His wife sat calmly next to the fireplace, reading one of her beloved mysteries. The very sight of her erased his anxiety. He was home. Safe. The cleaning woman had been in. The place was immaculate. It wasn’t his, but there was no reason he couldn’t enjoy the remaining nine months on the lease. He’d probably made too much of the night’s episode. It had been a mistake to take the jewelry. But who on Earth goes through life without making a blunder or two? Half a dozen in his case. No great harm had been done. Chances are the woman, in her state, had already forgotten what had happened. And wouldn’t miss the ring and necklace. No doubt she had buckets full of the stuff. Full of precious stones. More than likely she was wondering what she had done with her bedroom slippers. And concerned about her ridiculous maquillage.
He’d get a good night’s sleep. No point in telling his wife about the theft. Was there any need in a marriage, a good marriage, to fill out a report on every breath you took? He’d see it all clearly in the morning. He was beginning to see it clearly now. There were any number of options. He could keep the jewelry. Flush it. Sell it somehow and be done with it. Put it away somewhere and worry about it later. Even mail it, as if a Samaritan had found it on the street, just outside her front door.
His wife was totally caught up in her mystery novel. He kissed her forehead so as not to disturb her.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Before I forget, there’s a detective who called and wanted to have a chat with you. … Do you know a woman named Fleming?”
The Peace Process
A Novella
PART ONE
1990
From his reasonably comfortable room in the King David Hotel, William Kleiner looked out on the old walled city of Jerusalem and tried without success to love Israel. It’s true that he had only been in the country for a few hours, but his first impressions were not encouraging. At JFK, when he’d told the security guard that he was in the movie business, her nose had twisted to the side as if she’d smelled rotten fish. Then she’d questioned him for hours. Who gave him the ticket? Why Kleiner and not somebody else? How long had he had it and did he keep it in his suit jacket when he went to restaurants? Did he happen to be a Frequent Flyer? Kleiner understood the sensitive security needs of the beleaguered state, but was it necessary for them to know that his second cousin’s name was Dworkin? Why, the woman needed to know, did his mother get out of the stocking business on Hester Street?
He was tempted to tell them to forget it—in Japan, they could hardly wait to let him into the country—but the truth is, he needed his current assignment. Once a respected film director, his career had gone into the toilet after a string of turkeys. He was now officially considered burned out. He had been lucky to land a job as a location scout for a picture that had been described to backers as a Jewish Star Wars.
Finally, as if they were doing him a favor, he was allowed to board the plane. The intifada was at its height. As a result, there weren’t many passengers on the flight. He introduced himself to a slim, well-dressed man in Business Class who said he was employed by a think tank in Haifa. Kleiner saw in the man a compatible soul. Delighted by his good fortune, he prepared himself for a stimulating transatlantic conversation.
“I’d love to hear about your work.”
“And I’d love to tell you about it, but unfortunately my plan is to do a little thinking.”
Graciously, the man recommended a few good restaurants in Jerusalem, then turned away, thoughtfully holding his chin in one hand.
Disappointed, Kleiner settled in and watched Misery, the only selection, and a film he felt he’d had the skills to direct, if only they had given him a shot at it.
After a huge dinner and a successful nap, he found himself staring at the flight attendant and realized the man reminded him of Gil Fleugel, a friend who had committed suicide. The man had Fleugel’s hairline, the same powerful trunk, an identical smile. A charming individual, Fleugel throughout his life had sought out and enjoyed the company of celebrities, although it weighed on him that he himself, a shoe salesman, had never done anything noteworthy. When he realized he never would, he took a car off a cliff in Locust Valley, Long Island, leaving instructions that he be cremated. Kleiner attended his funeral. Speaker after speaker admitted they didn’t know what to make of the man. Even the rabbi threw up his hands. Was it possible Fleugel had faked his death and tied on with El Al?
Throughout the flight, Kleiner watched the attendant serve treats and collect trays, bringing his knees together and dipping his legs in a style reminiscent of Fleugel as a host at cocktail parties. When the plane touched down at Ben Gurion Airport, Kleiner could contain himself no longer.
“Fleugel,” he cried out. “I know it’s you. Tell me I’m not mistaken, for Christ’s sakes.”
In response to the blasphemy, the think tank man shouted “shame” and a rabbi beat his breast and davened. The attendant flashed a winsome smile as the doors flew open on the Holy Land.
The first thing Kleiner saw when he left the plane was a long line of Mercedes cars, as far as the eye could see. At the height of his career, when he was able to afford the German luxury car, Kleiner had shown solidarity with the Jews and stuck with a Cadillac. Had he known that Israel was virtually a huge Mercedes dealership, he might have done otherwise. Now it was too late. He was lucky to own a Saab.
The driver he selected was a stocky man with butcher’s arms and a forest of black curly hair. He told Kleiner he was from Poland and worked seven days a week to support his wife and five children. Even though they were fully grown, they continued to live in his tiny flat. It was a harsh life, relieved only by an excellent medical plan and the kindness of an occasional passenger from America who remembered him each Chanukkah with a gift in cash.
“Here’s how to reach me,” he said, handing Kleiner a card with his name and address.
Kleiner was offended by the driver’s lack of subtlety, but he put the card in his wallet anyway. Who knows, if his career took off, maybe he’d send the man a few dollars.
As they approached the city, Kleiner looked out on the barren desert and wondered why he wasn’t moved. It was his first trip to Israel; he’d expected to be overcome with emotion. Years back, he had spotted an El Al airliner taxiing through the fog at LaGuardia and had begun to cry uncontrollably. Was it only Jewish airplanes that moved him? The thought was absurd. Once he settled in at the hotel and mingled with a few Jews, he felt confident he’d start to cry again.
When the cab pulled up at the hotel, Kleiner, mindful of the driver’s straitened circumstances, overtipped him, then said he’d been thinking over the man’s situation.
“Maybe you should tell the children to move out.”
“And waste my breath,” the man said bitterly.
He flung Kleiner’s valise to the ground and drove off.
Wearily, Kleiner picked up his luggage and wondered what prompted him to get involved in other people’s affairs. Possibly it was because a psychiatrist he had been seeing on and off for many years had recently dropped dead, and this was Kleiner’s way of continuing the man’s practice.
After he had checked into the hotel, Kleiner approached the concierge, an elderly Viennese who gave the impression of having tired feet.
“Can you recommend a restaurant? It’s my first trip to Israel and I don’t know my way around.”
“What took you so long to get here? You’re no spring chicken.”
Kleiner ignored the gratuitous comment about his age. He cited the example of his cousin Gloria who had labored long and hard for Israel, organizing theatre parties for the B’nai Brith on a noncommission basis.
“And she hasn’t been here either.”
“Scribble down her number,” said the concierge. “We’re coming to New York in August. My wife is dying to see The Lion King.”
The concierge pointed out that Kleiner had arrived o
n the Sabbath. The city was locked up tight as a drum. His best bet was to eat a kosher dinner in the hotel dining room.
“That’s if I can get you in.”
After Kleiner had slipped the man a few dollars, the concierge led him into the dining room, seating him next to a hollow-eyed Frenchman, the only other single. The man extended a weak hand. Recently widowed, he had bought a condo in Tel Aviv.
“Away from France,” he said, his voice cracking, “maybe I can forget my poor wife.”
Over a five-course dinner, he described in detail her valiant but ultimately losing battle with illness.
“What did she die of?” asked Kleiner, who had barely touched his gefilte fish.
“Cancer,” the man said with a loud, mournful wail, causing a table of six to whip their heads around.
Kleiner had never before heard such a tragic-sounding utterance, possibly because of the French accent. He had thought it might be nice to get to know the man and possibly receive an invitation to his condo. But he could see it was much too early in the mourning period for a friendship to take hold. Kleiner got to his feet, patted the man on the shoulder, and said he hoped he would find a little happiness in the years to come.
“You won’t stay for the noodle pudding?” said the man, wiping away a tear.
“Some other time.”
Emma. Green eyes. The twinkle. The unconscionably pretty body. Kleiner? Dead in the water. And that was the start of it.
Kleiner walked outside and took a seat on the patio. The only other guests were a pair of Hasids who discussed ice-cream franchises in the moonlight. When Kleiner lit a cigar, one of them jumped to his feet.
“Put that out,” he said, wagging a long finger. “Don’t you know it’s the Sabbath?”
“Forgive me,” said Kleiner, stubbing out the cigar in an ashtray and graciously accepting the two-and-a-half-dollar loss. A fly-by-night Jew, it had been years since he had set foot in a synagogue. Yet he had no wish to offend the devout, especially in Israel.
Excusing himself, he walked back toward the lobby.
“And don’t try it in the room,” the first Hasid called out to him.
“Because we’ll know,” said his friend.
In the lobby, Kleiner considered taking a cab to the more cosmopolitan Tel Aviv for a few quick puffs. Would the men follow him there? Rather than chance it, he returned to his room where everything from the old-fashioned radio to the shower curtain reminded him of his childhood apartment in Washington Heights; this would have been comforting, except that the loved ones who had surrounded him as a boy were dead and buried. This included the cleaning lady, who had reserved a plot right next to his parents.
Standing on the small balcony, he heard a voice cry out in the night and thought it might be the Frenchman about to go off the roof. Then he realized it was a muezzin, summoning the faithful to prayer. Kleiner wouldn’t have minded doing a little praying himself. But what would he pray for? Another wife to drive him crazy? His next hard-on? Peace on Earth was an obvious choice. But what he really wanted was another chance at the spotlight so that he could show his face in top restaurants.
His mood was sorrowful, which was puzzling since he hadn’t even visited his first Holocaust memorial. Music had always lifted his spirits, so he turned on the radio, hoping to pick up a few joyous songs from the Negev. All he got were cricket scores from Sri Lanka.
Then he realized he was not alone. A young man in a black suit was setting up a tray beside his bed. The suit was four sizes too big for him. When he turned toward Kleiner, his lips were wet and his eyes unfocused, as if he had been hit on the head a few times.
“Your tea, sir,” said the man. “Just the way you like it.”
“I don’t like tea,” said Kleiner. “And how did you get in here?”
“I don’t want to disturb you,” said the man, not quite answering the question. “May I get you some figs?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Kleiner, although, if the truth were told, figs were a favorite of his.
“I’ll make sure there are no worms in them.”
“Even so,” said Kleiner, “I’d like my privacy.”
“As you wish, sir. But maybe you can explain something to me. My brother is getting married for the second time in Queens. Every time I ask the authorities if I can go to the wedding, they tell me to go and fuck myself.
“Why is that, Mr. Kleiner?” he asked, the voice of equanimity.
“I’m sure they have their reasons.”
“You’re an important man, sir,” he continued. “You have powerful friends. Maybe you can help me.”
“I’m not so important these days,” said Kleiner, implying of course that he once was.
“Kamal is my only brother,” said the man, near tears. “Soon he’ll be married and I won’t be there. If I were a Jew, I’d be on the plane, but because I’m a farshtunkene Arab, they laugh at me.”
Increasingly agitated, he fell to his knees. With his arms pressed to his chest, like Jolson at the Winter Garden, he cried out, “Help me get to LeFrak City!”
Despite the man’s passionate appeal, Kleiner was strangely unmoved by his story. What was so important about a wedding, especially these days, when most marriages ended in divorce anyway? He conceded that Arab marriages might be more long-standing, but nonetheless, his heart remained unbroken. Maybe if the brother needed a kidney, Kleiner would be inclined to pick up the phone. But even then, who would he call, the prime minister? The busy head of state would laugh in his face.
“I can’t help you,” said Kleiner. “I just got here and I’ve got a full plate.”
“You don’t understand,” said the man, the color draining from his face. “The psychology here. It’s killing me.”
Gasping for air, he ran around the room, holding his temples as if there were electrodes attached. At the moment, Kleiner felt the Arab was capable of doing anything. This included stabbing Kleiner in the heart with a bread knife, a poor start to his trip. Maybe he should call security. But there was no point in having the man dismissed, which would only add to his troubles, possibly putting him on the unemployment line with newly arrived Russians.
Kleiner stepped in front of the Arab and put an arm around his shoulders.
“It’s late,” he said, gently steering him into the corridor. “We both could use some sleep.”
The last statement was patently untrue, since the man, despite his unfocused eyes, appeared to be well rested.
Kleiner shut the door and double-locked it. Despite the precaution, he didn’t feel safe. The Arab had gotten in before; he could get in again. It’s possible he had a key.
Trying to compose himself, Kleiner wondered if there had been a case for helping the man. As far as Kleiner could tell, he was an Israeli Arab, with the same rights and privileges as any citizen, except possibly the important ones. Kleiner was no expert in Israeli civic affairs, but he had read this much in a dentist’s office, possibly in GQ.
What harm could come from letting the man travel to Queens, especially if he promised to come back in a few weeks and not make any side trips to missile silos?
Still, the Israelis were wise. Possibly they suspected him of having ties to Syria and were keeping an eye on him. But if this were true, why would they let him run loose in a top hotel, with access not only to Kleiner but to visiting rock stars?
What bothered Kleiner the most was that he may not have shown sufficient compassion. This was a touchy point. Pleading involvement with his work, he had always been a little distant to friends and loved ones. But he had a clean slate when it came to helping strangers. Rare was the appeal from a charity that went unanswered in the Kleiner household of one, especially the blind ones. Only recently he had fired off a check to a new group that helped gay men who felt terrible that they didn’t have AIDS yet. Then too, in Central Park, he had
disarmed a souvlaki salesman who was about to stab his cousin over a minor theft. (Fortunately, Kleiner’s heroism had been observed by a passing commodities broker who whispered, “Well done.”)
Was this the picture of a selfish man?
Nonetheless, he remained disturbed by the incident. Thousands of miles from home, he felt naked and alone. The fact that there were Jews all over the place was of little comfort since he didn’t know any of them. Ironically, in Japan, where the stores were crowded with anti-Semitic bestsellers, he’d felt warm and cozy in his hotel room. Maybe in the formerly Nazi Germany he would find total peace and security.
Kleiner felt like calling someone, but his contacts in Israel were minimal. His accountant had given him the name of a great beauty who had been the mistress of several of the country’s founding fathers. But the woman was well along in her seventies. Should he ask her to hobble over with a cane and keep him company? His contact in the film industry lived way out in the desert. There was no need to disturb the man at an ungodly hour. A call to Emma, his estranged wife, was a possibility. She had a great and compassionate heart, but unfortunately she was addicted to everything; this included salt and pepper and the air they breathed. Unwilling to see her destroy a fine mind by eating Mounds bars and watching daytime soaps, Kleiner, like a thief in the night, had slipped out of her life. He resisted calling her for fear that she would develop a few new addictions while they were on the phone.
There were stray friends he could ring up in the States, but in truth he was afraid of the time differential. That someone could be eating lunch at one end of the phone while Kleiner prepared for bed at the other drove him close to insanity, as did all concepts of time. He’d once read one page of an Einstein biography and had to lie down with a headache.
So he decided to tough it out and prepare for bed. He looked in the mirror and saw one of those attractive bald men, or at least that’s what he had been told on those occasions when his weight was under control. He had brown eyes, a straight nose, and wonderful teeth, which he had inherited from his father, along with the ability to take naps at a moment’s notice. He was not quite six feet tall, which had always annoyed him. Either you’re six feet tall or you’re not. If you’re close, don’t bother me.
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