Jerusalem Stone

by Susan Sofayov

  Eventually, Avi ran out of energy, and we returned to the mat. As I dried myself, I considered offering him the use of my towel, which turned into a bigger decision than I expected, because of the mesmerizing effect the water sliding down his body had on me. More than anything I wanted to catch a drop on my finger and taste it. “Hey!”

  He flipped his dreadlocks forward like an elephant spraying with his trunk, soaking me and the towel. He tossed his head back, laughing.

  “What the hell!”

  His eyes beamed unabashed joy. “Sorry, you looked really hot all wet in that bikini. Your towel screwed up my visual.”

  I found a dry spot on the towel and began mopping his hair spit off my chest. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re rude and slightly obnoxious?”

  “Sure, at least once a day.” He plopped onto the mat and pointed for me to sit next to him.

  Logic would dictate that I tell this strange guy to get lost or leave me alone, but his smile, like my brother’s, could melt rocks. I sat next to him and spent the next hour listening to him describe the high points of Southeast Asia and occasionally drifting off, imagining what kissing his full lips would feel like.

  The sun dipped lower on the horizon, and he stood. I thought he was leaving, but instead, he reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Time to take a walk.”

  “I can’t leave my stuff. Someone might take it.”

  He scanned the area. “Do you really think that anyone on this beach wants another damp towel, a beat-up beach bag, and a worn copy of The Drifters? By the way, I’m impressed with the reading choice. Personally, I love Michener. He’s terribly underrated these days. The Source is my favorite, but The Drifters is a close second.”

  We walked side by side in the surf for about a half a mile until three very pretty bikini-clad girls yelled and waved. “Hey, Avi.”

  “Friends?”

  “Not really. I know them from Chabad. They eat there every night, too.”

  We talked about food and the sanitary conditions of the Thai restaurants, agreeing that no one would ever call either of us “foodies.” Listening to him speak had the same effect on me as hearing Morgan Freedman narrate anything. His deep, throaty voice lulled me into a mellowed out state, until we were interrupted by more people waving and yelling. “Hi, Avi.”

  “You seem to know a lot of people in this town.”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “When you hang out on this beach, you meet people. I’ve been here for about a month.”

  We returned to the towel just before the sun leveled with the horizon and sat side by side watching the sunset. He described it as God painting stripes of blue and orange around the setting sun. And he was exactly right. As darkness blanketed the beach and only a tinge of orange remained on the horizon, fireworks exploded from the part of the island that jutted into the sea. Someone was wishing the sun a goodnight.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “Not far.” I pointed in the general direction of my hostel.

  “I’ll walk you back, and we can figure out what time we’re meeting for dinner.”

  There was no reason to bother acting indignant over his assumption that I would have dinner with him. Other than the fact he was an unemployed beach bum, there was no reason for me not to want to spend many more hours with this guy. He was smart, charming, and possibly the sexiest man I had ever encountered--ever.

  We reached my hostel and agreed to meet in front of Chabad in an hour and a half. Avi turned to walk away and, for a moment, I let myself enjoy the sight of his stride and the way his shorts hung low around his hips. As I was about to enter the hostel, I heard him. “Be forewarned, before this night is over, I do plan on kissing you.”

  Chapter 2

  The water pounded against the back of my neck, as if on a mission to force my muscles to relax. Finally, I’d checked into a hostel with decent water pressure. Unfortunately, it was also a hostel with a community shower, and there was some girl banging on the door and yelling. If I could have understood Russian, I was sure I’d have been deeply insulted.

  My tiny hostel room, with one small window and a single bed, felt like the Hilton next to the place I stayed in Chiang Mai. That one featured dormitory style accommodations--four women in a room with bunk beds. Only one spoke English. I unwrapped the towel from my hair and hung it on the hook behind the door.

  My backpack sat on the lone chair. I reached inside searching for the one nice dress I brought with me. It was rolled into a ball and stuffed under dirty shorts, socks, and underwear. I dug it out and gave a quick smell--yuk. Damn, I should have dropped my clothes off at the laundry before going to the beach. The last pair of clean shorts and a pink T-shirt would have to suffice. Not exactly dinner-with-a-hot-guy clothes, but oh well. Two days after landing in Thailand, I packed away my make-up. The hot, humid air melted my mascara into racing tracks, streaking down my cheeks, washing away my foundation and blush. I pulled out the tiny bottle of perfume I’d shoved into the side pocket before I left home and dabbed the citrus scent behind my ears and in my elbow joints. It had been a long time since I felt any desire to look pretty.

  Restaurants and street vendors lined the few blocks from my hostel to the Chabad House. The scents of lemongrass, tamarind, and coriander stuck to the air, heavier than the humidity. Waiters and waitresses hovered along the street holding menus with pictures of Thai, Asian, and Indian fare. Each did their best to lure me inside, but I wouldn’t have gone in even if I wasn’t meeting Avi. I’d heard too many stories about “traveler’s tummy.”

  As I rounded the corner, I spotted him standing in front of the Chabad House, one foot on the ground and the other on the step above. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the security gate while talking to the guard.

  He spotted me and waved. My stomach reacted faster than my hand, taking a tumble as I waved back. He cleaned up for the occasion, shaving and pulling the dreadlocks away from his face into a ponytail. Skinny black jeans replaced the ripped cargo shorts, and a white V-neck T-shirt replaced the shirtless beach look. He reminded me of an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Well, maybe a little better.

  After the bombing of the Chabad House in Mumbai, Chabad Houses around the world updated security. In Thailand, this meant installing locked metal gates and positioning guards at the entrance. As I approached, I listened to the conversation between Avi and the buff, yarmulke wearing guard I met the first night I went there for dinner.

  My eyes widened and my back straightened when I realized they were speaking Hebrew. My brother was always more into the being Jewish thing than I was. He spent a summer on a Kibbutz in Northern Israel, did a ten-day Birthright trip, and took a few Hebrew language classes in college. Me, I knew maybe ten words, but I knew how the language should sound, and Avi’s Hebrew sounded fluent.

  He stepped away from the entrance and walked toward me. His eyes beamed. “Hi,” he said, clasping my hand. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  I nodded and contemplated the feeling of his fingers linked between mine. I liked feeling the warmth of his palm against mine and that his skin felt masculine, but not rough.

  “Julie,” he said, extending his hand toward the burly guard. “This is my friend Orrie.”

  “I know her,” Orrie said, in heavily accented English. His smile refuted the tough impression his muscles, bulging under the black “Chabad of Thailand” polo shirt, gave. “Pretty Julie from Pittsburgh, who speaks no Hebrew.”

  “You didn’t tell me you’re from Pittsburgh,” Avi said.

  “You didn’t tell me you speak perfect Hebrew,” I shot back.

  “I did my undergrad at Carnegie Mellon.” He looked thrilled, as if he’d just discovered this miraculous connection between us.

  “You didn’t become fluent in Hebrew at CMU,” I said.

  “Of course not. Hebrew’s my first language.”

  My face must have registered confusion because he laughed. “I figured you picked it up from my acce
nt.”

  He had no accent, at least none I could discern. His English was better than mine.

  “Hey, Orrie, I’ll talk to you later. We’re going to eat something.”

  Orrie hit the buzzer, and the gate slid open. Avi and I walked inside.

  “You’re Israeli?”

  “Yep, one hundred percent sabra.”

  It’s not like he was the first Israeli I ever met who spoke perfect English, but this information kind of startled me. Unlike most Israelis I’d met, Avi seemed so mellow--truly a “Don’t worry, be happy,” kind of beach bum.

  “You don’t like Israelis?” He stepped over to a small table, pulled a yarmulke out of an old box, and placed it on his head.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You just act more American than Israeli,” I replied, stifling a snicker over the small cap that appeared lost amidst his mop of dreadlocks.

  He laughed. “Wait until I tell Orrie that one. Let’s eat.”

  He chose a table in the back corner, away from the kitchen and the checkout counter. The waiter appeared at the table and dropped a couple menus in front of us. “Hi, Avi.”

  “Hey, Nam, could you start us out with hummus, pita, and Israeli salad? Excuse me a minute, Julie.”

  He walked to the back of the restaurant, stopping in front of a tall shelf holding wine bottles and grabbed a bottle off the top shelf. Then he walked behind the cash register, as if he owned the place, grabbed two water glasses and a corkscrew.

  “Sorry, this place doesn’t have wine glasses.” He popped the cork like a pro and poured some into the glasses. “L’chaim.”

  “It’s the best they have. There’s better kosher wine in Israel, but they don’t stock it here. Personally, I’m a beer guy, but you don’t strike me as a beer girl.”

  I shook my head. “My brother was a ‘beer guy.’ As a kid, he collected beer cans and when he moved out, my poor mom was stuck with shelf after shelf of empty cans he insisted would be worth money someday. When we were living in Manhattan, he would drag me to these artisan breweries and get frustrated with me because I always ordered wine. He declared my taste in alcohol as hopelessly limited.”

  “He ‘was’ a beer guy. Did he switch to scotch or whiskey?”

  I dropped my gaze to the menu and bit my lip. Control tears, breathe. Control tears, breathe. Even after a year and a half, thinking about my brother hurt beyond any pain imaginable. Every day, I struggled to push him from my thoughts, and every day, I failed. I hoped that being away from everything that reminded me of him would make the pain easier to bear. But my plan backfired because he would have adored Thailand. And now, there were so many things about Avi that reminded me of Jack.

  When I looked up, Avi’s eyes were fixated on me.

  “No.” I shook my head slowly.

  “Switched to wine?”

  I shook my head. “He died.”

  He reached across the table and clasped my hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “He was my twin.”

  We sat silently for a few moments. He didn’t let go of my hand.

  “Let’s change the subject,” I said. “You went to CMU. I graduated from there, too. I guess that’s where you perfected your English?”

  Releasing my hand, he picked up the menu. “No, I went to part of elementary school and middle school in Washington DC. My dad works for the Israeli government, and he was stationed at the embassy. We spent six years there.”

  “Do you ever go back to visit?”

  Avi set down the menu. “Sometimes. Do you know what you want?”

  The waiter placed the hummus and pita in front of us and Avi ordered sides of Moroccan carrots, tahina, and eggplant, before ordering the kabab as an entrée. I order a hamburger and fries. He laughed, calling me a typical American.

  We spent some time talking about Pittsburgh and college, figuring that I started college the year after he graduated.

  “Do you realize that if I took one year off, I could have been on campus and hit on you way back then.”

  I chuckled.

  Throughout the dinner, he kept my glass full. It really was too nice of a wine to be drinking with a hamburger and French fries. Or maybe it was just that he was the nicest company that I had had in... I tried to recall another wonderful evening and couldn’t.

  Groups of four and five Israeli twenty-somethings came into the restaurant. Before ordering dinner, quite a few of them stopped by the table to say hello. Each time, he graciously introduced me. More than one pretty girl gave me a face that expressed her displeasure with my presence.

  Avi either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

  We continued talking long after the meal was over, until the nice waiter, Nam, came to the table. “Avi, it’s late. We all want to go home.”

  “Yeah, right. Sorry.” Avi rose from the table and extended his hand. “Time for us to leave.”

  I didn’t take it and glanced at Nam, who had already begun clearing the table. “What about the check? We need to pay,” I mouthed to Avi.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he replied, moving his hand to my lower back and ushering me toward the door.

  I leaned into his ear. “I have the money. I’ll pay for it. We can’t ditch out without paying.”

  He grinned, throwing me off guard. What was wrong with this guy?

  “Nam,” I said. “May I have the check?”

  That didn’t get the reaction I expected. Nam appeared totally confused by my request. Avi started chuckling. For a few moments, I stood, completely baffled, shifting my gaze from Avi to Nam and back to Avi.

  “We’re not skipping out, Julie. I run a tab at this place. They know I’m good for it. Relax, the bill has been taken care of.”

  Now I felt bad. There was no way this guy could afford both dinners and the bottle of wine. “How about you pay for the wine and I’ll cover the dinners?” I said.

  He pulled me close and ran his hand down my hair. His scent engulfed me, strong, masculine with a hint of musk. He smelled edible. “It’s paid for, and now, I plan on feeding you more wine, so you’ll loosen up and tell me where this gorgeous auburn hair comes from.” He released me and moved toward Nam. “I’m grabbing a bottle and a couple of plastic cups. I’ll bring the corkscrew back in the morning.”

  “No problem.” Nam continued mopping up spilled Israeli salad from the table top.

  This was interesting behavior for a beach bum with no money. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see, but we have one stop to make first.”

  Upon arriving in Bangkok, I was shocked to find two things. First, Starbucks was alive and well in Thailand. Second, an army of Seven-Elevens had conquered the country. There wasn’t a corner that didn’t sprout a Seven-Eleven. Avi clasped my hand and steered me into the first one we saw.

  Inside, he picked up a rattan mat, like the one I carried to the beach, and went straight for the candy aisle, pulling the biggest bag of gummy bears off the hook. The bag was small compared to the super-sized bags in the United States.

  “Dessert. I’m a gummy bear junkie.” He shrugged and flashed that adorable gleaming smile. “Believe it or not, they’re kosher. In America, it’s next to impossible to find kosher gummy bears, but in Thailand, they’re everywhere, which is reason enough to come here.”

  I reached out and grabbed another bag. “My weakness, too. You’re right about the lack of kosher ones in the United States. I should order them from Israel.”

  He pulled me close and kissed my cheek. “I knew I liked you.”

  For the few seconds he held me close, my heart pounded. I didn’t want him to kiss my cheek. I wanted to kiss this man more than anyone else I’d ever met in my life.

  He set the gummy bears and the mat on the counter.

  “Let me buy this.” I reached into my pocket for money, but he gently maneuvered me away from the counter and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “I got it.”

  The young Thai girl behind the coun
ter smiled as she scanned our items into the computer. After he paid her, he placed our wine, cups, and corkscrew on the counter and asked her a question in Thai. She nodded and loaded everything, except the mat, into a plastic bag.

  “It looks kind of tacky walking around with plastic cups and a bottle of wine.”

  “You speak Thai, too?”

  “Badly, very badly.”

  “You speak Hebrew, English, and Thai?”

  “And French, Arabic, and a bit of Japanese. In case you haven’t noticed, I like to talk.” He shoved the mat under his arm and grabbed the bag. “Let’s go.”

  “But you spoke English with Nam?”

  “Yeah, Nam studies English in his free time. I let him practice on me. Actually, his Hebrew is pretty good.”

  “Am I the only person here that speaks only one language?”

  “Probably. You Americans have no pressing reason to learn another language, except maybe Spanish. Try saying this, “Shalom.”

  I stopped and snarled playfully at him. “I’m not that dumb. I know a few words in Hebrew.”

  “Right, your evil parents forced you to go to Hebrew school when you were a kid.”

  “Sheket,” I shot back.

  He cracked up and made a mocking face at me. “Well, you know how to tell me to be quiet. What else can you tell me to do?”

  I playfully bumped my shoulder into him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  He bumped back into me, and the mat fell. I offered to carry it, but he wouldn’t let me. One block later, he dropped it again. Finally, I refused to talk to him unless he let me carry it. The two minutes of silence got to him. He handed it to me. “Where did you get the auburn hair? You don’t meet many Jews with hair that color.”

  “Walmart, L’Oréal.”

  “Bullshit. That color is real.” His eyes bore into me as if it was the most important question he ever asked.

  “Family lore has it that my dad’s great-great grandfather was Irish. I don’t know if it’s true. No one else has hair this color. My brother’s hair was black and curly.”