THE LAST OF THE WISE LOVERS
Amnon Jackont
Translated from the Hebrew by M. Weinstein
Copyright © 1992 Amnon Jackont
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1491244081
ISBN-13: 1491244089
Image credit: Charles Wollertz / 123RF Stock Photo
To My Late Father
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE FIRST NOTEBOOK
THE SECOND NOTEBOOK
tHE THIRD NOTEBOOK
THE FOURTH NOTEBOOK
THE FIFTH NOTEBOOK
THE SIXTH NOTEBOOK
THE SEVENTH NOTEBOOK
THE EIGHTH NOTEBOOK
A LETTER, OR THE NINTH AND FINAL NOTEBOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The events described herein are completely fictitious. The municipal library mentioned in the story is not the one that stands on 5th Avenue in New York City, nor is there any Patrician Club on 42nd Street in Manhattan; East Neck cannot be found on any map; there is no hospital near Prospect Park; and "Temple Beth Hashem" is a figment of my imagination.
The riddle presented in the First Notebook was originally created as
a psychological test by Dr. Meir Ehrlich.
THE FIRST NOTEBOOK
Two hours and twenty minutes have passed since you brought me back home, gave me a few blank notebooks and told me to write down everything that happened. The minute you'd locked the door, I pressed my ear to it. I heard you say something in a low voice. One of the two men who were to guard me answered, "Don't worry, sir, I've also got one like this at home." When I heard the front door slam, I went to the window and watched as you crossed the garden to your car. After you'd driven off I carefully lifted the telephone receiver. But then I remembered that I didn't have anyone to call; Dad would only be back two days from now, Mom was lying in some clinic in the city, and everyone else was asleep at this hour, before dawn.
So here I am stuck in my room, and I'm not sure whether I'm a criminal, or crazy, or both. And I can't figure out why it's so very important that I write it all down. The empty notebooks scare me. It's especially hard for me to decide where to start: with the fact that I was born a little over 17 years ago in Tel Aviv, but that I've grown up in eight different cities around the world? But you already know that. Or with the fact that we've been in the United States for several years now, and that Dad works for the Israeli Foreign Service as a cultural attaché? But you know that, too (and you've probably caught on that `culture' is not why they've stationed him here.) I could also have started with Mom, but I'm totally confused about everything concerning her. So, maybe the only thing left to do is what I once read in a book: to try and remember the day when things first started to go wrong.
And that was the day of the party.
Here's what happened: our school, Dickinson High, has a tradition that every summer vacation, one week before school starts, there's a party. On the invitations they send home it's called a "keep-in-touch-party", and for those who don't get it they explain the importance of keeping in touch, and class unity and all that. It all would have been almost bearable if we weren't supposed to have come in costume. The whole thing seemed childish and pointless. When the invitation arrived, I chucked it in the wastebasket in my room. The next day I found it on the kitchen table. The date of the party was already circled on the calendar, and Mom asked if there was anything I needed for my costume.
I informed her that I did not intend to go.
Of course, Mom thought this a mistake. "How will you have any friends," she asked, "if you don't cultivate your friendships?"
"What friendships are you talking about? At the end of the year school will be over, everybody'll go off to college and I'll be in Israel, in the army, forgotten, in some hole on some base in the middle of nowhere...”
She pursed her mouth in annoyance. "First of all, you won't be `forgotten in some hole'; after all, you know English, and your father has already spoken to someone in the IDF spokesman's office. Second of all, you will finish the army one day, at which time you'll undoubtedly want to come back here to study, so it's important that you keep a few friends...”
When Mom says "friends", she means -- first and foremost -- Debbie. Mom hangs a lot of hope on her, maybe because she's the first of my girlfriends to conduct an independent relationship with her. She stops over for a cup of coffee in the morning, goes with her to garage sales, remembers to bring all kinds of little presents, and even talks to her about all sorts of women's stuff.
"What's Debbie dressing up as?" she asked.
"Debbie's on vacation, in Louisiana."
"What are the others dressing up as?"
"How'm I supposed to know? The usual. Indian chiefs, marshals, go-go dancers, batmen, robots...”
These were too hackneyed and worn out even for her. "A few jerks," I added, in order to end the discussion once and for all, "will probably even wear their mother's dresses, or their father's pajamas, or dress up like their little sisters...”
I went to my room and started to read a book, feeling certain that the subject was closed. An hour later she poked her head in and said, "I've found it."
"Great," I said, without lifting my eyes off the page. She progressed to the center of the room and said, "You're going to dress up as a woman."
"Ha!" was all I managed to say.
There was a spark of enthusiasm in her eyes. "If we put a wig on you and let out one of my dresses, you'll be so ...” she searched for a suitable word and finally said, "special...”
"I don't want to be special," I said. "I don't even want to go, let alone leave the house looking like that, let alone get on the bus looking like that...”
"I'll give you the car."
This was totally unexpected. A month earlier I'd gotten my license, but neither of them had let me drive. Dad because his car belonged to the consulate, and Mom on the pretext that her car was old.
"See how important you are to me?" she said. "I'm willing to sit home all night and worry that you're driving alone at night just because I know how important it is that you be socially accepted...”
"I'm not going," I announced for the last time. She went out without saying another word, leaving me alone with my book. But then I started thinking: I pictured myself driving along the highway through the sparse night traffic, the needle on the speedometer rising to 60, 65, 70. My imagination is so active that sometimes I can even taste and smell the things I dream of. This time I could hear the music blaring from the radio, the whine of the wind through the window, and the little shivers caused by the seams where the road's been fixed.
Later, when I went to the kitchen to grab a bite, I noticed that the door to the basement was open and that Mom was picking through one of the large trunks we drag with us from country to country.
"Oh," she said when she saw me, "I think there's something here that's just right." She rose to meet me, a large and ridiculous-looking dress draped across the front of her. I didn't say a word. The dress looked awful, but the idea of the car had already taken root deep in my consciousness, where it was waiting to ambush me in a moment of weakness.
On the morning of day of the party, during our weekly baseball game (which takes place every Sunday, even during vacations) I was sitting on the batters' bench waiting my turn. Suddenly somebody asked, "So, what are we dressing up as tonight?"
Without thinking I blurted out, "Why not women?" Everyone burst out laughing, and I determined not to go to the party.
But something happened on the way home, the same thing that always happens to me: outside I'm known as a rowdy guy, a bit bold and even daring. The minu
te I enter the house, everything changes. Something about Mom's presence turns me into a good boy, dedicated and obedient. Especially obedient. Maybe it has to do with the fact that we're so much alike, her and me, or that Dad is on the road most of the time. In any case, on that same Sunday afternoon I found the dress she'd prepared on my bed, and next to it pantyhose, a long necklace of pink beads, and even a curly wig exactly like Mom's hair.
Once I was dressed I felt sort of weird. Mom made me up and powdered my stubble. I glanced in the mirror. As you know, I'm a bit more athletic than she is, but otherwise we're identical: the same full lips, round jaw, dark skin, black hair, the same smile - it was really possible to think it was her, twenty years ago. This made her very happy.
"How alike we are," she said, "look how alike we are!" and wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed to stand next to her in front of the mirror and exclaim that we looked like twins the same age.
Things started to get uncomfortable. I had this strange, stifling feeling that the costume and the car had created a new situation in which she was going to the party at school and I was just providing the legs and the friends. I pulled the wig off and said quickly, "I think this is not such a great idea."
She looked at me, shocked, as if I had changed my sex or converted to a new religion.
"It's not like you to back out at the last minute." She stood on tip-toe and put the wig back in place on my head. Then she added a small beauty mark on my neck, just like the one she had, straightened the padded bra, and smoothed out the stockings until I was an exact copy of herself.
It was time to leave. She accompanied me to the garage, where it suddenly hit her that she was sending me out into her own nightmare: driving in the middle of the night, colliding with a truck or a train. She said, "You're just driving to school and back. Right?" Her eyes darkened as her brain scanned all the possible excuses she could use to change her mind and go back on her word.
"Yes," I said, "to school and back."
As I drove away I could see her in the mirror, standing in the rain that had started to fall and tightening the robe around her body. I was alone in the car just as I'd dreamed, and I tried to milk it for all it was worth: except that that wasn't much. The trip was too short, the roads were clogged with traffic and the parking lots around the school were jammed. I parked by the side of the road, two wheels in a ditch. (Dad calls this "parking Israeli" because even though it's not illegal, no American driver would even think of parking this way.) I crossed the wet lawn and jumped over a wooden fence. One of the high-heeled shoes filled with water and the stockings started to slide down. At the entrance to the school a couple of cowboys were talking to a black pirate. The girls were dressed up as prima donnas, prostitutes, or farm girls (it's hard to tell with these costumes). They were milling around restlessly at the top of the stairs, exchanging rude jokes with the guys. I stood in the dark and listened. I actually had a few amusing things to say, and some of the kids there were even part of my permanent fan club.
So why did I turn around and walk away? Maybe because my feet were wet, maybe because I thought being dressed up like Mom was too serious a joke - or maybe because I knew I'd spend most of the evening trying to make everyone there like me, feeling lonely all the while. I went back to the car. It was tough to turn around without landing in the ditch, but I managed. The way back was empty and fast, and within a few minutes I was home.
The first thing that surprised me was the darkness. It was dark in the living room, dark in the entryway, dark in the garage (which is usually lighted when the car is gone to make coming back easier), and dark in Mom and Dad's bedroom, too. I stopped the car in the driveway and opened the garage door with the remote-control. The door made its usual sound - like trains colliding - when it hit the ceiling, but no lights went on anywhere in the house.
Where'd she gone at this hour, without a car?
I didn't feel like going in, anyway. I pushed the button that closes the driveway door, and before the door had reached the ground I had already pulled out of the driveway and onto the street.
I drove back to the highway, turned on the radio, opened the window, and melted into the music, the wind, and the sheer pleasure of driving. Now I was feeling all the things I had missed on the previous ride. The adventure of it blocked out everything else, it even made me forget my costume. I drove about five miles south to the next exit, which led off to a mall where there was a great cookie store. Only when I got to the exit did I remember that I was dressed up like a woman - and I couldn't go into the mall looking like that. I kept going, watching for an exit that would enable me to turn back northward, toward home. I remembered that there was a bridge over the highway at Exit Four, and as I neared the exit I bent forward to find it.
That's when I saw them in the mirror.
Like I said, the visibility was bad that night, but there was something peculiar about them that left no room for doubt: they were interested in me. I was sure of this because I was travelling exceptionally slowly, in order not to miss the bridge. The lane next to mine was empty - but they didn't pass me. I slowed down even more. So did they. (I say "they" because against the background of the headlights that shone from behind I thought I saw two figures, along with the chrome front of a Chevrolet and a bit of blue hood.) I remember weighing whether to go off onto the shoulder, but just then it started raining again and I was afraid of getting stuck. What could I do beside keep driving straight ahead? I increased to 30, 35, 40, 45. That was the maximum speed; there's always a radar-equipped sheriff's car hiding in wait among the willows that line the highway. But they didn't let up, they just stayed behind me, keeping a fixed distance and a steady speed.
When I finally found my bridge, I slowed down and signaled left. So did they. I got into the lane that turns off the highway. So did they. Now I had to know whether they really were following me or not. I tried something I'd always seen in the movies: I braked, swung the wheel around, crossed the white line and ... fishtailed onto the shoulder. They'd quickly passed me and once they realized what I'd done they tried to stop. The cars that came after them started honking their horns, though, so they were forced to keep going and get on the bridge.
I struggled for a few minutes until I was able to climb up off the muddy shoulder onto the road and drive, against the traffic, back to the highway.
I was going south again, but now there was nothing in my rearview mirror - just blackness. Actually, I thought, I might have had it all wrong. It could've been just some old couple coming back from the movies late at night in the fog and rain, clinging to the rear end of another car in order not to lose their way, or tourists who were afraid of missing their turnoff, or two guys who'd have a great time telling their buddies tomorrow about how they'd scared the shit out of some lone lady driver.
All of a sudden I was in Fort Lee, approaching the sign for the George Washington Bridge. From here on it was impossible to turn around; I had to pay the toll and drive into the city. Mom's car is always full of change: on the floor, between the seats, on the little shelf under the radio, and in the door pockets. I started picking up coins and by the time I reached the toll booth I had practically five dollars.
On the bridge I ran into heavy traffic again. The cars inched forward. It was late, 11:07 according to the clock in the car that Mom never for the life of her has adjusted, which is to say it was close to 11:30.
The wig I was wearing started to slide forward. I tried to take it off, but it was fastened to my hair with bobby pins. The guy in the next car over, who was bald, started making sucking noises at me. I closed the window and looked straight ahead, just straight ahead. The traffic suddenly loosened. I drove south, fast, alongside the river. I slowed down at one of the intersections. I tried to read the name of the street. A policeman who had appeared out of nowhere yelled, `Keep going, lady'. I sped away into other streets. At some point I lost my way. I'd had enough. Around 42nd Street I saw a sign that said "Lincoln Tunnel". Somewhat relieved, I turned
to follow the arrow.
But they were there, too.
You'll probably want to know how I could tell it was them, when before, on the highway, I couldn't identify them. And I suppose it could have been just another blue Chevrolet with a chrome nose and two completely different shadows in the front seat, but I had a clear sensation that it was them, and that by some mysterious means they had been following me the whole time.
I didn't feel fear, just a kind of unpleasant curiosity, probably like what the rabbits or the robots or the Russian planes feel in those computer games. After one relatively empty street - for the length of which the blue Chevrolet was practically stuck to my back bumper - I was in the lane that led to the tunnel. Further on there was a small barrier that took up half the width of the street. The traffic was forced to one side, in order to make way for five or six buses that drove in a row down the ramp that led out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I glanced in the mirror, feeling somewhat better: I was at the entrance to the tunnel, beyond the border of darkness, and they were still bathed by the light of the headlights outside. But just then I realized that only one man was sitting in the Chevrolet - the driver. Before I could look again, the window of the door behind me had been broken.
It wasn't a rock, or a hammer, but something sharp and precise. He had hit exactly in the center of the glass and transformed the window into a web of shards that a gloved hand swept aside like a curtain in order to unlock the door. A second later someone was sitting in the back seat, saying in heavily accented English, "Don't turn around. Keep driving."
I tried to say something, but I forget what. He immediately added, "... and don't talk."
It took all the strength I had for me to nod my head up and down once, as a sign that I understood. I'd heard plenty of times about people getting robbed in their cars, in elevators, or just plain in the street. I had several plans worked out for such situations. But just then I couldn't remember any of them. The car in front of me started to roll forward.
The Last of the Wise Lovers Page 1
