Don't Ask Me If I Love (14 page)

I sat down heavily on one of the couches, and took a healthy bite from the remains of a piece of cake on a plate near my feet. I poured another drink from my quickly emptying bottle. A very bleached blonde of forty-odd years placed herself by my side. She looked at me in a way that reminded me of an old-fashioned movie.

“And who are you, young man?”

“Assaf,” I said. “Why?”

“And why not?” she said in a husky, lingering drawl, that must have been Texas. “Are you the son of the owner?”

“I guess. I don't know.”

I looked at her flamboyantly made-up face, waiting for my mind to click and empty itself of everything but the alcohol. She extended a soft, fleshy hand.

“Well, I'm glad to meet you.”

“Sure, sure.”

I squeezed her fingers briefly.

“Have a drink,” I said.

I found a neglected glass and poured her a generous shot. I placed it carefully in her hand. She sat there, plunked in her place, eying me constantly. Maybe she is getting hooked, I thought drunkenly, the old bag.

“Thanks,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “Cheers.”

“To Texas,” I said.

She laughed. I gave her one of my smiles which aren't so bad when the lights are not too bright. At the other side of the room I saw my mother's anxious eyes staring at me out of a worried face, but she had a few million dollars' worth of a man planted beside her. I gave her a cheerful wink, and switched back to my companion.

“Your father is most charming,” she said coquettishly.

“Yes. Of course.”

“That guy over there,” she said, pointing with a red-painted fingernail, “is my husband.”

She grinned ruefully.

“That must be tough,” I said sympathetically.

She looked at me with surprise, so I smiled at her again, though my face muscles were getting tired.

“Irreverent.”

I emptied my glass and put it on the floor.

“I didn't catch your name.”

From the other side of the room, my mother's blurred image was floating unsteadily toward me.

“Shirley Jacobson,” the painted lady by my side said nasally.

She put a long thin cigarette in her mouth and waited. I picked up a lighter from the other side of the table and lit her cigarette, being careful not to set her nose on fire. My eyes weren't functioning at their absolute best.

I stooped and picked up the near-empty bottle.

“Well, Mrs. Jacobson-Shirley,” I said, shaking the bottle and smiling at it dreamily, “I'll be going up to my room, but you are most welcome to join me for another gulp.”

I stood up. She was looking at me with a steady, inquisitive stare and was about to speak when my mother floated across the room like a big cloud and appeared at my side.

“Assaf, are you behaving yourself?”

She was wearing an expensive, silver dress, which was unusual, since she was a chaste, timid woman who never put great emphasis on her appearance. I learned later that she had received the dress from one of the guests present, so she felt obliged to wear it.

“Yes, Mother,” I said.

I took another drink.

She looked worriedly around the room. Most people were far gone by now, as there was no shortage of liquor, and no reason to stop them from drinking. Only the two or three Israelis present were as sober as judges, but that's just the way Israelis are.

“Well, then,” I said, “I'm going upstairs. Good night, Mrs. Jacobson.”

“Good night, sweet,” she said, giving my mother a sugarcoated smile.

I padded away through the room, looking it over and thinking it was actually a nice place when there was no one there. It was a large L-shaped room, where my father had the majority of his best paintings scattered among the many lamps and mirrors. There was an elaborate bar on one side, and on the other there was a terrace that overlooked the mountainside and its old olive trees. It made a picturesque view.

As I moved along, my gaze fell on my father's face. I was surprised to see the disinterested expression on it. He sat in an armchair, in the midst of a laughing, bubbling crowd at the far end of the room. His eyes, cold and bored, wandered aimlessly about the scene, inside a mask of indifference. They met mine and rested there for a moment. I bowed my head politely. He bowed in return, slightly amused, and winked at me, boyishly.

I walked out.

Safe in my room, I put on the radio and sat on the floor with the bottle. The eight o'clock news came on reported in a low, metallic voice. Three men were killed by a bomb in Tiberias. The National Front has proudly announced its responsibility for the deed. The Russian Premier has warned Israel that unless her aggressiveness stopped …

I turned it off with a yawn and returned to my drinking, still half expecting to hear a soft, fleshy knock on the door. After half an hour I gave up and, having no drinks left, went to bed.

I woke the next morning with a revolting headache and generally feeling low. I made myself a pot of tea and scrambled eggs, and threw it up into the sink, five minutes later. I walked around, barefoot, looking for a fellow human being but there was no one there. The place was empty. The world was empty. I felt like a goddamned useless American; empty.

That brought me back to my room with a firm decision to repent. I took a look in the phone book. The TWA office really was inside the King David Hotel. I walked into the office blinking my red eyes, my hands shoved deep inside my pockets. I spotted the white dress immediately. She sat at a table writing on a sheet of paper. I walked over and stood staring down at her.

Finally, she looked up. She gave a light nod with her head to acknowledge that I was there. Her yellow hair was tied with a white ribbon. Even her teeth were white.

“So,” she said, “it's you.”

I didn't say anything.

“Please sit down.”

“I'm O.K. standing,” I said.

“Would you like to book a flight?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my eyes unable to stop blinking.

“No,” I said. “I would like to book you for supper, if you're available.”

She shrugged.

“Why not?”

“O.K. then.”

“Where is Ram?” she asked, smoothing her hair absent-mindedly. “I thought you two were inseparable, something like ‘ 'til death do us part'.”

I stared at her face and I liked her. My eyes stopped blinking and narrowed steadily. I put on a very thin smile.

“How did you ever guess?”

Her face froze and she put her pen slowly on the desk before her.

I shrugged.

“Still living in the same place?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“Eight-thirty. O.K.?”

“Eight-thirty,” she said uncertainly.

“Well.”

She took hold of the pen again, with very pale, thin fingers, looked at it and placed it on the edge of the desk. It slipped down.

“I didn't get what you said about Ram.”

I stooped and picked up the pen. I placed it in front of her.

“He got shot, two months ago,” I said, “killed in action, as the saying goes.”

She looked at me and then at her long white fingers.

“Eight-thirty, then,” I said.

I took my hands out of my pockets and wiped them on my shirt.

“Yes.”

“Maybe you won't wear white.”

“All right,” she said, “all right.”

I stuck my hands back in their holsters and walked out.

Joy wore a short, low-cut red dress. When she opened the door for me, her hair fell in waves on her neck. She wore enormous silver earrings, and for the first time was heavily made-up. Her eyes looked big and experienced, with her dark painted eyelashes. Her lips were as red as Campari. She had a remote expression on her face, not an entirely happy one, but she was absolutely stunning.

“I have forsaken my virgin outfit especially for you.”

“It doesn't look so bad.”

“Yes, most seductive,” she said. Her breasts moved slightly with her breathing.

“Well,” she said, at length, “how about supper? I am hungry.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I guess.”

We went to eat in the only Chinese restaurant in town, the Mandarin. It was a rather expensive place, but the food was good.

“Your father is very rich, isn't he?” Joy said to me, after we had ordered the meal.

“Yeah.”

She smiled.

“What's funny?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What brought you to this country?” I asked, pouring red wine into her glass and then into mine. “Pity?”

“Envy would be closer.”

“The decline and fall of America?”

“Mmmmm,” she said, drinking.

“Life is not what it used to be, there,” I smiled. “Something went wrong.”

“Not bad for an Israeli.”

“I was there three years ago. But I meet lots of Americans, and they all sing the same song.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Then it's too bad,” she said thoughtfully, “isn't it?”

The waiter brought the dishes, said “tong tong” or something similar, and took off.

“So one day you decided that you had had it with the American way of life, and you packed up your toothbrush and came to Israel to look for meaning.”

She didn't smile.

“No,” she said calmly, “I packed my toothbrush and went to England.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Surprise, surprise.”

“I have a sister in London,” she said through the chop suey. “She's married to an Englishman. So after I had three years of psychology at Berkeley, and got good and fed up, I went to London and lived with them for a while. I got a good job as a secretary, and everything was O.K.”

“But then?”

She smiled.

“Yes,” she said, “it still didn't have much meaning, so I packed up again.”

“So you came to the land of the Bible to look for meaning and see all the heroes with your own blue eyes.”

“Sort of.”

I laughed softly.

“You're wasted here,” I said, “my being no hero and not giving a damn one way or another, anyway.”

“You're all talk.”

I sipped some more wine. Help the Israeli industry.

“How do you find it here? Touching?”

She eyed me calmly.

“You are having a hard time,” she said, “but it is a better country than most.”

“How about the poor Arab kids we are supposedly murdering in their sleep every night,” I said, smiling. “Please have a heart.”

“It's a pity that some people feel the need to be cynical.”

“I'm sorry. Stick around for a while and see what happens to you. Three months is nothing.”

“I am very sorry about Ram,” she said.

“Yes. Aren't we all?”

“Maybe it's better than being killed by the National Guard.”

“Oh,” I said aggressively, belligerently, “the hell with that.”

She didn't comment on that. We had our tea in silence.

“Want anything else?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

I called for the bill and when it arrived I paid and we left. I drove to her place.

“Want to come in?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, let's go then.”

We walked in and she put on the lights in the room and motioned for me to sit down.

“Please,” she said quietly, “I won't be a minute. I'll just slip out of this dress.”

She went out.

I took a look around the room, although there was not much there to look at. It was neat and clean, with little furniture. I walked down the small hall and came to her bedroom. The door was open, and she was standing with her back to me, slipping on a robe. Her figure was slim and perfect. She wasn't wearing a bra.

She turned around and saw me standing there. I hoped my eyes weren't excessively big, but I was blushing.

“Oh,” she said. “Seen everything? I am afraid it's not much of an apartment, but I like it.”

“Yes, what I saw was sort of O.K.,” I said, breathing deeply, “not bad at all.”

She smiled, shaking her hair loose. She had that peculiar smile that seemed to say that something had amused her, though she didn't care to say what. Her eyes glinted mischievously and then the smile was gone. I put my hands in my pockets, and waited.

“Well, let's go back to the other room. That is where I entertain my guests.”

She brushed softly by me, as she went out, turning the light off.

The room was immersed in darkness. I walked after her.

Joy placed herself on one of her small Arab stools and stretched.

The delicately curved form of her body outlined itself visibly under the red cloth of her robe. I leaned against the wall and watched her. She crossed her legs and clapped her hands with sudden vigor.

“Well,” she said.

“Well?”

“Want something to drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Grapefruit juice? Orange juice? Milk? Tea? Coffee? You can choose, I've got them all.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I don't want anything to drink.”

“If you want to sleep with me, I am not going to.”

“Oh,” I said. There was a pause. “Why?”

“Don't want to.”

She looked at me casually, but there was curiosity hidden behind the look, I thought. I looked down and shrugged.

“Well,” I said, “I guess I'll be going.”

“But then,” she said in her casual, curious manner. “Maybe I was pushing you a bit on that.”

I shook my head. “No, not really.”

“It was a nice supper.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes wandered behind me, on the wall, above my head.

“Sometimes patience helps,” she said slowly,

“We don't have much time, nowadays.”

She shrugged.