by Joshua Sobol
What is love? What happens to us when we’re in bed, is that love? When you lie naked on your back, quiet as the Indian River, with a dolphin smile, and I fawn on you and splash in your dolphin river and chatter like a myna bird. Do you love me? If you love me you hide it from me very well. In any case, up to now you’ve never said it to me, I love you. And I actually like that. Because in the fucking world where I’ve been living up to now, that’s the first thing that every fucking guy says to every fucking woman when he wants to fuck her without paying the price. After they’ve paid they don’t say anything anymore. They get dressed and go.
Maybe you’re a saint? No. You’re not. You’re an executioner. And I’m not going only by what you told me about yourself. I’m talking about what I can feel in you. You’re not the saintly type, not at all. You’re totally down to earth, a man of flesh and blood, and I’ll bet a lot of sperm as well. Sometimes I feel like doing it to you just to prove that what I feel is true. One day, or one night, I’ll do it. I’ll give you a hard-on like you’ve never had before, you know by now that I can do it, and neither of us will be able to restrain ourselves any longer and we’ll fall on each other and fuck and fuck and fuck. Sometimes I’m dying to do it to you. Because you’re destroying the picture of the world I built up over years of suffering. Shakespeare! If you love me, don’t hide it from me. Please. You can tell me that you love me. If you tell me now that you love me, I’ll believe that you’re saying it differently from all the men I’ve come across up to now. You’re the first one that I’ll believe. And if you don’t love me, tell me that you don’t love me, and I’ll accept it without being hurt. I promise. But if you don’t love me, why are you doing all this for me? What kind of a person are you? What’s going on between us? What kind of a story is it?
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It’s a story about nothing, he says and lets the astringent bitterness of the whiskey turn little by little into a kind of smoky sweetness in his mouth.
There’s no such thing as a story about nothing, protests Yadanuga.
And what do you call the world? asks Shakespeare.
The world is a story about nothing? says Yadanuga, concerned for his friend.
Go on, tell me what it’s about, this story of a universe that expands and contracts, and pulsates and stretches, and twists and turns and coils around itself like a rope, and unravels, and comes apart, and expands again towards infinity, and is compressed again and collapses into itself, until it turns into a black hole which vomits itself with all the planets that explode and turn into floating dust in the interstellar space—what is this tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury, if not a story about nothing?
I’ll tell you what, says Yadanuga as if in a sudden flash of illumination, you, with your story about nothing, have succeeded in evading the question I asked you again: Who are you, Shakespeare, what kind of a person have you become, to abandon me to the mercy of Mona and her lust for revenge.
You’re avoiding the question that I asked you, says Shakespeare. You’re avoiding the question of whether the whole story of our life isn’t a story about nothing.
The story of our life is a story about nothing? Yadanuga demands indignantly. Tell me, Shakespeare, do you hear what you’re saying?
Shakespeare hears. He hears too everything left unsaid in Yadanuga’s question. He hears the stress on the word ‘our’, while he himself, in the question he posed in the same words, put the emphasis on the word ‘life’. He knows that Yadanuga is thinking now about the Alsatian and about Jonas. The body of one of them they had been obliged to abandon to the water of a river in India. The body of the other they had buried in the sands of the Libyan desert, before setting out on the dangerous trek to the collection point on the coast, dressed as nomads of one of the tribes in the vast ocean of sand. Presumably Yadanuga was thinking now that the Alsatian, even though he had never said so explicitly, lived his life in the shadow of the fact that his parents had been forced to flee Alsace with the invasion of the German army, and had spent the entire war in hiding in an apartment in St. Denis, which had been put at their disposal by the mother of an engineer who worked before the war with the father of Daniel Altwasser in the Ministry in charge of roads and bridges, until they fell victim to informants, and before they were expelled to Drancy towards the end of the war, managed to entrust their one-year-old child to the mother of this engineer, a devout Catholic, who brought him up as a Jew, and took care to tell him everything she had heard about his parents from her son, who was active in the Resistance, and was caught by the Gestapo and tortured and executed. And when the Alsatian volunteered for the unit after the murder of the athletes at the Munich Olympics, he was closing a circle.
And Jonas’s story, he hears Yadanuga wondering aloud, is that a story about nothing?
Jonas, whose parents had been deprived of their Iraqi citizenship in 1947, and whose property had been confiscated, and who had lived for three years as persecuted displaced persons in their own country, before they found their way to a collection point in 1950, and were packed into the hold of a dilapidated plane together with another two hundred Iraqi Jews, who had also been turned overnight into homeless destitute refugees in their motherland, and even though Jonas too had never explained his joining the unit as a closing of the circle, it was hard for Shakespeare not to think of the sentence, ‘If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’
And the figures of his dead friends send him back in a storm to that distant winter day, when they huddled round a kerosene stove in a cold room on a windswept jetty in the navy base, trying to restore a little warmth to their frozen bones after a training exercise that had almost ended in disaster. Their little rubber dinghy had overturned in the middle of the stormy sea, and the mighty waves had crashed on their heads, and Jonas had reached the overturned boat first and seized hold of the rope and made for Yadanuga, and together they made for the Alsatian, and then the three of them began to search for him. He saw them in the distance, but they didn’t see him, and whenever a wave lifted him high for a second he waved at them, hoping they would see him through the salt water blinding their eyes, and by the time they finally spotted him, the currents had already swept him far away, and he said to himself that it was all over, that even if they tried to reach him they wouldn’t make it, the raging sea would tire them out before they could cover the increasing distance between them, but they didn’t give up, they didn’t stop straining forward for a second, holding onto the rope encircling the boat, and when he saw them making such an effort, he was inspired with a new strength, and he too began swimming towards them, and after what seemed like an eternity a great wave came and lifted him up, and he saw them at the foot of the breaking mountain of water and he stretched his arms out in front of him, surfing the crest of the wave and tumbling down to the depths in the thunder crashing around him, thrown every which way until there was no knowing what was up and what was down, and then, all of a sudden, a firm hand gripped his hand flailing in the water, and this strong hand dragged him forcefully to the side of the overturned boat and put the rope in his hand, and his hand clutched the rope, and when he opened his stinging eyes he saw through the mist of the spray the faces of his friends at his side, and he was flooded with love, but the waves breaking over them and covering them with foam made it impossible to open his mouth and say anything, and there was no need to say anything either, and only Jonas, who was the strongest of them all, didn’t stop urging them on, swim, guys, keep on swimming, don’t give up guys, we haven’t reached the shore yet, and it was Jonas’s powerful voice that inspired them with a strength whose origins were unknown, until their feet touched the ground, and together with the overturned boat they reached the shore, and as soon as they were a few steps away from the water their knees gave way beneath them and they collapsed onto the wet sand, and lay there unable to lift a finger, breathing the cold air into their stinging lungs, and that was the first and last time in his life that he knew the meaning of utter exhaustion, and J
onas recovered first and rose to his feet and said that they had to get up and go before they froze to death, and to this day he can feel branded on his palm the touch of the strong hand that gripped him and pulled him up and helped him to his feet, the hand of Jonas with his huge body, whose life had drained out of him in the desert because of a little nine millimeter bullet. Adonis was their last target, before the chapter of the assassinations was concluded and the unit was disbanded and they took off their uniforms and it was the end of one story and the beginning—
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The story of our lives is a story about nothing? He sees before him Yadanuga’s childlike face and his astonished eyes.
Why are you fighting those two children, Moran and Golan? Shakespeare wonders. Why is it so important to you to have your idea about the campaign for that fucking love pill accepted?
Are you kidding? asks Yadanuga. You think we’re talking about a disinterested fight for justice here? Don’t you know how much money the copyright for the idea that wins the competition is worth?
I know exactly how much money it’s worth, says Shakespeare.
So why are you surprised? asks Yadanuga.
I’m surprised at you, that you’re fighting for the right to make a living from prostitution.
Prostitution? You call it prostitution? demands Yadanuga.
What do you call it? asks Shakespeare.
We’re selling a product, says Yadanuga, just like anybody else selling a product on the global market.
Did you ever know love? Shakespeare nips his lecture on market economics in the bud.
Who didn’t know love once? Yadanuga replies with a question, which he himself goes on to answer: anyone who had a mother knew love once.
You’re evading the issue, Yadanuga, says Shakespeare. You know what I’m talking about.
No, says Yadanuga, why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re talking about.
You had a few love affairs in your life, says Shakespeare.
I did, Yadanuga acknowledges.
And whenever you started a new affair, didn’t you ask the new woman to judge if you’d never known love before her?
It never occurred to me to request such a thing! protests Yadanuga.
Not in words, says Shakespeare. In actions.
Excuse me? Yadanuga makes a face. You’re talking to me in riddles. Why don’t you explain what you’re talking about?
In the lips she offered you, didn’t you plant a kiss that asked the new woman to judge if you’d already known love? And in the way you caressed her body—and let’s not go into any more details, think about whatever you like—didn’t you ask your new lover to judge if you’d already known love? And didn’t your body declare to her body that this was all you were looking for in her? In other words, the great love that you’d already known, and that was lost forever, and that you seek in very new love.
What’s all this got to do with the subject? Yadanuga demands an explanation and Shakespeare provides it willingly:
This lost love that you’re seeking, Yadanuga, is sought by everyone on earth. Okay, maybe not everyone, but at least all those who when their story is told, all that should be asked of those who judge them is that they be judged by whether they once knew love.
Go on, says Yadanuga, maybe in the end I’ll understand what you’re talking about.
Imagine a crowd of ants running around stunned and confused after a storm, not understanding where the grains of wheat that they were holding in their pincers, carrying them back to their nest, have disappeared to, suddenly blown away by the storm. Do you see the picture?
I see it, says Yadanuga, and Shakespeare continues:
Those crowds of ants are the people running around stunned on the ground of the world, not understanding how it happened that this love, that they were already holding fast and were about to carry to the nest of eternal happiness, has been suddenly torn from them by the storm and blown away on the wind and disappeared. And they run around and look for it under every skirt and every pair of pants, and they are ready to buy every potion and every book and pill and perfume and powder with the word ‘love’ written on its label, especially if they are promised that in the pages of that book they will find a clue to the riddle of the disappearance of love from their lives, or that this pill will restore the capacity for love which they may have lost and that is why they have lost the love they knew when they knew love. Go to the cinemas, go to the theatres, go to the concert halls, go to the pubs and rock clubs, look at the boys and girls with the cell phones whose screens shine with a blue synthetic light in the darkness of the halls, and look at them when they tap out with trembling fingers, in the middle of the movie or the play, the cry for help that they are sending into cyberspace, ‘i miss u’, ‘i miss u 2’; ‘i love u’, ‘i love u 2’. Look at these young people, hooked on their electronic talk boxes like junkies on their drug, poor people who already at this stage of their lives are broadcasting the despairing cry: ‘When all is told, ask her to judge whether you never knew love.’ Now close your eyes and think about how we’re advertising this product, the cellular telephone. Think how we sell it. Not as a magic means to hold onto love so that it won’t run away? And how do we sell books, panties, orange juice, if not as the pursuit of fleeing love? And how do we sell shaving cream or deodorants, if not as a magic potion to hold onto the love we knew, or at least as bait to lure a new love, so that we can ask it to judge whether we once knew love.…
And you arrived at all this—begins Yadanuga, and Shakespeare continues the sentence:
When I was tempted to look for my lost love in a New York call girl, and met the personification of human misfortune.
What lost love were you looking for in a whore? Yadanuga asks with the trace of a sneer.
You dared to ask the question, Shakespeare smiles, and you will have to hear the answer.
Why have to? I’ll be very interested to hear it, says Yadanuga.
Good, says Shakespeare, do you want it with an anesthetic or without it?
I suppose I should ask for anesthetic? guesses Yadanuga.
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Waitress! calls Shakespeare, and when she signals that she’s heard him and she’ll be with them in a minute, he says quickly to Yadanuga:
You see that waitress?
What about her? asks Yadanuga in surprise.
You know who’s going to marry her?
No, says Yadanuga.
You, says Shakespeare.
Interesting, says Yadanuga, I haven’t heard about it yet.
Neither has she, says Shakespeare, but it going to happen.
How do you know? demands Yadanuga.
It’s what’s written for you.
Where, in heaven?
No, says Shakespeare, in the scene that’s being written at this very moment. Would you like to read it?
Yes, says Yadanuga.
And at that moment precisely she stands at their table, tall and slender, her belly exposed, with a friendly smile on her slightly freckled face and a mane of honey colored hair.
Yes? she says briskly, holding a pen and notebook, ready to take their order.
Do you know what your name is? asks Shakespeare.
No, she smiles in surprise. What’s my name?
Talitha, Shakespeare informs her.
Okay, she is ready to continue playing the game whose rules are not yet clear to her. I’m Talitha, and where am I from?
From a farm, suggests Shakespeare.
And what am I doing in the big city? she asks for more information.
You’re studying acting, says Shakespeare.
Amazing! she says. What’s your friend’s name? She turns to Yadanuga.
Shakespeare, he replies.
Okay, she says, Shakespeare … what play are we in?
Choose, says Shakespeare, Othello or A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Wow! says the waitress. Othello isn’t a good story, right?
It isn’t an easy story, Shakesp
eare corrects her.
Then I choose to be in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the waitress laughs.
In that case, says Shakespeare, my friend requires the appropriate potion.
Brandy? Whiskey? she inquires.
A double shot of ten year old Lagavulin, says Shakespeare.
Bring one for Shakespeare too, orders Yadanuga.
When the waitress is out of hearing, Othello begins:
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Do you remember when they sent me to Norway alone, to take a course in Nordic skiing?
When was that? Yadanuga repeats the question. Was it when they sent you to eliminate ‘the doctor’?
It was less than a month before Mona and I got married, says Othello in a low voice, and leans over the little table separating them, bringing his face close to that of his friend, who draws back a little and casts his eyes down and to the side—like Judas in Leonardo’s last supper, Hanina sees the picture in his mind’s eye, sorry now that he opened his mouth, but already it’s impossible to stop the words gushing out and peeling layers of dead skin from an ostensibly long-healed wound.
When they defined the target, and it became clear that it was a suicide mission, and therefore they would only risk one man, I knew that I had to volunteer, says Hanina.
You were much better than the rest of us in long distance running and mountaineering, says Yadanuga.
Yes, Hanina agrees. When I volunteered for the mission, Mona and I took a vow, that if I came back alive, we would get married. And I left.
And in the end you got the better of him, says Yadanuga, even though ‘the doctor’ was a master of Nordic skiing.
Yes, says Shakespeare, he was an excellent teacher. I joined a group he was instructing, and after a week I asked for private lessons. I think he suspected me. He was clever as a devil, and mean as a gatekeeper in hell. He gave me tasks to perform that were clearly designed to kill me. He would send me to ski down narrow courses on steep slopes at the edge of deep chasms. It was clear to me that any wrong move would end in certain death. After I completed these dangerous runs I would stand still, open my eyes and look around me, unable to believe that I was still in this world, and then he would come down after me, laughing all the way like the devil he was. One day, before one of these suicide missions, I put two metal pegs with a transparent fisherman’s line between them in my pocket, and I succeeded in stopping for a minute at the deadliest curve and sticking the pegs into the snow. He came down the slope at terrific speed, laughing his usual demonic laugh. I managed to see his face, and the next second he was flying and turning over in the air like a shot bird.
