I hated New York from the moment I landed. I remembered our previous visit and Danny’s enthusiasm. Mom said that she now had to work on her Ph.D.; that she was forty-four years old and that she wouldn’t have any more children so she had to find something to keep her occupied during the next twenty years. I already understood that I would never have too much in common with Danny. My true father had died, Marcel had walked out on us, and Danny was too successful to also be a good father. None of them had really been a father to me. My mother was somehow lost and this huge and terrible city was about to eat us up alive. I think I must have been right. Mom started looking older. Danny, who was very attached to her and loved her in his own special way, hardly saw her.
She enjoyed her Ph.D. studies in New York. English poetry filled her soul and actually managed to drive away some people who were trying to suck up to her because of her position as the wife of the ambassador to the UN.
I only visited the embassy once, looking for video movies about Israel for a course I was taking at New York University. Mom suggested I ask at the consulate’s information department, located in the same building as the UN Mission. I refused Danny’s offer to join him on his morning drive and instead walked casually down Second Avenue towards the Mission. Herds of yellow cabs were stampeding down the Avenue, occasionally stopping at a red light as if to gather strength ahead of the next leap in their continuous wild chase. Office workers in cheap suits rushed quickly along with efficient females dressed in their tight suits and wearing sneakers. I walked along, capturing the images and trying to understand what was so riveting and attractive about living in the big city. Was it the noise? The density? The action? To me, it looked repulsive. It was all fine for Gene Kelly and Bing Crosby to dance in the streets and love this city. There was nostalgia in that. For nowadays I was more into Robert De Niro. This was the human jungle in all its squalor.
In the lobby of the mission building on Second Avenue, a sour-faced security guard was pacing. After a cursory glance, he ignored me altogether. A nice African-American receptionist explained in a soft voice that only elevator number three would take me up to the fifteenth floor.
And then there was that tall, barefoot young man with long auburn hair, faded jeans, a black t-shirt and a desperate look who was busy negotiating with a wall-mounted loudspeaker. He saw me, sighed and made room for me by the microphone, as if saying, ‘Maybe you’ll have better luck’.
“What’s the problem?”
“Try and see for yourself.”
“You need help for sure. Why are you barefoot?”
“I was robbed in Central Park. They liked my sneakers.”
Poor guy.
“So what’s the problem?” His eyes were light and embarrassed or maybe they were just mocking.
“They won’t let me in. My passport was stolen. I have to go to Canada for two days tomorrow, but they won’t talk to me.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“She can’t believe it!” He looked up at a camera that was following us. “Even she can’t believe it.” The microphone on the wall came to life.
“Yes, please.”
“Why can’t he go inside?”
“What’s your name?”
“It doesn’t matter. I was asking about him.”
“What’s your name?”
“Shira.”
“Shira what?”
“Shira Taylor, may I come in?” Mom had changed our name for the second time now from Attias to Taylor.
“Come in, please.” A buzzer sounded. “To the UN Embassy,” the voice on the intercom added in a friendly tone.
“I am about to lose a five-thousand dollar photography contract in Canada,” the barefoot man whispered to me with a slither of hope.
I pushed the heavy steel door with a lot of effort. “Wait here, and I will help you.” Well, after all, he could tell that my name alone was enough to gain me admittance.
I pushed another heavy steel door, entered the mission and paused in front of the door to the control room that oversaw the entrance. The room was dark. Someone was sitting in front of an array of monitors, his face lit by their glow. He turned to look at me.
“Why aren’t you letting the photographer in?”
“Do you know him?” His voice sounded nasal.
“No, but he needs to come in. What’s the problem?”
“It’s not exactly any business of yours. He could be a terrorist.”
“So what? Isn’t that precisely your job? Are you going to defeat the terrorist by letting him starve outside the door? All he needs is a passport.”
“He has no means of identification and the consular section is closed.”
“Can the ambassador authorize his entrance?” I was a little repulsed by my own question.
“By all means,” my interlocutor showed surprising generosity. “Do you know the name of that poor soul you want to save?” He must have seen my embarrassed look, and through the open door handed me the man’s peach-colored business card, which listed his name as Ronny Sofer, photographer, of Seventieth-something Street.
“You can call from the phone on the opposite wall,” the guard instructed me. “Five-three-one; it’s the ambassador’s office.”
The ambassador was busy. Five minutes later, I tried again and threatened the secretary, and insisted that she tell the ambassador that I wanted to talk to him. The security guard told me then that the man had disappeared.
We hosted cocktail receptions at our home a few times a week. Sweaty activists and fat ladies used to squeeze into the living room and grab hors d’oeuvres from trays carried by three hard-working waiters walking around the room. The first couple of times I stood at those receptions attracting a lot of attention and false compliments
“How come you have such a grown-up child?” they would ask Danny.
“I started at a young age.” He would fake an embarrassed smile without actually explaining what it was exactly that he had started at a young age.
He enjoyed himself at these receptions. To me, he looked like a total stranger. Mom would be standing nearby, as pale as snow. She wasn’t so healthy. She would try to smile anyway, and attempt to engage her guests in conversation. The Jewish guests would check out the fabric on the couches, look out the windows, and ask about the artwork. How come we have such expensive paintings? How can the State of Israel afford it? Mom would explain for the thousandth time that a local gallery owned by Jews had loaned us the paintings.
“Ah, the State of Israel can’t afford this art,” they would snicker, and Mom would say, “The State of Israel has more important things to spend its money on.”
Those receptions would be attended by ambassadors from Latin America and the Far East too, and later by more and more Arab ambassadors as well.
Rumors were coming from the newly appointed foreign minister’s bureau about the need to have an older ambassador to the UN; someone with a more impressive background in Jewish affairs. They also said that the Party had a number of eligible candidates for the job. Danny, however, had no intention of stepping down.
“The problem with the minister, as with a number of his predecessors, is that it’s hard to break through the ring of counselors surrounding him,” Danny sighed in one conversation with Uzi on a Friday night. After failing in his attempt to appoint Uzi as the new minister’s political advisor, Danny had asked that Uzi be sent to New York as temporary reinforcement. Danny had a conversation with Thelmoush, Uzi’s nagging wife, for an hour and a half, trying to explain to her that the month that Uzi would be spending in New York would be critical for some affairs of national priority. But even Danny’s endless personal charm would not halt her incessant sobbing.
Danny never gave Thelmoush another thought after that and dedicated himself to finding creative ways of handling the new minister.
“It’s not that he is particularly suspicious, but rather that this time we are facing someone childish. The man hates to work. He hardly ever reads anything, so I
can’t even send him ideas and proposals that would lead him anywhere. I’ve been through three political crises since arriving in New York, and haven’t managed to speak to him even once. I even called his home on a Saturday. One of his sons told me he is not to be disturbed before sunset.”
“He did stand up nicely to all those who demanded that he get rid of you,” Uzi remarked quietly.
“He didn’t do it for me, he did it for himself. He liked the fact that I was portrayed as a victim. ‘I won’t lend a hand to those who wish to overrun a loyal and trusty employee and his family,’” Danny impersonated the minister with his fake oratorical style. “The fact that Pnina was born in Morocco was also close to his heart,” Danny mocked. “And it so happened that there was someone there to point that fact out to him.”
There was no real professional reason why Danny asked for Uzi and got him. He just missed having someone around that he could talk freely with.
Uzi, as usual, gladly agreed. Every night he would try to placate Thelmoush’s rage over the phone so that she would later let him talk to the kids whom he missed with all his heart. Like Danny, he too had gained a lot of weight and began to look very worldly. His reasoned tone became even more moderate. He was no longer as excited or as naïve as he used to be. His new-found imperviousness added a new layer to the distinguished aura he sent off. He finally learned how to tie his neck ties right and oddly enough spent time in renewing old contacts with the UN Research Project on Asiatic Diseases; perhaps as a belated gesture after having recovered from his long-lasting liver disease.
“There’s no choice but to connect to one of this unusual minister’s advisors,” said Uzi.
“Well, that’s obvious,” Danny cut him off abruptly with his quiet paternalism. “The question is which advisor and what’s the approach. I wish there was someone intelligent there; someone a little more bearable than that horrible clown Silvio Mushkat.”
The opportunity arose a mere two weeks later. The foreign minister arrived in New York on his way to Canada. The Israeli community in Toronto, most of them born in French Morocco, had invited the minister whom they perceived as one of them. In a long patient conversation with horrible Silvio, Danny managed to convince him to be our guest at Friday night dinner, together with the minister. Danny’s next goal was to sell the minister on the idea that he should address the United Nations General Assembly.
“He’d like to, but he is shy,” Silvio explained to Dad, who made a grimace at the telephone.
“Of course,” he said after hanging up the phone. “He’s dying to appear at the UN, but he doesn’t speak a word of English and his French dialect is decidedly low-class. He’s an idiot but he isn’t stupid. Even he can understand that.”
Danny invited Larry Klein, a wealthy Jew, to the dinner.
”Larry knows what is expected of him,” Danny responded to Uzi’s query. “The minister, just like everyone else, will fall in love with his billions. Remember that Larry is bankrolling candidates not only in the United States but also in Israel; a fact that wasn’t lost on Silvio.”
“What about the minister’s English?” Uzi was worried.
“Leave that to me. That will be the fun part of the evening.”
Danny’s mood was ruined the next day when Ma’ariv newspaper ran the story that the foreign minister would be visiting New York in order to solve some mess at the embassy and to check up on some rumors of a bad atmosphere among the diplomats. This was Silvio’s doing.
“Silvio is going to pay dearly for this,” Danny promised, but he didn’t sound so sure of himself.
Klein, dressed up like a Mafia Don, came with a young blonde who wrapped the corpse of a hairy fox around her neck and had a ready smile that revealed a dental masterpiece worth at least twenty-thousand dollars. She hardly said a word all evening, and only nodded gracefully, flashed her diamonds at the other guests with empty eyes and sweet smile. Her favorite word was “Aha”. The minister, also in a three-piece old-fashioned striped suit sat smugly at the head of the table, his eyes shining bright with slyness and self-satisfaction. He blessed the Challah and the wine for a long time and then gave a slice to every guest with a fatherly gesture.
I looked at his perfectly groomed white forelock and his puffy lips. He was the fourth foreign minister that I had met in the span of a decade. He looked very confident. I didn’t believe he would fall so easily into the trap set for him by Danny. For a moment I wanted to warn him. But a man who manages Israel’s foreign policy surely knows what he has to do. ‘Relax, Shira,’ I told myself repeatedly. ‘Just try to enjoy the evening. Play the game.’ Well, I tried my best.
“A hell of a trip, isn’t it?” I whispered to the blonde lady sitting by my side.
“Aha,” she nodded with a charming smile.
“You’re a complete idiot, aren’t you?” I asked in Hebrew and added my own sweet smile. She responded with a supportive “Aha”. Mom gave me a threatening look.
“My good friend Mister Klein,” the foreign minister turned to the guest and immediately urged Danny to “Translate it, translate it.” Danny swallowed hard and translated.
“We are all brothers. Our way is the same,” the minister declared and ordered, “Translate!” When Danny did, the minister looked offended. “Not ‘one way’! ‘Same way’!” he corrected the translation with a slight reprimand. “Translate it, translate it!” he urged Danny and smiled at Klein with the air of an expert, glad to see the guest smile and nod understandingly.
The exhausting conversation continued while we had soup and then couscous. Mom looked at the minister with hope. He was too busy explaining Israel’s rights to the billionaire, likening the people to a herd, and taking examples from the life of sheep: “The shepherd carries the weak lambs on his back, but the herd doesn’t care about that. The sheep plows through, its head stuck in the backside of the sheep in front.” Danny tried hard to translate and Silvio smiled amicably.
“Are you at least capable of explaining the settlements?” the minister asked Danny with irritation. He may have been referring to a condemnation of Israel adopted by the UN that same week.
“We are working hard and trying our best,” Danny clenched his teeth.
“Trying is not enough,” the minister declared. “The sheep cannot try to give milk. Either she gives milk or she doesn’t. We must not harm the settlements. It is a matter close to the nation’s heart.”
“God forbid, that will not happen,” Danny agreed. “We will withstand all attacks here at the UN so that you people can carry on doing your work over there.”
Only when dessert was served did Danny explain how important it was that the minister addresses the UN General Assembly. Silvio, who until then had only been nodding and admiring the minister’s fables, suddenly became alert.
“It’s a golden opportunity,” Silvio agreed quickly. He was wearing a flannel shirt and a shocking green knit tie. “This will be an opportunity for the minister to express his thoughts in front of the international community. The Jewish community has been waiting for a long time for a fresh message.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” the minister asked.
“There is nothing quite like the UN as a venue to carry a message,” Silvio explained. “From the days of Abba Eban to the days of Chaim Herzog, there’s never been a more important stage for us.”
“What about Netanyahu, who also served as the ambassador here?” the minister asked.
“He was a feather-weight,” Silvio said with contempt. “Taylor has only been here for six months and he’s already overshadowed him. If his Excellency should agree to speak at the UN, we will take care of all the technical details.” I was wondering whether Silvio addressed the minister in this way when they were alone in the room.
“How’s the pudding?” I asked the smiling blonde.
Larry Klein observed us wearily.
“Here comes the trap,” I updated the blonde with relish.
The minister awoke
from some deep reverie.
“In French?” he asked the question which Silvio had feared.
“I was about to offer English lettering with Hebrew markings,” said Danny. We have a number of texts that you might want to look at. Uzi has developed a way of reading them with English letters and Hebrew markings in such a way that the pronunciation comes out perfectly as well as convincingly, minister.”
“Show me an example!” the minister ordered. Uzi walked to the back room and reappeared with a folder which he showed the minister. The foreign minister read it in perfect English, “Peace is possible, achievable and worthwhile, regardless of the ramifications.” The Hebrew dot at the C, made it sound correctly only as a K.
“Wonderful! So deep!” said Larry. The foreign minister was filled with pride, hardly believing that he had actually uttered those words.
Punctuation in the letter C, just like in Hebrew, that’s a great idea,” the minister mumbled to himself. “Alright, let’s go for it,” he instructed with satisfaction. He stared at Uzi for a long time: “I’d like you to work closer with us. We are looking to fill the position of policy advisor. You may want to consider it.” The minister flashed a look at Silvio who became very pale and adjusted the knot in his tie.
Silvio’s anxiety and Danny’s giddiness were obvious. Uzi, who had uttered barely three words throughout dinner, accepted the offer with restraint.
“Pas mal, le couscous,” the satisfied minister turned to Mom, “Absolument pas.”
“Je vous remercie,” she replied shyly. “Obligee.”
The blonde wrapped herself in her fox fur. “It was so nice to meet you,” she said to the minister in a very impersonal way. “And you,” she turned to me, surprisingly in Hebrew, “Should work on your manners.” She left me shocked and wrapped herself around Larry. Larry shook the minister’s hand formally, promised to stay in touch, winked at Danny and exited into the night.
* * *
Chapter 19
“You look terrible,” said Haroush. “We have all been working too hard for the past day, but by the time it will start to turn serious, there won’t be anyone here capable of doing any work. Let’s go get some rest.”
Peace, Love and Lies Page 17
