by Dan Sofer
“You go ahead, Ben. You don’t need me.”
“I need you to watch my back. We’ve been friends for years, Dave. I’ve always been there for you. When have I ever asked a favor?”
“About an hour ago. The jar in my home?”
Ben waved that way. “Before that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Good. Tuesday. At the COD. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”
***
Night cloaked the driver’s seat of the white Hyundai H1 minivan that lurked in the small parking lot off Emek Refaim. Jay and John had munched through a jumbo bag of Tapu-Chips and emptied a six-pack of Corona, luxuries Jay savored when away from the Yachad. After an hour of waiting, his hunch paid off.
The metallic blue Yaris pulled up and idled beside the apartment building. The driver and passenger wore knitted skullcaps of the West Bank settler kind.
Jay recognized the bald driver. Their paths had crossed months ago in the City of David and Jay had knocked him out. His name was Ben Green. Jay did not know the name of the passenger.
He had first sighted the Yaris outside the address off Graetz Street. He followed the hatchback onto Emek Refaim, then Derekh Harakevet. When the Yaris veered into the lot, Jay continued down the narrow, bumpy road to avoid detection. By the time he doubled back, the car had disappeared and his stakeout began.
The passenger got out of the car. He had his polo shirt tucked into his jeans. He entered the building without looking back and the Yaris backed out of the lot.
“Aren’t we gonna follow?” John asked, his only words that evening besides “give us another.”
Jay didn’t answer. Lights turned on in the ground floor apartment. Jay caught shards of the man through the shutters of the service balcony as he moved around the privacy of his home. Eventually the lights darkened.
Jay slipped out of the van.
He walked up to the entrance of the building but did not try the door. Instead, he studied the rows of mailboxes. The tag for apartment number one bore a name in both English and Hebrew. It read, David Schwarz.
Chapter 8
Afternoon light pierced the shutters of Mandy’s bedroom window but she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed.
Dave was gone.
Her life had no meaning.
It’s all my fault.
Mandy checked her phone.
One message from Esty: Are you OK?
She had no energy to reply.
Two days in pajamas. Mandy drifted in and out of fitful sleep. She was a little girl again—she soared into the air, then fell. Each time she rocketed skyward, she felt the joy of weightlessness and the fear that she would slip through her father’s arms.
Knuckles rapped on the door. Shani stood in the opening.
“Hey, Mands.”
“Mmmm.”
“You should eat something.”
Mandy’s stomach felt hollow but she had no desire to eat. The shadow of a migraine pulsed behind her right eye.
“What time is it?”
“Five o’clock. Sit up.”
Shani held the door open. Ruchama entered carrying a tray. The aroma of hot, buttered toast and fresh coffee filled the room.
Mandy sat up, not wanting to be impolite.
Ruchama placed the tray on Mandy’s lap.
“Thanks, guys.” She stared at the meal without appetite. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Mandy had weathered breakups before, although usually she was on the other side of the equation. Why was she falling apart?
“It doesn’t seem real,” she said.
“I also can’t believe,” Ruchama said. “It doesn’t look like the end of the story.”
“Well, it is,” Shani said. “And good riddance.”
Mandy shook her head at her own idiocy. “I should never have told him I made aliya.”
“Hey,” Shani said. “You did nothing wrong. This isn’t commitment phobia. You didn’t scare him away. He’s with another girl.”
Shani’s tough love came in one style: extra strong.
“Dave? No way.”
“Seen it a hundred times. My clients never believe it when it happens either, but I’m never wrong.”
“Your clients?”
Shani looked surprised. “I never told you?” She placed her hands on her hips and tossed back her head. “I’m a life coach. I help people get their shit together. Personal development. Dating. Self-confidence. Dating, mostly.”
Ruchama placed her hand over her mouth to hide a smile.
Mandy had wondered about the flow of young, bashful men through their apartment.
“You’re a psychologist?”
“Sort of.”
“A psychologist without a degree,” Ruchama said.
“More of a big sister,” Shani said, ignoring Ruchama. Her eyes narrowed with bemused curiosity. “What did you think I did for money, Mands?”
Mandy felt her cheeks warm. “I had no idea,” she said.
Ruchama snickered. “She never thought you sorted out other people’s lives. You, with difficulty, sort out your own.”
Shani stood erect. “Just because I teach geometry doesn’t make me a square. And I’m good at what I do. Trust me, Dave has found himself another girlfriend.”
Without warning, tears welled in Mandy’s eyes.
“He said he loved me.”
“You’re better off without the creep. Mands. You’ll get over him.”
“I don’t want to get over him.”
“You must, and you will. I guarantee it.” Shani’s eyebrows arched with mischief. She grinned. “I have just the thing for breakup blues.”
***
Dave had shaved, showered, and was ironing a collared shirt when the doorbell rang.
“Just a minute.”
He placed the iron on its stand. Dressed in a white undershirt and bath towel, Dave approached the door. In ten minutes his second date with Shira started on Emek Refaim.
He put his eye to the peephole and swore under his breath. He opened the door.
A middle-aged woman smiled up at him. She wore a designer suit. Her blond hair spiked like porcupine quills. She glanced at the towel around his waist.
“David, darling. Is that the way you answer the door?”
His mother walked right in.
His father followed. “Hello, boy.”
Dave locked the door. “Mom. Dad. What are you doing here?”
“We thought we’d surprise you,” his mother said.
She studied the small living room and the ironing board. His father sat on the fold-out couch.
“Well,” Dave said. “I’m surprised.”
“You should do something with the place. Fresh paint, a pot plant. It needs a woman’s touch.” She smirked. “I don’t know why you refuse to let us buy you a decent apartment. Anything is better than this hovel.”
A gossamer thread held Dave’s patience together. He clapped his hands together. “It’s really good to see you. I’d offer you a drink but I have to rush out soon.”
“I’d put some clothes on first.” She smirked again. “You can’t show up to a date like that.”
Dave’s father got to his feet. “We only dropped by to say hello, let you know we’re in town.”
“And,” his mother continued, “we’re treating you to a few days at the Dead Sea. We leave tomorrow. You’re in between jobs, aren’t you? And Wednesday is Independence Day. We’ll have a nice long family weekend.”
The gossamer thread snapped.
“Mother, I’m a grown man. Don’t you think I might have plans of my own?”
“Plans? Don’t be ridiculous. What plans?”
“Well…” Dave said. He had not suggested anything to Shira yet. One date at a time. But he had planned to have plans. And there was the matter of the City of David. “I have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Then come straight after. You have a car. The rooms are ready at two o’clock.”
“And,” he
added, “I have tentative plans for later on.”
A plan for a plan qualified as tentative plans, didn’t it?
“It means a lot to your mother, son,” his father said.
Dave looked into his father’s tired eyes. If he didn’t give way, his father would bear the brunt.
“OK,” he said. “But I may have to cancel last minute.”
“There’s a dear.” She pecked him on the cheek on her way out the door and grinned knowingly. Again. “Have a good time.”
***
A high-pitched horn honked twice outside.
“That’s our ride,” Shani said.
“I thought you ordered a cab.”
Mandy knew the sound of a white Jerusalem taxi when she heard it. This sounded more like a red Ferrari.
“I did,” Shani said. “Sort of.”
The three girls had showered and dressed for a night out. Their heels clacked down the stairwell.
Mandy had been wrong. On the curb, a yellow Porsche waited.
Shani swung the door open, shoved the passenger seat forward, and pulled Mandy after her into the back. The car smelled of new leather and Dolce & Gabbana. Ruchama settled in the front bucket seat and smiled at the driver, a handsome twenty-something with gelled hair, a black leather jacket, and a shocked expression.
“Mands and Ruchama,” Shani said, “meet Jake. Jake, Mands and Ruchama.”
Jake turned to Shani. “Aren’t we—?”
“Malcha Mall,” Shani said. “Pronto. This is an emergency.”
The engine growled pleasantly and g-forces pressed the girls back in their seats. Two minutes later the car growled to a stop at the main entrance of Kanyon Malcha, the shopping mall across the road from Teddy Stadium.
“No need to park,” Shani told the driver when they climbed out of the car. “Girls’ night out.”
Ruchama waved at Jake. “Thanks.”
The girls joined the line for the security inspection.
“He’s nice,” Ruchama said.
“Let’s stay focused,” Shani said. “Tonight is about Mandy.”
They opened their handbags for the security guard and stepped inside.
Shani appraised the storefronts, a hungry lioness eying a herd of impala. “Ready, girls?”
“Shopping won’t change anything,” Mandy said. The thrill of the ride had worn off.
Shani didn’t falter. “This kind of shopping will. Ladies, take no prisoners.”
Shani strode into Bonita and pulled an evening dress off a rack. “Try this on,” she instructed Mandy.
“I could never wear that,” Mandy protested.
“Why not?”
“Too many sequins. It’s sleeveless. And above the knee. Way too skimpy for a frum girl.”
“Perfect,” Shani said. “You’re trying it on.”
Mandy knew better than to argue with a force of nature. She found a changing stall and pulled back the curtain. Shani meant well but this was ridiculous. She stripped down and stepped into the minimalist dress, which, she discovered, was not only sleeveless but strapless too. The snug fit lifted her bust like a Wonder Woman costume.
Do people actually wear these?
At least the store was empty. Less embarrassment all round.
Mandy stepped through the curtain.
Her flatmates sat on stools and applauded. The store attendant clapped her hands as well.
Shani wolf-whistled. “That is one hot lady,” she said.
“Wow, Mandy,” Ruchama said, her eyes wide. “You look like a bomb.”
“That’s a compliment,” Shani added.
Mandy’s cheeks burned. “Cut it out. I’m never going to wear this.”
“You just have.”
She consulted the full-length mirror.
The dark glitzy material brought out her neck and forearms and the curve of her behind. The hem tickled her thighs.
“Some lace gloves,” Shani said, “and leather boots and you’re good to go. Now. My turn.”
Shani emerged from the booth in a snaking trail of pink frills that covered most of the critical bits but without hampering the imagination. She struck a Marilyn Monroe pose.
“Go Shani,” Mandy said. She laughed. Shani blew kisses at the clump of spectators that had accumulated at the storefront window.
Mandy examined the price tag of her dress.
“This will end,” she said, “with us in debt or in jail. Or both.”
She didn’t really care. Shani’s retail therapy was a fun distraction but every few minutes her thoughts drifted back to Dave.
But Shani wasn’t done with her yet.
She placed their selections on the counter
“Ring that up,” Shani told the attendant. “We’re on a tight schedule.”
The show went on. After the designer boutiques—Dafna Levinson, Lord Kitsch, and Renoir—they graduated to lingerie: Intima, Pituyim, La Senza.
The motley crowd of admirers grew and shadowed the girls from store to store. Among them Mandy noted a few excitable young men with black yarmulkes on their heads.
Two hours later, the three women marched toward Pizza Hut, their arms and hands heavy with their loot of oversized shopping bags.
“Feeling better?” Shani asked, melted cheese dripping from her mouth.
“Yeah,” Mandy said. “I am. But I think I’m going to have a serious credit card hangover.”
A couple of women walked by the restaurant. At least Mandy assumed they were women. Black burkas covered their bodies from head to toe. In the comfort of the mall, she had forgotten she was in the Middle East and she was glad for the security guards and metal detectors at the mall’s entrance.
This is home now, Mandy.
With Dave out of the picture, Mandy’s decision to go native seemed hasty.
“Strange world,” she said. “I wonder if they’re as frightened of us as we are of them.”
“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for them,” Shani said. “They get government handouts. Health insurance. The vote. Religious tolerance. More than they’d get in any Arab country.”
“Right,” said Ruchama. “The hospitals are filled with Arab doctors and nurses. They get special scholarships. Their life is honey.”
“But,” Shani continued, “if we so much as wander into Ramallah by mistake, their brothers will lynch us without blinking.”
Shani dusted her palms free of pizza crumbs and thoughts of Arabs. “Phase One complete.”
“There’s a Phase Two?”
“You betcha.” Shani pulled her phone from her handbag. “I’ll call Jake. Phase two: Emek Refaim.”
***
Dave walked down Emek Refaim trailing a cloud of coconut-scented Hugo Boss.
He was used to his mother prying into his love life but this time she sounded more playful than petulant. She was up to no good.
He passed a restored Templar building that housed Aldo Ice Cream and climbed the staircase to the Latin steakhouse above called La Boca.
The hostess showed him to the table for two he had reserved on the balcony. He settled on an armless leather chair and peered at the street below. The restaurant was empty. Bossa nova music played softly in the background. Ambience: check. Good food: check. Magical love stones: not even on the list.
He had come a long way since that night at Ornan’s. That afternoon he’d left his cubicle at TikTech for the last time and with no regrets. The ambient stress of his work projects evaporated from his mind. He breathed in the fresh, heady scent of a new chapter in his life.
Dave glanced up.
Shira appeared in the doorway, bright-eyed and made up. She strode toward him. The silky green fabric of her dress matched the emerald of her eyes and hinted at toned legs and a full bosom.
She sat opposite him. Her perfume whispered of money and sophistication, a league above Mandy’s fruity scent.
They smiled at each other in silence.
“Nice place,” she said.
The building a
cross Emek Refaim caught her eye. On the second floor a dozen women in leotards performed jumping jacks with varying degrees of success.
“So that’s the women’s gym,” she said.
He had never associated her with exercise, or any other mundane physical activity for that matter. Shira Cohen breathed the same air as he did, after all. She ate the same food. She probably used the ladies’ room as did other mortals.
“Are you going to join?”
“Heavens no.” She laughed. “I feel tired just watching them. Never been one for sports. Some men are obsessed with all that. Football. Basketball. At least I don’t have to worry about that with you.” She glanced at him with sudden apprehension. “Do I?”
“No, of course not. I jog a few times a week,” he admitted. “Around Katamon. Nothing obsessive.”
For years Ben had lectured Dave on the correlation between a toned body and dating success. For years Dave had resisted. Until Mandy. He and Mandy had taken walks together. She had introduced him to the joys of spectator football. He decided it best not to mention his experiences at Teddy Stadium.
A waitress handed them their leather-bound menus and explained in English about the day’s specials. Dave ordered the entrecote. Shira selected the salmon fillet on a bed of saffron rice but without the pine nuts and dried fruit and with the dressing on the side.
Mandy would have gone for the steak. At least Shira wasn’t vegetarian.
She sat back in her seat. She looked completely relaxed and content to be with him.
He looked about the restaurant with what he hoped was suave distraction. Their waitress stood at attention against a far wall. “The Girl from Ipanema” drifted through the air.
“Bit empty isn’t it,” she said.
“What?”
“I think we’re the only ones here.”
The penny dropped. Israeli holidays started, as did Jewish festivals, at sundown.
“Memorial Day,” he said. “Most Israelis are at memorial services or watching them on television.”
“Oh.” They sat in somber silence. Wars and terror attacks. Not ideal dating conversation.
“Which reminds me,” he said. “Tomorrow night is Independence Day. We can do something together if you like.”
He had a few hours left to dodge the weekend with his parents.
