by Dov Nardimon
Along the wooden docks pleasantly rocked by the waves, stood Oceanis yachts or the more spacious Beneteau yachts that stretched to fifty feet. The tall flagpoles of the long Hunters bowed with every breath of wind on the shorter Sun Odyssey models. Wide-decked, clumsy-looking catamarans were nonetheless much more comfortable and just as fast and looked like spaceships whose crew members stepped out for a bite to eat before taking off into the blue horizons once again. Mickey, who was familiar with the sea since his days in naval boarding school, loved showing his knowledge in the field aboard his thirty-eight-foot Athena catamaran that he got as a present from his wife a few years prior.
Most days the yacht was decked at the marina, and Mickey would use it as a floating base for public relations. Occasionally he would take it on a short sail for a few hours when he thought it would make even more of an impression on his guests. Sometimes he would leave the marina and sail north a nautical mile or two before anchoring opposite a deserted beach. That was whenever he and Tzipi, the administrative assistant of his businesses, felt their regular hotel room no longer provided the necessary excitement they required. Tzipi loved feeling the motion of the waves gently rocking the yacht as she sat spread eagle on top of Mickey’s face while he pleasured her with his tongue. In that position she would bring him to the maximal possible arousal by riding him with her hand around his flagpole, steading herself against the rocking of the waves and the vibrations of her own delight.
Mickey’s office was situated a mere minute’s walk from the Mascit restaurant block. Normally he would dine there, but occasionally when he wanted to impress a guest, he’d have them over for lunch on his boat. He’d call Mary, the Filipina maid he had working in his Kfar Shemaryahu villa, and order a five course meal from a nearby restaurant. The maid would prep everything and welcome the guests on deck with a tropical cocktail, and Mickey would take them by the hand for a mandatory tour of the yacht.
First he would show them the deck, explaining the function of every rope, pole, and sail. Then he would go on about the wonders of the state-of-the-art navigating and steering systems. While giving the tour, he spoke of desirable bays and harbors for the yacht nobility around the Mediterranean from the Aegean Sea and Ionian Islands to Sardinia and Corsica. Then he would take his guests down two steps to the spacious kitchen—one of the catamarans’ biggest perks in comparison to those of classic yachts. Embedded between the boat’s two elongated floating devices, the kitchen was fully equipped with the finest appliances.
Mary, who had her work license in Israel issued specifically for the care of Mickey’s elderly father who died years before, would place a silk tablecloth on top the large mahogany table and lay the meal out for Mickey and his guests. Surrounded by wide windows through which the sea or marina could be seen, the setting exuded an unbeatable sense of relaxation. With the gentle rocking of the waves and a glass of merlot, guests would feel totally at ease and utterly content. At the end of such a meal, the world seemed perfect, and in this atmosphere saturated with optimism, Mickey would succeed in persuading his guests to do just about anything he wanted them to.
One on one meetings on the yacht deck had been his special delicate way to take control of his individual visitor .After a meal Mickey would show his guest downstairs to tour the cabins. He always hoped to persuade the guest fatigued by the food and wine, to take a little nap in one of the cabins. If it was a man the situation might offer him the opportunity to see carefully ascertain if there was room to mix some homoerotic sexual pleasure with business. The mutual secret that was documented by a hidden camera would create a potential blackmail opportunity in due course. If not, Mickey would hint at his guest who had been the last visitor in the intimate, narrow sleeping compartment and leave the rest to the guests’ imagination.
“Next time you need a place for an intimate meeting, don’t hesitate to give me a call. The Filipina will be waiting for you here with a spare key and won’t come back to change the sheets until you tell her to.” He would smile a meaningful smile accompanied by a wink and a pat on his guest’s back.
Mickey’s first sexual experience happened when he was a freshman at the naval boarding school when Avi, the group instructor, targeted him to satiate his sexual needs. Avi’s whore, his classmates called him, and at the end of the year, Mickey told his parents he wasn’t going back to the boarding school. However, what was imprinted in him there at the age of fifteen stuck with him his whole life. When he came to New York after the army, he used his experience in this department to make some extra money, catering to the sexual requirements of the clients at his uncle’s high fashion business where he worked as a delivery boy. The clientele included all kinds of celebrities and film stars, and the young, handsome delivery boy who brought garments to their houses for fittings caught the eye of both men and women. For a tip that exceeded his entire monthly pay, Mickey would willingly oblige every customer in an utterly democratic fashion, never discriminating against any gender, religion, or skin color.
Chapter 31
Mixing business and pleasure was Mickey’s life motto. The unbeatable combination of a flashy yacht and private maid was his sure-fire recipe to conquering any hi-tech genius. They would see themselves pretty much instantaneously settled in a private yacht of their own, financed by realizing their shares from the first ‘exit plan’ that poured money into the company they were yet to establish. A sympathetic angel like Mickey—one that was swimming in cash and loved to enjoy life—was every hi-tech kid’s wet dream, which Mickey knew very well and made the most of at every opportunity. He didn’t even have to pretend to be someone other than whom he really was—a decadent opportunist through and through.
“I have my meals here on the boat sometimes,” he would say nonchalantly while entertaining. “The sound and motion of the waves are what give me my inspiration. Before every significant new investment you can find me here spending a good few hours by myself.” He’d smile empathetically at his guest and dive into another story about one of his sailing trips.
Turkey and Greece and the differences between their bays; the pluses of the calm Adriatic Sea near the Ionian Islands compared to the rough, unexpected waters of the Aegean; the harbors of Lefkada and Corfu with their fish restaurants and picturesque coves—he spoke of all of these and more with a picture of the beautiful Corinth Canal hanging on the wall behind him.
“That’s you, there, behind the wheel.” The mesmerized hi-tech urchin would recognize Mickey in the photo, steering with one hand and his arm around the shoulders of smiling, topless blond in a clear gesture of ownership.
“Yeah, that was on the way back from Loutraki to Piraeus.”
“What kind of yacht is that?” the kid would ask, too shy to ask what really is on his mind—who that gorgeous girl was leaning on Mickey, the fearless sailor.
“Oh, that’s the Sun Odyssey, fifty feet long. Very comfortable. Can hold four couples easily. Although on that trip, we were only three guys with a lady friend each,” said Mickey with a wink.
“Is that your yacht?”
“Of course. I keep my small one here, the Odyssey in Greece, and another one in Corsica. That one is a catamaran, too, like this one, only bigger—the Stardust Belize model, forty-three feet, one of the biggest there is. When I’m with the wife and comfort is important, we fly to our summer villa in Corsica through Nice, and there we have our family Belize yacht.”
Target achieved—the impression Mickey wanted to make on his guests would be complete—Mickey, the wealthy hi-tech angel, has several yachts, a villa in Corsica, and a mistress he takes on his sailing trips with friends. He is an established man who knows how to live—every aspiring hi-tech man’s dream.
Mickey and Reuben’s lunch followed Mickey’s protocol to a T. They met at 2:00 p.m., and by the time Reuben disembarked at dusk, he was completely in awe.
That’s the way to live. That’s exactly what I want of life, he thought to himself after they said good-bye and he entered h
is leased Mazda-Lantis. He watched, making no attempt to hide his envy, as Mickey took a seat at the back of his metallic Saab that was driven by the personal assistant who came from the office to pick him up.
When he got home, Reuben tried to share his enthusiasm of Mickey’s lifestyle with Ronit, but she was not impressed.
“You always get star struck by these hotshot types, and in the end you find out not everything that glitters is gold.”
“I would be happy with half of what he’s got.”
“Isn’t he the guy we met at Motty Cohen’s cocktail party?” She suddenly recalled him.
“That’s the guy.”
“Yeah, I remember him now. I really didn’t like him. Something didn’t smell right. He looks like the kind of person that always has something to hide. I’d be interested to know what Eddie thinks of him.”
“You would, would you?” said Reuben sarcastically. “You don’t care about my opinion, but you sure do care about Eddie’s.”
“What is this Reuben? Are your jealous all of a sudden?”
“No, I’m just sick of you constantly telling me Eddie’s right and I’m wrong.”
“So I gather Eddie isn’t keen on Mickey either.”
“No he isn’t. You two are on the same page once again. How delightful.”
“Reuben, let’s just decide that if my opinion annoys you so much, you shouldn’t ask for it or tell me about your arguments with Eddie anymore, shall we?”
Reuben said nothing, angrily moved to the guest room, turned on the TV, and changed the station to the sex channel.
Ronit hated that channel, but despite all her protests, Reuben had it included in the channel package he had ordered. He would usually watch it when Ronit was on a night shift at the hospital, but now he did it just to spite her. Ronit saw what he was watching, turned around angrily, and slammed the bedroom door.
Another typical night at the Nevo residence, Reuben thought of his and Ronit’s relationship that was growing colder.
The difficulties in their marriage started after Reuben’s release from the army. As long as he served in a well-defined position and Ronit was busy with completing her internship, they were both focused on clear tasks that left no room for doubt or questions. When Reuben joined Eddie in building the company, things started to change. Ronit became a resident at the infectious diseases ward. She felt it was time for them to start a family and wanted to get pregnant. She was turning thirty in a few months and wanted to have three kids, so she felt there was no time to waste.
Reuben did not feel the same.
“First let me get established, then we’ll talk about kids,” he said whenever she tried to bring it up. “You were raised as the youngest of three kids by wealthy parents, and you have no idea what it’s like to be raised like I was in a poor family, with my father always making me feel as if he never wanted me.”
“But we’re in a very different position than where your parents were.” She would try to persuade him, but Reuben would simply shut down. Ronit was terrified of the thought that the patterns of behavior of Reuben’s father, who had killed himself at a young age, were repeating themselves with Reuben, and she would try to shake the whole thing off and think of anything other than the disturbing connection between Reuben’s difficult childhood stories and his attitude toward becoming a parent. The tension around the issue clouded their relationship and affected their love life. Whenever they had sex, Reuben would obsessively make sure all birth control precautions have been taken and his compulsion with the matter made Ronit avoid sexual contact with him as much as she could. Reuben was turning out more and more to be a greedy man who judged his relationships and values simply by the size of his bank account. He had every reason to carry this obsession from the home and family he was brought up in, but it was something Ronit couldn’t bear. As the daughter of a doctor and teacher, Ronit grew up in a financially stable home, and the values and principles of which her education consisted were those of a spirit and giving that could not be measured by cash.
Slowly, she came to realize the brilliant boy she had embraced, cherished, and learned to love was not on the same page as her, and that the values each of them brought from home were more influential than the essence of life they were trying to weave together.
In the following weeks, Mickey and Reuben had several more meetings. Reuben felt a marvelous friendship was forming between them, the likes of which he had never experienced before. The negative, heavy atmosphere at home and the stresses with Eddie at work made him open up to Mickey, the master of socializing, that much more easily. They spoke of company matters for hours, and the conversation seamlessly and naturally moved to personal issues as well. They learned to know each other well, and Mickey knew how to give Reuben that feeling he was missing. He had always needed someone more mature beside him. Over the past few years that someone had been Ronit, but she felt she had had enough of his constant search for recognition and admiration for his wisdom and crazy career ambitions directed toward science and wealth. Without noticing it, Mickey had become a replacement for Reuben’s mature figure in his life. They met at the office sometimes but mostly at the yacht for dinner or an afternoon cocktail facing amazing sunsets. For dessert, Mickey would always take out his dark oak humidor and offer Reuben a taste of one of his Havana cigars. Next to the cigars were thin papers made of poplar bark. Mickey used the papers to light his cigars, but not before lighting the papers with long matches normally used for starting a fireplace in cold countries far, far away from the marina in Herzliya.
“We don’t want the cigar to absorb the smell of sulfur, so we use the poplar bark,” he explained to Reuben who watched the ceremony enchanted.
“Here, light one. Unlike cigarettes, it isn’t customary to light a friend’s cigar. A cigar is something you light for yourself.”
Reuben, who had never smoked before, gladly accepted the offer and quickly acquired all the mannerisms of handling a cigar. The only thing that stopped him from buying a fancy humidor for himself was the fear of Ronit’s reaction.
Reuben learned to distinguish between the dry Dutch cigars that were made of tobacco from Cuba or Sumatra and rolled in the Netherlands and between moist South American ones that came from the tobacco fields of Cuba, Honduras, and the Dominican Republic.
“It’s still difficult to get to Cuba, but whenever I sail the Caribbean, I make sure to make a stop at the Dominican Republic and replenish my regular stock. There’s a marvelous little shop there in San Domingo that has cigars you can’t find anywhere else—family owned, third generation,” explained Mickey while blowing smoke circles and rolling his thick Corona between his fingers. “Keep in mind, if you press a Dutch cigar, which is naturally almost as dry as the Dutch people themselves, you might crack its skin. However, what you’re smoking right now, which was made in Honduras, is moist and has flexible skin. When you squeeze it a bit, you don’t harm the texture of the leaf, and the tenderness you’re feeling comes from the middle layer of Virginia tobacco. Every good cigar is made of three parts: the wrapper, usually made from a South American leaf; the binder, made of soft Virginia tobacco, which you can also get in North America; and the filler, the core made of Cuban or Honduran tobacco, which dictates the main flavor and aroma of the cigar.”
“And it’s all done by hand?”
“It’s really more about the legs,” laughed Mickey, “or actually the bare thighs on which the Cuban girls roll the cigar until it gets its perfectly smooth shape.”
“Is that how they do it?”
“I’m just kidding. It’s a nice myth that makes the smoking experience that much more pleasurable.”
A few weeks passed during which Mickey worked his charm to capture Reuben’s heart, and the friendship between them grew stronger. One afternoon when they were having cocktails on the yacht, Mickey took out a small cigarette from the humidor and offered it to Reuben.
“Time to take your pleasures up another notch.”
&nb
sp; “What’s this?”
“Something nice I got from a Dutch friend of mine. He bought this at a coffee shop, as they call it.”
“It’s legal there, right?”
“For personal consumption only, but who’s checking?” said Mickey, smiling meaningfully.
“What’s in it? Hash?”
“Marihuana. The stuff that even American presidents did in college that never stopped them from getting elected.”
“Except for them, it was the other way around. They did this first, then moved on to cigars . . .”
“Either way, it didn’t hurt their careers. Maybe it even helped.”
“Do you use it regularly?” asked Reuben, still hesitant.
“This and some more interesting substances, which as you can see don’t impact my performance in any way.”
“Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything,” said Reuben, and he reached out a shaky hand for his first joint ever. That, combined with an ecstasy pill Mickey had secretly slipped in Reuben’s drink, removed all inhibitions. In a moment of closeness to Mickey, Reuben told him of the accidental scientific discovery they had stumbled upon and were keeping hidden, given its potential of destruction of global proportions.
“I didn’t quite understand,” said Mickey, milking Reuben for more detail. “You succeeded in keeping the virus viable a whole night with electromagnetic radiation?” Reuben explained the achievement in great detail, and Mickey put on a naïve face and disguised his enthusiasm for the scientific breakthrough. Had he been in his right mind, Reuben would have surely noticed Mickey’s excitement from what he had just heard, but with all the drinks and drugs in his system it was all Reuben could do to keep from falling off the boat.
