The Peace Process

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Among the merry-makers was Henry Darlington, a black man who had posed as Kleiner and used his Visa card to pay for a three-week stay in a private room at Lenox Hill Hospital; Georgina Gray, a fashion model who had swept out of a cabin without explanation while they were halfway along in making love on Shelter Island; Louis Blumenthal, no doubt there to collect the enormous debt Kleiner owed him; and Gabe Ginns, an acquaintance of twenty-five years who had invited him to dinner at a steakhouse one Christmas Eve to announce, after dessert, that he was ending their friendship.

  “I’m just not getting enough out of it,” he’d said, leaving Kleiner with the check.

  The only guest who didn’t immediately represent trouble was the Yiddish-speaking Naomi Glickstein. Still, when Kleiner greeted her, even she looked at him with eyes that were hooded with suspicion.

  How Mahmoud had been able to put together the swinish group on such short notice was beyond Kleiner. Additionally, the Arab had ordered hors d’oeuvres from a trendy restaurant that Kleiner no longer frequented; he’d had a shouting match with the owner over a blatantly padded check.

  Clenching his teeth, Kleiner thanked the group generally for being there, then went upstairs to put on his good sports jacket. When he returned, he poured himself a drink of the off-brand Scotch that Mahmoud had supplied, one Kleiner wouldn’t serve to his worst enemies—several of whom were there. Then he took a bite of a watery crabmeat canapé, looked at the grim faces in the room, and prepared for the worst evening of his life.

  Mahmoud put on some bossa nova music and adjusted the harsh lighting so that it became warm and ingratiating. Remarkably, Kleiner’s spirits began to lift a bit. His bitter reaction upon entering the room must have been apparent at first, with the result that the guests kept their distance. But then Henry Darlington, who’d apparently lost his hair during the fraudulent hospital stay, approached Kleiner, kissed him on the forehead, and handed him a stack of worn currency.

  “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, my brother.”

  “Not at all,” said Kleiner.

  He took a quick look at the money that had been handed to him and calculated that there was more than enough to cover the old Visa bill he’d been forced to settle. Suddenly, he recalled that Darlington lived on the fringes of life. He had to do everything from light bodyguard work to the delivery of milk during labor disputes in order to survive. There was also a rumor that he traded in hot Torahs.

  “Are you sure you can spare it?” asked Kleiner as he pocketed the money.

  “Not really,” said Darlington, “but there are some extra twenties in there by way of interest.”

  Throwing his mouth open in a wide soundless laugh, he headed for the bar.

  Next to approach Kleiner was the towering model, Georgina Gray. With close-cropped hair and a cigarette hanging from her lips, she’d kept her downtown look but gained some weight, a change that Kleiner found appealing.

  “I want to apologize,” she said. “I had a conflict between that stupid modeling thing in Milano and the career I’d always sought in television infotainment. I suppose it all came together while we were making love on Shelter Island. No doubt you blamed my sudden departure on your performance in bed. I can assure you that wasn’t the case at all. In any event, I’ve left modeling and become a sous chef, which has made me much happier.

  “And don’t worry,” she said, pinching his ass. “I owe you half a fuck.”

  Kleiner was tempted to ask waggishly, “Which half?” but he was able to rein himself in.

  His spirits rising, he joined Mahmoud, who was in whispered colloquy with Naomi Glickstein.

  “Are you having a good time, Mr. Kleiner?” asked Mahmoud.

  “Not bad,” said Kleiner, who wondered about the subject of their intense discussion.

  “I’m glad,” said Mahmoud. “I went to great lengths to make sure that this would be the happiest birthday of your life.”

  “And you succeeded,” said Kleiner, wondering why he was sparing the Arab’s feelings.

  Then he turned to Naomi, who continued to be in a dark mood.

  He was about to ask if she was all right when he heard a weak voice behind him.

  “I’m dying.”

  Whirling around, he saw that the dire words had been spoken by Gabe Ginns, the college roommate who had abruptly ended their friendship after twenty-five years.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kleiner, though he saw no sign of ill health in the stocky, ruddy-cheeked Bostonian.

  “It’s not definite,” said Ginns. “They promised to let me know. But I thought you might feel better if you patched things up.”

  “You dropped me,” said Kleiner.

  “All right, forget it,” said Ginns. “You’ve always been a selfish bastard and you still are.”

  Turning, he headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” said Kleiner, catching his arm. “Don’t leave on that note. I’m sorry for what I did, even though I don’t know what it is.”

  At this, his friend broke into a yellow smile.

  “I love you, you sonofabitch,” said Ginns, throwing his arms around Kleiner. “Are you going to serve any food?”

  “It’s up to him,” said Kleiner, nodding toward Mahmoud.

  Ginns was a Boston Brahmin who on occasion affected a street style.

  “I’ve been checking him out. He’s got his head up his ass. No food, no broads, no atmosphere. Get rid of him,” said Ginns, walking off abruptly.

  Now that he’d repaired his friendship with the mercurial Ginns, Kleiner wondered if he wasn’t better off without it.

  As he mulled this over, he was alarmed to see Louis Blumenthal bearing down upon him.

  “Nice party,” said Blumenthal, taking a sip of his enormous drink.

  “Thank you,” said Kleiner, steeling himself for the huge favor he was sure he’d be asked.

  “Things work out in Jerusalem?” asked Blumenthal, ominously holding his glass in front of his face and staring out over the rim.

  “Fine,” said Kleiner guardedly.

  Blumenthal stirred his drink with a little finger.

  “There’s something you might be able to help me out with.”

  “Name it,” said Kleiner, praying that whatever it was wouldn’t make him miserable for the rest of his life.

  “My wife is fainting to go to the Academy Awards. You know everybody out there. Can you set up a pair of tickets?”

  Kleiner almost collapsed with relief. He belonged to the Academy and got tickets every year, which he threw away, not out of disrespect but for shame at not being a nominee.

  Nonetheless, he fell back as if in shock.

  “That’s a big one, Louis.”

  “I know, I know … but it would mean a lot to me. She’s driving me crazy and I don’t know where to turn.”

  “Let me work on it.”

  “Thanks,” said Blumenthal. “And incidentally, that kid you brought over from Israel is sensational. Where did he learn so much about Fats Waller?”

  “Probably at Jewish school.”

  “Figures,” said Blumenthal with an ironic chuckle.

  Kleiner felt tremendously lighter, prepared now to enjoy fully his party—the best, when he thought about it, that he’d ever had.

  Tapping his glass, Mahmoud called the group to attention and proposed a toast.

  “To Mr. Kleiner, who got me out of Jerusalem so that I could attend my brother’s wedding, even though I’m a despised Arab. Health, happiness, and may he finally get a good job.

  “Le chaim.”

  “Le chaim,” the group cried out as one.

  Kleiner, who wasn’t good at speeches, kept his remarks short.

  “Thank you, everyone. I didn’t know I was going to have a good time, but I am.”

  “Nicely
phrased,” said Darlington.

  All in the room drank deeply.

  At that point, the phone rang. Mahmoud, who seemed to know in advance who the caller was, picked up the receiver and handed it to Kleiner.

  “Hi, sweet,” said Kleiner’s estranged wife, her voice husky and appealing and giving no indication that they hadn’t seen each other for two years. Suddenly he wanted the two years back.

  “Emma … where are you?”

  “In Miami. …Your friend called and said he was giving you a party. I wanted to wish you the best.”

  “I’m glad you did. Do you like it there?”

  “You’d love it.”

  “But do you like it?”

  “I like it too. Would you like to talk to Becky?”

  “Just tell her hello,” said Kleiner.

  When they’d first met, his stepdaughter had thrown potato salad in his face. He feared she might try it again from twelve hundred miles away.

  “We both love you,” said Emma. “Have a great time and make sure to give yourself hugs and kisses.”

  “I love you too,” said Kleiner, putting down the receiver.

  The call both pleased Kleiner and threw him off stride. When he left Emma, she’d been frail and unable to cope with her various addictions. Now she seemed robust and healthy and he longed to be with her. He thought about a reunion with her. But maybe she’d be addicted to reunions. As the group sang “Happy Birthday,” he pulled out her driver’s license photo, which he still kept in his wallet, and stared at her pretty Seattle face. Then the door flew open and one of Himmel’s crews came in and began to gather up the furniture.

  “Put that down,” said Mahmoud as the foreman lifted one end of a couch. “Don’t you realize it’s Mr. Kleiner’s birthday?”

  When the foreman ignored him, the Arab jumped on the man and tore off his tank top. A fight broke out; all joined in with the exception of Naomi Glickstein, who stood in a corner, arms folded, as if she were protecting her large breasts. At the center of the melee, Mahmoud flailed about at first as if he were an enraged drag queen. Then he switched to a surprisingly polished boxing style, reminiscent of the late, great Kid Gavilán.

  Kleiner tried to restore order, but the commotion roused the neighbors, bringing the UN man to the door in his nightgown, the pet monkey on his shoulder.

  “Can someone explain this gross behavior?” he asked.

  Before anyone could answer, Mahmoud’s dog, or whatever it was, flew out of nowhere and tore at the monkey’s throat, killing it in an instant.

  Kneeling beside his lifeless pet, the stunned UN man began to sob deeply.

  “Klaus is dead,” he said to Kleiner. “You have broken my heart. And you’re not even in the building legally.”

  The police arrived soon after. Quickly they established that Mahmoud had been the instigator, arresting him on the spot.

  “I’ll go with him,” said Kleiner as the Arab was led off in handcuffs.

  “That’s against regulations,” said one of the officers. “But you’re welcome to come to the arraignment.”

  Kleiner was so law-abiding that he didn’t even know what an arraignment was. But he knew it wasn’t good.

  The crew decided to call off the shoot and left, followed by Kleiner’s guests, who filed out in silence.

  Gabe Ginns was the exception.

  “Hold your head up. You just gave one of the great fucking parties of our time.

  “I’ll let you know about my tests.”

  Alone in the apartment, Kleiner felt awful about having to desert Mahmoud. The Arab had given him a fabulous party—up to a point—and had only been trying to protect his furniture.

  Though the hour was late, Kleiner called his attorney in Connecticut, aware that Rizzoli liked to work behind the scenes and had a fear of appearing in court.

  After listening to Kleiner’s story, Rizzoli was true to form in his response.

  “I’d let it run its course.”

  This was advice he had given to Kleiner many times. Once in a while it was sound.

  Kleiner put the swordfish in the freezer, swept up the living room, and cautiously fed the killer dog.

  Then he tried to get some sleep. When this proved to be impossible, he called Central Booking and was told by the arresting officer that Mahmoud had been arraigned and was being taken to Rikers Island.

  “And the bail?” asked Kleiner, pretending he knew something about the law.

  “Don’t even ask. As a visiting Arab, your friend falls into a high-risk category of being likely to flee. The figure is out of sight.”

  Kleiner didn’t dare ask the amount.

  “How’s he feeling?”

  “I don’t get into that.”

  He hung up. Kleiner thought of his poor friend among thieves and rapists. He was sorry he hadn’t left him in the Arab Quarter, where he would have been better off, even though the area had troubles of its own.

  To distract himself, he put his Academy Award tickets in an envelope. He was about to go downstairs and mail them to Louis Blumenthal when he heard the humming of the fax machine, his only item of contemporary equipment.

  Tearing off the communication, he read the following:

  To: Kleiner

  From: Naomi Joan Glickstein

  You lied, Kleiner. There was no reason

  To lie, yet you did anyway. Told a lie.

  Why did you lie, Kleiner? Does lying come easy

  To you? My guess is that it does. So you just

  Went ahead and lied, lied, lied. I could burst

  From how you lied.

  Sincerely,

  Naomi Joan Glickstein

  There was no question that the repetition of the word “lie” was effective as a rhetorical device. But it was devastating to Kleiner, who considered himself to be a somewhat honorable man. Each “lie” was like an arrow in his chest. Also, he was puzzled as to the nature of what he had lied about. To clear up the confusion, he fired off his own fax.

  Dear Naomi,

  I just received your message and I thank you for it. But just out of curiosity, what did I lie about?

  With continuing affection,

  William Kleiner

  Her reply came back minutes later:

  Don’t bullshit me. You said you were single. In my world, that’s a lie.

  Kleiner read her latest communication and was relieved that there was only one “lie” in it. He wondered if indeed her accusation had some validity. Yet he couldn’t remember any discussion of his marital status. Possibly he had been a little vague about it, but obviously this was a sore point with Naomi, who had been freshly betrayed by her urologist lover. He wondered if it was possible to patch things up—oh, those tits—although obviously this was a poor time to try.

  Kleiner’s producer arrived the next morning, having just come in from Los Angeles on the red-eye.

  A man of roughly Kleiner’s age, Himmel had dyed his hair so that it was henna-colored and had his teeth re-enameled to make him more appealing to actresses. Though his personal life was troubled, he owned vast properties in Central America and had amassed the world’s largest collection of stun guns.

  Sailing into the apartment, the first thing he did was check the air conditioners, which had obsessed him from the moment Kleiner moved in.

  “Weren’t you supposed to pay me for these?” he asked, running his finger along one of them.

  “I thought it was part of the deal,” said Kleiner, who was in no position to shell out thousands for used appliances.

  “No way,” said Himmel, sinking into a designer chair. “But listen, don’t worry about the Arab. I got the studio to drop the charges and he’ll be out of Rikers this afternoon. And I love his script. Absolutely love it. I could fuck that script I love it so much. Does he want to di
rect?”

  “I didn’t ask him,” said Kleiner, who was less than thrilled by the producer’s excitement. “What did you think of my location shots?”

  “They’re a little too Jewish,” said Himmel. “I know, I know, it’s Israel, but still. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that. I can make this kid’s movie. Has anyone else seen the script?”

  “It seems unlikely. He just got in from Jerusalem.”

  “Good,” said Himmel.

  Then he lowered his eyes as if it was painful to get his next words out.

  “By the way, the guy down the hall complained to the board. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

  “Because of the monkey?” said Kleiner. “It wasn’t my dog. I’m not even sure it’s a dog.”

  “That’s not it,” said Himmel. “I got the studio to send him another monkey. The kid can stay—but they want you out of here.”

  As soon as Himmel left, Kleiner went downstairs and got some empty cartons from the liquor store. Then he returned to the apartment and—as he had done so many times before—began to pack the books and papers he knew in his heart he really didn’t need. Only this time around, he was filled with bitterness. He couldn’t believe that an Arab he’d helped so graciously had turned on him by not only getting a movie deal but also inheriting his apartment. He was sorry he had disrupted his life to see to it that Mahmoud got to his brother’s wedding. Kleiner made a vow. From that point on, when it came to the Israeli Arab question, he would take a hardline position.

  Later in the day, Mahmoud returned, wearing Ray-Bans and a soft leather jacket that made him look like a director. Kleiner dutifully told him about the script’s joyous reception and that for the time being the apartment was his.

  “But that’s out of the question,” said Mahmoud. “With your permission, I’ll fight with all my heart to get you involved as an assistant director. Or maybe as one of the many executive producers.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “As for the apartment, there’s no reason why you can’t continue to live in an alcove upstairs while Naomi and I work in the living room.”

  Naomi. Suddenly, Kleiner saw it all clearly. While Mahmoud was supposedly pricing lutes and visiting historical landmarks, he’d sought out Naomi and told her Kleiner was a married man. Then the two had begun an affair. No wonder she had looked at him with such distrust at his birthday party. The call from his wife, cleverly arranged by the Arab, had cinched it.