by Marek Hlasko
He walked back to the jeep and drove off fast without turning on the headlights. He parked close to the street on which his brother’s house was, and, making his way through the back alley, reached the house where Ursula was staying. He peered inside through the window; she was sitting on the bed, exactly like two days ago, a book by her side. He gave the door a push and walked in.
“Are you waiting for me, too?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s strange how everybody seems to be waiting for me today,” he said. “Esther, Yehuda, and now you, Ursula. All my life nobody would wait for me, and now nobody wants to run away from me. Before, everybody used to run.” He held out his hand. “Come. Come with me.”
“Where do you want to take me?”
“I won’t harm you,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you to leave this room if I wanted to hurt you. I want to talk to you, but the cops may be on my tail any moment. And they’ll come here. My jeep’s parked only a dozen yards away.” Once again he held out his hand. “Get up and come with me,” he said.
He went out and started walking toward the jeep; he knew—without turning his head—that she was following. She sat down next to him, and he began to drive along side streets and alleys, again with his lights off, heading for the desert.
“Things went wrong,” he said.
“What happened to your brother?” she asked.
“I no longer have a brother,” he said. “That thing in the hospital is not my brother. It’s neither a man nor a woman.”
“Is he dead?”
“No,” he said. “He’ll live. But he’ll never be a man again.”
“Oh my God!” she said. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” he said softly. “And there is nothing you can do about it. You should’ve thought about that earlier. Before you put sand in the engines of their boats. But you couldn’t foresee this, could you? You just wanted to get me involved in my brother’s feud with the fishermen so I’d get sent off to jail. Then Israel would leave with you. Was that your plan?”
“Yes,” she said.
He stopped the car.
“I won’t even have time to say good-bye to Israel,” he said. “Take this jeep, the two of you, and leave Eilat as quickly as you can. You should be in Tel Aviv by morning. Get on the first plane and leave this country.”
“And you, Dov?”
“I was born here,” he said. “My father’s here. And so is that thing which used to be my brother.”
He climbed out of the jeep.
“Will you know how to find your way back?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said. She got out of the jeep, too, and stood next to him. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” he said. “Everything’s done now.”
“Why did it all have to end like this?” she asked. “You never really liked him, you know. You probably didn’t even realize that, did you? You just wanted to have him next to you like a mirror, to see yourself in his eyes. But maybe you weren’t aware of it.”
“I see it all now,” he said. “But I can’t change anything. Take the jeep and leave Eilat.”
“That’s why he sent you over to me that night,” she said. “So that he could come to me the next night and prove to himself that there’s something at which he is—if not better than you—then at least your equal.”
“Good-bye, Ursula,” he said. “The two of you don’t have much time.”
“But I want you to understand,” she said. “I can’t just leave after what happened to your brother.”
“No woman can leave after she’s ruined everything,” he said.
“Don’t you really understand anything at all?” she asked.
“You know how to talk beautifully,” he said. “Each of you, you goddamn whores, can talk better and faster than I can. I’m sure you’d love to be a man, wouldn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked.
He slapped her with all his strength; she fell backwards, hitting her head against the jeep’s hood, and when she rose to her feet, he slapped her again; once again, she fell against the jeep, but this time her head struck the bumper and she didn’t get up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want that. Get up.” When she didn’t respond, he said again, “Get up. You don’t have much time. You have to reach Tel Aviv by morning. That’ll be best for everybody.”
But she didn’t move. He leaned over her, turning her face to the sky, then switched on the headlights. Her eyes remained open and empty.
“ISRAEL,” HE CALLED OUT SOFTLY.
His friend turned in his direction. “Where are you?”
“Here,” Dov said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Israel walked up to him. “Ursula’s not home?”
“No,” Dov said. “That’s why I’m waiting for you here.”
“Why didn’t you go in?”
“Come with me,” Dov said. “You’ve got to help me.”
He went ahead and climbed into the jeep parked in yet another spot. He drove fast, but not down back alleys as before—he drove straight along the road leading to the desert.
“You know what happened to my brother?” he asked.
“I know he’s in the hospital.”
“He’ll be impotent for the rest of his life,” Dov said. “Do you know why they did it to him?”
“No,” Israel said. “I—”
Dov interrupted him. “Because Ursula ruined their boats,” he said. “And I don’t need to explain to you why she did that, do I?”
He stopped the jeep, turned off the headlights, and started walking. Israel followed him. Finally Dov came to a standstill and waited for Israel to catch up with him.
“Over there,” Dov said.
“What’s that?” Israel asked.
“That’s her,” Dov said.
Israel walked up to him slowly. “What happened to her?”
“She’s dead.”
“You killed her?”
“No,” Dov said. “She insulted me, so I slapped her in the face. She fell, hit her head against the bumper, and didn’t get up.”
Israel stepped back. “What will you do?”
“I’ll do what I have to do,” Dov said. “I’ll go to the police and tell them what happened.”
“Then go,” Israel said. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To tell you how it happened,” Dov said.
“Tell that to the police.”
“I want you to be my witness,” Dov said. “Don’t turn away.”
“I can’t be your witness,” Israel said. “I wasn’t here with you.”
“That’s why I brought you here. To tell you how it happened.”
Israel looked at him. “Do you really think any judge would believe me? Don’t you remember how it was the last time, when I said I started the fight? Nobody believed me. Why should anybody believe me now?” He walked over to Ursula’s body and knelt down by it. “Get up,” he said. “Stop this game and get up, damn you!” He began throwing handfuls of sand in her face. “Get up!”
“She won’t,” Dov said. “She’s dead.”
Israel lifted his gaze to him. “Why should I testify? I wasn’t here. Nobody was. And even if I was, I would’ve turned my back. I can’t bear to look at such things. Why me?”
“Because I have only you,” Dov said.
“Listen,” Israel said, still kneeling by Ursula’s body, “I can’t. I’m a weak man. Nobody’s going to believe me. And why should they? You’ve killed before.”
“Israel,” Dov said softly, “you’ll have to do what I’m asking.”
“And what if they won’t believe me? If they sentence us both?”
“They won’t sentence you,” Dov said. “They’ll only sentence me.” He took a step toward Israel. “But even if they put us both behind bars, didn’t you tell me yesterday you’d always stick with me? Didn’t you say that? And it’s your woman’s fault that my brother ha
s become a eunuch!”
“I can’t do it, Dov,” Israel said. “The police will think we did it together.”
“And we did,” Dov said.
“I wasn’t here,” Israel said.
“But you were there when you told me I should go to her,” Dov said. “And that’s when she began to hate me and I began to hate her.” He placed his hand on Israel’s arm. “Can’t you understand that only you can help me now?”
“No,” Israel said. “I can’t help you. I wasn’t here. I know how it’ll be; they’ll start asking me questions, more and more questions, and they’ll shine a lamp in my face until I finally tell them whatever they want to hear. I know I’ll tell them. I’m a weak man, that’s all.”
“Look, you simply have to help me,” Dov said. “Like I’ve always helped you.”
“Yes,” Israel said. “You always helped me.” Suddenly he put his face against Ursula’s breast. “Dov,” he said, “she’s alive. She’s breathing.”
He got up; Dov knelt next to Ursula’s body and placed his head on her breast. Israel held the stone ready in his hand; he had noticed it while kneeling by Ursula’s body, and he picked it up while pressing his face to her chest. He waited until he saw Dov begin to straighten up, then he hit him twice in quick succession; he circled the body to make sure Dov was really dead, then hit him a third time; only then did he toss the stone away.
THEY LEFT THE BAY BEHIND. IN FRONT OF THEM WAS open desert. He was uncomfortable; his hands were handcuffed, and he could barely move them.
“Take these off,” he said. “You know I won’t run away.”
“Should I take them off?” one of the cops asked.
“No,” the other cop said. “Rules are rules.” He turned to Israel. “You can stand it, man. This whole thing will surely resolve itself in the next few days. You have nothing to fear if you were trying to defend that woman like you say.”
They were driving past the hospital. Suddenly Israel saw Esther.
“Stop for a moment, okay?” he said to the cops. “I want to say goodbye to her.”
They pulled up to the curb.
“Let me know if I can help you in any way,” he said.
“We don’t need your help,” she said.
“Remember our conversation? Do you now know what I was talking about?” he asked her softly.
“I don’t care what you were talking about,” she said. “I’m going to have a child, you know.” She looked at him for a moment. “I’ve never loved anybody but Dov,” she said. “And I’ll go on loving him for the rest of my life.”
“I know,” Israel said. “I always knew you loved Dov.” He turned to the cops. “We can drive on.”
She gazed after them, her hands folded across her belly, then she turned around. She looked at the wide open hospital door through which—his arms spread wide to embrace her—Little Dov was coming out.
Madrid, June 1963
GUYS LIKE ME BY DOMINIQUE FABRE
Dominique Fabre, born in Paris and a life-long resident of the city, exposes the shadowy, anonymous lives of many who inhabit the French capital. In this quiet, subdued tale, a middle-aged office worker, divorced and alienated from his only son, meets up with two childhood friends who are similarly adrift. He’s looking for a second act to his mournful life, seeking the harbor of love and a true connection with his son. Set in palpably real Paris streets that feel miles away from the City of Light, a stirring novel of regret and absence, yet not without a glimmer of hope.
newvesselpress.com/books/guys-like/
I CALLED HIM NECKTIE BY MILENA MICHIKO FLAŠAR
Twenty-year-old Taguchi Hiro has spent the last two years of his life living as a hikikomori—a shut-in who never leaves his room and has no human interaction—in his parents’ home in Tokyo. As Hiro tentatively decides to reenter the world, he spends his days observing life from a park bench. Gradually he makes friends with Ohara Tetsu, a salaryman who has lost his job. The two discover in their sadness a common bond. This beautiful novel is moving, unforgettable, and full of surprises.
newvesselpress.com/books/called-necktie/
WHO IS MARTHA? BY MARJANA GAPONENKO
In this rollicking novel, 96-year-old ornithologist Luka Levadski foregoes treatment for lung cancer and moves from Ukraine to Vienna to make a grand exit in a luxury suite at the Hotel Imperial. He reflects on his past while indulging in Viennese cakes and savoring music in a gilded concert hall. Levadski was born in 1914, the same year that Martha—the last of the now-extinct passenger pigeons—died. Levadski himself has an acute sense of being the last of a species. This gloriously written tale mixes piquant wit with lofty musings about life, friendship, aging and death.
newvesselpress.com/books/martha/
KILLING AUNTIE BY ANDRZEJ BURSA
A university student named Jurek finds himself with nothing to do. After his doting aunt asks the young man to perform a small chore, he decides to kill her for no good reason. This short comedic masterpiece combines elements of Dostoevsky, Sartre, Kafka and Heller to produce an unforgettable tale of murder and—just maybe—redemption.
http://newvesselpress.com/books/killing-auntie/
ALEXANDRIAN SUMMER BY YITZHAK GORMEZANO GOREN
This is the story of two Jewish families living their frenzied last days in the doomed cosmopolitan social whirl of Alexandria just before fleeing Egypt for Israel in 1951. The conventions of the Egyptian upper-middle class are laid bare in this dazzling novel, which exposes sexual hypocrisies and portrays a vanished polyglot world of horse-racing, seaside promenades and nightclubs.
http://newvesselpress.com/books/alexandrian-summer/
COCAINE BY PITIGRILLI
Paris in the 1920s—dizzy and decadent. Where a young man can make a fortune with his wits … unless he is led into temptation. Cocaine’s dandified hero Tito Arnaudi invents lurid scandals and gruesome deaths, and sells these stories to the newspapers. But his own life becomes even more outrageous when he acquires three demanding mistresses. Elegant, witty and wicked, Pitigrilli’s classic novel was first published in Italian in 1921 and retains its venom even today.
newvesselpress.com/books/cocaine/
SOME DAY BY SHEMI ZARHIN
On the shores of Israel’s Sea of Galilee lies the city of Tiberias, a place bursting with sexuality and longing for love. The air is saturated with smells of cooking and passion. Some Day is a gripping family saga, a sensual and emotional feast that plays out over decades. This is an enchanting tale about tragic fates that disrupt families and break our hearts. Zarhin’s hypnotic writing renders a painfully delicious vision of individual lives behind Israel’s larger national story.
newvesselpress.com/books/some-day/
THE MISSING YEAR OF JUAN SALVATIERRA BY PEDRO MAIRAL
At the age of nine, Juan Salvatierra became mute following a horse riding accident. At twenty, he began secretly painting a series of canvases on which he detailed six decades of life in his village on Argentina’s frontier with Uruguay. After his death, his sons return to deal with their inheritance: a shed packed with rolls over two miles long. But an essential roll is missing. A search ensues that illuminates links between art and life, with past family secrets casting their shadows on the present.
newvesselpress.com/books/the-missing-year-of-juan-salvatierra/
THE GOOD LIFE ELSEWHERE BY VLADIMIR LORCHENKOV
The very funny—and very sad—story of a group of villagers and their tragicomic efforts to emigrate from Europe’s most impoverished nation to Italy for work. An Orthodox priest is deserted by his wife for an art-dealing atheist; a mechanic redesigns his tractor for travel by air and sea; and thousands of villagers take to the road on a modern-day religious crusade to make it to the Italian Promised Land. A country where 25 percent of its population works abroad, remittances make up nearly 40 percent of GDP, and alcohol consumption per capita is the world’s highest – Moldova surely has its problems. But, as Lorchenkov vividly shows, it’s also a country
whose residents don’t give up easily.
newvesselpress.com/books/the-good-life-elsewhere/
KILLING THE SECOND DOG BY MAREK HLASKO
Two down-and-out Polish con men living in Israel in the 1950s scam an American widow visiting the country. Robert, who masterminds the scheme, and Jacob, who acts it out, are tough, desperate men, exiled from their native land and adrift in the hot, nasty underworld of Tel Aviv. Robert arranges for Jacob to run into the widow who has enough trouble with her young son to keep her occupied all day. What follows is a story of romance, deception, cruelty and shame. Hlasko’s writing combines brutal realism with smoky, hardboiled dialogue, in a bleak world where violence is the norm and love is often only an act.
newvesselpress.com/books/killing-the-second-dog/
FANNY VON ARNSTEIN: DAUGHTER OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT BY HILDE SPIEL
In 1776 Fanny von Arnstein, the daughter of the Jewish master of the royal mint in Berlin, came to Vienna as an 18-year-old bride. She married a financier to the Austro-Hungarian imperial court, and hosted an ever more splendid salon which attracted luminaries of the day. Spiel’s elegantly written and carefully researched biography provides a vivid portrait of a passionate woman who advocated for the rights of Jews, and illuminates a central era in European cultural and social history.
newvesselpress.com/books/fanny-von-arnstein-daughter-of-the-enlightenment/
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