Hold on to the Sun

by Michal Govrin

  Mr. Harari lowered the china cup from his mouth to the saucer and said, “The espresso is really very good here.”

  “The lemonade, too.” Mrs. Harari followed suit.

  Hirshel gave the little cup of coffee engulfed between his hands an energetic stir and said, with the self-satisfied air of a man who has just brought a business deal to a successful conclusion, “Yes, yes, not bad. Not bad at all.”

  And Henrietta, bending her whole height over the table, squeezed the lemon in her tea with tiny movements, making innumerable clinking noises with her spoon against the side of the china cup.

  Mr. Honiger took advantage of the pause in Hirshel’s stream of words and began, “A government auditing committee came to my factory in Paris—five Jews, can you imagine?”

  “I’d rather not . . . ” began Monyek Heller, wrinkling his forehead slightly, but Hirshel replaced his little cup on its saucer with a bang, slapped both hands down on the table, and burst tempestuously into the conversation. “Ten days ago when I flew . . . ”

  “And what was your maiden name, may I ask, Mrs. Taft?” Mrs. Honiger turned with a yellow-haired smile to Lusia Taft.

  “Mandelstein,” replied Lusia, and she leaned over the table to make herself heard, “Lusia Mandelstein.”

  “Mandelstein?” repeated Mrs. Honiger, thrusting her pink-clad bosom toward her. “And where are you from, Mrs. Taft?”

  “Tarnów,” replied Lusia. “ And you, Mrs. Honiger?”

  “Chrzanów,” answered Mrs. Honiger.

  “My late husband had family from there,” said Lusia.

  “What was the name?” asked Mrs. Honiger.

  “Romek Taft,” replied Lusia.

  And Mrs. Honiger nodded her head. “We were in Israel until 55, and then we moved to Paris.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lusia, too, nodded understandingly.

  Hirshel’s laughter drew to an end like a roll of thunder receding into the distance, and rubbing his fat hands in satisfaction he turned his attention to the newcomers.

  “So what brings Mr. and Mrs. Harari to us at La Promenade?”

  He flung this out of the corner of his mouth at Henrietta, who was still squeezing the lemon against the side of her china cup. “They’re from Ramat-Gan. Having a little vacation in Europe, eh?” He answered himself, and he was already turning to Monyek Heller about to begin a new subject when Mrs. Honiger said suddenly, “Tell them! Tell them!”—and her pink earrings swayed excitedly on the lobes of her ears.

  Hirshel turned to face her with an air of pleasurable anticipation, and cried, “What, not for a vacation? So you came to get rich at our casino, eh? We have to beware of our Israelis—one of these days they’ll break the bank!” He waved a fat finger at them.

  “It’s not important, Hella,” said Mr. Harari to Mrs. Honiger. “Really it’s not important.”

  “What’s the matter? It’s nothing to be ashamed of! You can tell them,” Staszek Honiger joined in from the other side of the table. “We’re in a free country here!” And he tried to laugh in order to make his encouragement more emphatic.

  Marek Harari lowered the long head sticking out of his suit, and the skin of his neck tightened. He shrugged his shoulders and said in a reflective tone, “What difference does it make? We were in Munich.” And again he concluded with a weary shrug of his shoulders. “Now we’re on our way home.”

  “Really, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” cried Hirshel gleefully. “The mark’s a strong currency, and in business you do whatever’s necessary. It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” And his last words were swallowed up in loud laughter, which tossed both his hands about and ended up in a rapid, triumphant glissando.

  Monyek laughed loyally with him, and Lusia smiled too. But Mr. Honiger persisted all the same in his explanation. “No, they . . . ”

  “We gave testimony in Munich,” said Marek Harari, and he concluded with a limp, downward flap of his hand, “You know what it’s like.”

  “We arrived on Monday,” continued Gusta Harari, “and finished on Thursday. On the way back the Honigers offered us a rest in their flat by the ocean.”

  “On Thursday it was all over, and we went to Paris,” said Mr. Harari again.

  “Who was the case against?” Monyek Heller asked quickly, in an apologetic tone.

  “Heineke,” said Marek Harari, and he shook his pointed head.

  “Heineke?” asked Lusia Taft.

  “What?” asked Monyek.

  “No, I thought . . . ” said Lusia.

  “He wasn’t there!” exclaimed Gusta Harari bitterly.

  “Who wasn’t there?” asked Monyek Heller uncomprehendingly.

  The Honigers, who were already acquainted with the facts, shook their heads in an aggrieved way. Gusta Harari clutched her purse, although it was already firmly ensconced in her lap and said as if she were reciting, “When we arrived they told us that he was sick and couldn’t stand up to the strain of the trial. We waited in the hotel for two days without going out. They told us to be ready to testify the moment he recovered. On Thursday they said they didn’t know when he would recover.They took us to court, and they wrote our testimony down in the protocol. They said that in the meantime they were collecting background information. Then they let us go, and it was over. Fela and Abel Gutt were with us too. From Holon.You know them maybe? Also from Bochnia. They went back on Thursday. We’re going back tomorrow. It’s over,” concluded Gusta Harari, and after a moment she suddenly burst out with a fury ill-suited to the pleasantness of her gray bun, “What good did it do anyone? Tell me—what?”

  “Don’t say that, Gusta,” scolded Marek Harari, as if continuing an old argument.

  “Yes, I know,” Gusta took a firmer grip on her purse, and her face woke momentarily from its darkness. “It’s important, but who to?”

  “What are you saying, Gusta?” asked Mr. Honiger in a soothing but perfunctory tone, “What are you saying?”

  “The Germans?They dragged us all the way there to tell us he was sick,” continued Gusta Harari obstinately. “Our children, perhaps? Better they shouldn’t know. And anyway, they don’t care. They’re too busy with other things.”

  Marek Harari nodded his head, as if he knew all about it and was resigned to the situation.

  “Yes, yes,” said Lusia Taft to herself.

  “Gusta, really, you shouldn’t upset yourself.” Mrs. Honiger threw all the weight of her genial presence into the calming effort. “It’s enough!”

  And Hirshel Feingold drummed his short fingers restlessly on the tabletop and burst out laughing. “They wrote about my painting collection in the papers! You know what they said? The condition for a good investment in art is ignorance!”

  “We’ve never spoken about it to Arlette!” Henrietta Feingold’s voice cut through her husband’s laughter. “Never!” She jabbed her head forward for a moment and then relapsed into her stiff-backed silence.

  “Yes.” Mr. Honiger quickly confirmed, without knowing exactly what, as long as it put an end to the discomfiture. “Yes, today it’s something else again; you can’t go on forever living . . . with . . . ” And since he didn’t know how to go on, he fell silent.

  Monyek Heller said, crossing his legs more firmly, “We deserve a little peace and quiet too, don’t we?” And he smiled carefully at Lusia. But she didn’t notice his declaration because at that moment she was absorbed in the movements of the tiny figures on the edge of the beach.

  Mr. Harari put his lemonade glass down next to the flask of water standing on the table. His glass was dry, and the water flask was empty. He shifted slightly in his chair and drew in his neck again, as if he were trying to fold himself up inside his loose suit.

  Mr. Honiger straightened his checkered cap and directed a polite and perfunctory “Hmm” toward Hirshel Feingold.

  In the end Monyek Heller said, “I think we’ll go eat now. What do you say, Mrs. Taft?”

  Lusia looked back from the beach and replied, “Yes, yes.�
�

  “Excuse us,” said Monyek, and when he stood up he too saw the figures gleaming in the dense light of the sun hanging low in the yellowish mist.

  Lusia carefully straightened the skirt of her suit and patted her hair into place with a heavy hand. She bent down and shook the hands of the people sitting around the table, and when she parted from the Hararis she said, “If we don’t see each other again, have a nice trip.”

  Hirshel, who stood up in order to supervise their departure, made haste to intervene. “You’ll see each other, you’ll see each other,” and he concluded with a patronizing laugh: “We don’t say goodbye so quickly over here.”

  Monyek stretched over Henrietta’s hand. “Mrs. Feingold.” And he escorted Lusia off of the café terrace.

  No sooner had they taken a few steps than they heard Hirshel turning to the people left sitting around the tables: “What’s the matter? Why shouldn’t Monyek marry Mrs. Taft from Tel Aviv? Maybe he should better start running after young girls at his age?”

  “Not so loud, Mr. Feingold.” Mr. Honiger tried to silence him.

  “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Hirshel went on obstinately thundering.

  Lusia Taft turned her head away from the esplanade for a moment and saw the Hararis sitting between Mr. and Mrs. Honiger on the terrace of La Promenade, shrinking a little between the checkered cap and the cheery pink suit.

  They walked up the esplanade, climbing steeply above the bluff. Lusia Taft tugged at her jacket which tended to crease at the back. With one folded arm she clasped her purse to her body and with the other she beat time heavily as they walked, as full of concentration as if they’d just set out on a long strenuous march. Monyek Heller walked beside her with long steps. His head nodded to itself, and his fingers rubbed incessantly together as if he were rolling something between them.

  “What time is it?” asked Lusia.

  “After seven,” replied Monyek.

  “I’ve lost sense of time.” Lusia lifted her head. “I’m not used to such long evenings any more.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Monyek, and he contemplated the ocean which had grown somewhat darker and bluer. His fingers went on rubbing each other, and the signet ring shone as it moved back and forth. He nodded his head and seemed about to say something to Lusia. But he merely smiled distractedly and she smiled mechanically back. Her swollen feet, supported by the buckles of her orthopedic shoes, alternately clattered and dragged on the esplanade.

  At the top of the bluff they passed a stone balcony jutting out from the heights of the esplanade like a pier suspended in midair. A black iron mast pointed at the shifting clouds above it. They passed it without stopping.

  “That’s the Map of theWorld Observatory,” said Monyek, and he laughed a little, as if to apologize for the fact that they’d walked all the way up the hill without exchanging a word.

  “Yes,” replied Lusia, as they started down the hill toward the row of restaurants.

  The ocean air was dense and briney, and the foreign voices spread over the esplanade. She tightened her grip o n her purse and looked at the people sitting on the restaurant terraces, at the festive little flags, and at the slender women walking in front of them along the esplanade on their high, pointed heels. Then she looked at Monyek Heller walking by her side, his head lowered toward the pavement.

  “We’ll eat out tonight, eh?” said Monyek in the end. “We’re on leave from the hotel, we only took half-board.” And he creased his lips in an effort to laugh.

  “Nu, gefilte fish they won’t give us, but we’ll try to make do with French cuisine.” He went on, stressing the words “make do” and tightening his tie in order to affirm his membership in the world of the oceanside resort.

  But the restaurants were full, and the tables outside on the terraces were all occupied too. The diners sat crowded together nibbling at shellfish piled in pale heaps, and it was evident from the satisfaction with which the waiters turned Monyek and Lusia away that business was prospering this weekend at the beginning of summer.

  “Here!” Monyek pointed at an empty restaurant where the tables were all set for dinner, and signaled Lusia to go in in front of him. The waiter who hurried out to meet them shrugged his shoulders and said without enthusiasm, “We’re waiting for an organized group, but if you like we can set one more table for you outside.” He pointed to a table for two standing at the edge of the terrace, close to the glass wall of the restaurant.

  “That’s quite satisfactory,” said Monyek, and cleared the way for Lusia between the tables. He brought up the rear and helped her pull up an iron chair and slide it beneath her, as she straightened the skirt of her suit. Then he pulled up the chair on the other side of the table and sat down.

  Lusia sat up straight in order to proclaim it was a very nice place. She hesitated for a moment and decided in the end against hanging her purse on the back of the chair. She placed it on her knees and clasped it to her bosom.

  “Do you think we’ll see the Hararis again?” she asked.

  “Why?” asked Monyek.

  “I want to give them a letter for Israel. For my children, you know,” said Lusia.

  “Don’t think about it.” Monyek dismissed the subject with a smile and picked up the menu that was standing on the table, and presented it ceremoniously to Lusia. “I’ll translate for you,” he announced, emphasizing the importance of the occasion.

  “Yes, yes.” Lusia opened the folded cardboard menu. “Because if something happens they won’t know where to get in touch,” she said, and stared without seeing at the list of names in the unfamiliar language.

  “Don’t worry, really. We’re here now. There’s a beautiful view, and also . . . ” But Monyek didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Yes, very beautiful!” Lusia quickly agreed, turning down the corner of the menu.

  Monyek took his eyeglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on. The thin lines of the gold frame gave him a scholarly air, arousing speculation as to what he might have become if he hadn’t gone into ladies’ wear. For a moment he concentrated on trying to find the exact Polish equivalent for the names of the dishes on the menu, while Lusia bent stiffly forward, all attention. In the end she said, “Really, it’s all so expensive. The meal, the trip . . . ”

  Monyek interrupted her with a complacent air. “Nu, please. There’s no need . . . ” And he beckoned to the waiter.

  Lusia closed the menu and replaced it carefully on its stand, just as it had been before.

  The waiter wrote down Monyek’s order, removed the two menus, and rapidly poured water into their glasses. Monyek smiled contentedly at the efficient service and glanced at Lusia like a wealthy man showing off his possessions. Lusia took a slice of bread and pinched off a piece between her fingers. She filled her mouth and chewed slowly.

  Monyek smiled and said, “Nu, it’s not easy to find the right woman.”

  “What?” Lusia stopped chewing.

  Monyek rested his hands on the table, but quickly drew back when the waiter arrived and deposited their orders.

  “Bon appétit!” he said to Lusia Taft, as if they were in the habit of exchanging such civilities. He poured a little wine into his glass, tasted it, and then poured for Lusia.

  “Good, the wine is good.” He smacked his lips like a connoisseur.

  Lusia stuck her fork into the steak and began cutting into it slowly.

  “We can still begin again!” said Monyek.

  “Yes,” replied Lusia. She put the meat into her mouth, praising it as she did so. “The meat is very good.”

  “Yes, it’s good,” said Monyek, stretching his legs under the table, and he turned to the plate in front of him.

  They sat chewing, on either side of the table, sipped their wine, and resumed their chewing.

  “Nothing like this in Israel, eh?” said Monyek, scraping the meat from the bone. He straightened his woolen tie and continued, “Everything is so tense ther
e. A hard life. Here at least a person can live in peace. Afford to take a break at an oceanside resort from time to time.”

  The waiter stopped a number of vacationers who were about to sit down on the terrace of the restaurant.

  “Inside if you wish. Outside all the tables are booked!” he said, as they tried to argue with him, pointing in an aggrieved way at Monyek Heller and Lusia Taft.

  When their dessert was placed before them the sun had already set, and the bluish light of the long evening had enveloped the terrace. The esplanade was full of weekend vacationers, and their light clothes were also covered with blue dust.

  They had already placed their spoons next to their glass dishes and Lusia had opened her purse and removed her lipstick in order to freshen the red smear on her lips when a large tourist bus drew up in the street in front of the restaurant. It maneuvered clumsily until in the end it parked right outside the terrace, completely hiding the fishing harbor on the other side of the esplanade and the play of light and evening on the clouds.

  The waiter hurried to the entrance of the terrace in order to welcome the people descending from the bus two by two and talking loudly to each other in German. At their head marched a short, plump man who seemed to be the tour organizer. The waiter ran behind the customers and showed them to their places.The organizer made jokes, and from time to time he slapped the shoulders of the people sitting down. And in the space of a few minutes the terrace was packed full of couples sitting in crowded rows. And all alone in the corner, as in a tiny enclave, stood the table of Monyek and Lusia.

  The manager of the restaurant came out. He was wearing a black suit and a bow tie in honor of the occasion. He too received a friendly slap on the back from the organizer, and then he hurried off behind the waiter to collect the orders from the diners and to see that everything was to their satisfaction. The waiter deposited bottles of beer and wine along the tables, which was greeted with cheers and an outbreak of loud chattering.

  Monyek screwed up his napkin and wiped his mouth with it several times. The waiter banged their glasses of tea down in front of them and hurried off with his tray to serve the German diners.