Don't Ask Me If I Love (6 page)

After I had breakfast, I went to the terrace and sat in the sun. The main thing was to make time pass.

Just six weeks.

I had lunch with my parents.

“This government,” said my father, after we had sat down and started with the soup, “is no good.”

“We have a very good Defense Minister,” my mother protested gently.

This was one of the issues on which there was general agreement in the family.

“That's not the point,” he said. “This government represents too many parties, that's the problem. It cannot hold any firm line. It cannot come to any decisions. Right now, not making decisions is worse than deciding wrong.”

“You know,” I said, wanting to irritate him a bit, “if you consider it objectively the Arabs have better arguments than we. The excuse that two thousand years ago there were Canaanite tribes here to whom we are doubtfully connected is only for laughs. Even according to that line the Arabs are no less entitled to this country than we.”

He shook his head grimly. “Six million of this nation were killed because they were stuck in foreign countries, among foreign peoples. We came here so that never again could such a thing be. How's that for an argument?”

As he talked my mother looked at me anxiously with her sad brown eyes. I regretted I had started with that subject.

Mom served the meat and the potatoes.

“The only thing that matters,” I said, “is that we're here, so we have to make the best of it.”

“I talked with Barak, the party secretary, the other day. I told him you might be coming to work for him in a few weeks. He said welcome.”

“He did? And what did I say?”

He regarded me blankly, unimpressed. “The steak is delicious,” he said, turning to smile at my mother.

“I don't like it,” I said.

“It was cooked specially for you,” my mother said, with a hurt expression.

But I was getting worried. It seemed that he was really determined. In the past few weeks he had spent some time actually talking to me. He had never gone that far before. “I don't like it,” I said again, louder.

“You have a future, maybe,” he said kindly, “but you shouldn't waste time.”

I sat silently at my place and ate the dessert. I saw a tall, blond girl in front of my eyes, whose body was swaying to unheard music.

If you want something, go get it. Otherwise—you'd better not want it.

I wiped my mouth with the napkin.

“O.K., I'm going.”

“Ram again?” my mother asked.

“How'd you ever guess?”

I left the house and drove over to Ram's place. His family lived in a small flat in the neighboring quarter. His mother worked in a government office and had to support herself and her two sons. They didn't have a lot. But Ram was making some money himself, and it helped take the load off her back.

As I took the stairs, three at a time, up to their apartment, I remembered my behavior of the previous night, but I relied on Ram to be the type not to bear a grudge.

I rang the bell.

His mother opened the door. She was a tall, handsome woman with brown eyes and brown hair. She always dressed simply.

“Well,” she said, “I haven't seen you for a long time.”

I smiled back at her.

“I've been busy soldiering.” I walked in. “Is the lieutenant around?”

“In his room I believe. Think you'll be able to find it?”

I shook my head dolefully. “Madam, you are underestimating me.”

Udi, Ram's sixteen-year-old brother, appeared in the hall. He was almost as tall as his brother, though not quite so handsome. That still made him better looking than average.

“Hey, Assaf!” he said glowingly.

“Hi, old man.”

Udi liked me.

“When are you going to start making movies, or writing books, or gangstering around?” he asked. “I am watching after you, boy.”

“You keep that spirit, uncle,” I said, starting toward Ram's room.

“Are you going to drag Ram with you into politics?” he asked behind me.

I frowned.

“I am not going into politics, and Ram is not willing to become a movie star, so I don't know what I can do.”

I walked into Ram's room. He was sitting on his bed reading Dayan's
Sinai Campaign
. I moved over to the window and opened it. The air outside was dry and hot; it wasn't a pleasant day. I shut the window and sat at his desk. I picked up Ben Gurion's
Talks with Arab Leaders
.

Ram's interests were not hard to define.

I put the book down and stared out of the window. Everything was still and quiet, typical of early Saturday afternoon. Ram stopped reading and started shifting around. He looked at his hands and then put them inside his pockets and looked down at the floor.

“What's on?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Have any ideas?”

“No.”

“Sorry you had to walk home last night.”

“Good for my health.”

“I don't know why there's never anything for us to do on vacations.”

“Yes.” He shrugged. “Fortunately we go back to the valley tomorrow.”

I grimaced.

In our high school days Ram and I used to spend many weekends on short journeys to different parts of the country. We liked walking and had never had any trouble passing free time. The army had brought a change. We didn't have much of an urge to walk or travel after parading in full kit throughout the week. There wasn't a lot else we were capable of doing for amusement, except go to the movies every now and then. We were both outstandingly inefficient where having fun was concerned.

“I know the address of that American girl.”

He laughed softly.

“I thought you were walking out on her.”

“Better dead than red. She's better than nothing.”

“Have a good time.”

But I wasn't buying. “You come along too,” I said.

He took his hands out of his pockets and waved them in despair.

“Can't you do anything alone? You really don't need me. It's her you're after, what the hell do you need me for? I'd only steal her from you, if anything.”

“All right then, you can have her,” I said.

He shook his head. “You're supposed to be all grown up now. What's the matter with you?”

I picked up Ben Gurion's book and looked at it with little interest.

“O.K.,” I said drily, “want to see the football derby then?”

He peered at me sadly for a long moment and then decided to give up.

“All right. You win. Where does this bloody girl live?”

I smiled to myself. “I'll show you,” I said sheepishly.

We had no problem in finding 22 El Rais Street, which turned out to be an Arab house, in a small narrow street in the Old City. It had an old green door, with no name on it, but I assumed it had to be the right one because there was no other entrance. I started feeling a bit stupid about the whole business and I was glad I had company even if he was a lot better looking.

“What are you waiting for?”

I knocked.

Joy, wearing a white dress but a different one, opened the door.

“It looks like you really like that color,” I said.

“Oh, it's you.”

“Yeah.”

“Well.”

“Actually, I was secretly hoping you would ask us to come in.”

She shrugged.

“Please—come in.”

“Thanks.”

Muhammed had to be sitting there, of course, having himself a cup of coffee and looking good and at home. Although half-expecting it, I stopped midway in the door, but Ram pushed me forward, lightly, and closed the door behind us.

“Good afternoon,” he said to the young Arab, and flashed his disarming smile.

Muhammed smiled back.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

We were in a small, square room, furnished in Arab style, which gave it atmosphere, something you never find in Israeli apartments. There was a long, low table in the center and around it four small Arab stools. We sat down. Joy remained standing, leaning on the green door, looking down at us.

“Any of you want a cup of coffee?”

“Please,” Ram said.

“I'd like tea,” I said, a bit aggressively, hoping I could at least start a quarrel, if nothing else.

“O.K.,” Joy said, “amuse yourselves in the meantime.”

She disappeared into a small kitchen.

Muhammed put his small cup of Turkish coffee on the table and stared at us in polite curiosity.

“Are you students?”

“No,” I said, “we're in the army.”

“I am a student.”

I didn't give a damn what he was and didn't want to know, but Ram's interest rose immediately. Such topics appealed to him.

“Where do you study?” he asked.

The Arab smiled faintly.

“Here in Jerusalem, at the Hebrew University. It is a most charming place.”

“No student riots,” Ram suggested.

“And no lynchings,” I added.

Muhammed ignored me.

“It is a most charming place,” he repeated.

“What do you study?” Ram asked.

“Political science and philosophy.”

“Don't you think,” I asked him, “that you profited quite some, here in Jerusalem, by losing the Six Day War?”

He looked at me and smiled again.

“No one likes to be ruled by strangers. Not even for a better education, but you do have more advanced systems than we have, and a very nice university.”

“In which sometimes bombs explode,” I helped him along, “killing students, and lecturers, and other such armed soldiers.”

“Yes,” he looked at me calmly, “that is most distressing.”

“And yet,” I said, smiling at him, “the rumor's that it is done by fellow students, who come from the eastern part of the city and who are seldom hurt on such occasions, and, in fact, rarely at all.”

He just kept looking at me calmly. He was a cool one.

“I'm an Arab,” he said finally. “And I am proud of it, but I would never plant a bomb in any place like a university. We are not all terrorists.”

“You've just made me a happy man,” I said. “See? It's easy.”

Joy came into the room with the cups. She put them down on the table and sat down. I looked at her and she looked at Ram. I smiled to myself.

“Having fun?” she asked.

“Not much.”

“Pity.”

“Actually,” I said, “what we had in mind, was to pick you up and drive around a bit, since it is such a beautiful day, etc.”

“Especially etc.,” she remarked. “So when are we going?”

This surprised me. I didn't expect to win at this round, and was filled with wonder.

“Whenever you're ready.”

She smiled. “Always ready.”

“And you?” Ram asked Muhammed as I knew he would.

Ram wouldn't even shoot an enemy in the back.

The Arab shook his head. “No, thanks. I was about to leave when you came. I have some things to attend to.”

“O.K.,” I said, “so let's get the hell out.”

We went out and told Muhammed good-bye, and so long, and see you, and started driving with Joy sitting in front, by my side, and Ram in the back seat.

“I have a virgin complex,” Joy said suddenly, “that's why I wear white.”

I drove to the western part of the city, trying to figure out which of the two possibilities this statement indicated. The girl seemed to be having a good time. She showed interest in everything we passed, and her face beamed.

We went for a short walk in the Israel Museum. (“Got all those statues from Billy Rose, just like that,” she said as we went through the Art Garden. “How can you say this country's running out of miracles?”)

After that, we went, on her request, to Yad Vashem, which is the memorial for the six million Jews that were murdered by the Nazis. It's in a small forest, on a hill on the outskirts of Jerusalem, and has a big library, and pictures, and all sorts of other things in memorium. I would never choose to visit this place since it is most depressing, and supposed to make one feel sentimental and considerate, not the way I like feeling. We walked around there for a long while, because Joy wanted to see it all and seemed much more shocked and concerned than I considered worth while some twenty-odd years after all that had taken place. When we finally left I sighed with relief. She shook her head. “That was awful,” she said.

“Well, it's the past.”

She looked at me with surprise.

“How can you say such a thing?”

I shrugged.

“It's probably easier for you,” she commented as we approached the car, “you're Jewish.”

It occurred to me, then, that she was Christian.

I drove to the Kennedy Memorial which is in the mountains, a few kilometers away from Jerusalem. I was obsessed by the newly acquired idea that Joy wasn't a Jew. The oppressor. The girl with the virgin complex. I was suddenly wildly sexually attracted to her.

The Kennedy Memorial is a white building in the shape of a cut tree. It is surrounded by young forests and, when not crowded, is most peaceful and pleasant. We walked around for a while and then sat down on the low stone fence by the parking lot. The sun was beginning to set.

“I like this place,” Ram said.

“Kennedy was a good guy.” I liked people who were young and beautiful and intelligent and rich and successful. They had to be good.

“Lousy son of a bitch the man who killed him.”

“Yes.”

“Was he well liked here?” Joy asked.

“Yes,” Ram said again. “But then, I think Kennedy was a symbol for youth all over the world,” he added.

“So as not to get our hopes too high, he wasn't made to last very long.”

“I don't know about that,” Joy said doubtfully. “I am not sure he was such a good President.”