Tel Aviv Noir

by Etgar Keret

  I answered that I was well. I took down his order carefully, as if I couldn’t remember it by heart. I offered him seasonal winter specials: croutons, strawberries, a six-pack of Krembo. He answered, “Yes, please,” to all of my offers. When you’re a doctor you can afford all the specials. It doesn’t end up actually saving you any money, but it’s fun. The only thing he refused was the Krembo, the one thing I would have definitely bought.

  “There are no kids here, nobody to eat it,” he said.

  “I understand.” I couldn’t say more than that, of course.

  He was silent.

  “Would you like anything else?” I asked, though I didn’t want to end the conversation.

  “Actually, I do want a few more things,” he said.

  It took a moment to register. “Go ahead.”

  “One kilo lentils,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Two kilos rice.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t believe I said that out loud.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What?” My head was tingling.

  “Did you just ask why?”

  “I asked . . . why you wanted rice and not pasta,” I stuttered, “when we have pasta on sale, three packs for ten.” I signaled to Diana to pass me her juice, took a large gulp, and coughed.

  Diana and Stella watched me with concern.

  “Fine, I’ll take some pasta as well.” I could hear him chuckle. “And while we’re at it, do you really want to know why I need all these things?”

  “Only if you want to tell me,” I said weakly, though I never wanted him to remember me making the mistake of asking why. I felt sweat stains spreading under my arms.

  “Then I’ll tell you,” he said. “And maybe you can even help me.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve decided to join a group that brings food to Levinsky Park, maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  “Levinsky Park? We live in the area.”

  “So you must know there are refugees living there,” he said.

  “What, those blacks? In the tents?”

  “Yes, the refugees.” He cleared his throat. “So you’ve seen them.”

  “I told you, I live pretty close.” I couldn’t figure out what he was getting at.

  “Well, I wasn’t fully aware of what was happening there. I haven’t been to the park in years, and it turns out the group that goes there, to Levinsky, is saving those refugees’ lives. These people ran away from war, but they have nothing here—no food, no home, no safety, no protection. They ran from a political war to a war of survival.”

  “No one is forcing them to stay here,” I said.

  “Without getting into that debate, the fact is they’re here now. They’re hungry and tired. And when people are in those circumstances, they do things they later regret. This group is giving them a hand.”

  “And you want to give them a hand too?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Is there a shortage of starving Israelis?”

  “Unfortunately, no, there isn’t. But I’ve wanted to volunteer for a long time, and I find this to be a noble cause, and I’m not ashamed to say it’s also convenient. There’s no bureaucracy, no donations to some questionable foundation. All you have to do is bring a pot of food and hand it out. That’s all. You cook—they eat. It’s the kind of good deed that speaks to me.”

  “That really is kind,” I said. I meant it too.

  “And it’s a mitzvah. Did you know the Bible warns us about how we should treat foreigners no less than thirty-six times?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t know that.”

  “Society’s morality is tested mainly through its treatment of the other, those who are different.”

  Alex Michael didn’t just think I was nice, he was actually having a conversation with me. But I didn’t really have an opinion about all that stuff, so I just asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I need a simple recipe. You seem to know about this stuff, and I’m the kind of person who can even mess up an omelet.”

  “I really am a good cook.” I smiled. “In our neighborhood I’m famous for my cooking.”

  “Great. So I need a recipe for lentils and rice. You already added those to my order. I hear the combination of carbs and proteins is the most nourishing for the refugees.”

  “Don’t you have anybody to help you?” I asked. “I mean, if you’ve never cooked before.”

  “I want to do this myself, precisely because I’m no cook.”

  I knew the real reason. Asking for help is emphasizing that you’re alone. “Okay, then, write down this recipe for red rice.”

  “Red rice? Is it complicated?”

  “Not at all. Red lentils are ready in no time, and you cook them inside the rice. Do you have any cumin?”

  I could tell he was reading off labels from his spice cabinet. “Nutmeg . . . parsley . . . cinnamon? Paprika? Do any of these work?”

  Stella and Diana furrowed their brows at me.

  “I’ll add cumin to your order. It’s 9.99, okay?”

  “No problem, whatever you say.”

  I added tomato paste as well and dictated the instructions.

  When he finished writing them down, he said, “Wish me luck.”

  “Isn’t it scary, going there?”

  “I went there recently with some friends of mine who go almost every day. Not only was it not scary, it was fulfilling.” His voice suddenly trembled. “I don’t know how to describe it. Seeing a hungry person eating something you cooked yourself, and enjoying it, and feeling satiated. You know what that’s like?”

  My stomach cramped.

  “It’s extremely satisfying,” he said. “It makes you forget about everything else—whether they should or should not be here, the Minister of Interior’s decision, the risks. They’re here, they’re hungry. They can’t speak a word of Hebrew, and you can tell they’re in distress. It’s been raining. So why not help them if we can? They’re people, just like you and me.”

  You and me. That excited me.

  “Why don’t you open today’s paper?” he said. “There are pictures. See for yourself. It’s absurd. In the first pages, happy farmers after the first rain. In the last pages, you see pictures of refugees hiding under plastic bags, looking for shelter. You have to look at it.”

  I was already pulling the newspaper from the stack and flipping through it. Their dark faces really were very sad, and their tents were little more than large plastic bags. “I see,” I said quietly. “It’s a crying shame.”

  He sighed.

  “When are you going there?” I asked.

  “I was planning on going tomorrow afternoon. It’s Friday, so I have time.”

  “I have time too,” I almost yelled. “And not only do I have time, but I have pots full of food I don’t know what to do with. My ex-husband has the kids all weekend. I have rice and meatballs, schnitzels, eggplant salad—they’d love my food, the blacks. They won’t know what hit them.”

  He laughed. “That would be great!” Then he lowered his voice. “But maybe . . . you should try calling them Africans or Sudanese, or refugees. It’s none of my business, I know, but they might take offense.”

  “Fine,” I said, but really I was thinking about how I had just said my ex-husband.

  “So if you come around five,” he said, “we can actually meet!”

  “I’ll be there,” I announced happily.

  “You’ll easily recognize me, I wear red glasses.”

  “You’ll recognize me by the smell of good food, doctor.”

  He laughed. “Please call me Alex.”

  “Good night, Alex,” I said and hung up. I felt like jumping up and down, but I held it in. The duration of our conversation blinked on the screen: twelve minutes. In the seven years I’ve worked here I’ve never had such a long call, not with the children, not even when Mati called me from his old job, bored, yelling at me in funny voices: “Hello??? I didn’t get my milk!” “I was charged
for a pack of mineral water I didn’t buy!” “Where are all the condoms I ordered?”

  The phones were ringing off the hook now, but Stella and Diana had to know everything.

  “We’re meeting tomorrow,” I said.

  They clapped their hands, and I stood up and took a bow before I realized I was blushing.

  “What are you going to wear?” Diana asked.

  * * *

  I used to love Fridays, just like everyone else. Errands, cooking, cleaning, no work, quiet, Sabbath candles, family, prayers. But ever since Mati messed up my life, I began hating that day. It’s not that I didn’t value some peace and quiet from the kids, as Mati would say. I did. But I didn’t need Mati to make that call, or Shoshi’s judgment at our dinners. I had stopped lighting candles, stopped saying prayers. Nothing about this day seemed sacred anymore. I sat on the balcony and watched everyone else preparing for the day of rest, while I just waited for it to be over.

  But this Friday morning, I went to work in a great mood. The first thing I did was copy down Dr. Alex Michael’s cell phone number. Just in case. I also took a red plastic delivery crate to carry all the food in. Diana and Stella each brought bags of clothes from home. We couldn’t wait for the shift to be over. When we finally turned off the lights and computers, we locked ourselves in the bathroom like teenagers. Stella pulled out a ball gown with rhinestones and lace, and Diana began laughing. “I told you to bring her high heels. What did you bring her a dress for? You think you two are the same size?”

  Stella examined me. “More or less.”

  “She’s tiny, that one.” Diana pointed at me and laughed. Then she pulled out a beautiful dress, made of sparkling purple sequins. “This is the dress. Made for a princess.” She patted the dress adoringly and sighed. We’d heard about this dress months before when she bought it for her granddaughter’s bat mitzvah. We all lent her some money so she could afford it, and in return, we got invitations to the bat mitzvah.

  “Worth the money, right?” Diana said.

  “Worth it.” Stella felt the fabric.

  “Every shekel,” I agreed.

  “But you can have it only if it fits easily, okay?”

  I tried it on carefully. I could zip it up, no problem. I didn’t have a mirror, but judging by their excitement, I could tell I looked great.

  “There’s a problem with your boobs,” Stella said, and without hesitation pushed her cold hands down my bra and adjusted my breasts. “You grab the bra with one hand, you pull the boob up with the other, and there you go, it’s up.”

  “Take good care of that dress,” Diana said.

  I told her she shouldn’t lend it to me, but she insisted: “A date is a date. It’s not an everyday thing for you.” She clapped her hands with delight.

  When I got home I stretched the dress out on the sofa so it wouldn’t wrinkle. It was luminous, and even though I knew it suited me, I also wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to wear it.

  I put the pots back on the stove to heat them up. I brought out the Sabbath candles. I was glad I hadn’t thrown them away, like how I intended whenever I saw them in the drawer. I prepared the candles, closed my eyes, and my stomach turned over with excitement. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch a bus on the Sabbath eve, and I didn’t want to pay for a taxi. I decided to walk over to Mati’s place and borrow the car; it was still my car too.

  Standing at Mati’s doorway, I was glad to be wearing Diana’s dress. He looked me over. I still wasn’t used to him not kissing me. I glanced inside, expecting to see the kids glued to the television, but they were drawing quietly. They jumped out of their seats when they saw me and hugged me as if it wasn’t only yesterday that they left my house, hardly saying goodbye. They were bathed and the house looked tidy. I hugged and kissed them, then asked how they went to school without their backpacks, and Mati said, “They didn’t go. No big deal, right?”

  The kids looked at me with hesitation, but I smiled and said, “Yeah, no big deal. The most important thing is you had fun.”

  Yeah, they had fun. They went to the beach to watch the big wintery waves and had hot chocolate at a café. That night they were going to order a pizza, they told me with excitement. I made an effort to smile, even though I wanted to scold Mati. What kind of Sabbath dinner was this? Pizza?

  “Where are the car keys?” I asked. “I need the car today.”

  Mati raised an eyebrow. I could tell he’d lost some weight. He’d let his hair grow out, which suited him. He was dying to ask me where I was headed, but he only said, “No problem,” a couple times. Then he picked up the crate of pots and said everything smelled wonderful.

  “Of course. What did you think it was, pizza? It’s a stew, rice, schnitzels, salads. It’s the smell of your home. Why wouldn’t it smell wonderful?”

  I leaned down to hug my daughter before saying goodbye. She asked if I was going to a ball and I said I was and that I would bring her back a surprise. The little one climbed on me, asking to come with me. I hugged them both. The parent who isn’t around is the one they love.

  Mati paused before handing me the keys. “Is it a long drive or a short one?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of gas,” he said. “There isn’t much in there.”

  “Only because of gas?” I smiled.

  He glanced around and finally said, “No, not only because of gas.”

  I didn’t really understand the conversation. I sat in the car and stared back at my family. If he asked me to stay right then, I would have, with the pots. But he just stood there with the kids. I started the car. A French chanson began playing. I drove away. The car was very tidy. A new air-freshener tree hung from the rearview mirror. There were no crumbs on the floor and no lottery tickets, only a dark-red fleece I once bought him on the passenger seat. I touched it and then pulled my hand away. I called Shoshi. I told her not to wait for me. I might make it on time, I might be late, I might not make it at all, and I might come with “him.”

  “With whom?” she asked.

  “I have a date. With a doctor,” I said.

  I wouldn’t say anything more, enjoying this lie. But then I actually began imagining myself showing up at Shoshi’s with Dr. Alex Michael, an orthopedic hand specialist from Bloch Street.

  * * *

  I was familiar with the ugly streets that surrounded the Central Bus Station. Neve Sha’anan, Chlenov, Solomon, HaGdud Haivri, Fin. Sooty streets, in spite of all the rain. Nothing could wash away all that dust and dirt. The market was empty. Blinking lights. Whorehouses. Makeshift casinos. Rotting vegetables rolling around in the streets. Asians, Russians, Africans, walking on the sidewalks or in the middle of the road, going in and out of businesses. Nobody used the crosswalk, everybody stared at me. I locked the car doors. The 59 bus I take to work bypasses the station. God knows how I got myself in this mess.

  I found a parking spot right across the street from the park. I pushed my breasts up inside my dress according to Stella’s instructions and got out. I stood in front of our old car, and remembered I still looked like a princess headed to the ball. Even though I was just there to drop off some pots and say hello to Dr. Alex Michael.

  I put my cell phone and car keys in my purse and stuck it under my arm so I could lift the crate. Two Africans sat on the bench, watching me. I didn’t want to make eye contact, so I just picked up the pots and began walking. They followed me. I clutched my purse tighter. I was worried about my cell phone, it wasn’t insured. One of them came up to me. I walked faster, and he sped up too. Then I stopped abruptly. I put the crate on the ground and hugged my bag to my chest. He stood next to me and I looked around frantically. He pointed at my pots. His clothes were ragged but his shoes, white dress shoes, looked brand new. He bent down to the crate, and though he didn’t say a word, I understood from his gestures that he was offering help.

  Then I saw the line.

  I don’t know why I imagined ten or twenty black people standing around and w
aiting for their food. I’d never seen such a long line of people. There were tons of them, maybe five or six hundred. The newspaper said they’d been living here for almost a year, but I saw no dwellings, only improvised plastic tents. They were all men, all in ill-fitting clothes. All standing quietly. One Israeli volunteer wearing a straw hat walked around handing out plastic spoons from a Plenty Market bag. I felt a knot in my gut. It was because of my party dress. I went back to the car and grabbed Mati’s fleece. Once Dr. Alex Michael saw me, I’d put it on.

  The black guys waited with my crate where I left them, and one of them pointed to the head of the line. That was where food was being handed out, and that was where the man with the red glasses waited. I could feel my heart in my ears. I proceeded gingerly.

  The line moved very slowly, but the Africans didn’t push or yell. Instead they said thank you. My kids could learn from them. The volunteers handing out food looked like workers in a factory. Stella and Diana could learn from them. The sun had set, but the scene was lit up like a garden party. A few volunteers peeked in my pots and thanked me for the food I brought. Lightning illuminated the sky, followed by strong thunder. Everybody peered up. Everybody but me.

  I spotted the red glasses.

  Except for a doctor’s coat, which of course he wasn’t wearing, and the fact that he was a bit shorter than I’d thought, he was just like I’d imagined him. He had a handsome face. Gray hair, broad shoulders. I felt myself blushing. “Doctor?” I said. My voice was hoarse.

  He squinted at me, trying to figure out if he was supposed to recognize me.

  “Didn’t you notice the smell of amazing food?” I smiled.

  He gave me a strange look, and a shudder of fear ran through me.

  “It’s me, from Plenty Market.”

  His face suddenly brightened. I exhaled. He shook my hand warmly. “We finally meet!” he beamed. “It’s about time, I’d say. Listen, when you said you’d come I couldn’t tell if you meant it or if you just wanted to get me off the phone!”

  “Now you know I meant it.” I laughed.

  “So, what do you say? What do you think?”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant what I thought about him or the situation we were in.