Private Novelist

by Nell Zink

  “Cannibals?” was all he asked, rather cryptically.

  “Promise me you’ll call them. Do this for me, and for your future. I don’t want to see you in ten years living in a tent on the beach.” Then he said a special Aramaic code phrase I’m not allowed to share, and kissed and hugged Yigal with the secret kiss and hug before shaking his hand with the secret handshake. Obviously they’re all faggots, Yigal thought. But, come to think of it, they must have thousands of telephone operators and secretaries—I’ll be like the only straight man in a ballet company. He imagined the Mossad as a gigantic network of girls’ boarding schools into which he would be smuggled to be secretly shared and enjoyed by thousands of hungry junior assistants to diplomatic attachés, all fresh out of the army—the diplomats themselves would be flaming queens, agog over clothes and parties, oblivious to the foment taking place in the souls of their nubile stenographers. He imagined an Israeli girl, a kibbutznikit with her hair in braids, on her knees begging him to stay away from the Milanese whorehouses he’d wanted to visit ever since reading Catch-22, and his proud refusal.

  “Take me as I am,” Yigal said aloud by accident, remembering his long-lost moment of puerile grandiosity. He was sitting alone in Café Basel, not far from his apartment, drinking a cappuccino and watching a cat cross the street while pretending to concentrate on a passage from Sartre’s Saint Genet:

  There is no more effective defense against the temptation to have everything than to own something. If you have only a crumb that has fallen from the table, your life will be spent in defending that crumb, in convincing others and yourself that it is the best of crumbs and that, in the last analysis, it contains the universe.

  Yigal’s eyes took in the expanse of Basel Street, Tel Aviv’s current rive gauche. The scene had aspects of a miniature: The rife and chaotic antiquarian bookshops of Paris were represented by a single orderly retail store. Its pitchers of Ricard were replaced by a glass of lemonade, its riot of caniches by a Chihuahua which sniffed at one of two potted geraniums, its women by a teenage girl perched on a traffic barrier, waiting for her small taxi. In one of these cafés, Yigal thought, a single anarchist sits reading Charlie hebdomadaire, wearing his one black T-shirt.

  He tore off a corner of his croissant and dropped it to the pavement. A pigeon with a clubfoot walked toward him, then walked away. A wren-like, striped sparrow with round black eyes crept out from behind a geranium and began to peck at the gravel loose on the sidewalk. The Chihuahua walked to the middle of the street and stood there. If I close my eyes, Yigal thought, I could imagine myself in a little village where no strangers go, where I was born and which I have never left.

  (A clarification with regard to Yigal’s substitution of “Whores, Gambling, and Cocaine” for a similar list he believed had been compiled by Kafka: Kafka’s list consisted of “Hatred, Envy, Avarice, and Greed.” I apologize for any inconvenience.)

  Mary sat in a diner to write a letter to Taylor.

  Dear Taylor,

  I bet you’re surprised to be getting a letter from me, but I just wanted to let you know everything is doing great! I’m still in New York, but maybe I’ll go back to Tel Aviv soon. I know you think that’s wrong, but there’s so much you don’t understand. Why would you? I met a man the other day who knows more about silkies than any other human being on earth, except that adds up to just about ZERO. It’s like somebody saying he knows about vampires because he read Dracula. When, as I’m sure you know, vampires are really just nasty sacks of gooey icky stuff, like old cucumbers, and they smell totally awful, so the idea of a vampire being sexy or anybody wanting to TOUCH a vampire is like totally beyond me. So anyhow this guy—wait, I forgot I never told you I am a silkie—do you know what that is? If you want the details, I mean the cool fake details which are way more interesting than the truth, talk to a demonologist, but here’s the boring facts: Some girl seals turn out to like men—I hope it doesn’t hurt your feelings that I didn’t like you. It doesn’t, does it? Now you’re back where you belong and I’m so glad. So being a silkie is an easy life, I think. I don’t know what to compare it to. I don’t remember being a seal very well, because being a seal is so easy that you sort of lose track after a while, you can’t focus your thoughts, and compared to people, who are always after something amazingly specific like “I’m going to become a certified public accountant so I can drive a 500-series Mercedes,” your brain turns to mush. Did you ever think about that? People say dolphins are smarter, but it’s only because dolphins are always after something. TRUST ME. Seals try not to be. We admire most the people who are never after anything, such as: Kelp. Jellyfish. Starfish! Have you ever really watched a starfish? Some have fifty arms! They move so slowly, and patiently, and they are beautiful like flowers. Seals try to sit still but we were born to play. Lots of people go to starfish school but I think it’s just the dumbest thing—imagine 20 seals trying to sit still. I am told that if you ever really sit still you will receive the most frightening hallucinations, so I am not in a hurry to try it. Did you ever see a flock of tuna? Their huge silver sides flash in the sun, they swim as fast as motorboats. If you get a chance to spend some time in the ocean, you should do it. I would like to visit the Sargasso Sea. There are no starfish, but crabs that walk on the water, and so much kelp it’s like islands, or like the bogs on the moors, where you can walk if you want but you have to watch and make sure your foot doesn’t go through, at which point you will be dug up only after 3,000 years—well, I don’t think you can actually walk on the Sargasso Sea, but I am a strong swimmer. A VERY strong swimmer. Well, I think I’ve written enough for one letter. Say hi to your wife for me!

  Very truly yours,

  Mary

  She began a letter to Yigal and then ripped it up. Then she leafed through the New York Post for a while. What’s the Gowanus, she thought, and who is the Son of Sam? How is he connected with Alexander Hamilton? She read an adorable personal and considered drafting a sympathetic response, even though the person wanted a widowed man in his sixties or seventies, but then she just sealed $10,000 into an envelope anonymously. She read a real estate feature, then some crossword clues, then she wrote in five answers, and then she saw the single-column ad, near the comics:

  ALONE? PREGNANT? SCARED? SILKIE?

  ADOPTION IS THE OPTION

  If you are a silkie aged 18 to 35 in weeks 7–28,

  your expenses can be PAID IN FULL for the

  duration of your pregnancy and you will receive

  a consideration of $40,000.

  She ripped it out and took it over to the phone. Instead of calling the number on the ad right away, she changed the last three digits to zeroes and tried for their main reception desk. It was the Defense Logistics Agency. That’s so pathetic, she thought. The notion of a silkie “alone” and “scared” was too much for her, and she burst out laughing. All the same, she had a sudden urge to fly to London and retrieve her skin. She wrote another letter to Taylor on the plane.

  Dear Taylor,

  I know I’m writing you an awful lot, but maybe you’ll just have to get used to it. Who else can I write to? I don’t have a mom, you know—isn’t that sad? I remember her, sort of, except I always got her mixed up with somebody else. They say we all have unique smells and cries, which is all very well assuming we remember what they are. I mean, every human on earth has unique smells and cries, but could you use them to find your mom in Times Square on New Year’s Eve? Because that’s what these nurseries are like, imagine ten or twelve bazillion little baby seals all rolling around yelling at one time. They’re really cute, humans keep telling me. They’re attractive because of some maternal instinct thing involving big eyes and short noses, but what do most people do with baby animals? They EAT them, that’s what! Baby animals taste the best, everybody knows, so I think it’s just a load of crap that they’re always saying they’re attracted to them because they look like human babies—guess again! Since when do human babies have big eyes? They have
little pinhead eyes. Also, they have no fur. I mean, for example, let’s say your choice was eating cats or kittens—well, maybe kittens aren’t the best, but I bet they taste better than full-grown cats, who live off garbage. Same with goats. I personally never eat anything but fish. Actually I eat all sorts of stuff, especially sweet rolls, candy and cereal which are not readily available in the sea. Anyhow, I’m going to London now. Then I have to pick: Shetland or Tel Aviv? I know what you’d say. Well, maybe not, you didn’t know I was a silkie, so it depends what sort of guy you are. If you’re a sort of conservative guy, a Confucianistic kind of guy who thinks everything has its proper place, you’d say, “Mary, return to your home, the sea!” But if you’re a conservative guy, you might also say, “Return to your husband and try to work things out!” I saw the craziest ad in the newspaper: They wanted silkies to sell their babies to the government. I thought, THIS is fucked up. Just so you know not to worry, believe me—silkies never worry. Maybe it’s something we picked up from being seals, but short of killer whales, of which there are precisely NONE WHATSOEVER in New York City, London, and Tel Aviv combined, there’s not really much to worry about. If you’re ever in a bad mood, that’s something you can think about when you’re walking around New York. Are there any killer whales here? Then look around, look up, look down. The answer will always be no!

  Your friend,

  Mary

  She wrote another letter on the plane to Tel Aviv.

  Dear Taylor,

  London is so WEAK. First, it’s rainy and cold, almost as rainy and cold as stupid Shetland. That’s fine if you’re wrapped up in sealskin and have heat-conserving ears inside your head where they don’t poke out, but otherwise it sucks. When I picked up my skin I was tempted to put it on and head for the water—well, actually that’s what I went to London to do, but then I thought of my nice friends in Tel Aviv, plus my husband if he shows up. I was going to go down to Cornwall and put on my skin and eat some fish, but I didn’t. I feel about boy seals now just about the way I feel about the Runts. Not that it matters much, because about 98% of the time they don’t know you exist, and neither does anyone else, and actually when you’re a seal you don’t even care. But I cared, because I wasn’t a seal yet. It’s like people being afraid of dying.

  That last sentence was enough to provoke a response from Taylor’s widow, which Mary received two weeks later when Yigal brought it to her as she lay naked on the balcony, enjoying the midday sun.

  Dear Mary,

  I must let you know that Taylor has died. He was struck by a car and did not suffer. The funeral was held two weeks ago. Please don’t be sad. Ask a grown-up if you don’t understand. Happy New Year!

  “Happy New Year?” Mary said, rolling over.

  “She means the Jewish new year.” Yigal tapped a disposable pen on the table and added, “Someday I should buy a real pen.”

  “Taylor’s dead—I met him in New York.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He sold toothpaste, I think.” She rolled over on her back again. “Yigal, I’m bored.”

  “Fine, do something.”

  She stared up at the sky. “Let’s go to the beach.”

  “I hear there are jellyfish.”

  “Okay, let’s not go to the beach.”

  “I’m fine where I am.” Yigal turned a page in his notebook.

  “Let’s kill Mr. Pickwick. Nell said the next missile will come any day now. Missile attacks are so annoying! I hate them.”

  “We can if you’ll let me do it. You shouldn’t take risks when you’re pregnant. I think it’s dangerous.”

  “So why would you do it either? Besides, you don’t know how to talk to dolphins. You can’t even read Dolphin!” She assumed a superior air. “Nobody could possibly do this job better than me! You know mothers are very fierce. Dolphins are scared of us. You’d probably shoot at them, and then be eaten by a shark.”

  Yigal looked at his watch. “Can we do it tomorrow? I want to go to this reading.”

  “A poetry reading? Can I see?”

  “Sure.” He gave her the notebook, which was filled with random lines and dots.

  “Show me how to write ‘Moshe Dayan.’” He complied, and she took the pen and copied it several times.

  “Do you want a blanket? The sun is making you purple.” She wrapped up in a woolen comforter, arranged her pillow and went to sleep. Yigal put on a shirt and pants and walked to the North Tel Aviv art center, where a crowd was already gathering to hear Elad Manor read from his critically acclaimed new work, South Lebanon Nocturnes.

  Elad had lost most of his hair and was wearing a white suit, flamenco boots, and aviator glasses. Yigal sat near the back and waited for the first poet to begin.

  A matronly woman tried to introduce her, but as soon as the crowd saw that she was eighteen, with fine, wispy short hair and the body of a twelve-year-old, it burst into cheers and she began.

  Kiss of the Spider Woman

  Raúl Juliá and William Hurt are together in jail.

  William tells Raúl the plots of movies to pass the time.

  The prison warden is not nice, he makes William give Raúl poison.

  But William wants to do it because that way he gets to see his mother.

  Raúl almost dies and then they have sex.

  At the end, William gives his life for Raúl.

  The end, by Oria.

  The crowd was silent for a moment, then leaped to its feet, applauding wildly. She smiled and spoke again.

  One Million B.C.

  Raquel Welch wears a leather bikini.

  What else? I don’t know.

  The end, by Oria.

  This time the applause was more subdued, but the young poet was unfazed and launched into an epic:

  Babe, the Gallant Pig

  Babe is a cute little pig who has no mom.

  He lives on a farm with lots of animals.

  There is a sheep, actually lots of sheep, a cat, a dog. . . .

  Yigal saw that Elad was beaming with pride and guessed that the current poet must be his student.

  Easy Rider

  Bruce Dern and Dennis Hopper go riding to New Orleans.

  They have big motorcycles, especially Dennis.

  Bruce’s jacket has an American flag.

  They go to a wild party in the desert and meet girls.

  They take acid in a cemetery with a different girl.

  They meet Jack Nicholson, but these peasants bash his head in.

  Look out, Bruce, here come the peasants!

  They put the shotgun in Dennis’ face and blow him away!

  Bruce rides back to check on Dennis and they kill him too.

  It’s sad because Bruce is so dreamy.

  The end, by Oria.

  He looked at Elad again. Elad seemed not to know or care that it was Peter Fonda and not Bruce Dern.

  At last she reached her climax:

  Fantasia

  It’s really hard to explain but it’s nice.

  The end, by Oria.

  Yigal turned to a woman sitting near him and said, “What is with this girl?”

  The woman kept clapping and whispered, “Don’t you see? She never allows the sign to obscure the thing signified. She’ll surpass anything we’ve ever done.”

  Elad took center stage. “I’d like to thank Oria again for sharing herself with us.” Oria glowed with a look of gratified lust and took off her sweater. Elad began promptly.

  Fifty-Gallon Drum of Toxic Chemicals Lying Forgotten in a

  Stream and Cow Entangled in Barbed Wire at the Edge of

  a Minefield by Fendi

  This year the look is sleeker, more refined.

  Gone are last year’s fringes and that tattered look in the cuffs.

  This time of austerity calls for a narrower silhouette.

  Skirts are tapered, over the knee.

  Heels are stacked on a medium platform.

  Earth textures are giving way to a more elega
nt satiny finish.

  Key colors: russet and celadon.

  He gestured, palm down, to hold the applause and continued:

  Electrical Fire Still Smoldering in the Disabled

  Jeep, Near It, an Abandoned Boot by Chanel

  Oversized accessories, interchangeable between outfits

  Create a look of funky chic. . . .

  Yigal began to squirm. He looked around for a way out, but the hall was too crowded. He did not want Elad to recognize him. The woman he had spoken to leaned over to make a comment. “Isn’t Karl Lagerfeld dead? Or was that Armani?”

  “Versace,” Yigal said. He put on sunglasses and stumbled out into the evening twilight.

  CHAPTER 20

  WHEN YIGAL GOT BACK FROM THE poetry reading he knocked on our door. “Hi, Nell, is Zohar back yet?”

  I invited him in. “No, actually. He was called to Chicago for a musicological emergency.”

  “What kind?”

  “Something to do with the organ at Wrigley Field. The Cubs are going to the playoffs, so he’s helping them develop a new tuning and some chord changes for their fanfares, and then there’s something with these parabolic disks on rooftops. He said the Yankees had a similar system in the Bronx, but they got caught after the super-low frequencies they were using made one of the upper decks collapse, or something like that. Coffee?”

  “Sure—maybe you can help me.”

  I ignored him and started some water on the stove. “I think the Yankees’ mistake was being too influenced by La Monte Young and Phill Niblock, or the CIA or whatever it was—they were thinking in terms of mind control on an organic level, when you can do the same thing using musical effects. Like, if you were in the fifth inning of a no-hitter on a full count, would you want to be hearing Penderecki’s Tren ofiarom Hiroszimy?”