Don't Ask Me If I Love

by Amos Kollek

  He hung up.

  Later on that week, I found myself sitting in the party secretary’s office, reading through a huge heap of uninteresting papers about this and that, and nothing in particular.

  I reminded myself that my father had never said the work would be exciting, he just said it would be useful.

  My working hours were from eight till two-thirty, but it was made clear that I could leave during that period if lectures in the university and other such urgent matters demanded it. My job was not clearly defined. I was to assist the party secretary, Mr. Barak, in any manner he found helpful. It wasn’t a very complicated task, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the party secretary either. He was a Russian-type Jew, who liked to talk slowly, at length, and about little. I got no kick out of my job. By the end of the first week, I was ready to leave, but I thought it would be unwise, so I stayed.

  A few days later I received a long letter from the monthly’s editor. It surprised me. It said that he, as well as his colleagues, thought the story was rather good and that it would be published in the next issue of their magazine. It said I should keep writing. I had a future (so it said).

  I was a bit disturbed by their enthusiasm because I didn’t sincerely think the story was any good, but I told myself that one cannot expect things to be perfect.

  Many of my evenings were occupied with meetings, in which the party secretary and other party workers and political figures made speeches. Watching them and their audiences, I came to the conclusion that politics wasn’t promising for people who weren’t either forty-five or former members of the Haganah, which amounted to the same thing.

  The reasonable way to get into politics for a person like me, if at all, is from the outside. Not by starting from the bottom in the party, and climbing slowly up, waiting my turn, but by making a name and a career in another field, and then joining in, already at the top. Otherwise, your best years will also be the most boring ones, and that is no way to handle life.

  I decided to keep the job for one month and then quit.

  I thought of Joy often.

  I didn’t go to see her. I regarded that as an achievement. One had to know one’s priorities.

  Never get hooked.

  But a guy did get lonely. One evening I found myself driving to Ruthi’s place on the outskirts of town with the sole intention of making her.

  It was around ten when I arrived there, wondering if she would be home, and if her roommate would be out. Both possibilities seemed highly unlikely, especially as a combination.

  As it turned out, Ruthi opened the door and she was all alone. She didn’t look very happy; she just looked tired.

  Ruthi had on a robe, which was buttoned only halfway up, revealing a piece of tanned skin and a white bra. Her hair was untidy and her eyes a bit wild, which led me to the conclusion that she had been sleeping.

  “Hello,” she said.

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  “I am surprised at you,” I said disapprovingly, sitting on her bed. “Napping at such an hour of the day.”

  She came over and sat on the bed near me, very wearily.

  “I wasn’t napping.”

  “You look a bit like a dead banana, for an unnapping broad,” I said.

  “You missed the nine o’clock edition of the news,” she said drily. “It’s rather inefficient of you. I’m surprised.”

  “O.K. So who got killed?”

  “Remember Amnon?” she asked, a slight edge to her voice.

  “From our company? You mean the redheaded one?”

  “That’s the man.”

  I shook my nead slowly.

  “Well, what do you know. Wasn’t a friend of mine though. Was he a friend of yours?”

  “No. I knew him though.”

  “Yes.”

  I was wondering, far away in the back of my mind, if this was going to mess up my seduction plan. That would be just too much.

  “How did it happen?” I asked, not really wanting to know. “Come on, tell me.”

  “Oh,” she said, “chasing some Fatah someplace. One was left alive when they thought they had them all. Half dead, actually, but he had his Kalashnikov by him, so he took a few shots when they were advancing. It was a damned lucky thing he didn’t kill more. Yoav got him.”

  Yoav, the company commander.

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I spoke to Yoav over the phone,” she said wearily.

  “I called the camp after I heard the news. I still remember the number. He was in the mess hall, but they sent for him and he came to the company’s office and we talked. He had been hit himself in the left arm, but he says it’s only a scratch. There weren’t any other casualties.”

  “Just Amnon.”

  “Just Amnon.”

  “Wasn’t in my platoon,” I said apologetically. “I almost didn’t know him.”

  “They had been after them for seven hours,” she said. “Yoav said it had been very tiring. He said he was going right to bed, after he had his coffee.”

  I leaned my chin on my hands and looked gloomily at the floor.

  “Is Yoav a special friend of yours?”

  “What? No, no.”

  She seemed a little surprised.

  “Not especially,” she added, lighting a cigarette absent-mindedly. “I was in the company for five months, that’s all.”

  “Where’s your roommate?”

  “In Tel Aviv. Miss her?”

  “Not at all. I had been hoping she would be out.”

  She looked at me speculatively, dropping a small roll of gray ash on the floor.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Sure.”

  She shrugged and went on smoking, staring at me with no particular expression.

  I was looking up at her, my face still resting in my palms, and thinking how pretty she was. There was a hardness in her features I had never been aware of before, but she really was a pleasant sight. Her figure was slim and curved and the best parts of it emerged, somewhat exposed, from the loose robe she had on. Her face was flawless, except for the lack of tenderness in her expression. The untidy flow of her hair made her look younger.

  I leaned closer and put my arm around her, and started kissing her the best I knew how. She sat motionless for a moment, her warm lips pressed drily on my mouth. Then she sighed quietly, and I felt her dropping the cigarette on the floor and stepping on it. She put her arms around my neck, nestling in my grip, and drew me down to her. Her tongue rubbed gently against my teeth, and wriggled through, deep into my mouth. I found the ribbon that tied her robe and pulled. The softness of her body pressed hotly against my chest.

  “I thought you were going to ask me to the movies first,” she said huskily.

  “Noooo,” I said softly, pushing her down on the bed.

  She rolled on her stomach and wriggled away from underneath me.

  “There might be visitors coming,” she said. She went to the door and turned the key in the lock. I started peeling my clothes off, folding them primly and laying them neatly on a chair, a thing I never did at home. She turned and stood leaning on the door, watching me curiously.

  “Self-confident, today,” she said, but not disapprovingly.

  I kicked off my shoes.

  “Easy come, easy go.”

  She laughed thickly, then, putting one hand behind her, she loosened her bra.

  It dropped on the floor in front of her.

  “Any more proverbs for the occasion?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I heard it in a movie actually. Goes like this: ‘If you gotta shoot, don’t talk, shoot’.”

  “Yes,” she said, indistinctly. “Yes, why not?”

  She moved slowly forward and sat next to me on the bed. She put her arms around me again, and closed her eyes. I gently put my hands on her small, firm breasts. Her breath came hastily, deeply. Her breasts moved delicately against my fingers, and sent a quiver through my arms. I moved one of my
hands to her thighs and we sank down on the mattress. Her eyes opened briefly.

  “I hope you like me,” she said coyly.

  I buried my face in her perfumed hair and pulled her fiercely to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Actually,” she said about half an hour later when we were lying quietly in bed, “I don’t know why I did it.”

  She looked at me from above her newly lit cigarette.

  “Wasn’t it romantic enough?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Well.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Life is a bit mechanical, nowadays.”

  She laughed again.

  “Bastard.”

  “But I did enjoy it.”

  She nodded her head.

  “Thank you.”

  “Being romantic isn’t so practical any more,” I said. “What with life getting shorter all the time, for young people.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “On the other hand,” I meditated, “for the older generation, life is getting longer.”

  “What a miscalculation on God’s part.”

  “The average remains the same, though. In this world, it’s the average that counts.”

  “Yes. The world belongs to the average.”

  She puffed small rings of smoke and watched them dreamily.

  “You are a lovely girl.”

  She turned two green eyes on me. Small bits of mascara were smeared on her cheeks.

  “I think I will turn off the light,” she said, “or would you like to go home?”

  “No,” I said, moving closer to her, “not right now.”

  Chapter Nine

  “WHAT the hell is this?”

  The voice that woke me had an impatient, rigorous impact that didn’t go well with my dream. In the dream no one had been impatient or vigorous. It was a pleasant dream; I hated to let it sneak away. I opened one eye and cast it wearily on the alarm clock. The hands indicated that it was just six-thirty. I closed my eyes and sank back into my pillow.

  “I haven’t got all day,” my father said, and slapped me disrespectfully on my cheek with something he held in his hand. I gave up snoring and opened both eyes to look at the something that slapped me. My father was wearing an expensive gray suit, a colorful silk tie and a stiff-collared white shirt. He had his black brief case with him, and I realized he was already late for work.

  Usually, his day started a six in the morning and ended around midnight, after he had exhausted his workers and assistants. Since I seemed to be the cause of his delay, I thought I might just as well be polite.

  “Morning,” I said.

  In his right hand he held a thick magazine. He waved it in front of my eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “What is this story business here? Come on, tell me all about it.”

  I sat up and took a look.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a short story I wrote. They published it. I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes unamused. “Forgot to mention it to your beloved parents and they sort of wonder why.”

  “Wanted to surprise them.”

  “Ahha.”

  He went over to my desk and put his case on it, then he sat down on the chair. I glanced again at the clock. He was really full of surprises this morning.

  “Your mother is quite upset,” he went on, staring at the ceiling. “She seems to have taken the description of the parents in the story a bit personally.”

  “Oh, come on now.”

  “I know, but she thinks so, and she is hurt because you didn’t tell her about it. She regards it as a slap in the face.”

  “Oh God.”

  “There is some similarity in the background.”

  “Then be glad I didn’t try a murder story. I did consider it.”

  He stared at me.

  “This wasn’t supposed to be an autobiography,” I said lightly. “It’s just a story, you know.”

  “Maybe it expresses an attitude that isn’t very desirable,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I really don’t care. I am probably not such a good father, it doesn’t matter. But your mother is more sensitive and she’s seen such hard times in her life. She is a very good woman.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He finally looked at his watch.

  “Well, I have to go.”

  He stood up and took his briefcase.

  “It must be terrible for you.”

  “What?”

  “You have wasted almost half an hour.”

  I got out of bed, and stepped into my pants. He had stopped by the door where he stood watching me. The face was composed as usual, but behind it the little wheels in his brain were hard at work. I could almost hear them click. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

  “Actually,” he said, “I think it’s a pretty good story you wrote.”

  He was out of the room before I could catch my breath.

  The short story, as it turned out (quite unexpectedly, as far as I was concerned) got some attention, and what criticism there was was most complimentary. It seemed, however, that many readers came to the conclusion that one of the writer’s aims had been to sneer at the Israeli army, the Israeli spirit, and the Israeli youth. They found the attitude expressed a cynical and unhealthy one. I decided to ignore their reaction.

  People close to my family would say to me, “We enjoyed reading your short story,” or a similar phrase which amounted roughly to, “We don’t approve, but we have to say something.”

  I bumped into a neighbor in the grocery and I heard her saying as I walked out, “Things come too easy to this boy. He has no appreciation and no gratitude.”

  I ignored that, too.

  Publication did give me enough confidence to feel ready to go on with that novel, and the sooner the better. I didn’t care about the rest.

  One morning, my mother said, “Assaf, it makes me sad to get the feeling that you don’t really care about people around you. I don’t know why you are like that. Did anyone ever do you any wrong?”

  “No,” I said, “but I am not doing anyone any wrong, either. Maybe, I am just not as considerate as I could be.”

  “You are so self-centerd,” she said in the same quiet, sad way that used to make me feel like climbing up to the roof and taking a shortcut down. “I don’t think you have any friends, or social life. That is unhealthy, and not right.”

  “I am O.K.,” I said. “I am fine.”

  “People should care for other people,” she said. “The world will crumble when people stop caring.”

  “It’s crumbling anyway, and it’s not up to me, Mom.”

  She just shook her head.

  I went back to writing my novel. Short stories were fine, I thought, but they couldn’t make you. Two hundred pages of a book in English might do the trick.

  But, I thought a few days later, maybe my mother did have a point. It did seem a unhealthy way of life, to spend the evenings with a typewriter. Ruthi was a possibility, but once I let my mind wander in that direction, I knew it was not her I wanted. If you have to do it, I thought, let’s have it right for a change; let’s have the real stuff, once.

  On Thursday morning, armed with this decision, I stepped into the TWA office, with my mind made up to play it cool.

  “Hello,” I said to Joy, parking myself in the chair in front of her desk.

  She looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. She didn’t seem surprised or happy to see me. She didn’t seem unhappy either. She just sat there.

  “Long time no see,” she commented from behind a pack of papers.

  I leaned forward.

  “Say, listen.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to go and spend the weekend in Caesarea. We have a summerhouse there. It’s quite nice, by the beach.”

  At least she was listening, because she stopped writing and put her pen down. I couldn’t see her eyes because there were eyelashes in the way, so I continued, just the same, though my self
-confidence was fast disappearing.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to join me.”

  She just looked at me. I tried to force a smile that probably didn’t even reach my mouth. She burst out laughing.

  “Why do you smile so unnaturally? You’ll ruin your face!”

  I didn’t think it was entirely to the point, so I let it ride.

  Her face turned serious again and her eyebrows went up.

  “Problem is, I was already planning to go some place this weekend.”

  Not a good enough approach, I thought.

  “Well, that is too bad,” I said.

  “Life is too crowded nowadays,” she offered sympathetically.

  I pushed my chair back and stook up. I took a slow look around the room. It was a pleasant little office with lots of colorful advertisements of beachy countries.

  O.K., I thought, say good-bye nicely and run along.

  “I wish you would come though,” I heard my voice saying.

  She looked surprised.

  “Well.”

  “That’s as romantic as I get,” I said, embarrassed.

  She considered that for a moment.

  “Then, maybe I should come, in that case.”

  “Please.”

  “O.K.”

  “I’ll pick you up around noon?”

  “O.K.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  She scratched her nose and smiled at me brightly, as though she had expected me to visit her all along. I looked at her and shook my head. I was hooked.

  “See you then.”

  “Yes.”

  The summerhouse had two small bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. It stood behind a small hill that protected it from the view of other houses. On the other side, the waves almost reaching the stony wall, was the sea.

  When you were inside, all you could see through the windows was the sky and the water and the sand. People rarely walked around there and the illusion of utter solitude was seldom disturbed.

  I loved the house. I always regarded it as my place. I used to think of it as a castle. When I was alone there, sitting with my feet dangling in the water, the rest of the world quietly took off.

  That was why I didn’t go there too often. I feared that staying there too frequently would break the spell and make it common, just a house on the shore. I hadn’t been there in the last few months and neither had my parents. They had had no time.