“Are you able to respond to all these accusations against you? That’s the reason for this interview. I’ve come to get your side of the story. To give you an opportunity to respond before I submit my article. The material is going to be published very soon.”
Gillie seemed to be trying to move his lips, but he remained speechless. The journalist collected his papers and started towards the exit. The head of the town council remained seated.
“If you wish, “Nahum said before going out, “you can contact me at the paper and give me your response. I’ll be there in about two hours. And thanks for the meal. You’re an exemplary host.”
He was already outside when he remembered something he wanted to say to Gillie. He retraced his steps to the office, where he found the head of the town council whispering into the telephone.
Nahum said, “I just wanted to tell you that the schug you made was great. I’d like the recipe, when you have time.”
14.
…Nahum returned to the office at four o’clock. As usual, Rikkie ‘shot’ him and Nahum responded likewise, sharing their little joke.
“Any calls?”
“You’ve become a very important guy,” she said. “Two Members of the Knesset have called in the past hour. They both sounded agitated. They want you to call back immediately.”
“Did they say what it’s about?” he asked.
“No. I insisted, but neither of them would say anything.”
“Who are these two anxious VIPs? Get them on the line for me. Please.”
“Goren and Akuka,” she said. He was at his desk when she called out to him. “By the way, someone named Aharon phoned. He refused to say what it was about. Wouldn’t speak to anyone but you. Sounded mysterious, a bit strange.”
Avraham rang on the inside line and asked Nahum to come to his office. Nahum instructed Rikkie not to put through any calls.
The editor-in-chief was in high spirits. Nahum wondered if he was looking so jovial today because of the fine weather.
“In March 1995, that is ten months from now,” Avraham began without preamble, “there’s going to be an international conference of journalists at the Tel Aviv Hilton. The subject will be `The Public’s Right to Know And The Individual’s Right to Privacy`”.
Nahum listened indifferently, wondering why his editor-in-chief had found it necessary to call him in, rather than give him the information on the phone.
Avraham continued with a mischievous smile, as though he had read Nahum’s mind. “Can this be Nahum Peterson in the flesh?” he said and, in the same tone, he announced, “Nahum Peterson, you have been chosen to deliver the keynote speech at the conference!”
“Thank you very much. Who recommended me?”
“I did.”
Beaming with delight, Nahum said, “I don’t know how to thank you, Avraham. Your recommendation doubles the compliment!” Avraham responded with a pleased smile.
“The conflict between the public’s right to know and the individual’s right to privacy has occupied my mind for a long time.” said Nahum. “There’s going to be a lot to say at the conference.”
Instead of pursuing the point, Avraham said, “The pantheon of journalists and media celebrities will be present. You must give a speech that will do us – the Israeli media – proud. You’ll have to be well prepared. I’d even suggest that you learn the speech by heart.”
“There’s still plenty of time till March ’95,” said Nahum.
“Nevertheless, I suggest you don’t leave it till the last moment. Do your usual thorough job .I expect your opening remarks to be engraved on the minds of the participants long after they go back to their countries.”
Rikkie, aiming her imaginary pistol again, met him on his way out. “Don’t tell me. I know. March, 1995, you’re giving the keynote speech at the international conference of journalists.”
“And how do you know?”
“I handle your mail, remember?”
After another quick exchange of imaginary shots, Nahum lowered his arm and said, “Please get Edna on the line for me.”
He told Edna the good news and at Edna’s insistence they arranged to meet at their favorite cafe after work. “Never delay celebrations, however small,” she said.
“I believe you phoned this morning,” Nahum said to MK Akuka, returning his telephone call.
To what do I owe the honor?”
Akuka began expressing his appreciation of Nahum’s work as a journalist who promoted ‘authentic communications.’ After remarking that he wished there were more like Nahum, he got to the point of his call. He said he had heard that Nahum was writing an article about the head of the town council in the south. He said it was a pity Nahum did not know Gil better – he was a warm, positive, charming man. Gil could not possibly be involved in what Nahum had described as criminal activities. One did not have to believe and accept everything the police said. As a journalist of his caliber surely knew, most of those who were arrested were released without being charged in the end. This was a matter of statistics, not of MK Akuka’s personal opinion, and an honest journalist like Nahum surely knew that you cannot argue with statistics. So he, the respected journalist, had best not hurry to publish his article about Gillie. Such an article could do Gillie irreparable harm and, as an honest, fair person, Nahum certainly would not wish to be the cause of it.
Next, Rikkie got MK Goren on the line. Hearing that Nahum Peterson wished to speak to him, Goren came out of a meeting to take the call. He began by telling Nahum how much he admired his work. How was it they had never met in person? To tell the truth, he had a private, long-standing dream – and he hoped Nahum would keep this off the record – which was to be a journalist. However, he was aware of his limitations. He had never been as eloquent as Mr. Peterson and, confidentially, he secretly envied Mr. Peterson’s talent! Long may he continue to produce his flow of clear, analytical articles. A gift from heaven, really! As to the matter at hand, he, MK Goren, had received a phone call from Gillie, head of the town council. Was it true that Nahum intended to write about irregularities in the town council? Such a report could really harm Gillie. No, heaven forbid, the MK would never dream of interfering. He was just taking an interest. No, he was not telling a journalist like Nahum Peterson what to do. But if Gillie should ask, would Nahum be prepared to say at least that Goren, MK Goren had phoned to enquire? Would he tell Gillie?
The office began to empty at about six in the evening. Nahum had arranged to meet Edna at about seven and he decided to use the interim to catch up on his work. Rikkie was on her way out when the telephone rang, and she returned to her desk to answer it.
“Someone wants to speak to you,” she told Nahum, “he won’t give his name. Sounds impatient. Says it’s a personal matter.”
“Put him through.”
“It sounds like the same person who called this afternoon.” Rikkie said.
“Nahum Peterson speaking”.
“Hello, my name is Aharon. I’d like to meet you.”
“About what?”
“You’ll find out when we meet.”
“I suggest you give me some background,” said Nahum.
“I can’t.”
Nahum thought for a moment before saying, “I’m afraid I can’t meet you if you insist on your refusal to tell me what you want to discuss with me.”
With mounting impatience, the caller said, “It’s very worth your while to meet me.”
The man did not raise his voice, but there was something threatening in his tone that Nahum disliked. He answered with considerable annoyance, “Under the circumstances, I have nothing more to say to you I have to end this conversation.”
He replaced the receiver and, in answer to Rikkie’s enquiring look, said, “I have no idea who that was. Just one of those bores. I wouldn’t be surprised if he mistook me for someone e
lse.”He tidied his desk, took his jacket and left the office.
15.
Nahum walked downstairs deep in thought. As he neared the parking lot, his hand went automatically to the bunch of keys in his pocket and his thumb found the button of the remote control. But when he pressed it, there was no answering beep or beam of light from the headlamps of his car. It was not in its usual place and he began searching for it. Eventually, far from where he had expected to find the vehicle, he saw the welcome flash of the headlights.
By the time he raced out of the parking lot, stores were closing and the streetlights were on already. Their faint glow in the gathering darkness left Nahum with a sense of incomprehensible sadness. He slowed to a stop at a red light and turned on the radio. The Beatles were singing ‘Money Can’t Buy Me Love.’ Nahum listened pensively. “I wonder why I always thought that was a happy song,” he murmured, “it’s definitely a sad song.”
He turned off the radio. The furious honking of the long line of cars behind him reminded him to look at the traffic light in front of him – green changing to sorrowful red. When the yellow took over, he shot forward and turned into a narrow side street, where he parked. He got out of the car and walked quickly down a dark path. The car keys remained in the ignition. There was a tang of salt in the air, and a thick cover of humidity soon obscured the windows of the car. Nahum Peterson’s footsteps were muted by the sound of waves exploding on the shore.
16.
Edna was in a good mood. She would be meeting her beloved man at the cafe in Ramat Gan this evening. She was so proud of him.
That afternoon she had received a client who came because she was so highly recommended. The client wanted her to issue a restraining order on a building contractor who was planning to start work on land occupied by him. Edna knew that if she accepted the case, she would be tied with work till the small hours, so she said she would ask her secretary to hand the case to one of the other senior partners in the firm.
“No, don’t do that. I’ve come to you personally and not to the firm. I could lose millions if you don’t handle the case yourself.”
This conversation could never have taken place in the past, because Edna would never have let a case like that slip out of her hands, no matter how many hours she would have to devote to it. However, the confidence that came with success had altered her priorities and she found it easy to reject the case in favor of her arrangement with her husband.
Edna strolled through the city stores in search of a present for Nahum. A big posted offering Gifts For the Man Who Has Everything caught her eye and she went in. An attractive saleswoman in her early twenties welcomed her with a smile.
“What are we looking for?”
“I haven’t quite decided; a present for my husband.”
“A birthday present?”
“No, something different.”
“Can you describe the occasion?” the young woman asked tactfully.
Edna saw no reason for secrecy. “Quite the opposite,” she said, “my husband, who is a journalist, has been asked to deliver the main speech at an international journalists’ conference and I want to congratulate him with a gift.”
“Very good,” the saleswoman smiled, “let me think of something suitable for the special event!”
She looked thoughtfully at the collection of objects arranged on the shelves and then exclaimed, “Ah! What about this music box?”
She held out a little wooden box with a gondola cared on the lid and carefully wound the spring. When the melody began to play, she said, “It’s an old song called “Don’t Wait for Tomorrow; Tomorrow Never Comes. Do you know it?”
Edna nodded. She felt like telling the saleswoman that she was too old for music boxes, but then it occurred to her that the song really did suit her spontaneous husband. Nahum never waited for tomorrow. He seized the day and so, in a sense, there was no tomorrow.
“I’ll take the box. You needn’t wrap it,” she said quickly. “I’m still early for my date with my husband, so I’ll do it myself while I wait for him. Just give me a card and some wrapping paper.”
She still had plenty of time and decided to walk to the cafe. It was ages since she had strolled through the streets of the city. Clouds in shades of gray and white drifted overhead. The city streets were wrapped in sweet twilight. The pale lights, colorful advertisements, bright display windows and pedestrians all added to Edna’s sense of wellbeing as she walked on. The air of the city street carried on a light breezed seemed to caress her face and she even found music in the refrain of the traffic.
When she reached the cafe, it was empty. A waiter in a white shirt was feverishly polishing beer mugs before hanging them on overhead hooks. Edna sat at a corner table for two and with a wave of the hand told the waiter, “I’m waiting for my husband. We’ll order when he arrives.”
She was soon absorbed in writing the card for Nahum. Afterwards, she surveyed the cafe’s dark parquet floors and the scattering of wooden tables, each with a dim lamp and blue checked tablecloth. She looked at her watch and saw that it was a few minutes to seven. Edna took out her diary and went through the list of her appointments for the coming week, made a few notes and returned the diary to her handbag. Then she took out the music box, wound the spring and sat listening to the melody.
“That’s from Italy,” the waiter announced.
“Yes. How did you know?” she asked, pleased to while away the time until Nahum’s arrival.
“I’ve been there. I even know where those music boxes are made. I visited the factory,” he said. Before she could respond, he added, “They told me that all these boxes have the same spring, the spring for the melody of ‘Don’t Wait For Tomorrow.’”
“Now that I come to think of it,” Edna murmured without referring to the waiter’s comments, “it’s a very pessimistic message. In fact, what I think is that one should wait for tomorrow; to be prepared for it.”
Her voice rang out in the empty cafe as she said, “Whether we want it or not, tomorrow will come. But in this song, tomorrow never comes. It’s for someone, listen to me, it’s for someone on the last day of his life.”
The waiter smiled. Edna looked closely at him. He was handsome. Now, after speaking to him, she was ready to swear he came from Italy.
“Italian, right?”
He did not answer immediately. First, he related to her general remarks, “I think that the song suggests that one should enjoy the moment. Seize the day. As a rule, we waste energy on things of the past, on old mistakes. Missed opportunities. We plan the future in the smallest detail and prepare for it magnificently. But most of the time we ignore the present. We often use the present to analyze the lessons of the past and to estimate the uncertainties of the future. But as for the present itself – we ignore it. We miss it. We miss the most important thing of all – our current life.”
The young waiter suddenly seemed so mature. She did not know why she had thought him youthful when she came into the cafe. She now guessed him to be over forty, at least.
In a theatrical, musical voice, he recited, “This song simply says live in the present and don’t let tomorrow’s cares disturb you. Enjoy. Enjoy the moment.”
He fell silent and she applauded.
“Bravo,” she said, “Although I don’t hold with that approach, I’ve learned to respect that way of thinking.”
Then she added, “You haven’t told me where you’re from.”
“My parents were born in Italy. They came here when I was eight years old.”
They chatted pleasantly for a while and when Edna looked at her watch, she saw that it was 7:40. Nahum was very late. Maybe something had happened to him? He was usually punctual.
With a brief apology, she asked if she could use the telephone and began dialing before he could answer. She waited. The seconds ticked by. No answer from her home number. Edna calle
d Gilat’s number while the waiter stood looking at the cafe’s sole customer who had not yet eaten so much as a crumb. She gazed at the shiny beer mugs until she heard her daughter’s voice at last.
Without preamble, Edna asked, “Have you heard from your father?” She was gripping the telephone so tightly that her hand was red.
“Mother, tell me, where are you? Where are you, Mother?”
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Edna asked in alarm.
“Daddy phoned half an hour ago. He wanted to know if we had any idea where you were. He said he’s been phoning home without any reply. I called your office,” Gilat said, “and they told me you’d left there two hours ago. Nobody knew where you’d disappeared to.”
Edna ignored Gilat’s biting tone. What troubled her was the first part of what her daughter had said.
“He called home?” Edna asked with growing surprise. “What for? We arranged to meet in the cafe in Ramat Gan.”
Edna sank into the seat at the counter. Something weird was going on. Something told her she had not reached the heart of the matter.
“Where is your father?”
Gilat was silent. Apparently she found it hard to answer. Edna had not yet had her full share of what the day held in store for her.
“It looks as if Daddy’s car has been stolen,” Gilat finally said. He called us when he couldn’t get hold of you and said he couldn’t find where he’d parked the car. Dov’s gone to him. Give me the number you’re speaking from and Daddy will call you as soon as Dov gets to him.”
Edna gave her the number and put down the receiver. She did not have long to wait before the phone rang. The waiter answered it and handed the receiver to Edna.
“Who’s speaking?” she asked impatiently.
“It’s me, Nahum.” He sounded delighted. “I found the car! I thought it was stolen, but it wasn’t. Nothing was stolen. Dov found it three blocks from where I was looking for it. I simply lost the car! Probably because it’s so dark. You can’t see a thing here.”
Until Sweet Death Arrives Page 7
