by Etgar Keret
It pricked a little here and there. I could feel the edge of where it could start hurting, the fact that other men were fucking her, but I didn’t let it get under my skin. Just a little tickle, a little scratch: it spiced things up, but it didn’t burn. It gave things an edge. But other than that life was normal. A home. She cooked, not great, but she cooked. She was like a kid trying really hard, not like the woman you actually marry. My cooking was better than hers. I taught her a little, and I liked cooking for her, and later on, with her. We did that two or three nights a week, before she had to go to work, or on her days off, when she turned off her phone.
Our sex was like a tornado, our home was a warm slipper. In her denim cutoffs, curled up on the sofa, watching television, eating Häagen-Dazs ice cream straight from the carton. Until one night she said something strange. She was washing the dishes, and with her back to me she said: if I stopped working you’d break up with me. I thought about it for a minute. Then I told her she was right and she shouldn’t stop. She left the dishes and walked over to me with her hands dripping with soap. You’re a sleazeball, she said. That’s how I am, I told her. She looked at me, her head cocked, but there was a little smile on her lips. She didn’t let it grow. Instead she sat on me, spread her legs, grabbed the back of my neck with her soapy hands, and French-kissed me. Okay, she said, if I’m going to be sleazy anyway, I’m better off being with a sleazeball. I grabbed the back of her neck and kissed her back. Then I fucked her on the sofa.
We lay there afterward, hyperventilating. Everything was up in the air. We were playing with fire. I told her we needed to be careful not to fall in love, because then everything would blow up. You wouldn’t be able to stand other people touching you, and I wouldn’t be able to stand other people touching you.
What are you talking about? she said. You’re madly in love with me.
You wish, I said.
She laughed. Her work phone rang. I looked at her. She reached her hand over me and grabbed it. There was a moment there, waiting to see if she’d answer it. She glanced at the screen. What a pest, she said. She silenced it. I smiled. Don’t get too excited, she told me. I just don’t have time for another one, I have a booking at nine thirty. He just needs to let me know where. Probably that disgusting Tal Hotel. He’s cheap. But what do I care? I’ll be out of there in thirty minutes, tops. She went to take a shower.
She came back wearing a little black dress and stockings. This guy liked her looking elegant. Whatever. I waited for her to leave, jerked off in bed thinking about her fucking at the Tal Hotel, and went to sleep. She came back sometime before dawn, got in bed without waking me up. She probably had at least two more appointments after that one. When we woke up we fucked, and then she stayed lying on top of me for a moment. I want to tell you something, she said. She covered my mouth with her hand and I thought a speech was coming. She stared at me for a moment and then said only: We’re alike. She kept her gaze on me to make sure I got it and only then moved her hand from my mouth. I said nothing, but it stayed with me. Not because it was true, but because it wasn’t. But she was right about being in love. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night while she was working if I didn’t think she was in love too. No way.
* * *
It wasn’t just weird having an escort girlfriend. Everything normal became weird too, in a way. Even grocery shopping. I would look at her ass as she bent down to pick up onions, put them in a bag, put the bag in the cart. I’d look at her ass, and think about where she may have been last night, where she was during the day, what she seemed like to people in the supermarket. Probably just like a girl with an older boyfriend. Her fingers. Where they had been and what they had done, looking so clean on the cart’s orange handle.
But we lived well. Not with her money, with mine. All the money I used to spend on sex was now available. We bought whatever we wanted, we spent weekends out of town whenever we felt like it. We went to Greece twice; flew to Eilat for dinner just because she felt like it, and returned the same night. She also made more than the monthly fee she owed the Orthodox guy. She bought me clothes. She completely changed the way I dressed. And I let her. I examined myself in the mirror, wearing the clothes she bought me, and thought, Who is that guy? It felt nice. You spend your time with her like that, and you feel like a soldier in a special ops unit or an underground army. Like you’re on top of the world. And then little things. Home. Comfort. Her hair dripping on the back of her tank top after she gets out of the shower. Her sweatpants. Her tweezers when she plucks her eyebrows. You look at a girl plucking her eyebrows and feel like you’ve grabbed the world by the balls. What the fuck? Where did that come from?
* * *
Only her gangster was like a shadow hanging over us. A black cloud on the horizon. He kept booking her. Once or twice a week the black cars came to pick her up. He left her thousands of shekels in tips. And there were signs. One time he slapped one of his goons right in front of her, just because he didn’t like the way he looked at her. When he wanted to meet her someplace other than Yoo Towers, they led her to the meeting place blindfolded so she didn’t know where they were. It reminded me of her little sister with the mask. Wherever it was, one of his apartments, or a hotel room, or an unknown location, he always took her into the bathroom. He wanted her to undress and get in the shower in front of him so he could make sure she wasn’t hiding anything, recording equipment or something like that. And he always took her phone, turned it off, and removed the battery. But she got used to him. He was even nice sometimes. His stories. He wasn’t a normal person. He saw things normal people never see. What drove her mad was that she just needed to say one word and he’d crush that Orthodox loan shark and make all her debt go away. But asking him for something like that meant giving up her freedom. That would be it, she’d be his. No matter how we looked at it, we were stuck with the Orthodox guy.
She didn’t take my advice about acting submissive until he got tired of her. She tried, but it just wasn’t her. She was all about chutzpah and it turned him on. But there was a limit to that too. When he made a romantic offer and she blew him off, he didn’t like it anymore. He offered her an apartment in her name, and a monthly allowance that was higher than what she made. She would never have to work again, he told her. He’d come visit sometimes, and they would have a place to be together. She didn’t just say no, she dissed him, and then, on top of that, she lectured him too. Listen, she said, I’m working here. My heart is not for sale, and if you think I’m going to be your slave, you have another thing coming. This is just a gig for me, this isn’t friendship, and definitely not love. You can take lots of things by force, but not my heart.
He got up and told her their time was up. He took the money he’d left her on the dresser, gave her only what he owed for one hour, and called the driver. Wait downstairs, he said. She got dressed and left, making an angry face. But really she was happy. She thought that might be the end of it, he was finally done with her. Her heart was pounding. His honor might stop him from seeing her again. I told her his honor might make him hurt her. But she said she didn’t think it was like that. Hurting a girl was beneath him, or at least that’s how he presented himself.
She never lost her head, even under pressure. She had common sense and a good eye. I thought she might be right, but it still didn’t seem like the end of it to me. I didn’t say anything, but I thought it might be too early to exhale.
* * *
The paper was doing all right, and I thought maybe the whole legal business would never be an issue. But one day I was visited by two raging feminists. They were so angry they could barely speak. The one who did speak—her voice was shaking. They sat in my office. Maybe they were scared that I was some sort of gangster and that I’d try to hurt them. They wanted to give me a check for 2,000 shekels for a full-page ad. The ad would say: Would you want your daughter to be a prostitute? They even had the design ready. A black ad with yellow type. I told them to fuck off, I wouldn’t do it. So they g
lued the ad to the wall in my stairwell and wrote my name on it with Wite-Out.
My office is one floor above my apartment. Same stairwell. My neighbors could see the ad. And they used the kind of glue you spread over the paper so you can’t peel it off. So no, the answer is no. I wouldn’t want my daughter to be a prostitute. But I don’t have a daughter.
I only noticed the ad was there at two thirty in the afternoon, when I went downstairs to buy cigarettes. I don’t know how long it had been there. Probably like three hours. Shiri was still asleep. I didn’t want her to see it, but the glue was already dry. I peeled it off with a spatula and some of the paint came off the wall with it. I was on the news later. The feminists got stacks of Nightlife from the kiosks and sidewalks and burnt them at Rabin Square. I got a call from Channel 1, asking for my response. I said no comment. It was better to shut up in this case. Shiri read about it online, saw pictures of the bonfire and all those angry women. She thought it was funny. She also thought the picture of me they found from my days as a defense attorney was cute. You look like you’re trying too hard to be serious, she said.
But we had more urgent business to attend to. Victor called. Or his Russian driver did. He booked her for Friday, three days in advance. She told him she had Fridays off. Not this Friday, he said. He gave her a time and hung up. I saw what he was doing. It was no coincidence that he booked her three days in advance. He wanted to give her time to stew. And she did. We both did. She barely worked during those three days, and we barely fucked. She barely ate. She was dressed and made up thirty minutes ahead of time. She wore jeans and a tank top, like any normal day. She sat near the window, smoking and waiting for the driver. The cars showed up right on time and she went downstairs. I watched from the window as she got in and the Lexuses drove off. Then I saw them turn onto Pinsker Street. I paced the house, rapped my knuckles on the walls. I calculated that if he just wanted to talk, it would take two hours at most, including travel time. Two hours went by. Then three. Possibilities started running through my mind. I even thought about calling the police. But what for? If something was wrong, how would they help?
* * *
She got back nearly four hours later. It was almost one a.m. She was pale as a sheet. He hired some chef and let her wait alone in the bedroom while the guy prepared their food. She watched television. He called her out after a little over an hour. They had dinner, just the two of them. The chef served them. Victor was kind of nice. Pretend nice. Polite. Long silences, while he pretended to concentrate on his food. She could hardly swallow. He answered phone calls during dinner, acting like she was a visitor that he had to be polite to. She had no idea where this was going. She tried to speak once, saying, Listen, if there’s something you want, just say so. But he cut her off and went back to eating in silence. She went silent too. He only started talking after dessert. All very politely. Listen, he said, I don’t like prostitutes. You know why? Because prostitutes are filthy. They’re fine for fucking here and there, but nothing more. So you’re a prostitute. So when I touch you, I touch filth. I don’t like the idea of that.
So what do you want to do? she asked.
I’ll tell you what I want to do, he said. You’ll stop working. You’ll come see me and get your pay, two hours a week. That comes up to 12,000 a month. That’s enough for any girl. You can keep doing everything else as usual, but nobody touches you except me.
She met his eyes, took a deep breath, and said no. This is my job and I need the money. You know I need the money. I have a debt to pay. I only sell my time, and my time is yours only when I’m with you. Fifteen hundred an hour. If you think I’m filthy, no one’s forcing you to call me.
He was ready for this; he’s no sucker. So then, quietly, like he was just taking an interest as a friend, he asked: And how’s Ruti doing? Is she coming home for the weekend?
She said nothing. She told me her heart went still when he said her sister’s name. She never even told him she had a sister. He found out. On his own. Victor, she said, that’s my sister, she never hurt anybody, don’t bring her into this.
He ignored her. He spoke like he was her father or a concerned uncle. He raised a finger. Tell her, he said, that it’s safer to lose a few hours of leave and take the bus than to hitchhike. Even a military vehicle can be dangerous. There are Arabs out there, trying to abduct soldiers. And she’s a pretty girl, God forbid somebody rapes her.
She cried. She begged. Victor, she said, what did she ever do?
He dropped the fake tone, stared at her. He let her squirm. Then he turned cold. You’ll stop working right now, he said. He let her cry a little more and then walked over to her. He patted her head. Shh, he said. Enough. Everything’s fine. Sergey will take you home. Then he left her alone at the table. In the car Sergey gave her an envelope with 3,000 shekels.
* * *
When she finished telling me about it, we sat quietly in the living room. We looked at each other. She saw something was bugging me. He said nothing about you, she said. Maybe he only knows about her.
I thought about it. If he knew, he’d have said something. We can keep a low profile, never leave the house together, and hope it works out. I said nothing. The overhead light was on, but it was like the light was hollow and there was darkness inside it.
How am I going pay back 50,000 a month? she said. We took some Bondormin and slept till morning.
* * *
The next morning we sat down with a pencil and a piece of paper, and did the math again. She had eleven payments of 50,000 shekels left to make. Nightlife brought in about 60,000 a month, after taxes, and I was willing to give whatever I could. No problem. But 60,000 was before paying rent for my apartment and office, alimony for my son and his mother in France, living expenses. If I really tightened things up I could give her twenty a month, max. But even if Victor asked her for two hours a week, every week, for eleven months straight, paying her 3,000 shekels each time, meaning 12,000 a month, that only brought us to 32,000. We were still 18,000 short. I could borrow 200,000 against the business with a multiyear payment plan. That could work. It worked on paper, anyway. We decided we could swing it.
I started making arrangements the very next day. But things were different in real life than they looked on paper. She stopped seeing other clients, and when she went to see him, I didn’t feel like I used to. There was nothing hot about it. It was like a dark shadow. I’d watch from the window as she got in a black Lexus and drove away. I’d count the minutes until she was back. I’d lie in bed, and instead of jerking off, I daydreamed about accidents happening to Victor. But I had no intention of trying to mess with a man like that. I could only pray for the police to get hold of him. People like him spend about half their lives in prison. Or maybe we’d get lucky. Maybe he’d grow tired of her. One day.
But so far that hadn’t happened. On the contrary. She wasn’t the cool, jokey, brash girl anymore. He got angry at her for rolling her eyes at him, for not even bothering to fake an orgasm, for behaving like he made her suffer. You turned the light out on my life, she told him, and I can’t get comfortable when we fuck. Sorry. But it was exactly because of this that he didn’t give up. We kept going that way. We had nine more payments to make.
* * *
Then one day I got a call from a detective at the Yarkon Precinct. A guy I knew from my days as a criminal lawyer. A corrupt piece of shit. Benny. The new law is serious, he said. You’d better shut that paper down if you know what’s good for you. I told him to kiss my ass, I only advertised massage services. I have twenty-five files on you, he said. We called the numbers in the ads and the girls talked about fucking. Massage? Who are you kidding? I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. What are you going to do? I asked. If the girls tell me it’s a massage and then talk about sex, how is it my problem? All I know about is massage. They aren’t breaking the law by being prostitutes, so what do you want from me? See you around, I said, and hung up the phone.
I knew my argument
wouldn’t hold water in court. A judge would never believe that I used to advertise escorts and now didn’t know the girls were escorts. But it can’t hurt to play it cool. You never know how much of an effort they’d make to look into it, and I wasn’t sure what the guy wanted. If he wanted to nail me for those offenses, then why would he tell me about it instead of getting an indictment? Something didn’t make sense. So I played it cool for a while.
Two more days went by, then that Benny guy stopped by my office. Polite, official. Wanted to know if he was interrupting, if he was no bother, if he could have two minutes of my time. So I let him in. I made myself a cup of coffee but didn’t offer him any. He pulled out a small tape recorder and played a recording of me telling Shiri’s client that for 1,500 shekels she’d give him head with a condom. Then I suddenly recognized his voice in the recording. There was no more pretending after that. If he made the effort to get me on tape, this wasn’t something that would just go away. I said fine. I told him his two minutes were up and asked if there was anything else he wanted. But then I shut down the paper.
* * *
Now we were stuck. I was out of ideas.
I’ll have to go back to work, she said.
I couldn’t say anything. We both knew there was no choice. She couldn’t advertise. Victor or one of his guys would find her, it would only be a matter of time. Changing her name or number wouldn’t help either.
I said we could try Silvie. With Silvie, things might stay under the radar. She’d heard about Silvie from other girls in the business. I’d known the woman for a long time, though not too intimately. She set up shop in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel. She only served hotel guests. Like any other agency, she charged a 50 percent commission. I thought we might be able to haggle a bit. After all, you don’t find girls like Shiri out on the street. Maybe she’d settle for 30 percent. Her method cut out all the familiar channels. No paper ads, no Internet, no agencies, no business cards out on the street. Autonomy. The hotel bellboys carried Silvie’s business cards. They were the only ones, and they handed them out to men who stayed alone at the hotel, as they were bringing up their suitcases. They only gave cards when it seemed appropriate. They got fifty shekels for any business they brought in. The hotel’s security manager got 200 a night, and made sure nobody kicked Silvie and her girls out of the lobby. The girls sat at the lobby bar each night until closing time, and then hung out in the lobby until around two a.m. That way, clients didn’t have to wait any longer than five minutes. Prices were higher—tourist prices. Four hundred dollars an hour. But Shiri might be able to charge more. Four nights a week, let’s say an average of two jobs a night, that’s at least four hundred dollars, clean. Twelve hundred shekels times sixteen is a little over 19,000. It would be borderline, but at least that way there was a good chance Victor wouldn’t find out.