Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (46 page)

D’vora frowned.
Should I ask him what this means? To learn Arabic, what an idea! He never ceases to amaze me.

Finally, there was the kimono, delicately wrapped in rice paper. With a childish delight, she held it against her body. She admired herself in the mirror. It’s so beautiful, she sighed, as beautiful as a wedding dress. Suddenly Shlomi was standing behind her, “How would you like to get married in your kimono, mistress of my heart?”

They ended up in bed.

Much later D’vora said playfully, “I thought you’d be interested in learning Japanese or Chinese, what are you doing with Arabic dictionaries? Do you want to translate Omar Khayyam’s poetry into Hebrew?”

“It’s related to an encounter in Bath, a few months ago, when I performed there. Something I haven’t told you yet,” his playful mood disappeared.

“Should I be jealous?” D’vora asked, remembering the envelope she found. “You’re making me curious.”

“I met my father’s sister, Amina, under a false identity. I can’t explain why. But she’s suspicious. Here…” and he took a letter from the inner pocket of his jacket. “I haven’t answered yet.” Shlomi took hold of D’vora’s hands. “Read it and tell me what you’d do in my place?”

Shlomi watched D’vora as she read Amina’s letter, her eyebrows united in a thin straight line. He could not guess her thoughts. When D’vora raised her eyes, they had an unusual gleam. ”I’m trying to understand,” she said. “You told me that you stopped in Israel to see Otto. Was there another reason you didn’t tell me?”

Shlomi blushed like a child caught lying. “I asked Mazal to accompany me to the old folks’ home where Samira lives. I didn’t think it was important to tell you. Samira showed us letters she had received from Amina through the years, letters which of course I didn’t understand. Mazal translated a few, but the fact that Amina lived in Bath aroused my curiosity because I was booked to perform there a few days later.”

“And then you decided to play a little game, didn’t you?” Shlomi heard the harshness in her voice.

“I didn’t know what I wanted at that moment,” Shlomi felt miserable under D’vora’s cold stare.
She’s judging me
,
not a good sign
.

“What do you feel now? I don’t understand your doubts. You should’ve known that when you play with fire, somebody’s going to get burned. It’s hard for me to believe that the man I’m going to trust my life with, is an impostor.”

“Please, D’vora,” begged Shlomi.

“You played with your aunt’s feelings. I’m sure it must be hard to resolve the misgivings of your heart, but you must try. Wake up, Shlomi. I can’t decide for you.”

“I didn’t know what to expect. That’s the reason I used a fictitious name. It wasn’t exactly a game, though I suppose looking back, you are probably right. It was foolish of me. The Amina I discovered is a nice, warm-hearted person.”

“But you still have doubts. What are the Arabic dictionaries for?”

Shlomi blushed, “I wanted to see if I can remember some words. Samira said that when I was three years old I spoke the language fairly well.”

D’vora glanced at her watch. “My God, I’m already late. I forgot about our rehearsal. The management of Alice Tully Hall has engaged our quartet for four concerts, starting next month. We’ll play quartets by contemporary American composers. I asked to perform music by women composers as well, and it was approved,” she said with pride.

“Why didn’t you tell me right away? You know how pleased I am to hear about your success.”

“You were caught up in your own problems.” As she reached the door, D’vora added, “By the way, my parents are arriving in March to hear our second concert.”

She blew him a kiss. “See you tonight. Maybe you should see Dr. Singer. Remember, indecision can affect your playing,” and she was gone.

Dr. Singer was a psychologist treating mostly musicians. D’vora had seen him several times and told Shlomi she found him helpful, but Shlomi was doubtful. He told D’vora at the time, “Nobody can do for you what you alone can do for yourself.”
Was it true, or was he an arrogant jerk?

Shlomi thought about D’vora’s parents’ impending visit. A quiet couple, they had lived all their lives in Binyamina, a sleepy town between Tel-Aviv and Haifa. D’vora used to joke that only the
ma’asef
, stopped at Binyamina’ station, never the express.

Her father was a shy optometrist, who blew into his eyeglasses and wiped them with a large handkerchief before saying something. The vocal one was D’vora’s mother, a kindergarten teacher, with an ample bosom which pressed hard on Shlomi every time she
hugged him. She never called D’vora or Shlomi by their given names, for her they were always “the children.”

Now D’vora’s parents’ arrival was going to disturb the rhythm of his life.
Oh, well, stop thinking, Shlomi. Take a shower and go buy flowers to celebrate D’vora’s success tonight
.

“January is such a miserable month; my fingers are icicles,” D’vora complained on her return. “It took me a long time to thaw them before touching the new Elliot Carter quartet, which by the way is a real killer.” Shlomi placed her hands under his armpits to warm them up. Her face glowed, a sign that she had enjoyed the music-making.

“What else is on the program?” Shlomi asked, as he opened two bottles of beer.

“We are working on a big project. Some of the pieces we’ll play next at the Ciompi Quartet’s invitation.”

“Super,” Shlomi said. “Your quartet is going to create waves.”

“I hope so, but today I couldn’t stop thinking of you,” she said. “It was difficult to concentrate on the music. I am sorry. I came on too strong this morning.”

Shlomi took her in his arms. “I can never be upset with you. You are my conscience.”

D’vora turned to face him. “I believe the world is moving ahead in quick steps. Less prejudice; no more gossip in the small provincial towns like the one I grew up in. I remember that our neighbors’ son married the daughter of his father’s orange grove Arab gatekeeper. At the time the townspeople pointed at them, shaking their heads.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I think that what torments you is the decision whether or not to connect with your father.”

Shlomi’s mouth felt dry. He was amazed.
How well she could see into him
,
better than he could himself
.

“To build a relationship between a father and son who haven’t seen each other for twenty years will take time and good will from both sides. It can’t be done overnight.” D’vora’s tone changed, “I think I’ve bored you enough with my female instincts. Let’s have dinner. I’m starved.” She looked appreciatively at the table. “You bought a lot of goodies.”

For the dinner of falafel, humus, pita, and Baba-Ganoush, Shlomi had added a vegetable salad cut very small, Israeli-style, the way D’vora liked it. He asked her in a casual tone, “How long will your parents stay?”

D’vora laughed, “That’s what bothers you, isn’t it? Don’t worry. After my concert they are going to visit a cousin of my father’s in Florida whom he hasn’t seen in more than twenty years.”

”You misunderstood me,” Shlomi was hurt. “This morning you said that it’s time for me to take responsibility for my actions, your perennial leitmotif. And that’s what I want to do.” He got up and stood behind her chair, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear, “I want us to get married. Isn’t this proof that I am ready to take on a big responsibility? I think this is a good time, my love, especially during your parents’ visit. Think how happy it will make them.”

He put a finger on D’vora’s lips to keep her from replying. “I know that you didn’t allude to our getting married when you said I need to take responsibility for my acts.”

D’vora awoke in the middle of the night. Shlomi’s side of the bed was empty. The light on the living room desk was on. He was writing. She tiptoed behind his back and read the beginning of a letter.

Dear Mrs. Gardner
,


You were right. I lied to you. Al Sand doesn’t exist. At birth my name was Selim Ibn Musa Ibn Faud. I didn’t dare tell you I am Suha’s son. In 1948 after my mother’s death, I was adopted. Only recently I learned who my father is. You are a lovely person. Forgive me
.


Shlomi closed his eyes while D’vora left as quietly as she had come in.

He continued to write in Arabic,
Salaam Aleikum, aunt Amina
,

“
Arnold Schonberg likes us,” D’vora screamed as she unlocked the door. The morning after the quartet’s concert, she stole away from bed to look for
The New York Times
. She threw the newspaper at him, “Read it!”

Shlomi wiped his sleepy eyes,
A
Young Quartet Shows Potential
. Nice headline,” he said.

“Go ahead, read the whole review,” D’vora urged him.

Good programming, pairing the Amy Beach quartet with Elliot Carter’s.
Shlomi’s eyes ran through the review.
The quartet successfully included Benjamin Britten’s Dover Beach for baritone and string quartet in their program. This is a young, promising group. We should watch it in the future.

D’vora snatched the paper from his hand and started dancing with it.

“Schonberg doesn’t say anything about the baritone eyeing you during the performance,” Shlomi pointed out. “When all of you came on stage to take your final bow, he held his arm around your waist.”

“Oh, my God, you are jealous!” D’vora exclaimed.

“I want to warn you about singers, for them life is opera, and opera is life, they don’t distinguish between the two.”

“Jealous. Shlomi’s jealous. It’s hard to believe.”

“Why didn’t he embrace the violist, that mousy girl who couldn’t choose between music and math? When she plays she looks like a math teacher, her head bobbing up and down like a metronome.”

“She’s the nicest person and you are intolerable,” D’vora slammed the door.

What’s wrong with me
? Shlomi had wanted only to warn D’vora that one good review doesn’t guarantee that Schonberg will always give praise. One pianist didn’t dare to appear in New York for ten years after one bad review from Schonberg, and he was an excellent pianist.

Maybe D’vora’s parents’ impending arrival, or the fact that five weeks had passed since he wrote Amina, without receiving an answer, made him so prickly.

The baritone annoyed him. He have to appease D’vora soon, especially since she’d been so good to him. She even succeeded in subletting the apartment of a bassoonist living in their building, who was going on tour with “Fiddler on the Roof.”

“My parents’ visit will disturb neither our practice nor our life during their stay in New York,” she said, “Just the opposite, my mother is going to spoil you and cook your favorite dishes. You’ll be pampered, and I’ll have a difficult time to wean you after they leave.”

At that, Shlomi smiled. In his mind’s eye he could already see D’vora’s waist as well as his gaining a few inches from her mother’s sauces and her habit of adding sour cream and sugar to the vegetable salads. Oh, well, what doesn’t one do for
shalom bait
. Shlomi laughed to himself—he was already thinking like a married man.

As always, D’vora was right. He had nothing to fear from her parents’ visit. He felt surrounded by love. At home after D’vora’s quartet’s second concert, Shlomi opened a bottle of champagne. “For D’vora’s continued success, and to you,” he toasted her parents, “I wish to always have
naches
from her.”

“Amen,” her parents said in one voice. “To have
naches
from you both!” and they raised their glasses.

“As we are here together, tonight, to celebrate D’vora’s successful concert, I want to ask your consent for our marriage.” Surprised, D’vora opened her mouth but Shlomi was quicker, “D’vora is the
most important person in my life; we have known each other as teenagers, and have lived together for the last four years. Nothing would make me happier,” Shlomi said, opening a small box, “than to put this ring on her finger, of course if you have no objection to her marrying me.”

D’vora’s mother had tears in her eyes. “My boy,” she said, “now I can really call you my son.” D’vora’s father shook his hand. D’vora remained mute. She looked at the diamond circling her finger. “You never stop astonishing me,” she whispered. Shlomi heard the reproach in her voice.

“
L’chaim
, for a good life together,” wished D’vora’s parents. “We hope that you plan to have the wedding in Israel.”

Taking D’vora’s arm, Shlomi said, “I think my sweetheart would want us to wait. Her career is on the rise, and I have obligations to fulfill.”

D’vora echoed his words, “Shlomi is right.” For the first time that evening, she kissed him and looked straight into his eyes, “I am happy to be your life partner.”

“Children, children, don’t be so formal with each other; you’ve been life partners for quite some time. As a matter of fact we thought, as we were getting older, that it’s about time to enjoy a few grandchildren.” D’vora smiled, embarrassed.

Shlomi paled. “We might not have children,” he said. Three pairs of eyes focused on him. “I doubt you’d like to have one-quarter Arab grandchildren.”

“What did you say?” D’vora’s mother asked, alarmed.

“Shlomi, I don’t believe you said that,” D’vora whispered, her face red, “Why do you want to spoil an evening that started so beautifully?”

“Because your parents should know who fathered me.” Shlomi said in a tortured voice.

The next morning, D’vora’s parents left for Florida as planned. They called the same afternoon, “There’s something we have left unfinished last evening,” D’vora’s father said, “We love you. Shlomi, we consider you our son and you’ll always be. Last night we were all too excited, but this is what we wanted you to hear. You are our son, and if G-d blesses your and D’vora’s house with children, you’ll make us the happiest grandparents.”

5 3

S
hlomi was on his way home from a harrowing recording session of the Walton violin concerto, so tired he did not even stop at a take-out to shop for his dinner. D’vora was in Israel, summoned there at the last minute by her former cello teacher who had fallen ill, to replace him in a concert honoring Odeon Partos, the rector of the Tel-Aviv Music Conservatory.