by Dan Sofer
Then, on the second ring, before Mandy had decided on a venue, the call cut to voice mail.
***
Dave stood at the glass doors of Café Hillel like a man in urgent need of the loo.
Shira Cohen had returned to Jerusalem. Shira Cohen wanted to talk.
Dave filled with joy. And dread.
A waitress in a black T-shirt and jeans unlocked and opened the doors. Dave secured a table at the back.
Ten minutes early. Time enough for his adrenaline to settle.
Why had Shira Cohen spared a few minutes for her old flame? A few reasons bubbled in Dave’s brain. Morbid curiosity. A chance to show off her perfect husband. Guilt. But Shira was above all that. She was not cruel. And she had no cause for shame. The worst possible scenario remained: pity.
A middle-aged security guard took up his station outside the doors. A few years earlier, the American doctor David Applebaum, legendary for his care for all races, had sat by those doors to drink coffee with his daughter, Nava, the night before her wedding. Then a suicide bomber had walked in.
The waitress placed three menus on the table but Dave declined to order.
Couples entered the coffee shop, ordered cappuccinos, salads, and toasted sandwiches. Dave fidgeted with the white sachets in the porcelain holder. He studied the menu without appetite.
Still no Shira.
Had he imagined the whole encounter?
His phone buzzed.
Had Shira changed her mind?
His heart lurched with disappointment and relief.
The text was not from Shira. Mandy wanted to go out for coffee.
At least he had Mandy. Dave would tell Shira about Mandy. Let her know that he had moved on. Retain a shred of self-respect.
In the park that afternoon, he had gaped like a stunned fish. We should catch up, she had said and Dave had gulped down the invitation without chewing.
A thought occurred. Would they need room for a stroller? Dave’s stomach juices bubbled and boiled.
This was a very bad idea.
He looked up. Shira Cohen stood in the doorway. Her eyes searched the room and fell on Dave. She smiled. Dimpled. Demure.
How he loved her smile.
She walked over to his table.
How he loved the way she walked.
Shira Cohen. Smiling. Walking toward him.
Alone.
Dave’s lungs cramped in his chest.
Either her wig was flawless or she was not wearing a head covering. He searched her fingers for the glint of a wedding ring.
Could it be?
Shira Cohen sat opposite Dave, her posture erect. Silky black hair pooled over the shoulders of her blouse. Her emerald eyes focused on him with a warm intensity that unnerved him.
“Bit unreal, isn’t it?” she said.
How he loved her voice. Precise. Intelligent. Familiar.
“Indeed,” he replied. That’s it. Stay cool.
Shira looked at the menus on the table and for a split-second she seemed crestfallen.
“Is anyone joining us?” she asked with polite interest.
“Oh, no. I just thought… I had heard…”
Shira dipped her head.
“We called it off a few months before the wedding,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
“No problem.”
Dave’s heart seemed to have stopped.
Oh. My. God. OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod!
The waitress came to his rescue.
Shira ordered a latte—weak, with soy milk and in a glass cup—and Dave a hot cider.
They took each other in.
God, she is so beautiful.
Shira Cohen. Single and out for drinks with Dave.
Don’t do it, Dave. Don’t hope. Don’t even dream. Your heart won’t survive another shattering.
“How long are you here?” he said.
“I’m at Neveh for a month. But I could stay through the summer.”
Hints danced at the corners of her lips. Her eyes smiled. Dave nodded, none the wiser.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
“Have I?”
“Hot cider. You always took tea.”
“Now and again, I do daring things.”
Her lips curled upward again. Dave basked in the intense interest of her gaze.
“It’s more than that. You’re… relaxed. Confident.”
He said nothing, fearful to disturb that impression.
“I’ve changed too,” she said. “I’ve done a lot of thinking over the last year. About the choices I’ve made. Relationships. I have very fond memories of our time together.”
He still remained silent.
“I had to find you,” she said. “To ask for another chance.”
Ask for another chance.
Dave considered pinching his thigh or stabbing the back of his hand with a fork.
Shira Cohen was pleading with him to get back together. This was no dream. This was the splitting of the Red Sea, the sun standing still over Gibeon. This was an open miracle.
The waitress placed their drinks on the mahogany tabletop.
“Well?” Shira said.
“Well what?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Can we have another go?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.”
Shira leaned back in the chair. Her chest heaved with pent-up air. Her smile was glorious.
Dave’s own cheeks threatened to crack.
Don’t let this moment end. Please.
A dark cloud loomed at the edge of his awareness but he ignored it and sailed into the eyes of emerald green.
She parted her divine lips again. “It’s as though we traveled back in time.”
Da-dee-da-da da-dee-da-dee-ee-dah.
Dave’s phone sang “Jerusalem of Gold.”
Mandy! Mandy had added the ringtone to Dave’s phone and he silenced it with a single jab.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“No one,” Dave said, pocketing the phone. “No one at all.”
***
“Maybe they stole his phone?”
Ruchama placed her dish of spaghetti next to the empty mugs and popcorn bowl on the ring-marked coffee table.
Over the last hour, Westley had defeated Humperdinck and saved Buttercup. They kissed and rode off into the sunset.
Mandy’s hero, however, was a no-show. Her second attempt to call Dave redirected to voice mail without even ringing.
She shook her head. Something was wrong. She could feel it.
“Maybe he broke the leg?” Ruchama suggested brightly. “Dave is a nice guy. Don’t worry, Mandy.”
Ruchama picked up her own phone, a Nokia brick a few generations older than Mandy’s iPhone.
“Look,” she said. “And promise you won’t tell Shani.”
Mandy shifted closer.
Ruchama started a text message. “Dave,” she said. “D. A. V.…”
“What are you doing?”
“There is a message in every name,” Ruchama whispered. “Look.”
Ruchama thumbed a button that iterated between letter combinations.
“The first words are eat and fat. Hmm. Dave isn’t that fat.”
Mandy smiled. Names reflect essence, Rabbi Jeremy had told her She’arim class, but Mandy was sure the Sages had not had this in mind. She felt a tug of compassion for her flatmate, so orderly and sensible in all things except love.
“Ruchama,” she said as kindly as possible. “Predictive text doesn’t actually mean—”
“Wait. Here’s the last letter. E. That gives: date.”
Mandy forgot her objections. “OK. I’m impressed. What else?”
Ruchama pressed a key. “Fate. I told you, Mandy!”
An irrational sense of relief snuggled in Mandy’s breast.
“That’s all there is,” Ruchama said. “Wait. What’s his full name?”
“David Schwarz.”
R
uchama’s fingers got to work. “I. D. S. That gives: father. Freud would love that one… Oh. I’m sorry.” She had noticed Mandy’s expression.
Mention of her father had drained Mandy’s optimism into a deep, dark place.
The front door clicked open and Ruchama stiffened. Shani sailed in, her high heels dangling over her shoulder by her fingertips.
“I’m home,” she sang. “And don’t ask. Some men have no… OK.” The shoes dropped to the floor. She placed her hands on her hips. “Who died? And what, Ruchama, for God’s sake, are you hiding behind your back?”
Ruchama produced the cell phone.
“Oh brother.” She collapsed onto the armchair. “It’s Dave, isn’t it?”
Mandy filled her in. “Something’s happened to him. I can feel it.”
Shani smiled at her sadly. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep, Mands. I’m sure he’s not in any mortal danger.” She grinned. “But I can get him to pick up if you like.”
“How?”
Shani slid her arm down the length of her thigh, then held up her hand. “With this.”
“A phone?” Mandy’s hopes wavered. Shani’s Samsung Galaxy had a touch screen but it was no magic wand.
“This is no ordinary phone. It’s my phone.”
“Very funny. So now Dave’s screening me?”
“Twenty shekels says he picks up.”
Shani tossed the phone into the air and Mandy caught it.
“You’re on.” Soon Mandy would be twenty shekels richer, although a large slice of her just wanted to hear Dave’s voice.
Mandy dialed Dave’s number by heart. It rang. Twice.
“Hello?”
“Dave?”
Shani punched the air and launched from the armchair into a victory dance.
“Dumb luck,” Mandy whispered at Shani, her hand over the receiver.
“Who is this?”
Dave didn’t recognize her voice.
“It’s Mandy. I’m on Shani’s phone. Been trying to reach you all night. Are you OK?”
“Oh, yeah. Hi, Mandy. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Something came up.”
Mandy felt a steel anvil lift from her shoulders. Dave was alive and well. That’s what mattered. She waited for Dave to say what had come up.
Silence multiplied on the line.
“Yom Ha’Atzma’ut is still around the corner. I was thinking—”
“Yes,” Dave interrupted. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”
He sounded formal. Distant.
“OK,” she said. “Speak away.”
“We should take a break.”
Mandy’s brain struggled with the sentence, then shoved it into an available mental compartment. “OK. A long weekend should do the trick.”
“No,” Dave said. “I mean a timeout. You know. To think things over.”
“To think what over?”
“I feel confused.”
“Confused? About what?”
“I’m sorry. Let me start again.”
He spoke for a while and Mandy listened. She muttered OK and sure a few times but her brain had turned to jello. She understood each of Dave’s words but their combined meaning fluttered beyond her grasp. By the time the message settled, Dave had hung up.
Mandy looked into the worried faces of her flatmates.
“That was Dave,” she said. “I think he just broke up with me.”
***
Sunday morning Dave leaned back in his office chair and gazed out the window at the office buildings. His heart floated on a cloud of bliss. Images of Shira Cohen looped in his mind.
He was Mr. Numero Uno. Mr. Top Dog. He exuded manliness and charm. He had displayed decisiveness and resolve. He had made a clean break with Mandy, surgical almost, although at first he had tried to duck and dive.
Mandy was a great girl. Attractive. Smart. Fun. Down-to-earth. She’d make an excellent life partner. But she was not his First Pairing. His true Other Half had appeared in designer sandals, moments before disaster.
Thank you, God!
Dave had changed; Shira had noticed. Last night was, in a way, their first date. More than anyone, he knew the chasm that lay between a first date and a wedding ring.
Dave waited for the cubicles to empty at lunchtime.
He dialed Shira’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Dave.”
She had saved his number. Result! She sounded friendly, inviting.
Dave lowered his voice involuntarily. “Hi, Shira. How are you today?”
Pleasantries aside, Dave suggested they get together.
“How about tonight?” she said.
Wow, is she eager! Dave notched up another Indicator of Interest.
“I can’t tonight,” he said. “How about tomorrow?”
Dave wasn’t playing hard to get. He had arranged with Ben to meet Professor Barkley that night and his absence would raise questions.
“Tomorrow is fine. Speak then.”
He hung up the phone and basked in another victory. The Pickup Artist’s Bible nodded at him with approval.
Date number two, here we come.
He straightened in his chair and located another contact on his phone.
The name consisted of a single character: O.
O for Ornan.
Dave stared at the forbidden number. His stomach churned.
Ben had warned him not to contact Ornan. But Shira Cohen had slipped through Dave’s fingers before and he could not let that happen again. If anything, Dave would be righting a wrong, restoring the spiritual-physical balance he had unsettled. Besides, as Ben protested, the magic was probably all in his mind. There was no harm in one more dinner date with romantic ambience.
He dialed the number.
Immediately, a hand gripped his shoulder. He canceled the call.
“God, Yoram. Please don’t sneak up on me like that.”
Yoram, cigarette in hand, leaned on the cubicle wall and smirked. “I wanted to say good-bye. I’m on vacation tomorrow. Was that your girlfriend on the phone?”
“Yes, it was.”
Dave smiled, safe at last from Yoram’s setups.
“The American?”
“No. She’s English.”
“When did you break up with the American?”
“Last night.”
Yoram’s eyes bulged. “Why, why, why! Way to go, Dave! Don’t forget the cake tomorrow.”
“Cake?”
“For your farewell party.”
“Why do I have to bring the cake?”
Yoram shrugged. “It’s the same with birthdays here. This way at least you have a cake.” He shook Dave’s hand. “Good luck and send me your email.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’ll send you my résumé.”
Yoram traipsed off. Dave got back to business.
The call connected.
“This is Ornan.”
Dave recognized the voice of the mustachioed restaurateur. He even sounded like Manuel of Fawlty Towers.
“I’d like to make a reservation for tomorrow night. Seven-thirty. Table for two.”
“Very good. Your name?”
“Schwarz. I’d like the VIP room.”
Dave thought the line had died.
“Hello?”
“This is a mistake. There is no VIP room.”
“It’s Dave Schwarz. Ben Green gave me your number. Do you remember? I was at your restaurant a few months ago.”
“Ahh. Yeess,” the voice said slowly. “I remember. That one time only. Mr. Green tell you, no?”
“I know,” Dave said. “But this time it’s a different girl.”
Another long pause.
“Mr. Schwarz,” the voice said. “This is not a game.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Please. One last time. I’ll be eternally grateful. Hello?”
This time the line did cut off.
Dave swore under his breath.
He had discard
ed Mandy and Shira was not yet Mrs. Schwarz. Dave had stepped onto the tightrope without a safety net.
Dave hit redial. A recorded message played in Hebrew and English: The number you are trying to reach is not connected.
“What the hell?”
The recorded message repeated in Russian and Arabic.
Dave ran his hand through his hair. This was not a good sign.
Crap, crap, crap!
An unseen hand clenched his insides. Would Ornan call Ben? Was he dangerous? Dave knew next to nothing about Ornan. What other secrets did he harbor? He had set a process in motion and he had no idea where it would end.
***
The telephone cord dangled in Ornan’s hand like a dead snake. He let it drop to the stone floor. He leaned on the wall of his office. The rough slabs of cool rock seemed so solid yet they were crumbling. All things crumbled. With enough time.
Down the corridor came familiar sounds: shifting tables, the tinkle of stacked dishes, running water in the scullery.
Mr. Schwarz and Mr. Green.
Black and green. Not his lucky colors. Inquisitive weasels had pushed their noses into his affairs before. Ornan knew how to deal with weasels. But the timing had never been worse. There was no room for error.
Ornan dialed a number on his mobile phone.
“It’s happening,” he said in an ancient guttural tongue long forgotten by the world. “We must act now.”
***
The doorbell rang. Dave put his eye to the telescopic peephole. A bald Quasimodo stooped in the hall.
He had rehearsed his confession all afternoon but when he opened the door his attention turned to the large orange box in Ben’s arms.
“I thought we were going to the professor.”
“We are,” Ben said, offloading the box—a cooler with a white lid—onto the couch. “But first you’re going to do me a favor.”
“A picnic in Gan Sacher?”
Ben shut the front door and fastened the security latch. He walked over to the living room window and rolled down the shutters. Then he removed the white lid of the cooler and withdrew a mass of bubble wrap.
“Oh, goody. I love bubbles.”
Ben unwound the wrapping and extracted a cylindrical earthenware jar.
“It’s safer here,” he said.
Dave lost his sense of humor.
“Ben, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“C’mon Dave. It’s just a jar. About time you did something for me for a change.”
