by Marek Hlasko
“You’ve killed a man,” Israel said. “Is that nothing?”
“You know why I did it.”
“I know much more,” Israel said. “I know that one day you’re going to kill yourself. That’s why I’m telling you all this. One night when you won’t be able to fall asleep you’ll suddenly realize that you should have done it long ago. And then you’ll be in such a hurry to do it you won’t have time to think it over.” He got up and went to the window. They hadn’t turned on the light; he lifted the curtain and stood bathed in the weak glow coming from the window on the opposite side of the yard. “She’s still waiting,” he said. “Isn’t it awful?”
“What?” Dov asked.
“That people learn from others things they should know themselves. Take Esther. Or Ursula. Or me, or you.”
“What do you want from me?” Dov asked. He spoke softly, looking very tired; Israel could barely see his face in the light falling past his shoulder. “Do you want me to get into new trouble?”
“That woman will give you sleep,” Israel said.
“No. Just because you liked it with her doesn’t mean I’ll like it too. I’ve tried going to bed with other women but it never was the same. Never.”
“I thought about it last night,” Israel said. “I switched on the light and watched her go to the bathroom. And I saw her feet leave wet marks on the tiles. It made me think of Dina, your wife. And of you. I thought of you lying here in the dark trying to fall asleep. And I knew you’d stay awake until morning. Wasn’t I right?”
Dov got up. He walked to the window and tugged the curtain down. Israel saw his face up close: it was pale and weary, a mask.
“Yes,” Dov said.
“Go to her,” Israel said. “She’s waiting for you.”
“I haven’t stood trial for rape yet,” Dov said. “And I don’t intend to.”
“What do you mean, rape?” Israel said. “Everybody knows she’s after you. Esther. Your old dad. Your brother.”
“And you too?”
“And me too,” Israel said.
“No,” Dov said, “I can’t do that. I don’t know why but I can’t.”
“You’re afraid of her,” Israel said. “You’re not afraid that you won’t enjoy fucking her but that she won’t enjoy being fucked by you. Is that right?”
“You’re a bastard,” Dov said. “A stupid bastard with a big mouth. Why do I take such a bastard with me everywhere I go?”
“Because you’re a pal,” Israel said. “There are guys who’d slug me for telling them the truth.”
“Remember it was you who said she was after me; I didn’t,” Dov said. He grabbed his shirt from the back of a chair and went out.
“Not only me,” Israel said. “Everybody did.”
He went to the corner where their canvas bag stood and rummaged in it until he found a small vial of sleeping pills. He took out two pills, threw the bag back in the corner, and went to the kitchen to get some water. When he returned, he stopped for a moment by the window, staring toward the light coming from the other house; then he pulled the curtain back in place. It was quiet; he turned off the fan and lay down. He could hear the wind blowing from the bay and traveling over the dark landscape in the direction of the mountain range and on toward the desert where everything was bright and distinct in the moonlight.
DOV CROSSED THE DARK YARD AND WALKED INTO THE house. He leaned against the doorjamb of Ursula’s room and stood there, staring at her sitting on the bed; she turned her head away when she saw him and didn’t look at him again.
“You’re surprised, aren’t you?” she asked, finally.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, turning her slim, weary face in his direction. “I can tell you’re surprised. You’re surprised that I’m not surprised. Aren’t you? But it’s not as complicated as you may think. Israel told me he’d come at eight. By the time it was half past eight, I was pretty sure that it would be you who would come, not him. It’s past eleven now. I’ve been expecting you for three hours.”
“I can leave,” he said. “I can leave at once.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I believe everything I hear about a woman,” Dov said. “And everything a woman tells me.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t leave yet. Don’t leave until you tell me why you came.”
“Do I have to tell you that?”
“You must have been thinking something while crossing the yard,” she said. “Don’t you have enough courage to tell me what it was?”
“It didn’t take me long to cross it,” he said. He opened the front door and pointed toward his brother’s dark house. “See? It’s just a few steps.”
“Then you must have been thinking something earlier,” she said. “Close the door and tell me why you came.”
He stood in the doorway, motionless, continuing to look at the woman sitting on her bed three yards away from him, a book by her side.
“Did anybody tell you I was waiting for you?” she asked. “Or did I myself suggest it to you in any way?”
“I’m going,” he said. “It’s enough that I made a fool of myself.”
“You won’t stop being a fool just by closing the door,” she said. “You’ll go on being one as long as you believe it was you I was waiting for. It wasn’t. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
“I’m sorry, too,” he said.
“I sat here and waited for Israel,” she said. “And I think I know what happened. Everybody thought it was you I was after, didn’t they?”
“I didn’t,” he said.
“But you changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I came here only because that’s what everybody was telling me to do all evening. I don’t know.”
“But I do,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but it’s not you I wanted to come here; it was Israel.”
“He’ll come,” he said.
“But you’ll go on thinking I wanted you,” she said. “And so will he, because he considers himself a lesser and weaker man. And everybody else thinks that way too. You’ll feel very foolish now, going away and telling them you didn’t go to bed with me, won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” she said. “Nobody will believe you if you say you didn’t sleep with me. They’ll think you are protecting Israel and you’ll only gain in their eyes. They’ll think even more highly of you and hold him in even greater contempt. Whatever you do it works in your favor. Just think of it: a man screws a woman his friend might be in love with, but he claims he didn’t do it so that his friend won’t look ridiculous. Isn’t that generous of him?”
“Yes,” he said. “Can I leave now?”
“You can,” she said. “But you won’t. You are afraid to leave too soon. Somebody might see you, and your reputation would be spoiled forever. Good night.”
“Leave Eilat,” he said. “Take the first plane tomorrow and leave. That’ll be best for all of us.”
“Not for all of us. Only for you. When I leave, people will say that that whore was ashamed of spending one night with Israel and the next with Dov, so she left. So this, too, would work out to your advantage.”
“Leave anyway,” he said.
“I will. If Israel leaves with me,” she said.
“Why should he leave with you?”
“And why should he stay?”
“His place is here,” Dov said. “What guarantee can you give him that nobody will insult him? Can you guarantee that when he goes to Europe with you nobody there will tell him he doesn’t belong?”
“No,” she said. “I can’t guarantee that. If somebody insults him, he’ll have to take care of that himself. It’ll be his responsibility and his risk. Over here he’ll always be under your protection. That’s why it’s better for him to leave. Good night.”
He didn’t move.
“I said good night.”
“Will you leave Eilat?”
“Good night. I’ve told you good night three times already. Why are you still here? Are you afraid to go out? You’ve been here for fifteen minutes. That’s long enough to screw a woman. You can go away now. I want to undress and go to sleep.”
“You really want him to leave with you?”
“Yes. And he will,” she said. “You can ask him yourself. I’m going to sleep now. You should too. I’m sorry I have to disrobe in your presence, but there’s no reason for me to sleep in my dress. So now I’ll take it off and then climb into bed, and nothing—I repeat, nothing—is going to happen between us.”
He watched her take off her dress and throw it on a chair, then walk naked across the room to the mirror and begin brushing her hair; he looked at her and at the wet footprints she left on the tiles. Then she lay down on the bed and covered herself with a sheet, but only up to her middle.
“You see?” she said. “Nothing’s happened. Do you still believe you’re better than he is?”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “The worst thing is that tomorrow we’ll have to face each other again and go on with our lives.”
“Remember one thing: everybody has to live his own life,” she said. “You can fight for two, even make love for two, but nobody’s strong enough to feel shame for two. Actually, nobody’s strong enough to really feel shame. Good night. Tomorrow you can tell them all I was a lousy lay. That’s what men always say about women they didn’t have.”
She turned off the light; he stood a moment longer looking at the stone tiles until her wet footprints faded slowly away in front of his eyes. Then he closed the door and left.
SHE WAS SITTING IN A CAFÉ WAITING FOR ISRAEL. SHE had drunk a cup of coffee and was trying to order a snack from the menu, but she had trouble communicating with the waiter; he was a Jew from one of the Arab countries and his Hebrew was even worse than hers.
“I’ve been here just three years,” he said.
“And you haven’t learned to read yet?” she asked.
“I’ve been here just three years,” he said with complete indifference, which—as she knew—was meant to mask his astonishment at her stupidity.
“Does anybody here speak German?” she asked loudly, turning toward the only other client: a man who was sitting by himself with a bottle of beer and reading a newspaper.
“Yes. Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’d like to order a sandwich,” she said. “That’s all. But he’s been here just three years.”
The man said something to the waiter, then took his bottle of beer and moved over to her table. He looked very tired, and it was impossible to tell his age.
“You’re from Hamburg, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Can you tell by my accent?”
“I can,” he said. “I was born in Berlin.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“Twenty-eight years,” he said. “That’s longer than you’re alive.”
“Berliners have always been the nicest Germans,” she said. “That’s what everybody says. You know, my father-in-law is from Berlin, too. And he’s the nicest man in the world.”
“Yes,” he said. “People from Berlin are the nicest.” He smacked the newspaper that was lying on his knees. “But now the Germans are putting up walls. And soon they’ll start shooting children again. Have you read about it?”
“My father-in-law is the nicest man in the world,” she said quickly. “You know, he’s been continuously drunk for forty years and my mother-in-law hasn’t noticed anything. That’s quite an achievement, don’t you think?”
“He’d stop drinking here,” the man said, turning his face to her. “Especially if he was an insurance agent like I am. Today I spent ten hours walking around in the heat and I haven’t earned enough to pay for a bottle of beer.”
“Don’t people want to buy insurance?”
“What should they insure themselves against?” he asked. “Against themselves? Many former criminals live here. I’ll give you an example: there are three new fishermen here who have motorboats. I told them to insure the boats and they said, Look, we’re the biggest thieves around here. If we don’t steal them, nobody will. They’re forgetting that nobody has to steal their boats. It’s enough to put some sand in their engines to ruin them forever. Anybody can do it. Especially at night; nobody guards those boats. My God.”
The waiter brought a cup of coffee and a plate with a piece of bread with a slice of meat.
“You didn’t order coffee, did you?” the insurance agent asked.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll drink it. The waiter has been here for just three years.”
“It’s not healthy to drink so much coffee,” he said. “But here in Israel, one simply has to.”
“Oh, I like being reckless,” she said. “Same as those men who own the motorboats. Pass me the sugar, please.” He handed her the sugar bowl and she heaped two spoonfuls into her cup and then added a third one. “I like my coffee very sweet,” she said. “How does that German saying about coffee go?”
“Coffee should be dark as night, sweet as sin, and strong as love,” he said. His tired face twisted into a gloomy smile. “Funny it’s the Germans who say that. Germans don’t know anything about coffee.”
Israel entered the café and came over to their table; seeing him, the insurance agent said good-bye and left.
“What did he want?” Israel asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “But if I had wanted to buy insurance, he could have sold it to me. He’s from Berlin, and I asked if anybody spoke German. Do you have your passport?”
“You still want me to go away with you?”
“Has anything changed?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing has changed. And nothing will. I can’t go with you.”
“Is it because of something Dov said?”
“No,” he said. “It’s because of what everybody will say. When an American goes to Paris and stays there for thirty years, drinking himself blind and telling everybody he doesn’t like America, everybody considers him a charming eccentric for as long as his money lasts. But if a Jew goes somewhere, everybody begins to act surprised. Nobody really knows why it’s so. But that’s the way it’s always been.”
“It’s exactly the same thing Dov told me yesterday when he got his doors mixed up.”
“If two people say the same thing, it means there’s something to it,” he said. “But it’s not only the two of us who think this way.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “People can live wherever they want as long as they have money or work. It’s not like you say. You just lack the strength to leave Dov and start leading your own life.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Words don’t mean much. Look, stay here as long as you want. And come again as soon as you can. Nothing will change during your absence.”
The waiter placed a cup of coffee in front of Israel.
“It’ll change,” she said. She gazed for a moment at the next table, where the insurance agent had left his newspaper on the way out; then she picked up the sugar bowl. “How much sugar do you take?” she asked.
“None,” he said.
“Take some,” she said. She put one and then another spoon into his cup. “Things change,” she said.
“I have to go,” he said. “Dov has been showing tourists around all day, but some want to see King Solomon’s mines by night, in artificial light, although you’d think that after all those hours in the sun they’d have enough light until the next day. So I have to drive them there.”
“Will you come over tonight?”
“Yes,” he said. “As soon as I take those tourists back to their hotel.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know when they’ll have enough. They might not like the mines at all. They might sleep throughout the trip and I may have to talk aloud to myself to stay awake
.”
He got up.
“So you don’t want to go away with me?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t,” he said. “The truth is I simply don’t think it’s possible for me to leave.”
“You’re afraid to leave Dov alone?”
“Nothing will happen to him as long as he doesn’t beat up somebody,” he said. “But all he needs to start a fight is some excuse. He’s got reasons enough.”
He went out and walked up to the jeep parked by the curb. Dov was leaning against the hood, drinking beer straight from the bottle.
“Where are those guests?” Israel asked.
“In the Eilat Hotel,” Dov said. “The man’s name is Borgenicht.” He took the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Israel.
“I’ll drive you home,” Israel said.
“Did I say I wanted to go home? I’m not going back there until they all go to sleep. My father, my brother, Esther. Want some beer?”
“Yes.”
Dov passed him the bottle.
“I’ll get drunk today,” Dov said.
“You’ll feel dreadful tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I feel dreadful today. I’ve been feeling dreadful half my life, and a bottle of brandy is only eight pounds.”
“Wait for me,” Israel said. “We’ll get drunk together. That’ll cost us sixteen pounds.”
“No,” Dov said. “Spend the night with your girl. You got me into an awful fix yesterday.”
“They got me into an awful fix,” Israel said. “Your father, your brother. And Esther.”
“Esther is a big, foolish child,” Dov said. “You shouldn’t listen to her gibberish.”
Israel smiled. “Dov.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you really understand anything? Do I have to open your eyes for you every time?”
“Don’t,” Dov said. “I beg you, don’t explain anything to me. You told me yesterday what I was supposed to do and I’ve never felt as bad as today. Don’t tell me anything more. There’s nothing you could say in the whole world that would interest me. Is there any beer left?”
“Some.”
“Let me have it.”