Winter in Jerusalem

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  ‘That bitch! I’m going to break her in half.’

  By the time they had taken another turn and Bennie had announced he was hungry for lunch his good temper had returned, but Danielle realized that, in humoring him, she had somehow dulled her own wits. She felt relaxed but wooden-headed, in no state to argue her ideas about the shape of the film. While he was ordering their fish she went to the women’s room and looked at the scruffy hick in the mirror. ‘You’re artistic,’ she said and took handfuls of her hair and threw it upward, creating a fluffy mess; an application of charcoal eyeliner improved the bohemian effect. She grinned at the memory of her assurances to Wili that Kidron was easygoing.

  ‘Tell, tell, tell,’ Bennie said when she sat down. ‘I want to know everything.’

  He interrupted only to say, ‘Brilliant’ and ‘I love it! A great scene.’ When he listened he did so with concentration; his beautiful long eyelids flashed intermittently as he glanced at his fish before pushing it away, uneaten. He picked at the salad, groping in the dish for olives, and he bit a pickled cucumber in two, dropped one part, then held up the other saying, ‘What’s this? They give me half a cucumber?’ She thought, If you can’t use your imagination and eat lunch at the same time you must be slightly half-witted. But overriding this thought was her mood, luxurious now from the flattery of his attention. Later she remembered that lunch and laughed at her vanity.

  It was, however, the best meal she’d had in Israel and she wanted to eat the lot in case this evening everything was shut for the Sabbath, with only hotel dining rooms open and serving kosher Friday-night food. There had been signs in the Hilton’s foyer asking guests not to smoke in public areas during Shabbat. She had not mentioned to Bennie that the last shared taxis for Jerusalem left at about four o’clock and felt a thrill of deviousness when he said, ‘Let’s go to Diezengoff. Gotta say hullo to the best street in the world. We’ll have coffee on the sidewalk.’ It was fine by her if they strolled about and arrived back at the Hilton at 4:30 to discover they were trapped. He had forgotten so much of Israel: on the beach he had said, ‘It’s all changed. I don’t remember those buildings.’ He said now: ‘Or I can pick up the car and we’ll drive there.’

  ‘The car?’

  ‘I hired a car this morning. You don’t think I was going to ride in a sherut to Jerusalem, do you? What’s funny?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you ever like to do what ordinary people do?’ she said. ‘Just for the experience? You’re back here for the first time since -’

  Bennie cut in. ‘Ordinary people are losers.’ He turned smiling gray-green eyes to her. ‘I’m a winner.’

  At whose expense? she wondered.

  But his improvidence was an intoxicant. Bennie was paying for everything – her sandshoes, lunch, their hotel bills – with an off-hand air of noblesse oblige that made her feel narrow, middle-class, and mediocre. In the shoe shop she had objected, ‘But it was my idea to buy sandshoes,’ while he had said, ‘Danielle, Danielle,’ in a tone that pleaded with her not to make a scene, not embarrass him again as she had with her mangy fur jacket. One of his gold credit cards had already landed with a clatter on the counter.

  She had expected Diezengoff to be closed, as Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem would be by this time on Friday, but it was still full of people and the cafes were open. Tall, ravishing girls and boys walked hand in hand and kissed between tonguefuls of ice cream; there were hardly any uniformed soldiers; the clothes were a parade of winter fashions for the well-to-do.

  ‘This is Israel,’ Bennie said. ‘I’d like to have an address in Diezengoff – a video outlet. Or something.’ He was watching their waitress; she had long fair hair and a weasel face (Danielle thought she was a goy, maybe of Irish stock). She wore the latest in baggy jeans, tied at the waist with a piece of cotton rope, suggesting she might really be a sailor who had just jumped ship. There was a corkscrew in her front pocket that she wielded with a practiced jerk over bottles of wine demanded by a laughing group at the back table.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ Bennie said.

  ‘She looks corrupt.’

  ‘Nah. She’s real pretty.’

  ‘She thinks you are, too.’

  He acknowledged the compliment from both women with a faint smile that turned to an expression of panic. ‘Danielle. Don’t move an inch.’ He ducked his head under the table as if looking for something. ‘Quick. Get the bill.’ His hand groped up with a fistful of notes.

  Their table was deserted when she came back from the cashier’s desk; she found Bennie standing hard against a wall of the cafe, apparently examining the mural.

  ‘That was my mother,’ he said. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

  They had to walk in the wrong direction until they could cut down a side street and head back toward the Hilton.

  ‘She’s a very beautiful woman,’ he said.

  Danielle thought, She could look like a prizefighter in a wig, but I know what you mean: you’re terrified of her, and you call that love. ‘Where’s your father?’ she asked.

  ‘Around. He owns a trucking company. They’re still married, they still live together. He’s a bastard.’

  ‘So’s mine.’

  Bennie said: ‘Shake.’

  They were bright-eyed, astonished with the discovery of a glimpse of their own faces in each other’s. Bennie said, ‘Hey, you want an ice cream?’

  When they arrived at the hotel and the car was waiting, the navy blue Mercedes he’d ordered, Bennie said, ‘This is going to be a great trip. We’re going to enjoy, eh? That’s what life is for.’ He tossed her jacket onto the backseat with: ‘Danielle’s monkey suit. Next time I’m in Rome I’ll get you one of these,’ and plucked at the collar of his kid jacket. ‘Maybe in lilac. You should wear lilac.’

  She wondered, Why don’t you say it straight? ‘You, Danielle, just haven’t got it. You’re just high-paid help. You’re a loser.’

  Go on, break the speed limit, you hairy-chested pig, she thought.

  When they passed Bab el-Wad and began the ascent to Jerusalem Bennie asked, ‘Why is it so cold?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  He looked wary.

  ‘It’s a bad winter,’ she explained. ‘Up in Lebanon the Syrian soldiers have been freezing to death. More than a hundred of them died of exposure when the Red Cross wasn’t allowed to rescue them.’

  ‘That explains it.’ There was the same tone of caution in his voice.

  He was one of those terrifyingly effective drivers who drive fast and talk at the same time, looking away from the road. He glanced at her again. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

  She waited. Then:

  ‘I was – ah – exaggerating when I said I knew Jerusalem well. I thought the climate was warm.’

  I must not sound sarcastic, she thought. ‘How badly do you know it?’

  He laughed, throwing his head back in that insolent way. ‘Never been there. Never laid eyes on the joint.’

  ‘So, all those script conferences we had. . .?’

  ‘Listen. I had maps. I had photographs. I’d asked people questions.’

  ‘Have you been to Masada?’

  ‘Nope.’

  The Dead Sea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ter-rific’

  ‘You’re making fun of me – and I’ve got a busted head. That schmuck of an Italian.’ Bennie swore he’d done nothing to provoke the fellow. Danielle pulled him back with ‘Its a good thing I hired Wili Djugash for us. He’s been traveling around Israel for years. He did a series for Vogue on top of Masada.’

  The self-righteousness worked in a way she’d not expected. Bennie said, ‘Danielle – I don’t need a seeing-eye dog to find my way around.’

  In another ten minutes they would pass the fortress settlements on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Already the taste of tension was returning.

  Only half a dozen other Sabbath-breaking vehicles were on the highway ahead of them. At least he will not be traveling in o
ne of them, Danielle thought. Marilyn, or perhaps that woman with the phony voice, will be lighting his Shabbat candles. Bonny used to; I watched her face become a priestess’s over the flames. Then I would be sent to bed and from there could hear them laughing – Jews, Arabs, Armenians, French, Italians, the Englishman with the glass eye who did conjuring tricks with it to make me squeal.

  Bennie noted her silence and wondered if he had gone too far: she was not only a nag and always fishing for compliments, she was also moody. Tm real pleased you hired Wili. We want the best.’

  ‘He is, but he’s a creep.’

  ‘Five years in jail, what do you expect? Poor bastard. Jesus I’d hate to go to jail.’

  His eyes were fixed on the lights of the city ahead. ‘Listen – I’m not feeling well. Maybe I’ve got a concussion. I’m going to pull into that gas station.’ It was closed. He stopped the car, got out and wandered off into the dark. Across the valley lights signaled from the fortresses. Danielle opened the windows to release the cigar smoke and, sticking her head out into the night, she smelled the pine resin. The moon was speeding overhead. Bennie came back saying, ‘Can you drive this thing? I’m all dizzy. I think that schmuck – you know, I was unconscious for half an hour? had to be carried onto the plane – no, really, I was a stretcher case.’

  She had never driven on the right-hand side of the road. ‘Will you keep an eye on me at intersections?’

  ‘Just put it in Go,’ Bennie said.

  She found she could navigate without his help, even if he had been capable of giving it. He had become so quiet he really might have been ill; when she stopped at traffic lights and took a look at him he seemed stunned, lying still in the seat and breathing slowly in the top of his chest as if his heart, grown huge, was trying to escape from beneath his jacket.

  ‘My best friend was killed,’ he said. ‘The guy who took me to the brothel. In ‘73 he was blown away.’

  She felt kinder toward him.

  There’s pain when your history is dug up, she was thinking. ‘Keep your eyes closed,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you something soon.’

  It took only an extra few minutes to drive past the Old City and up to the Mount of Olives. She stopped in the car park outside the Intercontinental Hotel. By day tourists went there for a view over the Old City and to have their photographs taken sitting on a camel. Danielle had walked up to the Mount of Olives yesterday morning, before going to lunch at the university with Alice’s friend, Amos, and the American political scientist who wanted to ask about her father. She had planned to take Bennie here straight from the airport, last night. But of course he had mucked that up.

  The Temple Mount lay spread as a feast, stage-lit from below by the orange spotlights around the Old City walls. Bennie jumped out, saying, ‘ Where are we?’ He staggered and clasped his head. Suddenly he wasn’t acting.

  She continued sitting in the car, and could hear him blowing his nose. After a while she joined him, leaning against the stone wall of the viewing platform.

  ‘There, below us to the left, is your valley.’

  He didn’t understand.

  ‘That’s the Kidron Valley. And that’s the Golden Gate.’

  ‘There is no gate.’ The things he knew and did not know were equally surprising; she began to explain, to his long sighs. Then something she said triggered it all, and Bennie remembered: ‘So the Messiah will start from this very spot, descend from here, go across the Kidron Valley, the Golden Gate will open. . . hey!’ At length he added, ‘Israel had to take this bit of territory, didn’t she?’

  Danielle shrugged.

  ‘Aw – you’re not an Israeli,’ he said.

  And what the hell are you? she thought.

  He wanted her to leave him there. She traced on the map the route he could take to walk to the Plaza; as she drove off with his luggage she saw in the rear-view mirror that he was still leaning against the stone wall, smoking a cigar.

  At the Plaza she left a message for him to telephone her if he got in before midnight ‘so I’ll know you’re safe.’ There was no real danger, but . . . He had wads of cash and would be walking through unlit walled lanes in occupied territory before he reached West Jerusalem. When she returned from supper, there was no message from Bennie.

  But there were already eight from Wili. At the American Colony the desk manager had greeted her with discreet, soulful glances of rebuke as he handed her the folio of messages, plus a letter. His look said he hoped there would be no repetition of what he had had to put up with on her account during the past twenty-four hours. Ahmed, who had taken to sitting about in Danielle’s room and drinking coffee which neither of them paid for, followed her up the stairs.

  ‘I’ve only got half an hour to get dressed before I go out. You turn on the bath for me, and be quick.’

  He ran up the steps to the bathroom and played about with the bathwater while she read the letter, which said:

  Dear Princess!

  What is going on? You and Mr. Kidron have disappeared. I have checked every hotel in Jerusalem looking for you two. At the Plaza they said Kidron telexed from Rome to say he would not be arriving on Thursday and now they don’t know when to expect him.

  I have lined up an excellent assistant cameraman but his time is limited. I cannot fool him about with all this confusion. I will ring you first thing Saturday morning. Hopefully you will be there.

  Ciao for now, Wili.

  It was printed in capitals, except for his signature, which was a firework of something like copperplate almost filling the bottom of the page.

  Ahmed returned. ‘He waited four hours last night. Today, eight hours. Very anger. I told him, Madame has gone to Eilat. Back in five days.’ He was surveying the clothes Danielle had laid out on the bed, shaking his head. ‘More beautiful if you wear a skirt,’ he said.

  Danielle gave him a dollar to go away and slid into the bath knowing that if Amos and Phil arrived on time to collect her Ahmed would stall them, not as a favor to her but for the rapture of invention. He was capable of denying that she was staying in his hotel – or even that it was the American Colony. Some days he told Danielle he was thirty years old and married to two wives; on others he was eighteen, a bachelor, and working as a servant to earn enough to study motor mechanics. (He had already confided to one of the other boys that Danielle had asked him to marry her and he would soon be leaving for Austria – where she owned a hotel.) Life was full of surprises for Ahmed, and a constant pleasure.

  Lying in the warm water she went over why she was meant to be in a rush, how she would explain Bennie’s absence – he, too, had been invited – and how it had all come about in the first place.

  At lunch, two days ago: a repentant meeting (for her) with Alice’s friend Amos, whose Friday-night dinner of the week before she had had to cut, because of the hospital affair. Alice had arranged a get-together at the Mt. Scopus campus of the Hebrew University so Danielle could apologize to Amos, and meet Phil. She had liked him much better than Amos, who had accepted her explanation with the air of a man who had no time for the intricacies of the Green-Garin family, from whom he expected that sort of behavior, anyway. Phil was large and cuddlesome; Amos was trim, tough, and all nerves. He had a superbright line of patter, jokes, and political opinions that masked whatever it was he was really thinking about – which was not lunch. He’d wolfed his food as if eating were a time-wasting exercise, and it tasted all the same to him. She had watched his rebarbative profile dipping toward his plate, and his yellow eyes, and had thought of an eagle. He had no time for coffee, but had rushed Danielle from the dining room and insisted on driving her to the station to catch the bus to Lod, asking riddles like ‘What’s the difference between Israel and a lunatic asylum?’ with fierce amusement in his face. She had gathered Amos was an associate professor of something and that his recent book, about Marxism and the theory of law, was already considered a classic – ‘which means it’ll sell three thousand copies.’ He asked, ‘You know wh
at Marxism is?’ She did, kind of – but he had another joke up his sleeve: ‘No-no-no. Marxism is the opiate of the intellectuals.’ As she was alighting from his car he had said, ‘Come to after-dinner supper on Friday. Bring your director,’ and slammed the door.

  At nine o’clock she found the big amiable Phil waiting for her in the foyer with a grave expression, his head inclined to Ahmed, whose eyes were rolling with the drama of what he had to say.

  ‘I’m glad to see you all in one piece!’ he called in greeting. ‘From what he’s been telling me. . .’

  Ahmed had backed away as if Danielle, clean, dressed, smelling beautiful, appearing in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel at nine P.M. were a supernatural event.

  She moved a lot of orange peel, chocolate wrappers, and books to make room for herself on the backseat and explained to Amos that her director would not be coming because he was feeling ill.

  Amos said, ‘Tell him to be healthy.’ Everything he said was emphatic. He added, ‘The fucking doctors are threatening to go on strike.’

  From the front seat Phil looked around to raise eyebrows in apology for his friend. ‘Amos’s son has been court-martialed for refusing duty in Lebanon. He only found out this morning.’

  She mouthed words of sympathy that Amos seemed to find as interesting as bird twitter and to which he did not bother to reply. Phil launched on a story of his adventures in pursuit of the radical right. He had arranged an appointment with Professor Garin on Sunday morning: maybe he could persuade. . .?

  ‘Thanks. I’ll think about it,’ Danielle said.

  Amos was driving too fast, hunched over the wheel. When she had ridden with him two days ago his Cortina had seemed okay, but after Bennie’s Mercedes it felt like a sardine tin and she wanted to cry out, ‘Go easy!’

  But he suddenly cried out, ‘What! Garin will see you, Phil, and he won’t see her?’ He had stiff hair, like a barrister’s wig, but black. Turning around almost to face her it seemed to be standing on end. ‘What did you do to him, for Christ’s sake?’

  Assume it’s my fault, she thought.