“Perhaps I can tempt you with a dinner of pupiks at Fink’s in Old Jerusalem. I took Paul Newman there and he fainted with joy from the taste.”
“Maybe the next time around,” said Kleiner.
“By then, there might not be an Israel,” said the official in a sudden attack of melancholy.
“How can you say such a thing?”
“You never know.”
The official’s words were disturbing. Was he suggesting that Kleiner stay behind and fight to the last Jew to defend a country he hadn’t actually visited yet?
Whatever the case, Kleiner decided to stick to the plan of taking Mahmoud to LeFrak City, basically because it had a nice shape to it.
A government car was brought around for Mahmoud so he could return to the Arab Quarter and pick up his luggage.
Kleiner himself was taken directly to Ben Gurion Airport by the handsome naval officer.
“Are there acting opportunities in L.A.?” the man asked as they sped along the highway.
“Yes,” said Kleiner, “but it’s important to go there with a job offer and not start from ground zero.”
The officer clutched Kleiner’s arm. “Do you think I’m right for network television?”
“It’s hard to tell—in this situation. But you look great.”
“I’ll send you my glossies.”
“Please,” said Kleiner, scribbling down his address.
At the airport, the naval officer saw to it that Kleiner was seated comfortably in the VIP lounge. Before taking his leave, he handed Kleiner a fresh slice of halvah and a stack of Vanity Fair—from its heyday under Tina Brown.
Several hours later, Mahmoud returned with his suitcase and was waved through security. It was Kleiner who was pulled aside and subjected to yet another round of irritating questions. This time they wanted to know the names of everyone he’d spoken to in Israel and why he’d spent so much time with a certain Naomi Glickstein.
“She’s a nice person,” said Kleiner.
He saw no reason to bare his soul and admit it was because she had big tits and spoke Yiddish.
Finally, he was released and joined Mahmoud on the tarmac.
“I can’t believe this,” said Kleiner. “They let you through and break my balls.”
“It pays to have influence,” said Mahmoud with a chuckle.
Kleiner noted it was the first joke attempted by the Arab since their initial meeting.
Mahmoud put an arm around Kleiner’s shoulders and began to lead him toward the aircraft as if he were an invalid.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Kleiner, pulling away.
“As you wish,” said Mahmoud. “And Dad sends his best.”
Aboard the plane, both men took seats in Business Class and began a silent battle for the single armrest that separated them. Kleiner finally took a higher position, conceding the preferred spot to the Arab. Though hardliners would disagree, perhaps this conciliatory attitude—about an armrest—is what was missing in the quest for peace in the Middle East. Kleiner dismissed the thought. Diplomacy was clearly not his strong suit. He may not have had a strong suit.
Kleiner focused his attention on the handsome redheaded stewardess who had been assigned to them. Mahmoud noticed her as well, and the two men began yet another undeclared struggle—this one for her attention. All thoughts of Middle Eastern peace went out the window. How many times had Kleiner heard it said about himself that he was a fine fellow—except when it came to the pursuit of women? Kleiner discreetly made mention of his directorial credits while the Arab entertained her with stories of Gustav Mahler’s early fumbling efforts as a composer.
As they headed over the Atlantic, the stewardess excused herself and slipped behind a closed curtain, joining a passenger who had announced, early in the flight, that he was Harrison Ford’s dentist.
“She’s very attractive,” said Kleiner graciously.
“Really?” said Mahmoud. “I didn’t think so.”
Much thrashing seemed to go on behind the curtain. With some irritation, Kleiner broke off a piece of halvah to calm his nerves. As he raised it to his mouth, a small creature with a long nose popped out of Mahmoud’s shirt and snatched it from his fingers, then ducked back in.
“What was that?” asked Kleiner.
“My dog,” said Mahmoud. “I couldn’t bear to leave him home.”
“Why wasn’t I told about him?”
“I didn’t want to rock the boat.”
“Just keep him out of sight,” said Kleiner.
He had nothing against dogs but suspected the creature might not actually be one.
“All right,” said Mahmoud, “but Yasser needs at least one exercise walk around the cabin.”
He paused for a moment.
“And I hope he doesn’t die … like his brother. For months they couldn’t console me.”
“He won’t die,” said Kleiner, who, of course, couldn’t guarantee this prognosis.
He turned his back on the infuriating Arab and began to read a series of Russian plays. They were lugubrious in nature, which made for slow going. By the time he’d gotten through Ivanov—and the hero had shot himself—the plane was circling JFK.
Kleiner looked out and was impressed as always by the thunder and brightness of the metropolis below.
“Something, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” said Mahmoud. “But what about Dayton?”
“What about it?” said Kleiner. “You’re looking at the greatest city on Earth. How can you ask about Dayton?”
“I can’t help it,” said Mahmoud. “As a boy I would lie out on the desert and dream of Dayton’s wonders.”
At this point, Kleiner was ready to drop Mahmoud off at the airport and say goodbye to him forever. But as the plane touched down, the boy turned to him with a look of tears and innocence.
“What you did for me was wonderful, Mr. Kleiner. Someday I too hope to have power and influence in my community, as you have in yours.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Kleiner.
“Maybe I’ll be able to smuggle a Jew out of a place he doesn’t want to be.”
“You never know.”
Though his plan had been to part company with the Arab the second they hit the ground, Kleiner now reversed himself and insisted that Mahmoud stay with him until the wedding.
“That’s not necessary,” said Mahmoud. “I’ll get a room in a filthy tenement.”
“Out of the question,” said Kleiner. “You’re coming home with me.”
There was, of course, a measure of guilt in his behavior. To turn an unworldly Arab loose in hell-for-leather Manhattan was borderline irresponsible. And they had come so far. Then, too, Kleiner had spent a lifetime making decisions that were contrary to his best interests.
The two found a cab easily enough and were soon cruising along Northern Boulevard, past fresh new clubs that Kleiner hadn’t seen before.
“Titty bars,” said Mahmoud, his eyes wide with delight. “Can we stop and go into one?”
“It’s late and I’m tired.”
“Oh, please, Mr. Kleiner. It will serve as my bachelor party.”
“That’s for the groom,” said Kleiner.
“My brother is not that sort,” said Mahmoud sternly.
Kleiner, who in truth didn’t have that much to rush home for—and was curious about the new clubs—agreed to make a brief stop.
The one they chose was a huge and drafty place where men from all nations flung money at women who danced on platforms, wearing only boots. When the guest star was announced, Mahmoud, who appeared to know something about her, could not believe his good fortune.
“Melinda Bunns,” he said, his eyes shining. “Wait till I tell my friends back home. Do you know how many times I’ve jerked off over her?”
> “I can’t imagine,” said Kleiner.
The star, a heavy-chested blonde with disproportionately thin legs, danced to a Michael Jackson recording, then twirled erotically on overhead ropes. When her act was concluded, she received enthusiastic applause and climbed down from the ropes to mingle with the patrons.
Mahmoud stepped forward to introduce himself.
“This is a great privilege,” he said. “I’m a great admirer of your hooters.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” said the star. “Where are you boys from?”
“I’m local,” said Kleiner.
“And I’m from Israel,” said Mahmoud.
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of it. I understand it’s lots of fun.”
“We have troubles, too,” said Mahmoud gloomily.
“Don’t we all,” said Melinda, offering one of her breasts for a kiss. “Maybe one of these babies will cheer you up.”
Kleiner politely declined, Mahmoud turned away shyly—and only Yasser took her up on the complimentary offer, emerging from the Arab’s shirt for a few licks.
“Why, that’s the sweetest thing,” said Melinda Bunns, patting the mongrel’s nose. “Would you believe I’ve never worked with a dog?”
As they stood in the lobby of Kleiner’s building waiting for the elevator, Mahmoud scanned the tenant directory.
“Why isn’t your name listed?” he asked Kleiner.
This was a touchy subject. Kleiner explained that he sublet the apartment from Ralph Himmel, his producer, paying only a modest fee for the handsome duplex, a fraction of its worth. But since the arrangement was illegal, he had to live in the building in stealth, slipping in and out with as little fanfare as possible. Also, the producer reserved the right to use the flat as an emergency set for his films. On such occasions, crews would arrive unannounced to gather up Kleiner’s furniture, stacking it up in the hallway to make room for their sound and lighting equipment. At the end of the shoot, they would bring back the furniture. In truth, they were conscientious about putting his possessions back in the proper place, right down to the last ashtray.
Still, the loss of privacy was a tremendous price to pay for Kleiner. Admittedly, he lived in luxury—but with a tight stomach. The second he relaxed, the furniture went out the door.
When Mahmoud heard of the arrangement, his eyes narrowed.
“You shouldn’t have to live this way,” said the Arab, baring his teeth. “I know how to deal with such people. Where can I find this person? Where does he live? I’ll go after him with a bat.”
“That’s a little extreme,” said Kleiner, who shared his sentiments entirely. “There’s no reason to be so upset. It’s a wonderful apartment.”
They were joined in the elevator by Kleiner’s next-door neighbor, a plump, hairless man in his seventies who carried a pet monkey in his arms. Attached to the UN, he claimed to be a South American. But his carriage was stiff and he spoke with a vaguely middle-European accent, causing Kleiner to suspect him of being an ex-Nazi who had slipped through the net.
“Are you coming to the tenants’ meeting?” he asked, a sadistic question, since he was aware that Kleiner lived in the building under a cloud.
Kleiner averted his eyes. “If I have time.”
“I understand there’s some question as to your legality here. Still, try to be there,” said the UN man, petting the monkey and continuing the torture. “I’m sure everyone would love to see you.”
The man was saturated with cologne. By the time they reached the top floor, Kleiner was gasping for air, convinced it would take him a week to rid himself of the cloying fragrance.
“Can you believe that cologne?” said Kleiner as he and the Arab approached the apartment.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mahmoud, sniffing at his shirtsleeves. “I think it’s nice.”
Though it wasn’t his and never would be, Kleiner took pride in the spacious duplex. He gave Mahmoud a quick tour before settling him in the guest bedroom.
Mirrored from floor to ceiling, it had black and silver furnishings, a holdover from Himmel’s S&M fling in the ’70s.
“Thank you, Mr. Kleiner,” said Mahmoud after a quick look around. “I’ve never had a real boy’s room before.”
“Now you have,” said Kleiner, who was touched by the young man’s gratitude.
Exhausted from the long journey, Mahmoud stretched out on the bed. Before long he was fast asleep, with Yasser curled up at his feet. Kleiner covered him with his best blanket and was tempted to kiss his forehead. He held back for fear that the gesture would be misinterpreted. Still, as he looked at the peaceful young Arab and his dog, he felt that in some odd way, for the first time in years, he presided over a household.
Wearily, he went upstairs to his own bedroom, which had walls of white brick and was encased in a glass capsule. On a clear night, he could see a shower of stars. Lying back on the huge bed he had been forced to buy from Himmel, he looked out on the terrace and saw his neighbor’s monkey swing by, as if in welcome, to piss on his one bush. Through the walls of the other adjoining apartment, he could hear the hacking cough of a top cardiologist. And on the floor below, Mahmoud cried out in his sleep for the souk, the dog accompanying him with its own thin howl.
With a surprising degree of comfort, Kleiner closed his eyes and was asleep in an instant.
The next morning, Kleiner found Mahmoud sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor, poring over a faded album of pictures he had found in a sealed carton.
“Who gave you permission to do that?” Kleiner asked angrily.
“You have a lovely family,” said Mahmoud. “Why be ashamed of them?”
Though the Arab had no business going through his private papers—and the comment was beside the point—Mahmoud had struck a nerve. To a degree, Kleiner was ashamed of his parents; they were short in stature. In the photographs, they wore cheap and dated clothing. With a look she took to be seductive, his mother flashed broken gypsy teeth while his father gave off the dull look of failure—at least in business.
“This is my favorite,” said Mahmoud, holding up a picture of Kleiner and his father at the base of the Statue of Liberty.
He had always thought of his father as a cold and indifferent man. Yet in the picture, the older man had his arm draped protectively around young Kleiner’s shoulders. The picture was taken at a time when Kleiner was no more than a bag of bones, a sympathetic reaction to the horrors of Dachau. It showed clearly that his father loved him after all, even though it had taken an Arab from far-off Jerusalem to point it out.
He thought of his mother’s final words: “Make sure to have fun. I certainly did.”
It was an excellent legacy that Kleiner had failed to carry out, although he planned to start momentarily.
“I’ll take this one,” he said, pocketing a picture of his parents together at a wedding. He was determined to have it put in an expensive frame and to take it with him on trips—to make up for the lost years.
“Put the rest away.”
Since there was no food in the apartment, the two men had breakfast at a tiny diner on noisy First Avenue. Though Mahmoud insisted he wasn’t hungry, he ate his way through half the menu.
“These are the greatest eggs on Earth,” said the Arab, who, Kleiner noted, was prone to exaggeration. “I don’t know how they do it.”
“They’re brought in each morning by Palestinians, fresh from New Jersey.”
“I should have known.”
In the busy street, Mahmoud asked Kleiner for directions to F.A.O. Schwarz so he could buy his brother a present. The fabled toy emporium seemed an unlikely place to find a wedding gift, but Kleiner showed him how to get there anyway. Then he returned to the apartment to sort out his location shots, so that he could FedEx them to Himmel on the coast.
As he sat down at his desk, he noticed a manila envel
ope propped up against his old-fashioned Remington typewriter—with a note attached.
Dear Mr. Kleiner,
I’d appreciate it if you’d glance at the enclosed—if you have a moment.
Faithfully, Mahmoud
Kleiner looked inside the envelope and saw that it contained a screenplay, the last thing he needed to deal with at the moment. He found other people’s screenplays murderously difficult to read. He put Mahmoud’s envelope on a shelf in the kitchen, as far from his desk as possible, and began to work. But soon his curiosity got the best of him. He decided to glance at a few pages.
To his horror, he quickly became intrigued. The story was that of a blind young woman who is brutally raped in Canarsie. She virtually feels her way across the country in pursuit of her assailant, eventually confronting him in the far-off Pacific Northwest. Though crudely organized and unnecessarily weighted down with desert parables, the scenes flew by with a rough fury. There were at least a dozen surprises along the way. The whole of it culminated in a courtroom scene that was both witty and riveting. Major roles existed for both male and female stars. In short, the piece contained all of the dramatic ingredients that Kleiner had resisted in his own work for fear of being thought unsophisticated and losing his puny cult following.
How had the Arab been able to come up with such brilliant work?
The only explanation was that Mahmoud had attended an unheralded film course in the Jewish school that he kept yammering on about—one that, for all Kleiner knew, was secretly funded by Steven Spielberg.
Kleiner was tempted to return the script to Mahmoud, telling him he was wasting his time. But he couldn’t bear to have it said of him that he stood in the way of art. Unmistakably, and infuriatingly, this was a work of art.
Kleiner bit the bullet. He included the screenplay in his FedEx package, suggesting that if Himmel had a spare moment, it might be of some small interest.
Later in the day, Kleiner called Naomi Glickstein and got through to her without difficulty. The two arranged to meet at a bar of Kleiner’s choosing in the Gramercy Park area, one that was not only convenient but also a magnet for beautiful young fashion models. Kleiner had once dated such a person, who maintained that all models were dumb—with the exception of her.
The Peace Process Page 17