Cafe Nevo

by Barbara Rogan

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the owner,” Caspi replied. “Have you, Rami?”

  “Once, about ten years ago. But he was here for only a few minutes before they came to take him away.”

  “They’re pulling your leg, Harvey. Let’s go.”

  Just then Muny came bustling out. The poet, drunk as usual, had put on an old apron of Sternholz’s. He staggered up to the tourists’ curb-side table.

  “I,” said Muny, striking his chest; “am the proprietor of this humble establishment. How may I serve you?”

  “If you’re the proprietor,” the man said, “I’m Peter Pan.”

  “Well,” said Muny, simpering, “if you’re Peter Pan, I’m Tinker Bell.” Throwing himself onto the man’s lap, he twined his arms around his neck and gave him a resounding smack on the cheek.

  The flowered woman gasped; her friend broke into nervous titters. Caspi and Rami howled. Harvey pushed Muny off his lap and stood up. Face flaming, he glared about him in a manner that, despite all, did not lack dignity. Sternholz appeared as if by magic.

  “You should be ashamed,” the tourist said. Under stress his voice had taken on the cadences of Yiddish.

  Sternholz said urgently: “He’s a drunken idiot. I apologize. Sit; please. I’ll serve you now.”

  “Go to hell,” the man said, and walked away.

  The laughter died as Sternholz glared fiercely about him, like a stem teacher who’s returned to find his class in an uproar. “You,” he said, pointing at Caspi, “you ought to be ashamed. And Muny, you’ve had it here. I’m cutting you off.”

  “Not that, guvner!” Muny clutched the waiter’s knees. “Anything but that!”

  Sternholz reached down and lifted Muny to his feet with a single gnarled hand. “I mean it. I don’t want to see you for a week.”

  “Come on, Sternholz,” Caspi interceded. “You started it.”

  Sternholz turned on him. “I did not humiliate those people. It didn’t hurt them to be mad at me. You made fools of them.”

  “He didn’t mean any harm, Sternholz,” Dory said soothingly.

  “It’s Mr. Sternholz to you, young woman. And don’t tell me what Caspi meant. I’ve known him a damn sight longer than you have, and he’s never meant anything but trouble and pain.”

  “Strong words,” Caspi said with an awkward laugh.

  Rami put in quickly: “Cool off, Sternholz. Caspi is a great writer, and you should be honored to have his patronage.”

  “Great writer my ass! Bialik was a great writer. Appelfeld, Amichai, Yehoshua are great writers. Caspi is a pornographer, and not even a great pornographer.”

  Rami opened his mouth indignantly, but Caspi laid a silencing hand on his arm. “Have you read my work, Emmanuel?”

  “Would I say that if I hadn’t?”

  “And you really believe my novels are pornographic?”

  The question was asked seriously. Sternholz sat down at Caspi’s table, his great white apron jingling as he did. He leaned forward and spoke softly.

  “Fucking Toward Jerusalem. The Great White Lay. What kind of titles are those?”

  “They sell books.”

  “Money, money, money. You can’t have it both ways, Caspi. You want to write shlock, write shlock. But don’t call it art.” A bony finger poked at Caspi’s chest. “You’re talented, Caspi, I’ll give you that. You command the language. But what do you command it to do? You can’t write out of character, and you know what your character is. It’s not enough to be clever, my friend. To be a great writer, you have to first be a mensch.”

  “Bull.”

  “It’s true. You should have been a painter or a musician; then your character wouldn’t have shown. Look at Wagner: one of the devil’s own, but he wrote music like an angel. Or Picasso—he was a dirty old man, but that never hurt his work; maybe it even helped. But it hurts yours. Writers expose themselves.”

  Caspi did not answer. He glared at Sternholz, who glared back. Rami Dotan interceded.

  “You’re full of shit, Sternholz. Peter Caspi outsells Yehoshua and Oz; he sells more than Amichai and Appelfeld put together.”

  “Shut up, Rami,” Caspi said disgustedly.

  “You know what I’m saying,” the waiter said, nodding.

  “Go away, Emmanuel. Go do your job, and leave me to do mine.”

  Sternholz stood up. “You asked,” he said, with surprising gentleness. “You don’t want to hear, don’t ask.”

  THREE O’CLOCK

  “Emmanuel,” said the Minister, “who is that girl sketching over there? Her face is so familiar, but I can’t think who she is.”

  “Sarita Blume,” the waiter said shortly.

  “Blume. My God, is that Yael Blume’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord. Ask her to come over here.”

  “No.”

  The Minister gave the waiter a quick, diagnostic glance and smiled.

  “You again?”

  “Good to see you, too, Sternholz.” Arik was bright-eyed but unshaven, wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day before, which to one of Sternholz’s practical experience meant only one thing. Indeed, he had the air of one freshly arisen; whereas Sternholz had spent a near-sleepless night on his account. The old man had planned a Talk with Arik, a tactful Talk. But his reserves of tact, limited to begin with, were quite unequal to the sight of Arik’s bright and chipper face. He therefore said with great irritation, “I don’t want you hanging around here like a bum.”

  “Where do you want me to sit?” Arik inquired cheerfully. “At Rowal or the Sabra?”

  “I don’t want you to sit anywhere. I want you to get off your ass.”

  “What has gotten into you, Sternholz? This is getting out of hand. I’m not doing any harm, I’m paying for my drinks, so what’s your problem?”

  “My problem is, since when is not doing any harm good enough for you?”

  “I am just filling in time until I go abroad.”

  “Still with this going abroad business. What you need, Arik Eshel, is work.”

  “I told you, I’m not looking for a job.”

  “I didn’t say a job! I said work.”

  Arik looked upward. “God, what did I do to deserve this?”

  “You don’t want to hear what I think,” Sternholz said angrily, “don’t come into my home.”

  “This isn’t your home, Sternholz. It’s a café.”

  “It’s my home!” the old man insisted. “And I’ll tell you something else. This country is your home, and if you leave it, you’ll never find another.” He stomped off, leaving Arik mystified. Why was Sternholz taking on so? What did he care if Arik left? Everyone else was; half the people Arik knew had left or were planning to, and why not? The world was large. A man was not a tree, needing roots to live. A man was free to wander. So thought Arik, but as he did, as he saw himself wandering freely, a pain as sharp as treachery pierced through him and was gone.

  Feeling himself observed, Arik leaned toward Sarita. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  She continued to look at, but did not seem to see him. Her face was set in a child-like expression of deep, exclusive concentration, focused not on but through Arik. Then, without acknowledging him in any way, she looked down at her pad and began to sketch.

  Watching her profile, Arik surprised in himself an oddly chaste ambition: that she would someday look and see him.

  FOUR O’CLOCK

  “I thought we had an understanding, Vered.”

  “What about, Caspi?”

  “About your coming to Nevo. Don’t you realize how pathetic you look, hanging on to my coattails like this?”

  “I don’t feel pathetic. In fact, I feel pretty good.”

  “I won’t have you coming around here, bothering me!”

  “I’m not bothering you, you’re bothering me. Why don’t you just go back to your friends and sit down quietly?”

  “Get out of here, bitch. This is the last warning y
ou get from me.”

  She laughed up at him.

  Caspi turned white. He gripped the back of a chair. “Why don’t you go home where you belong? Make some dinner. Or if that’s too much effort, go sit in Stern with your sniveling critic friends. You don’t belong here.”

  “You can’t keep me out of Nevo,” Vered said. “No one can. Besides, I have an appointment.”

  Caspi snarled, “Who with?”

  “None of your business.”

  “What’s with you two?” Sternholz said, coming between them. “You should behave yourselves here.”

  “Tell this person to stop harassing me,” Vered said.

  “You should have told him yourself, ten years ago. Not here, not now, do you understand?” Though Caspi was taller, Sternholz enraged seemed to tower over them both. “We don’t do family therapy here. This is not a divorce court or a television studio. Ach, you two are making me crazy. Caspi, go sit down.”

  Caspi obeyed.

  Ilana, sitting alone at the next table, made no pretense of not having heard but looked at Vered and said directly, “You’re a brave woman.”

  Vered smiled. Ilana had been one of Caspi’s countless lovers; the affair was atypical for both and ended as quickly as it began. Vered knew, but for some reason that she did not understand, she felt no animus toward this one. “Not brave,” she said. “Desperate.”

  Ilana hesitated, then moved her chair closer to Vered’s. “Caspi strikes me as the type of man to take his unhappiness out on his family.”

  “I can take care of myself and the child.”

  “Of course you can. I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s really none of my business.”

  “You didn’t offend me,” Vered said. The two women smiled rather shyly at one another. Then Vered went back to her paper, and Ilana turned away.

  “Hey, Coby,” said Arik.

  “I can’t believe you’re still hanging out here.” The boy danced on his toes. Arik shoved a chair at him.

  “You know I quit Sheli,” he said.

  “Big fucking deal.”

  “How are the guys?”

  “Back on the street. Yossi got his draft notice, but he’s not going.”

  “How not?”

  “Easy. The jerk can’t read.”

  “That goddamn idiot, the army’s his one chance not to be a bum all his life. What the hell’s the matter with you guys, letting him get away with that?”

  “Well, what’d you expect?” Coby shrugged Gallically. “If he goes in now he can kiss his ass goodbye. They’ll have him in the Lebanese swamp before he knows what day it is.”

  Arik nodded, his face a misery. Coby drummed the table with his fingertips and cracked his knuckles. “So what’s with you?” he demanded uneasily. “You get a job, or what?”

  “I’m going abroad.”

  Coby sneered. “That’s rich. Golden boy goes to Europe, or is it America?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s great, man. Have yourself a sweet vacation, and don’t forget to send us a postcard.”

  “It’s not a vacation. I’m breaking out.”

  The boy looked at him uncertainly. Then he changed the subject. “Hey, I meant what I said about the center. We’re going to open it up again. We’re going to get the money ourselves.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  Coby leaned forward. “I’ll tell you one thing. We’re not selling cookies.”

  “You’re going to get yourselves in trouble.”

  “What’s it to you, anyway? You’re jumping ship, right?”

  “Right!” Arik shouted. They glared at one another. Slowly the anger abated. Arik looked away first, half smiling, rubbing his face.

  “Hey,” Coby said, “you need a shave. In fact, you look like shit, man.”

  “You better tell me what’s up, Coby, so I can figure out what the bail’s going to be.”

  Coby lowered his long lashes. “You’ll love it;” he said. “It’s political.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re going to practice what you vus-vus politicians preach: socialism in action.”

  Arik’s mouth twisted. “You’re going to rip someone off.”

  “For the general good.”

  “Who do you think you are, goddamn Robin Hood?”

  “Who’s Robin Hood, some vus-vus politician?”

  “Who’s Robin Hood? Jesus Christ, Coby, you ought to try going to school once in a while. And why don’t you drop the vus-vus shit; it’s me you’re insulting, you stupid frank.”

  “Jokes aside, man, are you in or out?”

  “Are you serious? You really think I’d get involved in some dumb-ass plot that’s bound to fail just when I am on the point of getting out of this madhouse?” He lowered his voice. “Who are you hitting?”

  “I thought you might have some ideas.”

  Arik dropped back in his chair. “You really thought I’d do it?”

  “Well, it’s for a cause, isn’t it? Your type are big on causes. When are you leaving?”

  “I don’t know; soon,” Arik said impatiently. “You realize you’re going to get caught.”

  “Not if we plan it right. What we need is a good organizer, a detail man, maybe someone with a military background. Know anybody like that?”

  A new black Mercedes pulled up to the curb and parked, in splendid disregard for the law. Pincas Gordon followed his stomach out into the open air.

  “Damn,” said Sternholz to himself.

  “Hello, Caspi,” Pincas said, slapping his shoulder. “How’re they hanging?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Just being friendly.” Pincas strolled around the café. If the tourists had still been there, they would have taken him for the owner. He paused beside Sarita. “Hello there, little girl. What a pretty picture.” Sarita covered the sketch with her hand, giving him a stricken look. Arik stood and stepped toward Pincas, but the fat man was already moving on.

  “Vered, darling! Back so soon, and all by your lonesome?” She turned the page of her paper and went on reading. Pincas looked around, sharing his enjoyment of the rebuff, basking in his unpopularity. He spied the Minister sitting in an ill-lit corner and walked over.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Brenner.”

  “Mr. Gordon,” the Minister said coldly.

  “I hoped I’d see you here. I left a few messages, but your secretary must have forgotten to pass them on. You just can’t get decent help these days, can you?” He took a seat at the table. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Do you know why I come here, Mr. Gordon?”

  “Slumming?” Pincas suggested jovially.

  “I come here to enjoy some quiet time by myself.”

  Pincas shook his head sympathetically. “I know just what you mean. It’s the same with me. All week long, rush, rush, rush, and then on the weekend the kids are all over me. Friday afternoons are really the only time a man can call his soul his own. You know, in any other café I’d be swamped with people trying to muscle in on my action. Nevo’s the only place where you can count on meeting no one of importance.” After a moment he added, “Yourself excluded, of course.”

  “Goodbye, Gordon,” said the Minister.

  “You’re not going already?”

  “No; you are.”

  “Oh, but I haven’t said what I wanted to talk to you about.” He lowered his voice, effectively silencing all the tables around them. “It’s about Keter Shomron.”

  “There’s no such place,” the Minister said forbiddingly. His eyes searched for Sternholz, but the waiter was occupied elsewhere. Nevo’s other inhabitants had grown suspiciously quiet and were leaning toward his table like plants toward the sun.

  “Not yet there’s not, but I have information that says there soon will be, as soon as the Ministerial Committee on Settlement pulls its collective thumb out. I am interested in seeing the settlement approved.”

  “You’re way out of li
ne, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” It might seem odd to an outsider that the Minister, who was obviously unhappy with the public conversation, which he knew had already gone so far as to constitute a minor scandal and which would even perhaps find its way into some paper, did not just up and leave. But leaving Nevo under duress was something one simply did not do. Nevo was a place where events and chance meetings broke over one’s head like waves. One could duck or jump them, but swimming for shore was not one of the options, not unless one chose to opt out completely.

  Pincas winked conspiratorially. “Frankly, I’ve cornered most of the land there myself, but there are still a few nice lots available, if anyone was interested.”

  “You’re committing a crime.”

  “Where’s the crime in a chat between friends—and colleagues?”

  “You’re also making a very foolish mistake.”

  “I’m not worried. Think it over, Minister. Leave word soon.” He lowered his voice. “I’m tying up a prime lot next week that’s got your name on it if you want it—or rather, your son-in-law’s name.”

  “No one in my family is interested in any dealings with you.”

  “Any more dealings, you mean. Well, I’m sorry to hear that I really am. But I do hope we’ll see that settlement approved shortly. It would be a great step toward the Judaization of Judea and Samaria.”

  “How very patriotic of you,” said the Minister.

  “Who is that pig?” asked Coby.

  Arik’s face was bleak with rage. He said, “That bastard owns half the West Bank... half the fucking Cabinet, too.”

  Vered had abandoned her paper and was busy scribbling notes.

  Sternholz made purposefully for the Minister’s table, but as he approached, Pincas stood and tipped an imaginary hat. “Have a nice day,” he said, and walked away.

  FIVE O’CLOCK

  “May I look?” asked the waiter.

  Sarita looked up with eyes that took a moment to focus. When they did, she glanced down at the pad on her lap, studied her work with a puzzled air, and then said shyly, “You can if you like,” and held the sketch so that only he could see it.