Sven led the way outside to tables that were by the sea. There was still music out there, and, in fact, a whole mosh pit area where dancers of all nationalities were gyrating. As the path ended, there was a tiki hut where a hostess had a table with a diagram to plan out seating. Sven told the hostess something in a low voice. She beckoned to a waitress, who led them to what seemed to be a reserved round table for four on a raised deck overlooking the dancers and the water. Orly said, “Oh, the dancing looks so fun here,” in a giddy and ditzy way that would never betray that she was actually college educated.
Instead of asking them to dance, Sven said, “Let’s have a drink, get to know each other a bit.” He then asked if they wanted the house special coconut rum. Wendy said, “I think I’ll just have some white wine.” But he said, “You must try these drinks; they are so good,” and beckoned the waiter over.
The waiter, a young dark-skinned Israeli who could have been Orly’s brother from the similarity of their looks, smiled at Sven and Niels, nodded at Wendy and Orly, and said, “Back again? You boys are busy. What’ll it be now?” Sven glared at him in response.
After requesting four house specials, Sven quickly started an amusing anecdote about some kind of linguistic misunderstanding between himself and the Israeli maid in the hotel they were staying at. His patter and rhythm were too perfect for this to have been the first time he told it; the tale sounded canned.
Wendy reminded herself that she was willing to put up with whatever was necessary to make Orly happy. Wendy would prefer to see a foreign movie, or sit in a café reading the New Yorker, or to be with Uri on one of his Uri tours of Jerusalem rather than be in a club with sleazy men. Orly wanted a conquest, to prove herself attractive to the opposite sex. She wanted to send Nir a postcard detailing how great a life she was having—though a postcard wasn’t truly necessary since Nir still hadn’t left the country for London, as he told her was imminent when breaking up with her.
At the table, Wendy was spacing out, forgetting the point of the canned story, but laughed when Orly kicked her under the table, reminding her to.
When the drinks arrived along with an order of batter fried shrimp, the waiter put all four drinks in front of Sven, sitting between Niels and Orly and across from Wendy. Sven paid the waiter after flourishing a thin black lizard-skin billfold that had what appeared to be multiple currencies, all in large denominations. The note Sven gave him looked to Wendy like 200 shekel when the bill was probably half that. It bothered her for some reason, as did the fact that Sven insisted on stirring all the drinks himself, telling them that he wanted to make sure his guests were well treated and that they wouldn’t taste as good without being properly stirred.
Wendy, not used to large doses of alcohol, took a sip of her drink and thought it bitter. After another sip, she knew it wasn’t right. Niels, a cinematographer, started pointing out the possibilities for photography of the scene in front of them, waves crashing on the beach, what angles might be used and how a shot could be gotten, as Wendy furiously kicked Orly under the table, receiving only a nasty face from her friend. As she replied to Niels, she noted that the drink in Orly’s cup was quickly dissipating. It was now about half gone. Wendy decided to take action. Mid-sentence, Wendy stood up and said, “Why don’t we all dance now? I love this song.” She grabbed Orly’s hand to run to the dance floor with her and, in the process, bumped her hip against the table, spilling Orly’s drink over the table and even a bit onto Sven. Sven stood up and muttered what they assumed to be a Dutch profanity.
“I’m sorry,” Wendy said stupidly.
Niels said, “Never mind him; he’ll dry out.” Sven’s cell phone rang. He answered, “Ja,” and gestured with an upward tilt of his chin that the other three should adjourn to the dance floor without him, as he continued speaking on the phone.
They walked towards the dance floor together, Niels leading the women. Before they had reached it, Orly tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Excuse us for a moment, we need the ladies room.”
As soon as they were out of Niels’s sight, Orly screamed, “What kind of dumbass thing was that to do? A guy buys us drinks and you spill on him?”
“Did your drink taste bitter?”
“My drink was fabulous. Go back to your religious boyfriend if you aren’t having a good time. Sven will take care of me.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. Wasn’t it odd that he insisted on stirring all the drinks? He was putting something in them; I’m sure.”
Now, she looked at Wendy, wide-eyed, and then her eyes narrowed. “You think? A date rape drug?”
“Something. Their story just doesn’t add up. Why can’t they tell us more about the movie they are scouting locations for? Why didn’t they know what the Cinematheque was?”
“They’ve only been here ten days. Why should they know all the art house cinemas in the country? I’m more concerned about the drugs in the drinks. Why didn’t I taste something and you did?”
“Mine was meant for you? I do not trust this guy.”
“Wendy, I’m not saying this again. We are here to have fun. F-U-N. It may not be in your vocabulary, but it is in mine. Don’t spill more drinks,” Orly said, laying a firm hand on Wendy’s bare shoulder.
“Ow!” Wendy screamed in pain. “Another spot I must have missed with my sunblock. Ready to dance?” Wendy grabbed Orly’s hand and led her back to the dance area directly in front of the sea. They found Niels, who was dancing alone, whether out of loyalty to Wendy, or just not being able to find a partner, being on the shortish side on a floor full of taller men, blond and Scandinavian-featured as well as swarthy and Middle Eastern. They asked, “Where’s Sven?” and Niels gestured with his head up to the table where they had been. Sven was still on the phone. Orly tried to ask him if something was wrong, and he just shrugged. They danced to some Boy George song from the eighties, and then Niels said, “He’s off the phone. It looks like he had another round of drinks sent.” He turned his head towards Sven at the table on a raised deck forty or fifty feet away.
“Let’s dance more,” Wendy said.
Niels said, “No, he’s waiting. Let’s go back.”
After they had returned to the table, Sven insisted they finish their drinks before they went back to the dance floor. This final detail made Orly suspicious, and Wendy and Orly both drank vigilantly small sips. Sven noticed and said, “Would you perhaps like another type of drink? Am I too . . . what is the word . . . Pushing my tastes on you?”
Orly smiled broadly, put her hand suggestively on his arm, and said, “No. It’s fabulous . . . like you” and took a large slurp of her straw, licking her lips suggestively in the process.
He said, businesslike, “Good, good.” He smiled at each of them in turn, showing his teeth, which to Wendy seemed too small for his large face and mouth. Sven put her in mind of a crocodile, mouth large, but actual teeth quite small, as he said, “Listen ladies, I have this thought. I hope you’ll like it.” Orly looked at him intently and Wendy waited for him to say the inevitable: Why don’t we switch rooms? I’ll go with Orly to your hotel and you go to ours with Niels? Wendy was trying to think ahead about how she was going to protect her friend, when Sven deviated from the script in her mind. “It would really turn us on . . . if we could watch the two of you . . . having sex.”
Niels added, “And film it. It is the most erotic thing imaginable to watch two beautiful women from behind the camera and then, when they are aroused, come out and join them . . .”
Wendy crossed her arms and legs protectively in front of her and said in anger, “Excuse me?”
Sven continued, “Ah, but this is why we came here . . . to watch two beautiful Jewesses . . . together . . . the most lovely sight. Haven’t you ever wanted to be with your friend . . . you know . . . on another level? When she comes out of the shower, don’t you desire her glistening body? We could even find a secluded spot along the beach with the sounds of the water in the background . . .”
He said, “Mmm . . . I thought you’d be like that,” he said, looking up from his seated position at Orly standing over him. “Not tonight. I wish we could get her on screen; look at her, Niels.” Niels followed his boss’s directions, but Wendy could not see anything different than the Orly she had known for fifteen years.
Sven continued, “My gorgeous, I must stay here, we have a few more scenes to cast and film before we go back to Tel Aviv. I’ll call you from there—give me your number—I want you in.” Was the last statement a double entendre or a reference to his movie?
Before she could warn Orly, Orly replied, “My e-mail is O-r-l-y-7-0 at hotmail.com” and began to walk away.
Wendy followed her, adding, “Good luck with your filming, guys. Sorry we’re not up for your cinematic aspirations,” she said with a smirk and sashayed off. She turned around to look at the scene again and remember it—for what? An anecdote? Totally failed attempt to pick up foreign men yields porn director?
Wendy could not sleep in their hotel room that night.
“Orly?” she whispered.
“I can’t sleep either. Sorry I brought you here to meet those . . . creeps.”
Wendy paused. “I just feel . . . grossed out, violated . . . like they were trying to . . . possess me.” She shuddered under the thin sheets and blanket, though the temperature was still warm. “Why do they even have the right to imagine we’d want to be filmed? Or filmed together.”
“You don’t find me attractive?” the deeply insecure Orly said sadly.
“Orly, of course you’re attractive. I’m not Sven though,” Wendy replied. “I hate this male assumption that women always want them, whatever they do. It’s just so . . . arrogant. That’s what I hate, their arrogance. Even thinking they had the right to suggest it.” She shuddered.
“Are you going to tell Uri?”
“I’m not sure . . . I didn’t do anything wrong, but I feel like I did. I do want to tell him—I’m not sure how.”
“Will he be outraged? Two guys wanted to film us? It’s . . . weird.” Orly added.
“It is.”
“Let’s just try to calm down and get some sleep. It’s the season of our freedom.”
“Good night, Orly.”
“Night, Wendy.”
As she drifted off to sleep, she thought, season of freedom, and remembered snatches of the discussion at the seder. Freedom from . . . freedom to. Must be a purpose to the freedom or it isn’t free. Wendy thought, drifting off, I do want more purpose in my freedom. There was certainly no purpose, other than attempting to boost Orly’s self-esteem, in picking up creeps on the beach.
By mutual consent, their next day began late—as they had both had trouble sleeping—and with strong coffee at Reshet Eilat, the Internet café. It was a spare place, with most of the furnishings budget going to the computers, which were up to date. The breakfast choices were what one would expect: granola, yogurt, various croissants, and muffins. There was also matzah with cream cheese or butter on offer. Orly and Wendy ate their granola and yogurt parfaits without saying much. They glanced at the International Herald Tribune a previous customer had left behind on the table and hurried over to the computer terminals when they were finished eating.
Orly sat at the screen and typed Sven’s name into the Internet. A list of websites came up, and they clicked on the first one. They were brought to a website with loud pulsing music, pictures of beaches, the Taj Mahal, and the Dome of the Rock, with a caption reading “Click here to see our latest project.”
They clicked and saw a montage of pictures. A scene appearing to be inside the Dome of the Rock mosque with a man in traditional Arab dress dissolved into a screen where he had removed his clothing to reveal a huge erection and the caption—“Where’s the rock now?” A group of women in bathing suits with sequins and high heels stood gazing at him.
Orly said, “Could it be real? It’s like, a foot long. Do they ever come that way?”
Wendy said, “Surgical enhancement?”
These photos then dissipated to reveal, after the caption “Love of Holiness,” two young ultra-Orthodox women wearing wigs and heavy stockings at the Kotel giving each other soulful looks. The next photo showed them walking away from it together, in the appropriately pious backwards motion, their eyes locked not on the holy site but on each other. In a third image they were in a room going at each other in poses reminiscent of any in Penthouse. Wendy had to stifle a laugh because the whole thing was completely cheesy. Stereotyped. The obviousness of these desires—it troubled Wendy. Why were they so . . . predictable? Isn’t the interesting thing about desire that it can come from unimagined odd places, from unsuitable people? The final series was titled “Peace Dividend” and showed two of the Arab women from the mosque scene with the two Jewish ones.
Wendy asked, “Where would we fit in? Two friends find love on the beach?”
Orly shuddered and said, “Ugh. I can’t believe I didn’t put the pieces together about who they were.” She put her head in her hands. “I’m glad you saved me from being seen on the Internet. Can you imagine?”
“Don’t blame yourself. There are non-creeps out there. We’ll find them.”
Neither of them had the stomach for exposing themselves on the beach, so instead they went to see dolphins. Wendy told Orly she did not want to be intimately near a slippery if affectionate sea creature just now, so they refrained from swimming with them. They went to the coral reefs and, though it was slightly beyond their usual budgets, Orly treated Wendy to a ride in a glass-bottomed boat to see the coral. The exquisite colors and shapes lurking beneath the sea were completely unexpected and satisfying.
They decided to take an earlier bus back to Jerusalem the next day, Friday. Wendy used Orly’s cell phone to call Uri and tell him what time she’d be back. Their bus would get them into Jerusalem just as the Sabbath was starting—she wouldn’t have a chance to buy any food for the weekend because all the stores would be closed for Sabbath already, and she would have to take a cab from the bus station back to her apartment because the buses would have already ceased. Uri offered to pick up some food for her and drop it off at her apartment. She said, fine, but then found herself saying, “Why don’t you drop it off and stay and eat with me? Do you have other plans?” He told her that he’d planned to go to the Spicehandlers, but she shouldn’t come if she wouldn’t be there before Shabbat—it wouldn’t be appropriate to disrupt the meal. They agreed that he could get the key from Amalia, the landlady, and bring Shabbat dinner for two to Wendy’s apartment. Wendy would call Amalia to let her know. Mostly, she was relieved that he assumed she was coming back for him, not asking about what had happened in Eilat, so she didn’t have to tell him just yet.
After she hung up, she felt . . . cozy and taken care of. Here this guy was, making arrangements for her dinner, and all she had to do was get back to her house. What if this feeling, that he would care for her, attend to things, lasted longer? She didn’t want to get too far ahead in her thoughts, so she focused on the nice Shabbat they’d have. There would be challah—oh no, oops, still Passover, not this week—chicken . . . maybe he’d bring flowers. A romantic reunion. She should be grateful to Orly for creating an opportunity for absence to make his—and her—heart grow fonder.
She looked over at Orly on the other bed, lying on her stomach, legs in the air, reading Vanity Fair magazine.
Wendy was bustling around the room making sure that her things were, if not in her duffle bag, in its general vicinity so she’d be ready to go tomorrow. They were planning to check out of the room and leave their bags at the hotel desk until they went to the bus depot for the 1:30 bus. They had agreed to go to the beach in the morning and that they would speak to no one, of either sex,
on the beach. As Wendy was reaching under the bed to see if something had fallen there, Orly sat up on her bed and said, “I have this idea. What if I contacted Sven and Niels and wrote an article about their trip?”
“Sven and Niels do the Holy Land?”
“Exactly. It covers an amazing range of issues. Besides the sex, which sells an article, it has this whole thing about European perceptions of Israel. I could very wittily describe some of the scenes they film, talk about how they picked what to film, the taboos they are trying to shatter . . .”
“Brilliant! It gets every hot category—Middle Eastern politics, sex, perceptions of porn. You could do profiles of Sven and Niels, a discussion of what makes a pornographer tick. I could totally see this in the New Yorker.”
“Really? I was fantasizing that, but I’d be happy with something smaller. Still . . .”
“Go for it. Imagine the cover art? Remember when Art Spiegelman did the one with the Hasid and the African American kissing after the Yankel Rosenbaum stabbing? They could get someone to do a riff on the website—you know a caricature of Sven and Niels in various obscene poses in front of easily recognizable holy sites. The controversy it would generate—I love it! Will you tell Sven and Niels you’re doing it before you pitch it to editors?”
“I’m trying to strategize. Being up-front with them would work best, you agree?”
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