet, and reconciliation had been Barkowe’s forte, so he was working
at it. Lena still seemed bent, however, on marrying an irreligious Australian Jew who exported kangaroo leather. She had met
him in London, where she had gone to a sister’s funeral, and he had come to hawk his wares. Sparks had flown, and ever since,
letters from Melbourne had been expressing amorous impatience.

“You know something, Bessie?” said Dzecki’s father in a soothing way. “Golda looks sort of like Lyndon Johnson — same big
nose, little eyes, bulldog jowls, tough jaw. Doesn’t she?”

“I wish Lyndon Johnson was still President,” said Mrs. Barkowe, irked with the whole world, “instead of that Nixon.
President
Nixon! I still can’t believe it. Everything’s disintegrating.”

“She’s talking about him right now,” said Lena.

“What’s she saying?” Barkowe inquired. “Anything encouraging?”

Shayna freely translated,
“The American President is a man of peace … I welcome his new peace initiative …”

“Oh sure she welcomes it. Like an attack of hemorrhoids she welcomes it,” said Gulinkoff gruffly. “Be flexible and give everything
back, that’s what it’ll amount to. It always does —”

Bessie Barkowe jumped to her feet and went to a window. “I think I hear the Porsche. Jack’s coming.”

The telephone rang on a side table by the professor’s armchair. It was Noah Barak, calling from the navy yard to convey in
cryptic words that the missile test had been advanced, at General Pasternak’s request, by one hour; also that his boat would
be taking part, substituting at the last minute for another vessel whose skipper had fallen sick. “Can you get here all right,
Uncle Michael? Otherwise I’ll organize a navy car for you.”

“I’ll manage. So the test is all set?”

“Affirmative. We just have to fire the thing and see what happens.” Noah’s laugh was a trifle uncertain.

In greasy fatigues, himself grease-streaked on face and hands, Dzecki strode in carrying a bulging laundry sack. The mother
hugged and kissed him. “You’re so sunburned, Jack! What have you been doing?”

“Daphna has to use the bathroom, okay?”

“Of course.”

He went to the window, waved, and carried off his laundry to the back. With a smile for everybody, her blond hair in some
disorder to her shoulders, Daphna Luria hurried through the room. When Dzecki’s parents had first met Daphna she had been
an impeccably groomed air force sergeant in uniform, but her service was finished, and she now wore the Tel Aviv bohemian
outfit of the moment, a coarse brown skirt, a multicolored sweater, and many beads and bangles. Soon she passed through the
other way, saying, “Good old Golda! Still drivelling? Tell Dzecki I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Young lady,” Guli said, “you should talk more respectfully about Golda Meir.”

Daphna stopped to give him an impudent stare. “Should I? Why?”

“Because you may be Prime Minister someday. Then you’ll want respect from fresh youngsters.” With a loud sniff and a toss
of her head, Daphna walked out. “And who is that?” Guli asked Barkowe with a wolfish grin. “Your son’s girlfriend? She looks
like trouble.”

The professor said, “She’s my nephew Noah Barak’s girlfriend. Dzecki just hangs around her.”

“And very, very foolish of him,” said the mother.

“But understandable,” said Guli.

Shortly Dzecki reappeared more or less cleaned up, in slacks, a short-sleeved sport shirt, and sandals. “I have to drive Daphna
to the navy yard.”

“Right away?” complained his mother. “Eat something first, you’re always starved when you come home.”

“She’s in a rush.” He peered at the TV set. “Some Prime Minister! All the guys thought it would be Dayan or Allon.”

“That’s how she got in,” said Professor Berkowitz. “Because of the standoff. Can you take me to the base, too?”

“Why not? Say, Shayna, can I talk to you?”

She followed Dzecki into the hall. “What is it?”

“Listen, you know this Colonel Yossi Nitzan, the one they call Don Kishote?” She rounded startled eyes at him. “He’s coming
by here today. He saw me pick you up at the airport last week, so he asked me where he could find you.”

“But when and how did you talk to Yossi Nitzan?”

“This morning he turned over deputy command of the brigade at a relief ceremony, and afterward he called me out of the ranks.”
Dzecki shrugged and grinned. “The private with the Porsche. They all know me. I told him you were staying with my folks.”
Dzecki looked at his wristwatch. “He should be here in an hour or so.”

“Ayzeh maniac!”
Shayna went scampering upstairs, whipping off her apron, black hair flying.

When Don Kishote showed up she was in the living room, holding in her arms the Berkowitzes’ crippled two-year old Reuven,
a smiling chubby child, just awakened from a long nap. His mother and Bessie Barkowe were laying out cake, soda, fruit, nuts,
and wine on the coffee table, though Shayna had begged them not to fuss, this was just an old friend dropping by. The red
silk dress from Toronto and the hurried coiffure told them otherwise. They had cleared out the men, and the moment Yossi appeared
Lena took her child and they made themselves scarce. “Then you’re
not
married!” Yossi said when they were gone, giving Shayna a rough hug.

The hard arms felt inexpressibly sweet around her, and his chest muscles were like a wall. All but speechless, she babbled
whatever came to mind. “Kishote, why are you so lean? Doesn’t the army feed you? Have some cake.”