by Jemma Wayne
Now that nobody they know has been killed they are free to be angry only, un-tempered by fear or grief.
“Fucking dogs,” declares Chaim. “These are not people. I mean what kind of person sends their son out to kill himself? I’ll tell you – the same kind of person who hides behind his women and children when we come looking for him. And hides rockets behind them too. These people are crazy. They are not rational. How can they be human?”
Udi cannot answer. Unconsciously he touches his leg, rubs the scars beneath the denim, but even in the aftermath of sudden fear his rage isn’t as pure as his friend’s. Chaim didn’t go to the army. He wasn’t in Gaza.
A newsreader appears on the television screen. Twenty-eight people have been wounded, the families informed. Celebratory gunfire is shown in Gaza. Hamas praise the attack as a natural response to the occupation. The Israeli government announces that there will be reprisals.
Udi and Chaim order another coffee.
“I’m fucking going to leave all this shit,” Chaim announces after they have arrived. “Enough, you know?”
“Where to this time?” Udi asks.
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe Guatemala. Maybe Brazil. You want to come with me?”
“I have to work,” Udi answers instinctually, but then reassesses. If any of his friends will understand, it is Chaim. “Actually,” he restarts, “I’m planning on leaving too. On moving. To London.”
“What?” Chaim sits forward. “You mean for good? To leave Israel?”
“Yes.”
“When will you go?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Wowee.” Chaim lights a cigarette. “Have you told your family yet? Ella?”
Udi shakes his head.
Chaim takes a deep drag of his cigarette, then sends the smoke swirling. “Israel is the greatest country in the world,” he tells Udi. “You’ll be back in six months.” Udi says nothing and Chaim looks at him harder. “You know what, forget Brazil. I’ll come with you,” he declares, raising his coffee cup. “My friend, next year in London!”
***
Ella drives solidly and with determination. Her eyes do not leave the road. Her hands do not leave the steering wheel. She doesn’t look up when a car behind her hoots its horn.
She should not go to Udi. She should not do this. She should, at some point, make a stand. It isn’t unreasonable, she doesn’t think, to expect him to worry, to care. She deserves that. After four years she ought to be worthy of that. But she knows that expressing himself is alien to him, that he cannot bear to make himself vulnerable.
Ella sighs and momentarily allows her right hand to unclench the steering wheel in order to reach into her bag for her lipstick. She paints on a fresh coat that barely alters the appearance of the two she has already applied and glances fleetingly into the mirror. She notices that her cheeks could do with a little more blush. Also that she has again pursed her lips inwards. Opening her mouth wide, she makes herself relax these muscles. She has read that unhappy expressions will lead to downward-drawn wrinkles.
Ella turns the radio on and tunes it to an all-music station that Udi loves. A song starts that makes her think of the summer they met, the first time they locked eyes, then lips.
Perhaps it is not that they don’t want the same things, only that he doesn’t know how to show her that they do. Or realise that this is necessary. Ella has been dropping hints about marriage for over a year now and every day her mother asks her if he has proposed. He hasn’t and she can feel the resentment brewing within her. But there is little more she can do to force it and she feels powerless, obliged to sit and wait for him to decide her future. The waiting makes her angry. It tempers their love. Even when they are out with friends, or at the beach, or having sex, there is a part of her that remains bitter, hating him for refusing to make her happiness whole. Yet there is nothing she can think of to do: she has been supportive, patient. She is even working hard at her studies now – something she doesn’t find easy – all to make herself more desirable to Udi because the only thing she really wants to use her business degree for is to manage a home. She is ready already. She wants a husband, to be a wife, to have children. She wants to get on with life and live it now. And she wants this with Udi. She is still hoping to be married by the New Year.
The beach comes into view.
She could still turn around.
***
Udi spots Avi and Dov crossing the street towards them. Dalia is dismounting her bike a little way down. This is the way evenings emerge for them. One person calling another, who calls another, congregating on the beach, falling into someone’s house, out again for food, to a bar, to a club, always together, always moving, always active. The promenade extends all the way to Jaffa now, shiny and new. Tel Aviv never sleeps and nor do they.
Ella looks up from her conversation with Yael and smiles at Udi. He still finds her beautiful, even after four years, though he prefers her just-woken-up self to this made-up version she presents to the world. She wears a low-cut black top over tight blue jeans with just a hint of red escaping above the waistline. Udi knows it is the red thong she wore for him on his birthday. His favourite. He wishes they were alone. Chaim kisses her and Yael hello and Udi watches as Ella smiles with pursed lips in the way that makes everyone who meets her believe there is something even more beautiful behind them, held back. There is. Though it has been a while since he’s heard that unbridled giggle he loves.
Ella kisses him discreetly on the cheek and slips her hand into his. She has graciously adapted to his aversion to public affection, though he knows she would like him to sweep her into his arms or lean her backwards like the kisses in the Hollywood rom-coms she forces him to see. He would like to surprise her with this, with some kind of extravagant romance, just once, but he cannot for long enough forget the lessons he has learnt. Lessons of concealment and anonymity. Udi no longer carries a gun or wears his army uniform to meet Ella for snatched hours on too-short leaves, but still he worries that someone will be watching him, and noticing the beautiful girl that he loves enough to lean backwards and kiss.
Ella squeezes his hand and they greet the rest of the group together. Chaim lights another spliff and they pass it around, settling into a circle on the sand until it is decided they’ll go to Dov’s place. Unlike the rest of them, Dov did not grow up in Ramat Gan. In fact he is nothing like any of them. He windsurfs. And he hardly swears. But they met at a music gig a few years back, shared a spliff, and became firm friends. Through his connections, he gets them free tickets to concerts. And he is the only one with an apartment in Tel Aviv. He is Ashkenazi. At Dov’s, a bottle of whisky is opened and poured straight. Ella requests a beer instead and Yael follows suit. They talk about nothing: the movie they went to see last week; the camping trip they’re planning to take in the North; the existence of God – all topics to which Udi contributes with willing fervor. But then Avi mentions the bus and suddenly everyone is sitting forward on their seats.
There was a time when Udi would have been just as impassioned as the rest of them, would have argued over Bibi’s policies and the Palestinians’ tactics, and what should be done. Now, he fidgets and taps Ella’s hand. She has been sitting quiet too and smiles at the interruption. He signals to the door and together they disappear into Dov’s bedroom.
The space is of sparse design, free from the remains of childhood that cling like smoke to the walls of Udi’s room, or the flowery flourishes that adorn Ella’s. It is not dissimilar in fact to the room in which they first made love at the army base where they had met. Dov’s uniform is even thrown over a chair in the corner. He is off to reserve duty the following day. Ella sits on the bed.
“I’ve missed you this week,” she tells him. She has been studying for her Fall exams with a seriousness that has surprised him.
“I’ve missed you too.”
She purses her lips. “How was the interview?”
“I got it.”
“That�
��s good,” she smiles. “It’s more money,” she cajoles him when he doesn’t agree. “Soon we might be able to rent somewhere.”
Still he doesn’t say anything.
“I was worried today.”
He sits on the bed next to her. “I know. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” There is silence. “Weren’t you worried about me?”
“Why would I worry? I knew you weren’t there.”
“I didn’t even cross your mind?”
“Of course you did.” He backtracks. “I had only just found out when you called.”
She shakes her head. “Udi, you never think about me.”
“Of course I think about you.”
“You don’t, Udi.”
“I’m thinking about you now.” He places his hand on her thigh. Suddenly the red thong is glinting at him.
“Udi, you can’t just-”
“I’m thinking about all of you.”
Her lips are still pursed, but she smiles.
Udi needs no more of an invitation to push her backwards on the bed. He kisses her hard and there is barely a pause before she reaches for the buttons of his shirt. He loves that foreplay no longer has to last more than a minute and unbuckles her belt while she wriggles to help him peel off the tight denim that clings to her thighs. She has shaved her legs – no longer an expectation – and her bra matches the thong. She is dressed for sex. This excites Udi and he drags off the thong, climbing on top of her. She doesn’t try to remove Udi’s jeans. He pushes them down himself, half way, above the mottled skin. Now she lets him roll her over and he nudges her up onto her knees, pulling her head back gently by her long dark hair. She confessed to him once that this is her favourite position, though she will never volunteer it herself; he is happy to oblige.
When they are finished she lights a cigarette and they share it between them. Ella rests her head on his chest, her dark curls rising and falling with his breath as though anchoring it. His hand is on her smooth, bronzed stomach. With her finger she traces the outline of his own torso until it begins to tickle and he laughs. She tucks her hand beneath him and snuggles closer. She smells of peaches. This is the nearest they ever get to privacy. Ella’s parents do not allow Udi to sleep over, and though Ella is officially welcome at his home, he knows his mother doesn’t like it when she appears from his bedroom in the morning. Someone in the next room laughs loudly. No one will disturb them here but still they reach for their clothes. Ella adjusts her hair and smoothes down the bed until both are impeccable. Udi reaches underneath the bed for his sandals, and looks as dishevelled as he did before. Casually they return to the sitting room.
Dov is talking now about the new route he has been offered by El Al, better hours, more pay. Everyone is impressed. Chaim clocks Udi and Ella entering.
“Udi has a new job too,” Ella announces to the group.
Udi rolls his eyes. “In construction,” he explains reluctantly, settling into a chair and making room for Ella who perches next to him on it.
“With management potential though, right?” she adds.
“Sure.”
“If you’re there long enough, huh Udi?” Chaim chips in.
Ella’s eyes flash towards Chaim, and Udi shoots him a warning look, but if he notices he doesn’t understand.
“If you’re not a British millionaire by then, right?”
“Chaim,” Udi grunts, gently shaking his head and flicking his hand as though to brush away the indictment of nonsense.
Ella is staring at him.
“It’s nothing,” he attempts to say flippantly. But all eyes are upon him. Ella’s are practically burning him with their heat.
“It’s not nothing, it’s big,” Chaim encourages. “Ella, it’s big, no?”
Ella opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
“So okay, I guess I should tell you all,” Udi rushes. He locks his eyes onto Ella. “I’m getting ready to move to London.”
***
Ella is determined not to cry, not in front of the group. She nods at them, smiling as Udi fields their questions, pretending she has heard the answers before. He does not stop glancing at her but she refuses to make eye contact. When the lump in her throat pushes higher she swallows it down with a swig of beer.
After what seems like an age, the conversation shifts. She can feel the pull of Udi’s eyes but throws herself into a combination of fiddling with her phone and paying intense attention to talk of the evening ahead. She dares not speak. Without her input, they decide to grab a schwarma on the way to a new bar on the beachfront and as they leave the apartment Udi tries to catch her arm, but Ella attaches herself to Dov and Yael, burying herself with their chatter. As they walk, she observes their teasing flirtations, the considerate way they listen to each other talk, the kisses they give each other in public. She does not look back for Udi who is talking to Chaim some metres behind, does not give him the end of her schwarma, and does not wait for him to enter the bar. It is not a desire to punish him, she simply doesn’t know what to say. Plus a little punishment wouldn’t hurt. Or rather it would, which is the point. She and Yael open their bags for the security guard and walk in at the front with Dov who knows one of the bartenders – a good-looking Russian who waves a greeting and finds them a table by moving some other patrons away. The rest of the group follow, the blare of music and the fog of smoke – despite the ban – absorbing them as one by one they squeeze through the crowd. Ella counts them as they appear. Six… Seven… What will she say to him? Seven… Seven…
Udi is not there.
Nobody else seems to have noticed and she doesn’t want to ask, but she strains her neck to peer for him through the crowd. He is nowhere. She looks again. She cannot help it.
“Doorman says the place is full.” Avi is the last of their group to reach the table. He hovers next to it, hands raised in exasperation. “Udi’s still outside.”
They all look to her. Ella has to consciously command her legs not to stand. They obey, but her heart wrenches. This is not the first time a bar has turned out to be full when Udi has tried to enter. He is darker than the rest of them and she cannot count the number of evenings that have been ruined this way. Ordinarily she would attempt to bat her eyelids at the offending doorman, and then, later, try to convince Udi that ethnicity is not necessarily the cause, not always, not now. But such obstacles lurk heavily in Udi’s blood and claw at him.
They look to her.
Ella remains seated.
Dov stands.
***
The doorman is waving in another group of French men. Two are light-skinned with long, non-wiry, non-black hair. The third is tall, blond, looks as though he should be German. Behind them enter two girls. They are almost as dark as Udi but they have legs to their necks and are wearing skirts that barely cover an inch of them. Udi attempts to breathe. He has tried shouting before, he has even tried punching. Neither are effective. He would not care. He would go home. But Ella is inside.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he asks the doorman for a second time in as composed a tone as he can muster.
“It’s full, man,” the guy shrugs.
A girl carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset now sidles up to the doorman who points at Udi. She glances up, then contorts her lips, shakes her head, looks elsewhere.
“This is fucking bullshit,” Udi says, loudly. The doorman turns towards him and seems to broaden. Udi moves closer and is about to add that the doorman is a piece of shit and the girl is a piece of shit too when from the door behind them Dov appears, and quietly places a charming, light-coloured hand upon the girl’s shoulder, and whispers a charming word, and flashes his charming blue eyes. And she looks at Udi again.
***
“So they didn’t find his bomb,” Dov jokes when some minutes later he and Udi return together. Even today, the group laughs. Udi laughs too, but is unconvincing. There is vulnerability in the strong-set stance of his arms. Ella wants to go to him.
He looks at her. She looks away.
Dov goes to the bar and Udi sits down in the empty seat. His neck is slightly hunched, he seems tired, defeated, but he places his hand on Ella’s leg and because everyone is watching, she lets him. She doesn’t, however, cover his hand with her own as she usually would; she doesn’t gently press his cuticles. And now that he is there next to her she finds it is no longer difficult to restrain herself in this way. She is not concerned, but angry. So seethingly angry. The others are asking him questions about London again and she wants to hit him as he reveals that his greatest worry is adjusting to the cold. Dov returns with drinks and Ella sips hard on her schnapps. A new song starts and Yael sings along. Avi notices a girl he used to go out with on the other side of the room and Chaim reminds him that she was crazy, he tells him not to go over. Ella can feel Udi watching her. She won’t look at him. The heat of his body is stoking her rage. As soon as she is sure they are not being observed, she removes his palm. Now she is going to get up. She is going to move away. She is going to leave. She is-
Udi reaches for her hand. He fastens his fingers around her own, gripping her, turning her towards him, forcing her to look.
“I want you to come with me,” he whispers.
Ella is not sure if she has heard him but there is a flicker in her stomach and she allows him to keep hold of her hands as he leans through the chaos of the bar to say it again.
“I’m still figuring the whole thing out, that’s why I didn’t tell you, but I want you to come.”
She does not answer. The music blares.
“Ella? Did you hear me?”
Silence. Cacophony.
“Ella? Say something.”
“Bullshit, Udi.”
Ella is a little surprised to find that this is what she says, that after her protracted silence these are the words that spit out of her, but she cannot help them coming in sharpened whispers through the air. And it is right. She should be sharp. She should be strong.
