by Y. I. Latz
“You didn’t ask your daughter why all this is happening?”
“We did. We couldn’t understand.”
“That’s how it is with young people. They hold their cards close to their chests and away from their parents. Did you say Colombia? I have an idea that might help.”
“Really? What is it?”
“A good friend of mine, a Harvard professor, is currently taking some classes at your Hebrew University. Previously, she worked for our State Department. In my experience, no one can compete with the State Department in terms of connections, and there’s no door anywhere in the world that the State Department can’t open. Their people are spread out all over the world. I’ll call her and tell her about you. I might even set up a meeting between you. I’m sure she’ll do her best to help.”
“Thank you! Thank you! The U.S. State Department? A professor with connections in Colombia? That’s wonderful! But I really don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, and I don’t want to bother you or her.”
“Nonsense. You two should meet her. She has a heart of gold and she’s crazy about Israel and Israelis. Would you allow me to contact her on your behalf?”
“Of course! Thank you!” Smadar replied for both of us, hugging and kissing her excitedly.
And without meaning to do so, at that exact moment, she knocked all of our stars out of alignment.
◊◊◊
I only left the two of them there for one moment. When I returned, I found Jennifer kneeling down on her knees in front of a low credenza with a glass door. The door was open. Jennifer was holding a small golden trophy, long tarnished.
I hurried toward her angrily, reaching out for the trophy. She was quicker than me, pulling it away jokingly.
I did not hesitate for a moment. I twisted her arm and tried to snatch the trophy away. She gazed at me with an amused expression and refused to hand it over. I was filled with rage. My wife stopped me at the last moment.
“What’s gotten into you?” she muttered at me in Hebrew and tried to pull me back.
I continued to tussle with our guest. Finally, the trophy fell to the ground and shattered. Its metal base fell off, revealing a thick roll of bills hidden inside, held together with a rubber band.
I leaped toward it, quickly hiding it in my pocket.
I wasn’t quick enough.
Both women noticed it.
The roll contained one hundred bills of one hundred British pounds each.
◊◊◊
The incident, which both of them treated at least seemingly as “amusing,” didn’t cast a shadow on the rest of the visit. The television reporter continued to feel at ease as she took a tour along the walls of our home.
Smadar made sure to keep me at a distance from her.
This time, Jennifer lingered over a yellowing newspaper clipping hung up in a glass frame.
“Who’s that in the photo?” she wondered.
I was about to leap at her and yank the frame out of her hands.
Smadar’s fingers took hold of my arm and cooled my lust for battle. “Answer her,” she commanded.
“A soccer goalie,” I replied reluctantly.
“Israeli?”
“British.”
“A relative of yours?”
“This is the great Ray Clemence,” Smadar stepped in. To my surprise, I discerned a note of pride in her voice. She knew this material well. She had heard the story countless times. “He’s British. He was the goalkeeper for Tottenham Hotspur and England’s national soccer team during the seventies and the eighties—a legendary goalie!”
“Clemence? Ray Clemence? I’ve never heard of him,” Jennifer responded with a shrug, as if she was expected to know the soccer goalie who was the subject of my childhood dreams. “And who’s the young hunk standing next to him, also wearing a goalie’s outfit?”
“My husband,” Smadar replied. “He grew up in England.”
The note of pride in her voice surprised me. She made it sound as if I had grown up in Buckingham Palace.
“England? Niiiiice. Not that I failed to notice his British accent. Under what circumstances was the photo taken?”
“My Henry was the leading goalkeeper for Tottenham’s youth team. Ray Clemence came to watch the youth championship match at White Hart Lane Stadium.”
“Very nice,” the reporter enthused politely, preparing to move on.
Smadar wouldn’t accept this lukewarm reaction. “Ray Clemence didn’t just come for a visit. He was impressed with Henry’s performance. He said Henry was more talented than he had been when he was at that age, and declared that he had a bright future ahead of him. More than that, he gave Henry his old gloves. Do you understand?! The great Ray Clemence gave Henry his personal gloves! The gloves belonging to the goalie of England’s national soccer team! Henry, why don’t you show Jennifer the gloves?”
I muttered in reply. All of my body language expressed my resistance.
Smadar couldn’t or wouldn’t see it. She went on, “Clemence told my Henry that if he continued to make this kind of progress, he could be the goalie for England’s national soccer team, just like him! The first Jewish goalie for England’s national soccer team!”
Sometimes, the deepest pits are dug for us by those we love—
Jennifer frowned, the way I had expected her to do. She wasn’t the type to let such a heavy hint sail by her without reacting.
She turned to me and asked the question every reasonable person in her position would have asked. “And did you become the first Jewish goalie for England’s national soccer team?”
My hair stood on end.
“Who, Henry? Oh, no, no way,” Smadar continued to be my mouthpiece. “At the age of eighteen, he left it all behind and immigrated to Israel.” She paused a bit to enhance the punchline. “And that’s how I was lucky enough to snag him.”
The TV reporter ignored this romantic comment. She drew closer to me. “Why? Were you injured? Did you get sick?”
“No,” Smadar answered for me.
The reporter drew slightly closer. “Did you get tired of soccer?”
“No!” This time, I was the one to reply.
“Did you get kicked off the team? Did your performance suffer? Did you get in a fight with someone? Anti-Semitism?”
“Noooo!”
“You gave up your dream to be the first Jewish goalie for England’s national soccer team in order to immigrate to Israel? Why?”
I stared at her.
She stared back at me.
“I know why,” she declared, waving her finger at me in a mock-threatening gesture. “You’re a Zionist!”
Smadar laughed. “Henry, a Zionist? Henry’s the most extreme leftist I ever met.”
“He’s an Israeli patriot, isn’t he?” Jennifer commented, while a questioning look surfaced on her face.
Smadar continued laughing, and her laughter led all of us into a minefield. “Henry’s a big patriot on behalf of himself and the poor Palestinians. Didn’t I tell you he was a left-winger?” Her laughter increased, as if this was a good joke.
She didn’t notice what I noticed: Jennifer wasn’t laughing with her. I identified imminent danger, which did indeed arrive. The American TV reporter frowned. “Well, then, I imagine something bad, even very bad, happened over there in London. The question is, how bad could it have been, Henry, to cause you to leave everything behind and escape to Israel? Huh, Henry?” She looked up at me, stepping even closer. With no shoes on, her head came up to my chest at most. “Huh? What’s that terrible thing that happened to you there?”
She wasn’t expecting such a reaction from me.
Smadar actually was.
I ran off.
Chapter Sixteen
There’s Life in Downtown Tel Aviv
Three hours
later. Sheinkin Street, downtown Tel Aviv. I was roaming aimlessly with my backpack and my rolling suitcase. I had nine hours to kill before my unnecessary flight to Nairobi. In an internal compartment of my backpack, I had hidden envelopes containing $17,000 in cash. My feet were yearning for a rest.
Sheinkin Street is a long narrow street in what had once been the center of Tel Aviv, reminiscent of the Village in Manhattan, whose older tenants had been supplanted by noisy students and young people, some of them pushing strollers, while its faded shops had been replaced by trendy boutiques with contemporary designs.
I fell into an empty chair in a busy café. Four more hours went by. It was now early evening. Time would not move. The air was warm and steamy. My shirt was soaked with sweat.
The waitress addressed me for the fourth time. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I’ve already said I’m good. Thank you.”
“More coffee? More tea? A sandwich? Some cake?”
“No, thanks.”
“A croissant? Cake? A sandwich?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you want the check?”
“Not at the moment. Can I have some water, too?”
“Carbonated or Perrier?”
“Regular. Just a regular glass of tap water. Could I?”
The waitress stormed off, annoyed.
I had gone into the café in the afternoon, when it was still half empty and there was daylight outside. Now it was 9:00 p.m., and the café was overflowing with people. There was not a single free table. I was taking up valuable space. The stream of new patrons never stopped. People thrust their head in, their eyes seeking a place to sit.
The waitress had cleared the sole cup of coffee I’d ordered a long time ago, and had already wiped the table repeatedly. This was the third or fourth time she had hinted at me, while I refused to take the hint.
I had no reason to get up.
I had nowhere to go.
I was being torn apart by conflicting desires.
I felt paralyzed.
The phone was in my hand. I surfed over to Ben Gurion Airport’s website. No change in the time of the Nairobi flight’s departure. What kind of change was I expecting? I had four and a half hours left.
What would I do until then?
There was only one thing I wanted. A place to lay my head.
My eyes closed.
I didn’t want to fly.
On the other hand—
There was a third hand, too.
◊◊◊
My attention was drawn to an energetic woman of about sixty or sixty-five. She entered the café and left it again at short intervals. A giant straw bag hung from her shoulder, swaying back and forth with every movement she made. She seemed to be looking for someone. Every time she came in, her eyes meticulously scanned the faces of everyone present.
She approached several of them with a question. The answer was always the same. Negative.
Our eyes met several times.
Finally, she walked over to me.
“Excuse me, are you Menachem?”
She hovered over my table.
“Excuse me?” I queried.
“I asked whether you’re Menachem. Do you have a daughter touring the Far East?”
“Yes. No. South America.”
“South America, whatever. What’s the difference? Why are you letting me go crazy here?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been looking for you for fifteen minutes now. Well, okay, come on. Come on. Did you pay? Are these your backpack and suitcase? I want to show you the apartment and get going. I’ve had a long day.”
I don’t know what came over me.
I got up.
I had paid my bill a long time ago.
I followed her.
She talked constantly the entire way.
“Why were you sitting in the corner? I barely found you. My daughter told you clearly that she would be waiting for you outside the café. Can I tell you something, just between us? You don’t look anything like what she thought you’d be like. On the phone you sounded to her, excuse me, but like some loud, trashy guy. She almost wanted to call off the whole thing. She was afraid your daughter would be like that, too. Whatever—all’s well that ends well. I don’t know who you are. You’re not trashy, at least.”
She walked quickly. The backpack and the suitcase made it hard for me to keep up with her. The distance between us lengthened. I had to close the gap with short sprints that made me breathe heavily.
She continued, “It’s true I was late. But you know how it is. You couldn’t park a pin, much less a car, in this entire area this time of night. My daughter got stuck at work and she sent me instead. I hope you like the apartment. It’s true, your daughter’s the one who has to live there, not you. But I definitely know what it’s like: it’s important that the parents are pleased, too. It’s a little expensive, but it’s in a good, central location. Close to everything. And you can’t really find a cheap apartment these days, can you? When did you tell me your daughter was going to be back in Israel? It’s really nice that her dad is coming to rent a room for her. That way she’ll have somewhere to get settled the minute she arrives, and she can skip the searching stage. A soft landing, like they say. How long has she been traveling abroad? Oh, here we are.”
We stopped before the most worn-down building on trendy Sheinkin Street. The sight of it repelled me. I told myself that if it didn’t have an elevator, I would apologize and take off.
It did. A narrow one, but an elevator is an elevator.
We crammed ourselves inside along with my travel accessories.
“What’s that for?” she inquired.
“Her things.”
“What a good father you are. You even did that for her. I hope she appreciates you.”
She examined my elegant clothes.
“Are you an executive?”
“A chef.”
“Ahhh,” she said. It was an appreciative “ahhh.”
We arrived at the fourth floor.
In contrast to the neglected appearance of the building, the apartment itself was a pleasant surprise. A tiny place, golden tiles with an old-fashioned pattern, warm orange lighting, and two bedrooms, one of them well equipped with decorative items and pictures, while the other was nearly empty, with a bed sporting a bare mattress with no sheets, and an antiquated wood wardrobe in the corner.
The bathroom and toilet screamed out for some urgent renovation. I didn’t go in. I confined myself to what my eyes could see from my observation post in the hallway. Dirty dishes were piled up on the marble kitchen counter and in the sink. They were made of cheap glass, some of them chipped.
One item in particular impressed me. The sliding door in the living room, a combination of textured glass squares and wooden frames. It opened easily, gliding silently along its rails. I slid it wide open. A pleasant summer breeze flowed in. I peeked outside. The little street downstairs looked lively and colorful.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
“Already?” The woman was surprised. “You didn’t ask about the rent, and I still haven’t asked the questions my daughter wanted me to ask. Is your daughter messy? Does she smoke? Does she have a boyfriend?”
“No, no and no. How much?”
“$750, not including municipal taxes and water.”
“So, $375 each?”
She frowned. “$750 each,” she emphasized. “Where have you been living?”
“What?! This apartment costs $1,500 a month?!”
She laughed. “You should thank me. That’s a bargain in this area.”
“Do you take credit?”
She laughed harder. “You’re a chef with a sense of humor. That’s good already. I bet your daughter’s the same way. My dau
ghter is serious like you wouldn’t believe. That’s actually a good combination. And as for the money—cash only, like my daughter told you over the phone.”
“Hold on a minute, okay?”
I left for the next room, put my hand in my pocket, and extracted one of the envelopes full of money that the kibbutz members had asked me to pass on to their children in Kenya. I counted out $750 and returned the rest to its place.
I returned to the living room and handed her the bills. “Count it,” I requested.
“It’s okay,” she said, handing me a simple key hanging from a metal wire with a paper clip at its end. “It’s not like you’re running off anywhere. Also, leave me a check for the last month’s rent as a security deposit, and you’ll work out the rest on your own when you meet.”
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
She examined me.
I explained, “I live in a kibbutz in the north, and it’s already late, and tomorrow I have to be in Tel Aviv again.”
“Okay by me,” she shrugged. “You paid for it. The room is yours.”
◊◊◊
I fell asleep in my clothes in the unmade bed. I woke up at 3:00 a.m., my heart beating wildly.
The plane to Nairobi had taken off a long time ago—
I remembered that I hadn’t inquired whether there was air conditioning in the apartment.
My forehead was dripping.
The sound of suppressed laughter reached my ears. I left my room.
Two young women were sitting in the kitchen, dishes and leftover food on the table between them. “Oops,” one of them said. “We woke you up. I’m sorry. Are you Menachem? I’m Mali. Your daughter’s new roommate. No, actually, your daughter is my new roommate.”
I extended my hand formally. She was surprised by the gesture but extended her own hand with a laugh.
She was about thirty-five or thirty-seven, a lot older than I had expected.
She added, “And this is my friend Ilana.”
I did not extend my hand to her friend. She had a broad face with a double chin and broad, masculine arms. But her smile was pleasant as well.
