The Peace Process

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Kleiner tried to imagine what it would be like to show up in Cairo not only with Mahmoud but also the Yiddish-speaking Naomi in a string bikini.

  “It wouldn’t work out.”

  She pressed her damp and fragrant body against him. “Then what can I do to help?”

  Kleiner hesitated, then took a chance. “Can I see them?”

  “What’s that?” asked Naomi.

  Then, after a beat, she understood.

  “Oh, sure,” she said, removing her suit jacket. She unbuttoned her blouse to unhook a fortresslike foundation garment. The effect was tremendously erotic, like watching a CEO undress at a board meeting.

  It was impossible for Kleiner to be casual when he saw her enormous breasts. With as much reverence as passion, he kissed each one.

  Patiently, she corrected his style.

  “I can see you’ve never dealt with a bubbies girl.”

  Then, sweeping her hands up through her hair, she flicked on some Tito Puente music and gave her breasts a little shake.

  Taking this as a cue, Kleiner pulled her to him, kissed her deeply, and plunged his hand into her surprisingly sensible panties.

  “Please,” she said, stopping him again. “Not tonight. It’s too close to Sol. Not the kugel.

  “But here are my numbers in New York,” she said, scribbling on a notepad. “The second one is a service and they’re a little slow to pick up.”

  “I’ll keep ringing,” said Kleiner, folding the slip of paper and putting it in his new credit-card holder. Then he returned to his room, aware that he’d been badly thrown off stride by the last Yiddish expression. He’d stayed with her on plotz and toches and meshugge, but felt she had stepped over the line with kugel as a pet name for her vagina.

  Still, Naomi had shown remarkable faith in him, never once questioning his plan to spirit Mahmoud out of Israel so he could show up at a wedding in LeFrak City. He found this abiding faith attractive, although no doubt she’d encouraged Sol to follow his star as well—which in the case of the famed urologist meant consulting on additional penises. Her great body notwithstanding, Kleiner admired her blind loyalty. He decided he might just give her a call if he ever made it safely back to Manhattan.

  To get a jump on the next day, Kleiner packed his possessions in cartons and labeled them for shipment back to New York. He left out only the bare essentials—a toothbrush, his great form-fitting Speedo swimsuit, and a small survival tool that enabled the user to open bottles, cut through barbed wire, and file his nails.

  Then he went to bed, the enormity of what he was attempting to do closing in on him. Over decades, the country of Israel had been constructed with the blood and money of a multitude of Jews. Kleiner himself had sent them a few dollars. Yet what was his major contribution to the Jewish state? Sneaking an Arab out of the country to attend a wedding, when a simple present would have sufficed. What kind of Jew did that make him? And a Jew he’d remain until his dying day. Unless, of course, hostility to his people ended, in which case he would have to think over his options.

  Then there were the dangers. If he was caught, he’d been alerted to what would happen to his precious cock. And even if he made it, there was a chance that certain religious rightist groups would put out a contract on him. This would place Kleiner in that most unenviable of positions—a Jew sought ’round the world by other Jews.

  Kleiner’s last thoughts before he nodded off were of his friend and psychiatrist, a mortality expert, who had dropped dead suddenly before he’d given Kleiner any tips on dying.

  Kleiner checked out the next morning and raced over to Mahmoud’s apartment, there to be greeted by Mr. Salah in a black and white kaffiyeh of the kind worn by Yasser Arafat at press conferences. In the background, Kleiner could see Mrs. Salah rolling around on the carpet, beating her breast and crying out her son’s name.

  “Forgive my wife,” said Mr. Salah. “She’s concerned about the soaring crime statistics in the territories.”

  “Queens is a territory?”

  “Inshallah,” said the elderly Arab.

  He went into the bedroom to rouse his sleeping son, then joined Kleiner in the living room.

  “I’ll concede that my son can be testy,” he said as he poured a cup of coffee for Kleiner. “But if he acts up, don’t smash him in the face again.”

  Kleiner assured him there was little likelihood he would do so.

  “I hope not,” said Mr. Salah, sternly. “Once was enough.”

  Freshly shaved, smelling of Old Spice, Mahmoud appeared and greeted Kleiner warmly. Then, while Kleiner waited with impatience, he ate a huge breakfast that his mother had prepared for him.

  When he’d finished the last of the eggs and beans, his father pressed a twenty-dollar bill in his hand and warned him to take the proper precautions if he should get involved with the women of Queens.

  Mahmoud bid his parents farewell. The two men set out on their precarious journey.

  They made it to the street outside the walled city. Kleiner was thrilled they had gotten that far without being thrown into prison. Furtively, Kleiner looked for a cab while at the same time preparing a story in case they got stopped.

  I’m just taking a three-hundred-mile drive to the border with an Arab I met in room service.

  Obviously, there were holes in the account, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

  If Mahmoud felt any apprehension, he didn’t show it. Nonchalantly, he stood beside Kleiner, sucking on a toothpick, one hip thrown out in the style of a male hustler.

  When a cab finally stopped for them, the two men jumped in. Kleiner was amazed to see that the driver was the stocky Pole who had first taken him to the King David. The man recognized Kleiner immediately and embraced him with a bear hug.

  “You have no idea what you did for me,” said the driver. “After we met, I threw my children out on the street and I felt a hundred pounds lighter.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” said Kleiner.

  “I can’t thank you enough. To think I was still feeding them when they were forty.”

  “Is he going to carry on this way for the whole trip?” said the Arab. “Because frankly, Mr. Kleiner, I had a troubled sleep last night.”

  “Let him show his gratitude.”

  “Thank you,” said the driver with a sharp look at Mahmoud. “And where may I take you?”

  “Eilat,” said Kleiner.

  “That’s a long trip,” said the driver. “And I’ll probably have to come back empty. I wish I didn’t have to charge you, but even without the kids, I still feel squeezed.”

  “Put it out of your mind,” said Kleiner.

  The driver sped off. Before long, the rocky motion of the cab had lulled both passengers to sleep. Sometime later, they came to a roadblock and were flagged over to the side by a uniformed soldier who asked to see their identification. Kleiner handed him his passport, Mahmoud his ID. As the soldier reviewed the documents, Kleiner considered making a full confession and having his records faxed over from the States. They would show that he hadn’t broken a law since the fifth grade, when he had accidentally stolen a pencil sharpener.

  Apparently satisfied, the soldier handed back the papers, then nodded toward Mahmoud.

  “Why do you travel with schmutz?”

  Kleiner answered with uncharacteristic bravery, still clinging to the belief that a Jew would never harm him.

  “If he’s schmutz, then I’m an Arab.”

  In this case, Kleiner was right; with a snort, the soldier directed them to join a mixed group of travelers behind a barricade.

  “You didn’t have to do that for me,” said Mahmoud.

  “Who said he did it for you?” said the driver with surprising insight.

  Behind the barricade, a bejeweled young woman from California paced up and down nervously, stopping o
nly to tell an uncomprehending group of Druse that she had once dated Joe Namath.

  Kleiner also recognized yet another woman from the lobby of the King David. She complained to her husband that a soldier had been rude to her.

  “Should I make a stink?”

  “That’s up to you, darling,” her husband said neutrally.

  A bomb-squad truck rolled up. Two men in tank suits jumped out and fell to the ground as if they were being fired upon. Their bellies hugging the dirt, they began to play out a long black coil, which they manipulated to examine a suspicious-looking brown bag that had been left on a bench. After twenty minutes, one of them declared that it was only a harmless ham and cheese sandwich.

  “You can all be on your way,” he told the detainees.

  “And for this you tie up the whole city?” complained the driver.

  “You can’t be too careful,” said the man. “Yesterday we had a tuna on rye go up outside the Knesset.”

  The three men piled back into the cab and continued their journey. When they reached the port of Eilat, Kleiner paid the driver, who thanked him once again for his help in kicking out his children.

  “I can’t give you money,” said the grateful driver, “but I do horoscopes on the side. Next time you’re in Jerusalem, I promise you a reading on the house.”

  Kleiner expressed his appreciation. Then the driver sped off. The two remaining men walked down to the shore just in time to board an excursion boat as it pulled into the Gulf of Aqaba.

  Kleiner paid the fare. On the top deck, the two men joined a group of tourists, who were listening to a guide as he pointed out rare specimens of marine life.

  “There before you,” he said, gesturing toward a reef, “is a beautiful cluster of closed beadlet anemones.”

  “He’s wrong,” Mahmoud said to Kleiner. “Those are open periwinkles.”

  “Don’t correct him,” said Kleiner.

  For obvious reasons he was anxious to keep a low profile.

  “But they’ll go away thinking they saw something they didn’t see. I think it’s disgraceful.”

  “Who cares?” said Kleiner. “And incidentally, where did you learn this?”

  “At Jew school,” said Mahmoud.

  “Jewish school,” Kleiner corrected him angrily.

  “Whatever.”

  The guide drew the attention of the group to a thicket of limestone date mussels.

  “Only in Israel will you find them,” he said with pride.

  “He’s doing it again,” said Mahmoud bitterly. Then he hollered out: “What about St. Bart’s?”

  “I know about St. Bart’s,” said the guide with condescension. “And believe me, everybody, when I tell you that the limestone date mussels of St. Bart’s are not authentic.”

  Before Mahmoud could respond, Kleiner yanked at his shirt and the two men slipped below to the abandoned lower deck. Far off in the distance, Kleiner saw what he perceived to be the Egyptian coastline. The vast expanse of sea would have intimidated a normal person, but Kleiner, though his style in the water was laughable, had endurance on his side. He felt that he could swim forever.

  The two men stripped down to their swimsuits, Kleiner to his beloved form-fitting Speedo, Mahmoud to an attention-getting leopard-skin bikini that was much too small for him.

  Kleiner looked at him with distaste.

  “Is that the only suit you have?”

  Mahmoud tugged at the garment. He seemed hurt by the question.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Never mind.”

  Kleiner checked the waterproof waistband that held his valuables, then prepared to slip over the side. Holding on to the railing, he heard grunting sounds and looked back to see Mahmoud doing elaborate splits, his ass exploding out in all directions.

  “What are you doing now?” asked Kleiner.

  “Stretching my hammies.”

  Kleiner winced at the phrase—he’d once broken up a romance with a woman who said “veggies” once too often. “Lambies” for lamb chops had been the final straw.

  “Hurry up about it,” said Kleiner.

  Taking his time, Mahmoud did a few more. The two men then dropped quietly into the water.

  Pacing himself, Kleiner began his awkward but powerful crawl, while Mahmoud cut through the choppy waters with a crisp and professional breaststroke.

  “Where did you learn that?” asked Kleiner, struggling to keep up.

  “At Jew camp.”

  “Jewish camp,” said Kleiner, more than annoyed and correcting him again.

  “Mr. Kleiner,” said Mahmoud, treading water. “I went to camp with Jews. What do you want from my life?”

  The two men proceeded for a hundred yards or so; then, suddenly, Mahmoud began to thrash about and to gasp for air.

  “I’ve got a cramp, Mr. Kleiner,” said the struggling Arab. “It’s probably related to a tendonitis condition in my knee.”

  “I don’t care what it’s related to,” said Kleiner.

  He swam toward the Arab, desperately trying to remember the cross-chest carry he’d learned years back as a junior lifesaver at summer camp in the Berkshires.

  “Stay calm,” he said, as much to himself as to Mahmoud.

  Taking hold of the panicky Arab, he began to inch his way forward. A patrol boat bore down upon them. An officer shouted out a command.

  “Aztor.”

  “Gladly,” said Kleiner.

  He considered diving below and drowning, but was afraid of drinking all the water such an action would require. Also, he still held out hope of getting a choice directing assignment on the coast.

  The two men allowed themselves to be dragged on board by the naval officer, a handsome man with the classic profile of a matinee idol. Kleiner was convinced that at minimum, he could get him work on a television series, although it was far from clear that the Israeli would leave the security of the coast guard for acting roles.

  Also on deck was a stout and much less attractive man who wore tennis shoes, sucked on a toothpick, and sleepily leafed through an old swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated.

  Kleiner, of course, feared him more than the other. He looked around in vain for a towel.

  “What’s the story?” asked the handsome officer.

  “Very simple,” said Kleiner. “I’m in the movie business and I was scouting locations for a movie. What they have in mind is a Jewish Star Wars. I can show you my Director’s Guild ID if you like.”

  The officer shook his head. It wasn’t necessary.

  The second man looked up from his magazine. “And the shit bag?”

  In response, Mahmoud began to tremble. Then, in a clear, pure, melodious voice, he broke into a chorus of “Hatikvah.”

  “Where did he learn that?” asked the handsome officer.

  “In Jew camp,” said Kleiner.

  “Jewish camp,” said the magazine reader.

  With lightning speed, he threw a black hood over the Arab’s head. This effectively drowned him out, although Mahmoud did try valiantly to hum a few extra bars.

  “Put one on me,” said Kleiner, in his new defiant mode.

  “We ran out of them,” said the man in the sneakers. “But there may be a few on shore.”

  Back on land, the two men were marched past gawking tourists and taken to a poorly decorated compound, where they were placed in a bare cell. Humanistically, they were supplied with beach towels and each given a bowl of kasha varnishkes.

  Kleiner had never been in a cell before. Secretly, he’d longed to try one for a single night, to see how he could handle confinement. Nonetheless, he scolded the Arab for getting them into a mess.

  “I don’t understand your concern,” said Mahmoud. “It’s just a routine check.”

  “At least take off the hood.”


  “Why? I’m getting used to it.”

  After a two-hour wait, which was obviously designed to weaken their resolve, a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves entered the cell and sat on the one chair. He was Western in style. Kleiner thought he recognized him as someone who was called upon to do sound bites for CNN during flare-ups in the Middle East.

  “All right,” the man said. “What’s this all about?”

  “I demand to speak to my consulate,” said Kleiner, who had no idea if the fledgling administration would lift a finger on his behalf.

  “Me too,” said Mahmoud.

  “You don’t have one,” said the interrogator sharply. “Let’s begin again,” he continued, directing his question to Kleiner. “Why were you swimming to Egypt with an Arab?”

  Before Kleiner could respond, the man with the tennis shoes came running in with a fax transmission.

  “He doesn’t have to answer that,” he said to his superior. “They’re friends of Louis Blumenthal and as such are guests of the state.”

  “My apologies,” said the shirt-sleeved official. “There seems to be some mistake. Did you get enough kasha varnishkes?”

  “Plenty,” said Mahmoud. “But I wouldn’t mind a Diet Pepsi.”

  “We only have Coke,” said the magazine reader.

  “If I have to …” said Mahmoud, making a face.

  Kleiner was thrilled that he hadn’t been tortured; he knew full well that if they had touched so much as a single toenail, he would have blurted out everything he knew—though it didn’t amount to much. His debt to Blumenthal, of course, was enormous, although fortunately, there would be plenty of time to squirm out of it.

  Both men were given makeshift clothing.

  “Do we get to keep this?” asked Mahmoud, who liked the way the pants fit.

  “If you insist,” said the man in the sneakers. “But we’d prefer to have it back.”

  The official with the CNN style asked Kleiner and even Mahmoud if they would like to take in the world-famed Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra.

  “And I can arrange a visit to a kibbutz in Galilee, if you so desire.”

  Kleiner thanked the official but declined, pleading urgent business in Queens.