Don't Ask Me If I Love

by Amos Kollek

  “Wait.”

  His long figure appeared at the door.

  “Who do you want to marry?” he asked her.

  “Not me. How long does it take?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “All right. You can go back then.”

  “An awful husband,” she remarked after he disappeared. “I can’t imagine what I ever saw in him. I am joking, of course.”

  “We can go later and find out,” Joy said. “It’s practically around the corner.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The registrar’s office.”

  We had to wait two weeks before we could get married. We had a good time. I booked a double room in the hotel and we moved in there. We spent the days walking around in town and seeing films and plays. I wrote to my parents twice during that period but I didn’t mention Joy or any of my plans, I just said that I was feeling fine and hoped they were too.

  Joy wrote her parents a long letter saying she was going to get married and settle in Israel. She said she hoped they were happy and in good health and would come to visit sometime in the future. She asked me to add a few lines.

  I bought the Israeli papers in Piccadilly Circus three times a week. There was not much news. Secretary of State Rogers was expected to make a statement concerning America’s position on the situation in the Middle East, but this statement kept being delayed. There were secret negotiations between Russia and the United States, but there was no announced agreement. The firing along the Israeli borders went on as usual.

  Sometimes we went to parties or to discotheques with Lynda and John. Afterward, late at night, we would ride in the small Hillman I had rented through the near empty streets of the West End.

  We got married on the twenty-ninth of July in the Hamp-stead registrar’s office. John and Lynda acted as witnesses.

  It was not as festive an occasion as I had expected. Joy wore a low-cut yellow minidress which was smart and fashionable. I wore a gray suit I had bought on Portobello Road. We repeated the few lines and the old solemn-looking registrar read to us and then he signed the marriage certificate and handed it to us.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s it. Please accept my congratulations and I hope you have a long, happy life together.”

  That’s all? I thought.

  “Thank you,” I said nervously.

  I looked at Joy and then back at him.

  “Maybe you’d like to kiss the bride, sir,” he suggested finally.

  Joy wrapped her arms around my neck and held her head back promptly. I kissed her briefly and she pulled away, laughing.

  “I’ll do a more thorough job of that,” John said enthusiastically and grabbed her away from me, enfolding her in his arms. The registrar looked at me in a fatherly way, sticking his pen back into his breast pocket.

  “I feel insulted,” Lynda said, planting herself in my arms, “being the only one around who gets no kissing. Is she really prettier than me?”

  “Yes,” I said, bending to kiss her, “of course.”

  Right after the ceremony we left on our trip west, leaving John and Lynda standing on the sidewalk, waving.

  “You’ll have to look after me,” Joy said shyly when we got into the car. “I’ll have no one in Israel except you.”

  “I’ll look after you.”

  “Let’s go to Wales,” she said, suddenly remembering to wave back at her sister and brother-in-law.

  When we got to Gloucester I drove to the center of town and stopped the car.

  “Won’t be a moment,” I said.

  Joy looked around suspiciously.

  “Who is she?” she said.

  I pointed to the post office and jumped out of the car.

  “Oh,” she said, taking her make-up out of her bag.

  I went into the post office and sent a cable to my parents. Afterward I returned to the car.

  “Sent a cable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Married Joy. Regards.”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s not nice.”

  “I’m not a nice guy.”

  “I know.”

  “You should have thought of that before you said yes.”

  “I think this is where Wales starts,” she said.

  We drove all the way up to Holyhead and found a small hotel near the beach. We stayed there for ten days, swimming and driving around. The landscape was beautiful and way up in the mountains it was really cold. We went for long walks there, climbing to the peaks through green fields that belonged to the farmers in the neighborhood. Occasionally we would come across a flock of sheep that would accompany us part of the way up in search of more grass. Sometimes we would approach the homely brown bulls and Joy would become jumpy because I always wore a red shirt. But the bulls only stared at us and went on chewing the grass with infinite peace of mind. In the evenings we sat down in the lounge with the hotel owner who loved to talk about his younger days when he had been a coal miner in the southern part of the country. When he was in particularly high spirits, he would sing us folk songs in his mother tongue because he claimed that every true Welshman was also a singer. We would sit close to the fire and drink the light beer he offered us until he got tired and dozed off in his armchair. Then we would go up to our room which had dark wooden walls and a large window overlooking the sea, and we would put on the electric heater and sit down and have another drink and talk. During the day, whenever it was not too cold, we went swimming, and when the sun was out and there were no clouds in the sky, we stretched out on the sand and lay on the beach until the breeze drove us away.

  We usually had our meals in one of the small pubs, where the local people came to have a drink and a chat. We loved to sit quietly and listen to the strange melodious sounds of their speech, so different from that of the English.

  A few times, we went dancing. There were only a few dancing places, and they were entirely different from the swinging discotheques in London. They were peaceful and relaxing. I was surprised to find that I could enjoy them.

  We took our time and spent the days lazily, not talking about the future. The future seemed to belong to a different world. We didn’t let it bother us.

  Then, one night, when we were sitting in our room with two huge glasses of beer, listening to two happy drunkards singing in Welsh down on the street below, Joy said to me:

  “It is so different here, isn’t it? It’s so cut off from the world.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s not much like the Middle East.”

  “What are we going to do when we get back?”

  She was wrapped in a thick white woolen sweater. Her legs were stretched out close to the heater.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “what do you want to do?”

  “I’d like to try acting,” she said, “sometime.”

  “I thought of trying to work this book of mine into a movie,” I said. “Maybe I will. You could play the part of the beautiful girl. You would fit the part perfectly.”

  “But she dies in the end, brutally.”

  “I know,” I said, “but it’s a good part. The tragedy adds to the impact. I would really love to see you in the part. You could be a stunning success.”

  “I should study acting,” she said. “I haven’t been in a play since high school, and those don’t count.”

  I nodded.

  “But what about you?”

  “I’d like to take my exams next month, so I won’t lose the year, and my parents will be pleased. Then, I’ll see. I’ll have to see what happens with the book.”

  “It will still take quite a while, won’t it.”

  “Yes, it should be out in six months.”

  “Did you send a card to Ram’s mother?”

  I looked down at my empty glass.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I tapped my finger on my knee. I could see her motionless reflection in my glass.

  “I do
n’t know.”

  “I think you should write her.”

  “Yes. I suppose I should.”

  “Do you often think of him?”

  I smiled bitterly. “No.”

  She came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am as happy as I can be.”

  Dead, I thought, dead. Ram, whom I had envied more than anyone else on earth.

  “What difference does a postcard make?”

  “I am sure she’d be happy to get one.” Joy said.

  “I will send one, then.”

  We were on our way to Edinburgh when we heard about the American peace plan. It was the first time since we had left London that we had heard news about Israel. We didn’t usually listen to the radio.

  Joy was worried about the news. I discovered that in certain ways she was quite a pessimistic person. She said the Americans were selling Israel out, and for a very cheap price. She said that the plan included practically all the Russian demands. It was a clear sign of the impotence of the leading country of the Western world. I wasn’t sure she was right. I thought it might be the beginning of a serious peace move. In any case, I told the frowning Joy, Israel had come through worse crises. This wouldn’t be the end of the story.

  We stayed in Edinburgh for one day and then continued driving northwest toward the island of Skye. The scenery and the weather were bright and beautiful but we didn’t have as good a time as we had had in Wales. Joy listened to the news constantly. I couldn’t talk her out of it. She grimaced when she heard of Nasser’s acceptance, too. She said she would like to think that some good would come of the plan, but she just couldn’t.

  We arrived in Skye in time to watch the traditional games and sports competitions. We stayed there for three days and then we returned south.

  Arriving back in London, we found out about the three-month cease-fire between Israel and Egypt. The papers were filled with the news and there were pictures of happy, celebrating Israelis in the streets of Tel Aviv. Joy looked at the photos doubtfully and her brow wrinkled as she read the long articles. It made me feel uncertain.

  “My sister gave me a letter today,” she said quietly. “It came from my parents.”

  We were sitting on the big double bed in our hotel room. The unpacked suitcases were standing on the floor.

  “What did they say?”

  “They said that they hope I’ll be happy. They send you their regards.” She paused, staring at herself in the mirror facing her. “They say they hope we’ll come and visit them in the States some day.”

  “Sound bitter?”

  “I don’t know,” she said to the mirror. “Probably they are not too happy, having their two daughters living so far away.”

  “But, you don’t …”

  “No,” she said, smiling at me, “of course not.”

  “Maybe we’ll visit them,” I said. “Quite soon.”

  “How? On the way to Hollywood?”

  “Maybe, who knows?”

  I took off my shoes and stretched on the bed.

  “Listen,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “What do we do next?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

  She turned and stared down at me.

  “Let’s go back to Israel. I’d like to get started there and anyway”—she grimaced—”from far away this cease-fire makes me nervous.”

  I laughed.

  “If a cease-fire makes you nervous you are becoming a real Israeli.”

  We flew back the next day. Before we went to the airport Joy insisted on checking at the American Express office to see if there was any mail for me. We found a nice, long letter, signed by both my parents. They sent their warmest regards and congratulations, and added that they were hoping to see us some day, if it wasn’t too much to ask. Joy was visibly relieved as she read it for the third time and she decided we should go and buy a few small gifts for them. My telling her that there was nothing we could buy they didn’t have anyway, did not dissuade her. We ended up with a few yards of silken material for a dress and three boxes of cigars. Afterward we went to the post office and sent a cable warning them of our imminent homecoming. Joy was very strict about such things.

  We arrived in Israel on a hot August day. I found the white Triumph in the parking lot where I had left it a month before. While I was putting our suitcases in the back, Joy circled the car, inspecting it carefully.

  “Not one single, solitary, miserable ticket,” she announced finally.

  “What inefficiency. You ought to report this.”

  I inserted the key into the lock and opened the door for her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Do you think you have any gas?”

  “Sure, I filled it up before I left.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “What?”

  “I’m getting nervous.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “We’re home.”

  When we got near the house I pulled in behind the black Dodge and stopped the engine.

  “Well,” I said, “Mrs. Ryke.”

  “O.K.,” she said. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  She got out of the car and waited for me to get the two suitcases.

  “All right,” she said calmly, “you lead the way.”

  My mother opened the door. My father was right behind her.

  “Well, there you are,” she said happily. “We just got your cable half an hour ago.” She beamed at Joy over my shoulder. “Hello, dear, I am so happy to see you.”

  I saw Joy’s tense expression relax and disappear. Her whole face brightened.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Well, come in,” my father said. “We have the drinks ready.”

  “And the cake,” my mother added, “and the flowers.”

  “Well,” I said to Joy, “what do you know?”

  We walked into the living room, leaving the suitcases in the hall. My father opened the champagne bottle and poured the drinks.

  “I spotted a new case of Coke bottles in the fridge,” he said, handing me my glass, “but it’s not for this occasion.”

  Then he handed Joy her glass and a red rose.

  “And that’s for you, lady.”

  “Thanks.” Joy said, smiling.

  “Let’s have a gulp then,” I said, “I’m thirsty.”

  “Well,” my father said, “to you.”

  “To your happiness,” my mother said with glistening eyes.

  We drank.

  My father put his glass down and walked around the table. He looked at Joy.

  “I believe I have the right to kiss the bride,” he said.

  She bowed slightly, emptied her glass and put it down on the table.

  “My pleasure.”

  I watched the scene curiously.

  “And now,” my father said, pulling back and breathing a bit heavily, “all I want is a bite of the cake.”

  “This sure is your day,” I said drily.

  “Then I can go back to my work and misery.”

  “They can’t possibly go together.”

  “Be quiet,” Joy said, picking up the huge piece of cake my mother offered her. “I’ll have to educate him,” she told my father.

  Chapter Twenty

  WE STAYED in my room for two weeks, until we found a flat. It was a lot pleasanter than I had expected. Joy seemed to get along with my parents extremely well. It took me some time, but I finally realized that they simply liked her. Late in the evening after our arrival I found my father sitting alone in his study and I walked in and closed the door behind me.

  “Tell me truly,” I said, “are you very much against this marriage?”

  He put down his papers. “Not at all,” he said. “Why should we be?”

  He said I was too young, but that was not really important. Neither he nor my mother minded the religious difference. That didn’t matter at all.
/>   “I just hope Joy doesn’t have any difficulties because of it,” he said. “She shouldn’t have to feel like a stranger if she settles in this country.

  “For that reason,” he went on, “it may be easier for her if she converted. This is the only country in which it is more convenient to be Jewish than not.”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “I don’t want her to convert.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  For the first few days, Joy spent most of her time with my mother talking about the different possibilities for a young woman in Israel and learning to cook. On Friday we had gefilte fish for supper which she had cooked herself, under my mother’s supervision. I told her that if this behavior continued I would divorce her within the month but my mother told me to shut up. My father insisted he liked the meal.

  I spent a few days looking at houses with brokers until I found a three-room flat for a rent of five hundred pounds a month. It was in a pleasant area near Rehavia, and Joy and I decided to take it. We didn’t care too much where we lived. It wasn’t going to be permanent.

  The apartment was furnished so we didn’t transfer many things there. Neither of us had a lot of belongings, anyway. We rented it for a minimum of two months and paid the money in advance.

  I didn’t think we would stay there longer.

  The evening before we moved I sat in my room by myself and tried to decide what to do next. My marriage came as a surprise, quick and unforeseen, and I had liked it that way. I thought it would put my mind at rest and enable me to devote my time and effort to the work I wanted to do.

  I received the galleys of my book a few days after we arrived in Israel. There was still no indication from my publisher of how they thought it might sell, but I assumed that it would not be an absolute flop. Meanwhile, I intended to take my exams in economics. I thought that maybe I would be able to use that too.

  After that there seemed to be a few possibilities. I could try to write another book or work the first one into a movie script. I could go to the States later in the year, and find out how to get started making a movie, or I could try to ask my father for money to produce a film. I gave the galleys to my parents and they both read them.

  I was pleased that my father liked the book. He said he believed it showed real promise. Of course, it was not entirely to his taste, but that needn’t bother me, he said.