All Backs Were Turned Page 11

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing happened. But the owner of this bar convinced me I ought to study. There are many things in life I still know nothing about. And I should.”

  “Tell me what happened,” she said. “Something must have happened if even a fool like me can feel it.”

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “My head begins to spin when I think about it. Dov lost his wits when his wife left him and he started getting into trouble. The last time it happened, in Tel Aviv, we decided I’d take the blame, because otherwise they’d have put him away for a few years.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “That word isn’t very precise, you’re right,” Israel said. “Well, to start, Dov came home one day and found his wife with a man. He later told the court he had to defend himself because the man attacked him.”

  “What happened to the man?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Whatever it is that happens to people after death. There are many theories. Anyway, that last time in Tel Aviv, I told the judge I was the guilty one, but he didn’t really believe me. He gave me a suspended sentence and once again warned Dov. And so we came here, where Dov’s brother is a fisherman, and things got complicated again. Dov’s brother has competition: three guys who fish from motorboats and make ten times more money than he does. So when Dov arrived in Eilat, his brother expected Dov to help him. But Dov’s got to keep out of trouble.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t defend yourself yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

  “Does Dov know about it?”

  “No. I was afraid he’d want to settle the matter in his own way. And that would have been very bad.”

  “So he is the strong one and you’re the weak one? And when they beat you up, he can’t know? Is that it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You got it. Let’s go, now. I don’t want everybody to hear us.”

  “It’s only six,” she said.

  “Go back home. I’ll come over later. I want to talk to Dov first.”

  She rose from the table and left; he watched her until she disappeared around the corner, then he went back inside.

  “What do you want?” the owner asked, getting up and moving in his direction. “Didn’t I tell you not to show your mug around here again?”

  Israel didn’t answer; he took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. Then he picked up from the floor a heavy, iron-legged chair and smashed it into the coffee-maker, jumping away from the clouds of steam.

  “I just wanted to tell you that you were right,” he said. “There’s no coffee in your place.” He threw the chair on the floor and walked out into the street.

  THE TWO YOUNG, SUNTANNED COPS SAT HEAVILY IN their chairs, their elbows propped on the table, their caps in front of them. It was past sunset, but the heat still hung heavily in the air; the scorched earth resisted the wind, which was slowly coming to life over the bay—its soft rustle could be heard now and then through the agonizing clatter of the electric fan.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Dov asked.

  “In Eilat nobody can live without coffee,” one of the cops said. “You’ll find that out if you stay here longer.”

  “How long do you plan to stay, Dov?” the other cop asked.

  “Why do you ask?” Dov said. “Are you going to write down my answers?”

  “We’re off duty,” the cop said, indicating his cap lying on the table. “You’ve met cops before, haven’t you?

  “Right,” Dov said. “I’ll tell my sister-in-law to make us some coffee.”

  He went to the kitchen. One of the cops got up with an effort and stepped up to the wall.

  “Me and the younger Dov were in the army together,” he said.

  “You never told me you were a paratrooper,” the second cop said.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No.”

  “Well, now you know. And let me tell you, I didn’t enjoy all that parachute jumping one bit. The last jump was as scary as the first, even though our instructors claimed we’d get used to it. I never did. And I’m sure he didn’t either.” He returned to his chair, again propped his bronzed elbows on the table, and leaned his chin on his fists. “You should tell us why you did it,” he said to Israel. “That was a foolish thing to do, you know.”

  “I already told you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “The coffee-maker was rusty,” Israel said.

  “What a strange guy,” the cop said, turning to his partner. “He keeps answering me like he’s Dov Ben Dov.” He looked at Israel. “But he’ll never be Ben Dov, right?”

  “Right,” the second cop said. “He’s not Ben Dov’s size.”

  “You should think it over,” the first cop said. “If you apologize to the owner and agree to pay for the damage, he may withdraw his complaint.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “The case will go to court.”

  “And how much am I gonna get?” Israel asked. “Is there a special law against smashing coffee-makers? What’s the usual sentence? Getting shot seven times in the ass with sour milk? Will you two be part of the execution squad?”

  Dov came into the room and placed two cups and a coffeepot in front of the cops.

  “I’ll get myself a chair and be right back,” he said.

  “These two will be free in a moment,” said the first cop. He gestured at Israel. “Dov, you should explain to your friend that it’d be better if he apologized to that chap. And you should tell him he’s himself, not you. It’s time he knew that.” He got up and put on his cap. “We’ll be going now,” he said.

  “You wanted coffee, didn’t you?” Dov said.

  “Your friend is doing his best to insult us,” the cop said. “It’ll be better if we go. He has no right to act this way, Dov.”

  “Have a cup,” Dov said.

  “No. Your friend is making fools of us.”

  Dov walked them to the door and stood there for a moment until he heard the engine of their car start; then he returned to the room.

  “Why didn’t you tell me anything?”

  “There was no time,” Israel said.

  “How much time does one need to say he had a row in a bar?”

  “We weren’t alone.”

  “We were sitting here alone for an hour before those cops arrived.”

  “No,” Israel said. “We weren’t alone. Your brother’s wife is always listening at the door. She is also listening to what we are saying now. We haven’t been alone for one minute.”

  “You won’t tell me why you smashed that coffee-maker?”

  “It’s not worth talking about,” Israel said. “Isn’t that so, Esther?”

  They watched the door open slowly; Esther entered the room, not in the least embarrassed.

  “Yes,” she said. “Neither you nor that coffee-maker are worth talking about.”

  Dov stepped up to her, gripped her by the arm, and forced her to look at him. “How old are you, Esther?” he asked.

  “I’m not twenty yet,” she said, looking at Dov’s hand tightening on her arm.

  “Isn’t it enough that you’re a whore?” he said. “Do you have to be a snoop too?” He pushed her against the wall. “What have you got to tell me, Esther?”

  “She has already told everybody,” Israel said. “You’re the only person she hasn’t told the story to yet.”

  “Esther,” Dov said, “my brother will be back in an hour. When he arrives I’ll say good-bye to him, then Israel and I will leave. But for that one hour, we want to be alone. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No one said you had to leave,” Esther said.

  “Is that too much to ask, Esther?”

  “No one said you had to leave,” she said again. “This is your brother’s house.”

  “No, I don’t think she wants to kick you out,” Israel said. “She isn’t a bad kid. Maybe she’s just too much like
you. But she loves your brother and knows that he loves you. You shouldn’t be so rough on her. She didn’t ask you to leave.”

  “No,” Dov said. “Not yet. But I’m old, Israel. For someone who’s forty, getting kicked out into the street is no laughing matter, believe me.”

  “Where will you go?” Esther asked. “As long as you let Israel tag along, you’ll be a laughingstock no matter where you go.” She turned in Israel’s direction. “He allows people to hit him in the face.” She moved a step closer to Israel. “Why don’t you tell him?” she asked. “Why do you lie to him? You can tell him the truth.”

  “You’ll do it better,” Israel said. “So you tell him. Just like you told everybody else.” Suddenly he got up and walked over to the window. “You’re a clever girl, Esther. And you know so much. You know that some men beat me up on the beach yesterday, and you know I didn’t want to tell Dov about it. And you know the reason I didn’t; you know the situation he’s in. And you know many other things. Except one. The one which is most important. And until you find that out, you won’t have a moment’s rest. That’s why I can’t hate you, Esther. You’re innocent because you don’t know the most important thing.”

  “What is it I don’t know?”

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about,” Israel said. “You don’t know what’s making you restless. You can feel something is happening to you, but you don’t know what it is. I do.”

  “But you’re too big a coward to tell me, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Israel said. “I simply intend to wait until others do it for me. I’m paying you back in kind.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to leave this room, Esther?” Dov asked. “Do you want me to put it more strongly?”

  She didn’t budge. She kept staring at Israel, and they both saw that her lips were moving soundlessly.

  “Then let me tell you something,” she finally said. “I’ll tell you what’s most important.”

  “You can’t,” Israel said. “You don’t know.”

  “I do,” she said. “And it won’t take long. It’s much simpler than you think.”

  “Yes,” Israel said. “It’s much simpler than either of us thinks. But you don’t know what it is.”

  Little Dov came in, but Esther still didn’t move. She stood in the middle of the room, leaning slightly forward and looking at Israel.

  “I’m famished, Esther,” Little Dov said. “I barely had any breakfast.”

  “You don’t look well,” Israel said. “You looked much better when you were in the army.” He pointed at Little Dov’s picture hanging on the wall. “Didn’t he, Esther?”

  “Esther, I’m hungry,” Little Dov said. He walked up to his wife and touched her arm, but she pushed him away violently.

  “Hey, Esther, what’s wrong?” Little Dov asked. “Why are you so pale?”

  “It concerns you and that woman,” Esther said to Israel, as if her husband had not spoken at all. “You don’t think she’s after you, do you? You’re not that stupid. She’s after Dov. She wants to get into his bed through yours. Because she knows that that’s the only way to catch his interest. She knows that well. As well as I do. Was that the important thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “No,” Israel said. “That wasn’t it.”

  “I think it was,” Esther said. “Your spending last night with her doesn’t mean a thing. She went to bed with you out of pity. She saw you get beat up. And then she hit you in the face herself. Women often go to bed with men out of pity. I should know. I did it many times.”

  “But Esther,” Little Dov said, “You told me—You swore to me—” He suddenly looked much younger than ever before; he walked up to her quietly, as if afraid of the sound of his own footsteps. “No, Esther. That can’t be true. You swore to me!”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said. “You’re as big a fool as he is. Okay, I swore to you. So what? For three days each month any woman can swear she’s a virgin if she’s with as big a fool as you or him. Some women can even do it for four or five days.”

  “But you swore to me!”

  “No,” she said. “I’m a woman. I’m forbidden to swear. I’m unclean.”

  “But you did!”

  “So what?” she said. “Ask that woman what she told Israel when she went to bed with him.” She took a step forward; she and Israel were now face to face. “I also told men many things before I met my husband,” she said. “I started screwing around when I was fourteen and didn’t really know what sex was. Do you believe me now?”

  “You still haven’t said what’s most important,” Israel said. “You haven’t said it.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry, Esther, but that’s not all.”

  Their eyes followed her as she walked out into the hall and opened the door to the father’s room.

  “Pop,” she said, “please come out for a moment.” She waited, leaning against the doorjamb, but he didn’t answer. “You told me you loved me like your own daughter,” she went on. “And you told me to— Don’t you want me to give you a grandchild anymore?”

  Finally the old man appeared. He stopped in the doorway, facing them; Esther placed her arm around him.

  “Pop, look at Israel, please,” she said. “Can that man be better than Dov?”

  “Is that so hard?” the old Dov asked.

  “You don’t understand, Pop,” Esther said. “The thing is, there’s this woman who—” Suddenly she fell silent and looked at them helplessly, as if she had forgotten what she wanted to say.

  “Why do you ask me?” the old man said. “You’re a woman yourself. You’re unclean. You should know what a woman would do if she could choose.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Israel said. “That’s the whole problem; she doesn’t know.”

  “You really think you are better than my son Dov?” the old man asked Israel. “If so, I envy you.”

  “Take her away from here,” Dov said to his brother. “She’s ill.” He stepped up to her and touched her forehead; then he walked over to his father. “It’s a pity one can’t choose one’s parents,” he said. “Now get out.” And when the old man didn’t move, he gave him a shove and closed the door behind him.

  “Do you believe me now?” Esther asked softly.

  “Take her away,” Dov said to his brother. “I’ll leave either tonight or tomorrow. But now just take her away.” He tossed him his car keys. “Right now.”

  “Where should I take her?” Little Dov asked.

  “She’s your wife,” Dov said. “I don’t know. Why ask me?” He slammed the door behind them and sat down at the table. “She’s ill. I’m sorry.”

  “She’s innocent,” Israel said. “She spoke the truth. Is it her fault she realized something we didn’t?” He went up to the window and raised the curtain. “See that light? Ursula is waiting.”

  “So?”

  “She’s waiting for you.”

  “Don’t you start that, too!”

  “No,” Israel said. “I’m not starting anything. I’ve finished with her. Now it’s your turn.” He let the curtain fall. “But let’s wait some more. Or rather, let her wait.” He took a chair, turned it around, and sat down facing Dov. “Did I ever tell you about my brother?”

  “No. I didn’t know you had a brother,” Dov said.

  “He’s dead now,” Israel said. “He was in Britain during the war. When he came back to Poland, the Commies arrested him and sentenced him to death. He spent seven years in prison awaiting execution. Then they let him out.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes,” Israel said. “They let him out, but he never left that prison. He stayed in it forever.”

  “What are you talking about, man?”

  “I can talk about anything you like,” Israel said. “Somebody who was once in Madrid told me that the hearses there are painted white and look like a cross between an ice cream cart and a jukebox. Want me to tell you more about it?”

  �
��Why don’t you just go to sleep?” Dov said. “You’ve had enough for today. So have I.”

  “Of course I’ll go to sleep,” Israel said. “But what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Will you fall asleep? Will you?”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “Maybe you’ll dream of your wife again,” Israel said. “Maybe you’ll wake up in the middle of the night and start feeling scared that you won’t fall asleep again and then you really won’t, until dawn.”

  “What are you driving at?” Dov asked again.

  “You know,” Israel said, “my brother had a wife he brought over from Ireland. And when he was finally released from prison, he told me he dreamed the same dream over and over again. He was driving with his wife through a strange city, and he left her in the car for a minute and went to get something; when he returned, he couldn’t find either her or the car. So he began searching all over the city, asking everybody he met if they had seen his wife or his car, but no one understood what he was saying. And those who did laughed at him.”

  “They laughed at him?”

  “Yes,” Israel said. “Just like in that dream you had. Remember that dream where you were hungry and no one would share his food with you? That’s the same kind of dream. My brother had it for seven years.”

  “And what happened to him?” Dov asked.

  “Exactly what you think. Yes, exactly that. Two years after his release from prison.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Dov said.

  “Why?”

  “You read this story somewhere. Or somebody told you.”

  “No,” Israel said. “It’s true. He did what you think he did when he came out of prison and realized she wouldn’t come back to him. He didn’t blame her. After all, he had been sentenced to death.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Dov asked. “I know you. You haven’t told me yet what’s really on your mind. Can’t you say it outright?”

  “I’m worried about you,” Israel said. “That’s all.”

  “Many people have worried about me,” Dov said. “But so far nothing’s happened.”