Don't Ask Me If I Love (23 page)

Joy eyed me warily.

A group of tourists approached us, led by a guide. He was explaining to them in English the history and the meaning of the places around them. They came to a halt next to us. Joy removed her irritated gaze from me and placed it peacefully on the guide. She stepped forward and joined the group. I walked after her.

My eyes fell on a tall girl who was standing a bit outside of the group. She was wearing a light, revealing dress. She was dark haired and rather pretty. Our eyes met and a brief smile appeared on her lips.

“You must tell me someday how you do it,” Joy said venomously.

“Someday,” I said darkly.

The girl suddenly winked at me, mischievously, and then shifted her eyes away.

“Holy places always make girls look sexy,” I said to Joy. “Maybe because they are usually hot and the girls don't wear much.”

“Maybe.”

“I finished the novel,” I said dully.

“Gorgeous.”

“How are you getting along with your job?”

“Great.”

I shrugged and looked back at the dark-haired girl. She was only half-listening to the guide, fixing the strap of her bra lazily. Our eyes met again, and again the sly smile appeared and played on her mouth.

I smiled back at her.

“So, will I start seeing you again now?” I asked.

“Why don't you go over to her?” Joy asked drily. “You seem to get along quite well.”

“It's you I want,” I said, still smiling.

“But that's probably harder. I hate to think what you're missing.”

“Jealous?”

She laughed abruptly.

The group started moving away.

“Maybe you'd better give it a try, because I tend to stay on my own.”

“Look,” I said, “let's cut this out.”

Joy started walking quickly, going to join the group. I slowed down, watching her.

“Hey!” I said.

But she didn't stop.

“A little family strife?” The new voice was deep, with a heavy French accent. The perfume, I thought, was French, too.

“I thought you were American,” I said to the tall, dark-haired girl.

“No I am French.”

“What's your name?”

“Veronique.”

“I am Assaf. How do you do?

“How do you do? You want to shake hands?” she asked sardonically.

“No. Not the hands.”

She laughed profoundly.

I stopped walking.

“Well?”

She shook her head, grinning.

“I am with the group,” she said pointing forward with a long finger carrying a long lilac nail. “Aren't you coming too?”

“No, I have seen it before.”

“That is a pity,” she said coquettishly. “
Au revoir.”

She squeezed my arm gently and walked after the group. I turned and started going in the other direction, back to the car. As I passed by the Jewish quarter I thought I might as well take a walk and look around while I was there. It was not hard to distinguish the Jewish quarter from the other parts of the Old City, because it was the only area completely in ruins.

Hell, I thought, walking between the remains of two synagogues which had only a few stones to them. And they are complaining that we mistreat them. They say we oppress them. That's really a laugh. With all their mosques and shops and houses untouched, and their getting all the water and electricity and things they never had before. After they had put their sheep and donkeys in those old synagogues and used the tombstones from the Jewish cemetery to build their houses.

There was a little boy with side curls and a small cap, sitting on the ground throwing stones at a wild bush a few feet away from him. He was good-looking and I stood on the side watching him silently. When he saw me he dropped the stone he was holding and looked at me suspiciously. I smiled at him.

“Why do you miss all the time?” I asked.

“I don't,” he protested, frowning.

He picked up the stone and threw it, hitting the bush square in the middle.

“You see?” he said, smiling at me triumphantly.

“Absolutely great,” I said, shaking my head. “Now I can go home and rest in peace.”

When I reached the car, I found a group of Arab kids standing around it. I got the key out of my pocket and opened the door.

“We guard the car. We guard the car.”

I pushed them aside with one impatient gesture of my hand and got inside. They stood by me, knocking on the door with their small fists and repeating their demand in an endless stream of protest. I started the engine.

A tall dark man appeared at my side and put his hand on the door handle.

“They guard the car,” he said in English, with a heavy Arabic accent. I clamped my hand on his wrist and pushed it away. I was beginning to get annoyed.

“Get lost,” I said to him. “Make it snappy.”

He kept standing there, leaning on the door. The blood came to his face, making it darker.

I stopped the engine.

“They guard the car,” he said again.

I moved to the other seat and climbed out through the door. He watched me coming and straightened up. I walked over to him and hit him in the face as hard as I could. He stumbled back and I kicked him viciously in the stomach. Around us the small boys were screaming at the top of their voices.

A whistle blew not far from my ear and then a man in dark uniform stepped between me and the tall Arab who was again leaning on the door of the car, his face navy blue.

I took a step back and looked at the policeman. He was dark and thin and I thought he was an Arab too, but I wasn't sure. They are hard to distinguish from the darker Israelis.

“What's habbening here?” he demanded in a voice that seemed bigger than he was; “habbening” made him an Arab.

The small kids were jumping around excitedly, yelling: “We guard the car” and “He not pay.” The policeman blew his whistle once more to silence them. He pushed them aside, bawling in Arabic. The tall Arab stopped leaning on the car and stood up. His face had regained its normal color. He didn't speak.

“What habbened?” The policeman turned to me.

“He didn't let me get out of here,” I said, motioning with my head toward the car and the tall man, “so I pushed him.”

The Arab said something in Arabic I did not understand. I saw his mouth was bleeding but his face was composed and blank.

“Give me your identity card,” the policeman told me.

I drew it out of my pocket and gave it to him.

He looked at my card. Then he gave me a quick glance, and looked briefly at the car. I saw that he recognized the name and it irritated me. I looked over his shoulder.

“O.K., sir,” he said to me, giving me back the identity card. “You may go now. I hope nothing like this habbens again.”

“Thanks.”

I climbed back into the car and started the motor again. The policeman walked slowly away. The tall Arab stood leaning on a nearby car rubbing his chin. He didn't look at me. The small children were beginning to gather around me again, but they were more careful.

“What a lovely car.”

I looked up. Veronique's handsome face smiled at me, her perfume was still as good and strong as before.

“I have to get moving,” I said. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Please.”

I opened the door for her, as she got in. The small kids started closing in on us again.

“Rooch!” I said threateningly. It was one of the few Arabic words I knew. It means, “go away.”

I pulled away from the curb.

“Where do you have to go?” I asked the girl beside me.

“To the youth hostel, it's …”

“I know where it is,” I cut in. “Do you live there?”

“Yes, for one more night.”

“And what then?”

“I am flying back to Paris tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, I see. Do you like the youth hostel?”

“Well, it is not very elegant, but it is cheap.”

She took a small mirror out of her bag, and looked at her reflection.

“Oh, I look terrible,” she said.

“I'll put you up for the night, if you want.”

She turned to me and crossed her legs, smiling knowingly.

“What will your wife say?”

“It's my mother,” I said dully. “She'll be furious, but she won't say anything.”

She laughed.

“You live in a big house.”

“You'd fit.”

She put a cold, bony hand briefly on my shoulder.

“I would be charmed,” she said.

“Good.”

“But, my room in the youth hostel …”

“We're on our way there,” I said, “to get your suitcase.”

“I have three,” she said, her deep laughter rang in my ears. “I bring many dresses when I travel.”

“We'll take the three of them, then.”

“And in the evening you take me out for supper?”

“Perhaps.”

After we had supper in the Italian restaurant called La Gondola, we went to The Khan night club. It was an old building that had once been a caravansary, and was turned into a small theater and a night club. I was having a good time that evening, drinking wine and dancing. I did not find it difficult to dance when Veronique was my partner, because she clung very close, pressing against me with the whole length of her body. It would have been hard to make technical mistakes. She was enjoying herself, too. I imagined she was the type who probably always did, especially in night clubs.

“It is beautiful music,” she said breathing hotly in my ear. “I love beautiful music.”

My mouth was occupied with her dark hair. I did not offer any comment. I kissed her.

“Ahh,” she said softly, when I wriggled my lips free in order to breathe. “Not so fast.”

It was after two when we came home. We tiptoed up the stairs, both a little drunk and not steady on our feet. Veronique was given a small room next to mine which was occupied by only two Chagall lithographs and a small bed. My mother had registered a displeased question mark when I had carried the three suitcases up the stairs, followed by the smiling young lady, but I told her Veronique was the fiancee of an old friend from the army. My mother had to accept that explanation, even if she didn't believe it.

“Well?” Veronique said, at her door. “Good night. I will see you, no?”

“My room,” I said, trying to shake the wine out of my head, “is more comfortable.”

“All right,” she said, and walked into her room.

I sat down at my desk and got rid of my shoes and socks. I took a pen and a piece of paper and started drawing a face. It came out remarkably beautiful. I tore it up. The door opened and Veronique peeped in. She wrinkled her brow wonderingly and then stepped in, closing the door behind her. She walked around the desk and stood behind me, peering down over my shoulder. She wore a transparent, light blue nightgown.

“What are you doing?” she asked hoarsely, looking at the torn pieces of paper.

I caught hold of her hips and pulled her down on to my knees.

“Nothing.”

“Not so fast,” she laughed huskily. “There is this.” She pointed to the bed.

She freed herself from my arms and jumped into the bed, covering herself with the blanket.

“Oh,” she cooed. “This is so warm.”

I walked after her and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Do you like me?” she asked slyly.

“You are very attractive,” I said.

She extended her hand foppishly.

“Come,” she said like some mock-French queen, inviting her favorite knight for the night.

She removed the blanket and I knelt and kissed her neck and sank down by her. She wriggled herself out of the nightgown and put her hands on my chest. Her fingers began unbuttoning my shirt, and then pulled it off me.

“You are strong,” she whispered in my shoulder.

My lips moved on the smooth chambers of her body from the thin chestbone to the dark, erect nipples. I sunk my teeth in the soft skin, feeling her hand digging under my pants. Then she pushed me aside and sat up, supporting herself with her elbows. Her small breasts rubbed delicately against my face. I closed my eyes.

“You lie on your back,” she said thickly, drawing me down on the mattress, “and I will make you happy.”

I felt her smooth, flat belly against my cheek as she kneeled over me.

“Girl,” I said quietly to myself, “you are what I have been looking for for a long time.”

I put my arm over my eyes, shaking, when I felt the touch of her lips.

A FEW weeks later, I had a letter from one of the publishing houses to which I had sent the book. My heart skipped a few beats when I read it, and I considered patting myself on the shoulder, when I was through. They said they would publish it. There would have to be a few changes, the letter went on, but it would definitely be published. I should write to their office and a contract would be drawn up.

I was feeling down at the time and I welcomed the letter. I had not seen Joy since Passover. The few times I went to her house she was not there. There was only one conclusion that seemed plausible. I was out and someone else was in. I could not find any other reasonable explanation.

Late that evening I went into my father's office. He sat by his desk, a burnt-out cigar in his hand, napping over a pile of his never-ending papers.

I sat down on a chair and thumped both feet heavily on the floor. The noise woke him up with a start.

“You should be in bed,” I told him.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Probably,” he agreed, lighting his cigar and shaking his head, “but since I am awake now …”

I shrugged.

“Well?” he said.

I scratched my cheek with my forefinger and waited. His eyes narrowed.

“I was wondering,” I said finally. “If you could lend me your lawyer one of these days, to help me with something.”