The Peace Process

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Mahmoud confessed he had eaten a pizza earlier in the day and had little appetite. He excused himself and left the two men alone in the room.

  “Special hummus,” said Mr. Salah. “It’s a recipe that’s been in the family for generations. Many have begged me to commercialize it, but each time I’ve refused. Please don’t ask me how it’s made.”

  Kleiner was slightly offended. Did the Arab think he had nothing better to do than sit around and grind chickpeas, following some arcane specifications?

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Good. Give it a try.”

  After tasting the dish, Kleiner saw that its secret was worth guarding. Few dishes were capable of changing his life—but this may have been one of them.

  When they had finished their meal, Mr. Salah said, “I wouldn’t pay much attention to the wedding.”

  “But it means so much to him.”

  “A phase,” said Mr. Salah, waving off Kleiner’s words. “My youngest son will get married many times.”

  Then why let him get married now? Kleiner wondered. But he remained silent, concluding that the ways of the Arab world were complex and foreign to his understanding.

  “Would you care to watch a videocassette with me?” asked Mr. Salah after they’d had coffee. “It stars the American actor William Hurt, a favorite of mine.”

  Kleiner admired Hurt as well, but didn’t think he could watch one of his slow-paced movies with stitches in his head.

  “I’d better get back.”

  “Then let me give you this,” said Mr. Salah.

  He reached into a cabinet and took out a quart bottle of what appeared to be the treasured hummus.

  “For the hotel,” he said, handing it to Kleiner. “Make sure it’s heated at an even temperature.”

  Kleiner thanked the congenial Arab, then entered Mahmoud’s room to say goodbye.

  The young Arab was resting peacefully on a divan.

  “Your father is a wonderful man.”

  “If one could follow in his footsteps.”

  “One can.”

  Kleiner looked around the neatly kept room. There were tropical fish in a tank, a high school diploma, toy dinosaurs on a desk. On a shelf, the complete works of the great Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz. Also, a copy of Number One with a Bullet, an exposé of the recording industry. On the walls were pictures of Mahmoud, riding a pony in the desert, blowing out birthday candles, kneeling with a protective arm around a younger man who resembled him and might have been his brother.

  Kleiner turned to Mahmoud and looked at him, as if for the first time. His hair was thinning slightly, his eyes were green and clear; the nose that Kleiner had smashed was flattened out now, giving him the look of a Plains Indian. In a rush of emotion, he put his arms around the young Arab, pulled him to his chest, and with tears in his eyes, said:

  “I will take you to LeFrak City.”

  PART TWO

  The girl that I marry. New Haven. Traffic court. A justice of the peace. Kleiner’s idea. Emma, wildflowers in her hair. Becky clinging to his leg. It was Kleiner’s second try at marriage.

  This time he’d get it right.

  A brave promise, indeed, but could Kleiner carry it out? If he showed up at the airport with a controversial Arab, the Israelis would laugh in his face. And obviously, you couldn’t just stroll across Israel’s borders, which were ringed with hostile states. That included Egypt, which was a little less hostile. A Jew and an Arab would be shot on sight, and that’s if they were lucky. Additionally, the Israelis had made it perfectly clear they wanted Mahmoud to stay right where he was, so they could keep an eye on him.

  How had Kleiner gotten himself into this situation?

  It’s true that Mahmoud had carried him on his back to the clinic and no doubt saved his life. Yet that alone did not entirely explain the obligation he felt toward the Arab. It was only when Kleiner had looked at the contents of Mahmoud’s room—and saw that he was a boy like any other—that he decided to enter into this strange and seemingly hopeless compact.

  Kleiner called for a cab to take him back to the hotel.

  “Sit tight,” he told Mahmoud, reaching over to give him another hug.

  The Arab drew away from him.

  “Enough is enough,” he said. “And how am I supposed to relax when the wedding is in two days?”

  “I need time to think,” said Kleiner. “This is new territory for me.”

  All along, Kleiner had insisted he was without powerful friends, which wasn’t quite true. He had one, Louis Blumenthal, an influential fund-raiser and pro-Israel lobbyist who had been known to leap over restaurant tables to confront diners he suspected of harboring negative feelings about the Jewish state. A fiery little rooster of a man, Blumenthal was five feet tall and bald, yet saw himself as Cary Grant and moved like a dancer. Incredibly, he had a long list of romantic conquests, many of them brassiere models. He had a henchman who kept an eye out for hefty candidates. Blumenthal had been made an honorary general in the Israeli Army; on his trips to Jerusalem—he never stayed long—he was immediately flown to the borders for a look at the country’s strategic fortifications and to see the dangers it faced.

  The two had remained friends since college, mostly because Blumenthal had once seen Kleiner, in a tuxedo, stroll into the Waldorf-Astoria with Clint Eastwood. It was an accident—the two had been forced to share a cab in the rain. There was little communication between Kleiner and the star—a brief exchange about Eastwood’s profit participation in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly—but Blumenthal was convinced that Kleiner had major connections in the film industry and would be able to work him into it in some capacity.

  The trouble with Blumenthal is that he was notorious for demanding huge favors in return for his assistance. For this reason, Kleiner had been careful not to ask him to so much as pass the salt, fearing what it would cost him in the future. But if anyone could reach the levers of power in Israel, it was Louis Blumenthal.

  When he arrived at the hotel, Kleiner called Blumenthal and reached him at his flat, which was only a few yards away from the Stage Delicatessen—in case, God forbid, he was caught short for a pastrami sandwich.

  “What are you doing in Israel?” asked Blumenthal.

  Kleiner heard moaning in the background.

  “For Christ’s sakes,” Blumenthal said, no doubt to one of his brassiere models, “can you at least stop for two minutes?”

  “And you can’t call him back?” the woman’s voice pleaded.

  “We can pick it up, Tiffany,” he said. “We got another half hour.”

  “Hef would never have taken the call.”

  Blumenthal seemed amazed that someone had traveled to the Jewish state without first consulting him.

  “Dayan would have flown you over the borders to show you why we can’t give up an inch of territory.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” said Kleiner. “I’m working on a movie.”

  “So we’ll work on it together,” said Blumenthal. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a Jewish Star Wars. But I’m only a location scout.”

  “Bullshit. You can squeeze me in.”

  Aware that he was making a mistake, Kleiner said vaguely that he’d see what he could do. Then he told Blumenthal he’d met someone in room service at the King David and promised to help him attend a wedding in LeFrak City.

  “The Israelis are giving him a hard time and I need your help.”

  “Why are you bothering me with this shit? And Tiffany, can you leave the petzel alone for two minutes? Oh, so now it’s a petzelah? You’re lucky I got you a job. Now, where were we?”

  “It means a lot to me,” said Kleiner.

  “All right,” said Blumenthal with a sigh. “What’s his name?”

  “Mahmoud Salah.”


  “An Arab?”

  Kleiner could see Blumenthal setting aside his huge Macanudo cigar.

  “Yes, but he’s more than that. If you met him, you’d understand what I mean.”

  “You’re getting crazier by the minute,” said Blumenthal. A right-wing lunatic when it came to Israel, he also had a maverick side. “I’ll make a few phone calls.”

  “Thank you, Louis,” said Kleiner. “And how are you getting along?”

  He was pleased with himself for asking the question, having coached himself to inquire about other people’s fortunes even when he wasn’t that interested.

  “I’m a little short,” said Blumenthal. “A lousy ten grand would set me straight.”

  “I see,” said Kleiner, who was sorry he had asked.

  There was a pause that seemed to last two hours. He thought about his credit-card debt, and the few dollars he had in the bank for an emergency. Did the Arab’s situation fall into that category? Mercifully, Blumenthal broke the silence and said he’d get back to Kleiner.

  With the influential lobbyist working on his behalf, Kleiner allowed himself to relax and prepare for bed. In the bathroom, he lifted the bandage on his head to check his wound, then slapped it back in horror. Though the doctor’s work was elegant and meticulous, the wound had been stitched in such a way that it resembled a fragment of the Dead Sea scrolls. In the future, whenever Kleiner entered a restaurant or ordered a drink at a bar, his head would boldly announce his heritage—as if his face wasn’t enough.

  Kleiner slept fitfully. He had a troubling dream in which all the books in his local library, including the technical manuals, were written by Joyce Carol Oates. Kleiner prided himself on being able to unlock the secrets of his dreams. But try as he might he was unable to establish a connection between the bookish nightmare and his plan to help an Arab make a getaway to Queens. (An escape from the thunderous output of Oates? Absurd, since he admired much of her work, particularly the short stories.)

  Responsibly, Kleiner scouted a few locations the next day—some Stations of the Cross that he had overlooked—and the Knesset, where Hilly arranged for him to sit in Shamir’s old seat.

  “How does it feel?” asked Hilly as Kleiner made himself comfortable and pretended he was introducing a housing bill.

  “Like a million dollars.”

  Later in the day, the two men repaired to the hell-for-leather little bar on Netanyu Street.

  “Some important business has come up,” he told Hilly. “I have to cut my trip short.”

  Hilly said he was sorry to hear that. The two men embraced.

  “Goodbye, old friend,” said Hilly, as if they were wartime comrades.

  As it happened, Kleiner had served as a supply sergeant in Korea—so he didn’t feel like a total fraud.

  “We’ve come so far and been through so much,” the Israeli continued.

  Here too Kleiner disagreed, but saw no reason to contradict his emotional friend.

  “Next time you come to Israel, I hope you rent an apartment and become a real Jew for a change.

  “If not,” he added ruefully, “maybe you can find something for me in New York. I’ve been thinking of a switch to hotel management.”

  The two men parted. Kleiner, though he barely knew the Israeli, was strangely moved by the separation. It seemed to him that every two seconds the fates arranged for him to say goodbye to someone. All of it, of course, leading up to the final send-off. Was it worth it to say hello?

  At the hotel, he checked his messages to see if there was any word from Blumenthal. When such was not the case, he phoned the lobbyist, who said he was sorry but that he couldn’t do anything after all.

  “I tried Sharon, but Arik is out of the country. Everyone else is on vacation … Bibi, the young kid Begin, you name it.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Forget it,” said Blumenthal. “It was a cockamamie idea to begin with. I checked on your Arab, and he is not taken seriously.”

  “But that’s just it. I take him seriously.”

  “You’re wasting your time. And next time you go to Israel, maybe you’ll check with me in advance.”

  Kleiner was surprised and disappointed when he hung up the phone. For all of the boasting about his prestige in Israel, Blumenthal had come up empty in the crunch. Either that or he hadn’t even tried to help. Maybe Blumenthal had expected Kleiner to wire him the ten thousand. It would have had to come out of a shaky pension fund, his only assets.

  Whatever the case, Kleiner saw that he would have to go it alone. Normally, he was a man who needed help to tie a shoelace. But when pressed to the wall, he felt he was as good as anyone. Unaided, he’d once found his way out of a hopeless traffic jam in the nation’s capital. When it came to mechanics, he thought of himself as being all thumbs. Yet trapped in a summer cottage in rural Maine, he’d installed a VCR.

  Buoyed by these recollections, Kleiner opened his atlas and studied Israel’s precarious position on the map—as well as his own. How could he and Mahmoud slip out of the country without attracting undue attention?

  Immediately he ruled out Syria as an escape route. It was his feeling that even if the Golan Heights were handed over on a platter, Damascus would remain unfriendly to the Jews. He knew this from personal experience, having had to confront a pair of Syrians in a casino in Cap d’Antibes when they’d prayed for him to lose at blackjack.

  “Basse, basse,” they’d muttered, confident he didn’t understand French, which to a certain extent he did.

  Jordan, too, was an unattractive option. He pictured Mahmoud and himself being kept under guard in a once-grand but now-shabby hotel, with only basic amenities while the Hashemites conducted endless arguments over their fate.

  That left Egypt—aloof, enigmatic, not friendly, not entirely hostile. He felt that after a day or two of Sphinx-like considerations, the Egyptians, drawing on ancient diplomatic skills, would send them on their way, prepared to stand up to Israel which needed at least one quiet neighbor on its borders—and a potentially strong trading partner.

  Kleiner misplaced a sweater and thought he’d check Emma’s closet. A shower of pills and empty vodka bottles came raining down on his head. He packed a suitcase and was gone.

  Kleiner looked at the southernmost tip of Israel and saw that it was only a hop, skip, and a jump from the Sinai. The thought ran through his head that Mike Kleiner, a favorite uncle who had gone in after Pancho Villa in the Mexican War—was an Anwar Sadat lookalike.

  With a dramatic flourish, he circled the city of Eilat.

  Having made his decision, Kleiner called Mahmoud and told him to prepare to leave Jerusalem at dawn, taking along as little as possible.

  “Ideally, just what you can carry on your person.”

  “That’s impossible,” said the young Arab. “It’s a formal wedding. I have to bring a tuxedo, spats—”

  “Can we forget spats?” said Kleiner with irritation. “This is not about spats. And you can rent a tux in New York.”

  “I wear a forty-two long. With all respect, Mr. Kleiner, I’ll need at least two suitcases.”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  “Then why don’t we forget it? I’ll send my brother a present and we can save ourselves a lot of trouble.”

  “Now, look,” said Kleiner in a fury. “You’re going to that wedding. I didn’t come this far to call the whole thing off.”

  “All right, Mr. Kleiner,” said Mahmoud with a sigh. “But remember, this was your idea.”

  Kleiner hung up, amazed at his own behavior. The Arab had given him an out. Why hadn’t he taken it and run like a thief? For one thing, he felt that Mahmoud’s change of heart was insincere. He knew how passionately the young Arab wanted to attend his brother’s wedding. More to the point was a flaw in Kleiner’s basic nature—an inability to change di
rection, which had been costly to him in sports, dancing, and lovemaking, to name just a few of the troubled areas. Once embarked on a course of action, he remained committed to it, even when it was patiently explained to him that he was making a fool of himself. Some called this insecurity. Most didn’t bother to call it anything.

  With little time to be lustful, Kleiner nonetheless called Naomi Glickstein to say goodbye.

  “I’m so glad you called,” she said. “Can you come by my room? I have something to show you.”

  Kleiner abandoned his plan to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for the dangerous journey.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  As he entered her room, Kleiner noted with some disappointment that Naomi was wearing another of her tailored career-woman outfits. He wondered if she slept in one.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to a videocassette on the cocktail table. “I ordered it up from the concierge.”

  Kleiner glanced at the label and saw that it was his first and possibly only successful movie, at least in terms of the critical reception.

  “You’re a classic, Kleiner,” she said, taking both of his hands. “I had no idea.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “I haven’t watched it yet, but I recall Sol saying it was excellent, especially the first half.”

  “The second half had merit too.”

  “I’m going to put it on as soon as I do my nails. But why are you leaving so fast? And what happened to your head?”

  “I cracked it in the Chapel of the Ascension.”

  “No wonder you’re leaving,” she said.

  “That’s not it,” said Kleiner.

  Though he’d vowed not to tell a soul about his plan, he proceeded to describe it in immaculate detail.

  “And this is what you want to do?” said Naomi.

  “I have to.”

  “Then do it,” she said with fervor, putting her arms around him. “Or you’ll never be able to live with yourself. And take me with you.”