The Nimrod Flipout: Stories (11 page)

For Yaniv he brought a toy monkey wearing a peaked cap. When you pressed the monkey’s back, it made a strange growling sound, stuck out a long tongue that reached its nose, and crossed its eyes. Dafna thought it was an ugly toy and that Yaniv would be afraid of it. But Yaniv actually seemed delighted. “Huaaah!” he’d growl, trying to imitate the monkey. He couldn’t cross his eyes, so he blinked instead, then he laughed with pleasure. There’s something so perfect about a child’s enjoyment that nothing can compete with it. And in Daddy-Avner’s present state of mind, he wasn’t offering much competition.

For Dafna he brought some perfume—she’d written the name on a piece of paper for him—from the duty-free shop. There’d been a small bottle and a large one, and he bought the large one without hesitating. When it came to money, Husband-Avner was never stingy. “I asked for eau de toilette,” Dafna said. “That’s what my note said.” “And…?” he asked impatiently. “It doesn’t matter,” Dafna said, with a bitter smile that said exactly the opposite. “You bought perfume. It’s a little strong for me, but it’s great too.”

For his mother, he brought a carton of Kent Longs. His mother was easy when it came to gifts. “I want you to know that I’m very worried about Yaniv,” she said, ripping the cellophane wrapper off the carton of cigarettes. “What’s wrong with Yaniv?” Son-Avner asked in the indifferent tone of someone who knows who he’s dealing with. “At the pediatric clinic they said he’s short for his age, and when he gets hit, he doesn’t hit back, but that’s not—” “What do you mean, ‘when he gets hit’? Somebody hit him?” “I hit him, a little, not really hit, push, to teach him to defend himself. But all he does is curl up in a corner and scream. I’m telling you, next year he’s going to nursery school, and if he doesn’t learn how to defend himself by then, the other children will chew him up alive.” “No one’s going to do any chewing,” he said, raising his voice. “And you, stop being a hysterical grandmother.” “All right, all right,” his mother said, pouting, and lit a cigarette. “But if you’d let me finish, you would’ve heard that I said myself that wasn’t the half of it. What I really find hard to take is that the child doesn’t know how to say ‘Daddy.’ Did you ever hear of a child who doesn’t know how to say ‘Daddy’? And it’s not that he doesn’t talk. He knows lots of words—‘cookie,’ ‘baby,’ ‘cat,’ you name it; only ‘Daddy’ he doesn’t know, and if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have learned ‘Nana’ either.” “He doesn’t call me ‘Daddy.’ He calls me by a nickname instead,” he said, trying to smile. “You don’t have to blow it all out of proportion.” “Excuse me, Avner, but ‘Hello!’ is not a nickname, ‘Hello!’ is what you shout into the phone when you can’t hear. You know, he calls Aviv, your downstairs neighbor, by his name, but when it comes to his own father, he yells ‘Hello!’ Like you’re some hooligan who stole his parking spot.”

“This country is like a woman,” Businessman-Avner said to the German investor in labored English, “beautiful, dangerous, unpredictable—that’s part of its magic. I wouldn’t exchange it for any other place in the world.” As often happened, he wasn’t certain if what he was saying was really true. Maybe it was, but one thing was for sure, it worked much better with investors than the other kinds of thoughts, the frightening ones that go through his mind. “This country is the black under the fingernails of the Western world—thinks it’s Europe, but it’s nothing more than a lump of sweat and dirt that’s developed a consciousness.” No, words like those don’t earn you dividends. “Now, tell me the truth, Herman,” he said, smiling, and handed his credit card to the tastefully tattooed waitress. “Is there anyplace in Frankfurt where the sushi’s as good as this?”

After he came, they stayed in the same position. She was kneeling on all fours and he was bending over her. They didn’t move, and they didn’t say anything either, as if they were afraid of spoiling this good accidental thing. When he got tired, he leaned his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. “We’re good,” Dafna whispered, as if to herself, but actually for him. And he felt cheated. Let her say she’s good, Lover-Avner thought, why does she insist on dragging me into it too, taking over, calling it by name. His eyes stayed closed; he could feel her slide out from under his body, his own body sinking into the mattress. “We’re good together,” she took the trouble to specify, and ran her hand along his spine in a half-medical movement, as if measuring the distance between his brainstem and the tip of his prick. He kept on digging into the mattress. “Say something,” she whispered in his ear. “What?” he asked. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “Anything.” “Don’t you think it’s strange that he doesn’t know how to say ‘Daddy’?” he asked, turning his gaze to her. “You know, he can even say ‘apple’ already, and the names of half the people in the building.” “I don’t think it’s strange at all,” Dafna said, going back to her regular, businesslike voice. “He calls you ‘Hello!’ and you come—so he thinks your name is ‘Hello!’ If it bothers you, correct him.” “It doesn’t really bother me,” he muttered. “I’m just wondering if it’s normal.”

In the evening, Spectator-Avner sat in front of the TV and watched Yaniv, who was playing with his toy monkey, which, for some reason, had stopped growling. “Hello!” Yaniv shouted at him, waving the toy monkey. “Hello!” “Daddy,” Daddy-Avner whispered pleadingly, his voice almost inaudible. “Hello!” Yaniv insisted, shaking the monkey violently. “Bwoken!” “Say ‘Daddy’ and I’ll fix it,” Businessman-Avner said with surprising sharpness. “Hello!” Yaniv yelled. “Hel-l-l-o-o-o! Bwo-o-o-ken!” Avner didn’t cave. “It’s up to you. Either ‘Hello!’ and ‘Bwoken,’ or ‘Daddy’ and ‘Huaaah!’” Yaniv listened to Businessman-Avner imitating the monkey’s growl, froze for an instant, then burst out laughing. At first, Person-Avner thought the laughter was scornful, but a minute later, he could see that it was nothing more than true happiness. “Huaaah!” Yaniv laughed, left the toy monkey on the floor, and began walking toward him in determined, though not altogether steady, steps. “Huaaah! Hello!” “Huaaah!” Daddy-Hello growled, and swung the laughing Yaniv in the air. “Huaaaaah!”

On his twenty-ninth birthday, there was a cool breeze at the beach, and he knew it. True, he was nowhere near the beach, because she hated sand and water, but still he knew. There’s always a cool breeze at the beach. They were in a cab coming back from somewhere, and he clutched the cardboard box wrapped in birthday paper the whole way. That present, in the cardboard box, was the biggest present he’d ever gotten. Not the most beautiful, but definitely the biggest. And he kept his arm around her the whole way, kissed her on the cheek, the breasts, more surprised with every kiss that she wasn’t embarrassed. When he paid the fare, the ugly driver said he’d never seen a more perfect couple. He’s on the road a lot, circling the city like a vulture over an open grave, but he’s never seen a couple like them. And the second the driver said that, he felt this
heat
in his body. A buried heat that spreads only on the rare occasions when a great truth is in the air. And when he told her later, in bed, how he’d felt at that moment, she said that if he needed positive reinforcement from a pimple-faced cabdriver who couldn’t even stay in his own lane, then their relationship must really be over. He pressed up against her and said she had such a nice heart and he loved it. She cried like a princess and said she wanted him to love her, all of her, not just her organs. Their eyes were closing now, and the sea breeze cooled his face as he fell asleep beside her, curled into himself like a child, like a baby.

Usually, we don’t kiss around other people. Cecile, with her plunging necklines and fuck-me shoes, is actually very shy. And I’m one of those guys who’re always aware of every movement around them, who never manage to forget where they are. But it’s a fact that on that morning, I did manage to forget, and we suddenly found ourselves, Cecile and me, hugging and kissing at a table in a coffeehouse like a pair of high-school kids trying to steal themselves a little intimacy in a public place.

When Cecile went to the bathroom, I finished my coffee in one gulp. I used the rest of the time to straighten out my clothes and my thoughts. “You’re a lucky guy,” I heard a voice with a thick Texas accent say from very close by. I turned my head. At the next table sat an older guy wearing a baseball cap. The whole time we were kissing, he was sitting practically on top of us, and we’d been rubbing and moaning into his bacon and eggs without even noticing. It was very embarrassing, but there was no way of apologizing without making it worse. So I gave him a sheepish smile and nodded.

“No, really,” the old guy went on. “It’s rare to hold on to that after you’re married. A lot of people get hitched and it just disappears.” “Like you said,” I said, and kept on smiling, “I’m a lucky guy.” “Me too,” the old guy said, laughing, and raised his hand in the air, to show me his wedding band. “Me too. Forty-two years we’re together, and it isn’t even starting to get boring. You know, in my work, I have to fly a lot, and every time I leave her, let me tell you, I just feel like crying.” “Forty-two years.” I gave a long, polite whistle. “She must really be something.” “Yes.” The old guy nodded. I could see that he was trying to make up his mind whether to pull out a picture or not, and I was relieved when he gave up on the idea. It was getting more embarrassing by the minute, even though he obviously meant well. “I have three rules,” the old guy said, smiling. “Three ironclad rules that help me keep it alive. You want to hear them?” “Sure,” I said, gesturing at the waitress for more coffee. “One—” the old guy said, waving a finger in the air, “every day I try to find one new thing I love about her, even the smallest thing, you know, the way she answers the phone, how her voice rises when she’s pretending she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, things like that.” “Every day?” I said. “That must really be hard.” “Not that hard.” The old guy laughed. “Not after you get the hang of it. The second rule—every time I see the children, and now the grandchildren too, I say to myself that half of my love for them is actually for her. Because half of them is her. And the last rule”—he continued as Cecile, who’d come back from the bathroom, sat down next to me—“when I come back from a trip, I always bring my wife a present. Even if I only go for a day.” I nodded again and promised to remember. Cecile looked at us a little confused; after all, I wasn’t exactly the kind of person who starts conversations with people in public places, and the old guy, who’d probably figured that out, got up to leave. He touched his hat and said to me, “Keep it up.” And then he gave Cecile a small bow and left. “‘My wife’?” Cecile said, grinning, and made a face. “‘Keep it up’?” “It was nothing,” I said, stroking her hand. “He saw my wedding band.” “Ah,” Cecile said, and kissed me on the cheek. “He looked a little weird.”

On the flight back home, I sat alone, three seats all to myself, but as usual, I couldn’t fall asleep. I was thinking about the deal with the Swiss company, which I didn’t actually think would get off the ground, and about that PlayStation I bought for Roy, with the cordless joystick and everything. And when I thought about Roy, I kept trying to remember that half of my love for him is actually for Mira, and then I tried to think about one small thing I love about her—her expression, trying to stay cool, when she catches me in a lie. I even bought her a present from the duty-free cart on the plane, a new French perfume, which the smiling young flight attendant said everyone was wearing now. Even her. “Tell me,” the flight attendant said, extending the back of her bronzed hand in my direction, “isn’t that a fantastic scent?” It was true, her hand smelled great.

I have nothing to lose, the girl thought, helping him unfasten her bra with one hand, leaning on the doorframe with the other. If he’s a lousy fuck, I can at least say I had a lousy fuck, and if he’s a great fuck, all the better, I’ll enjoy it, plus I’ll be able to say I had a great fuck, or if he’s a dick to me afterward, I can say he was a lousy fuck just to get back at him.

I have nothing to lose, the guy thought. If she’s a good fuck, I lucked out, and if she gives me a blow job, that’s even better—but even if she’s a lousy fuck, she’s still one more girl. The twenty-second. The twenty-third, actually, if you count a hand job.

Something’s going on, the cat thought, people coming in, bumping into furniture, making a racket, it’s that kind of night. A lot of noise, but no milk for a long time, and hardly any food in the bowl, and even the little bit that’s left is gross. That cat on the empty can might be smiling, but me, after licking the inside, I know he has nothing to smile about.

I have a good feeling about this, the girl thought. He’s got a nice touch, kind of soft. Maybe this really is the beginning of something, maybe this is love. It’s hard to know about things like that. I once had someone like him who turned into a real affair, but even that bombed out in the end. He was nice, but egocentric. Mostly nice to himself.

I have a good feeling about this, the guy thought. If we got this far, she probably won’t stop in the middle, even though, who knows, I’ve met a few of those too. And then those impossible conversations. Sitting for hours in the living room. When you get into that sincerity routine, like there’s something really deep going on. On the other hand, even that’s better than the alternative. Especially when the alternative’s eating baked beans in front of the TV.

I’ve had it, the TV thought. I’ve had it with how they turn me on and then leave the room, with how they sit in front of me but don’t really watch. If they’d only take the trouble, they’d find out that I have so much to offer, a lot more than sports and videos and news, but for that, they have to dig a little deeper. And they stare at me like I was some piece of ass; if there’s a cool video or some goal on the scoreboard, then great. If not, they’re gone.

It’s cold, the cat thought, too cold. Three weeks ago there was still sun. I’d sit outside on the air conditioner, happy as a king, and now I’m freezing, and them, they’re warming each other up, having a ball. What do they care if it’s cold here at night, and during the day, nothing but noise, and soot. Personally, I’ve had it with this country for a long time already.

Why am I always so cynical? the girl thought. Why do I have to keep thinking all the time instead of enjoying myself, looking at him through the slits of my eyes, and all I care about is what he thinks of me?

Wait, better not come too fast, the guy thought. It’s not as good, plus it’s lame, and she looks like the type who’ll go and talk about it if you piss her off. I once heard there were techniques, maybe if I try to enjoy it less, maybe if I kind of zone out, it’ll take longer.

He locked me, the door thought. Twice. From the inside. Most of the time he leaves me open. Maybe it’s the visitor. Maybe he locked me unconsciously because in his heart he wanted her to stay. She actually looks like a nice person, a little sad, a little leery, but nice. The kind that, if you just uncover the manhole, everything inside is full of honey.

I’d get up to go to the bathroom, the girl thought, but I’m scared. The floor looks kind of sticky. A guy’s apartment, what can you do? And if I start getting dressed now just for those few steps, I’ll look insane or retarded. That’s the last thing I need.

I could really be somebody, the guy thought, somebody great, a winner. I have things to say, but somehow, I can’t manage to say them.

Maybe she’s the one who’ll understand.

I think I’ll meow now, the cat thought. What do I have to lose, maybe they’ll notice me, pet me a little, fill the bowl with milk. Lots of times girls like cats. I know, from experience.

What a good-looking couple, the door thought. I’d really be happy if something came of it and they moved in together. This place could definitely use a woman’s touch.

I was uptight for no reason, the woman thought, the floor’s even cleaner than mine, and the bathroom too. And his eyes, they’re good eyes, and he kept holding me even after he came. I don’t know if anything’ll come of it. But even if it ends here, it was nice.

Maybe if I played an instrument, the man thought, if I’d stuck to it when I was a kid. Sometimes, there are these melodies in my head. It’s so cute, the way she walks, tiptoeing, like she’s afraid the floor’s dirty. It’s a good thing the maid was here on Friday.

A good program’s starting on me now, the TV thought, now, of all times, when there’s no one to watch. It pisses me off. Worse than pisses me off. If I wasn’t on mute, I’d scream.