Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Shlomi blushed like a child caught lying. “I asked Mazal to accompany me to the old folks’ home where Samira lives. I didn’t think it was important to tell you. Samira showed us letters she had received from Amina through the years, letters which of course I didn’t understand. Mazal translated a few, but the fact that Amina lived in Bath aroused my curiosity because I was booked to perform there a few days later.”

  “And then you decided to play a little game, didn’t you?” Shlomi heard the harshness in her voice.

  “I didn’t know what I wanted at that moment,” Shlomi felt miserable under D’vora’s cold stare. She’s judging me, not a good sign.

  “What do you feel now? I don’t understand your doubts. You should’ve known that when you play with fire, somebody’s going to get burned. It’s hard for me to believe that the man I’m going to trust my life with, is an impostor.”

  “Please, D’vora,” begged Shlomi.

  “You played with your aunt’s feelings. I’m sure it must be hard to resolve the misgivings of your heart, but you must try. Wake up, Shlomi. I can’t decide for you.”

  “I didn’t know what to expect. That’s the reason I used a fictitious name. It wasn’t exactly a game, though I suppose looking back, you are probably right. It was foolish of me. The Amina I discovered is a nice, warm-hearted person.”

  “But you still have doubts. What are the Arabic dictionaries for?”

  Shlomi blushed, “I wanted to see if I can remember some words. Samira said that when I was three years old I spoke the language fairly well.”

  D’vora glanced at her watch. “My God, I’m already late. I forgot about our rehearsal. The management of Alice Tully Hall has engaged our quartet for four concerts, starting next month. We’ll play quartets by contemporary American composers. I asked to perform music by women composers as well, and it was approved,” she said with pride.

  “Why didn’t you tell me right away? You know how pleased I am to hear about your success.”

  “You were caught up in your own problems.” As she reached the door, D’vora added, “By the way, my parents are arriving in March to hear our second concert.”

  She blew him a kiss. “See you tonight. Maybe you should see Dr. Singer. Remember, indecision can affect your playing,” and she was gone.

  Dr. Singer was a psychologist treating mostly musicians. D’vora had seen him several times and told Shlomi she found him helpful, but Shlomi was doubtful. He told D’vora at the time, “Nobody can do for you what you alone can do for yourself.” Was it true, or was he an arrogant jerk?

  Shlomi thought about D’vora’s parents’ impending visit. A quiet couple, they had lived all their lives in Binyamina, a sleepy town between Tel-Aviv and Haifa. D’vora used to joke that only the ma’asef, stopped at Binyamina’ station, never the express.

  Her father was a shy optometrist, who blew into his eyeglasses and wiped them with a large handkerchief before saying something. The vocal one was D’vora’s mother, a kindergarten teacher, with an ample bosom which pressed hard on Shlomi every time she hugged him. She never called D’vora or Shlomi by their given names, for her they were always “the children.”

  Now D’vora’s parents’ arrival was going to disturb the rhythm of his life. Oh, well, stop thinking, Shlomi. Take a shower and go buy flowers to celebrate D’vora’s success tonight.

  “January is such a miserable month; my fingers are icicles,” D’vora complained on her return. “It took me a long time to thaw them before touching the new Elliot Carter quartet, which by the way is a real killer.” Shlomi placed her hands under his armpits to warm them up. Her face glowed, a sign that she had enjoyed the music-making.

  “What else is on the program?” Shlomi asked, as he opened two bottles of beer.

  “We are working on a big project. Some of the pieces we’ll play next at the Ciompi Quartet’s invitation.”

  “Super,” Shlomi said. “Your quartet is going to create waves.”

  “I hope so, but today I couldn’t stop thinking of you,” she said. “It was difficult to concentrate on the music. I am sorry. I came on too strong this morning.”

  Shlomi took her in his arms. “I can never be upset with you. You are my conscience.”

  D’vora turned to face him. “I believe the world is moving ahead in quick steps. Less prejudice; no more gossip in the small provincial towns like the one I grew up in. I remember that our neighbors’ son married the daughter of his father’s orange grove Arab gatekeeper. At the time the townspeople pointed at them, shaking their heads.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I think that what torments you is the decision whether or not to connect with your father.”

  Shlomi’s mouth felt dry. He was amazed. How well she could see into him, better than he could himself.

  “To build a relationship between a father and son who haven’t seen each other for twenty years will take time and good will from both sides. It can’t be done overnight.” D’vora’s tone changed, “I think I’ve bored you enough with my female instincts. Let’s have dinner. I’m starved.” She looked appreciatively at the table. “You bought a lot of goodies.”

  For the dinner of falafel, humus, pita, and Baba-Ganoush, Shlomi had added a vegetable salad cut very small, Israeli-style, the way D’vora liked it. He asked her in a casual tone, “How long will your parents stay?”

  D’vora laughed, “That’s what bothers you, isn’t it? Don’t worry. After my concert they are going to visit a cousin of my father’s in Florida whom he hasn’t seen in more than twenty years.”

  ”You misunderstood me,” Shlomi was hurt. “This morning you said that it’s time for me to take responsibility for my actions, your perennial leitmotif. And that’s what I want to do.” He got up and stood behind her chair, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear, “I want us to get married. Isn’t this proof that I am ready to take on a big responsibility? I think this is a good time, my love, especially during your parents’ visit. Think how happy it will make them.”

  He put a finger on D’vora’s lips to keep her from replying. “I know that you didn’t allude to our getting married when you said I need to take responsibility for my acts.”

  D’vora awoke in the middle of the night. Shlomi’s side of the bed was empty. The light on the living room desk was on. He was writing. She tiptoed behind his back and read the beginning of a letter.

  Dear Mrs. Gardner,

  You were right. I lied to you. Al Sand doesn’t exist. At birth my name was Selim Ibn Musa Ibn Faud. I didn’t dare tell you I am Suha’s son. In 1948 after my mother’s death, I was adopted. Only recently I learned who my father is. You are a lovely person. Forgive me.

  Shlomi closed his eyes while D’vora left as quietly as she had come in.

  He continued to write in Arabic, Salaam Aleikum, aunt Amina,

  “Arnold Schonberg likes us,” D’vora screamed as she unlocked the door. The morning after the quartet’s concert, she stole away from bed to look for The New York Times. She threw the newspaper at him, “Read it!”

  Shlomi wiped his sleepy eyes, A Young Quartet Shows Potential. Nice headline,” he said.

  “Go ahead, read the whole review,” D’vora urged him.

  Good programming, pairing the Amy Beach quartet with Elliot Carter’s. Shlomi’s eyes ran through the review. The quartet successfully included Benjamin Britten’s Dover Beach for baritone and string quartet in their program. This is a young, promising group. We should watch it in the future.

  D’vora snatched the paper from his hand and started dancing with it.

  “Schonberg doesn’t say anything about the baritone eyeing you during the performance,” Shlomi pointed out. “When all of you came on stage to take your final bow, he held his arm around your waist.”

  “Oh, my God, you are jealous!” D’vora exclaimed.

  “I want to warn you about singers, for them life is opera, and opera is life, they don’t distinguish betwee
n the two.”

  “Jealous. Shlomi’s jealous. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Why didn’t he embrace the violist, that mousy girl who couldn’t choose between music and math? When she plays she looks like a math teacher, her head bobbing up and down like a metronome.”

  “She’s the nicest person and you are intolerable,” D’vora slammed the door.

  What’s wrong with me? Shlomi had wanted only to warn D’vora that one good review doesn’t guarantee that Schonberg will always give praise. One pianist didn’t dare to appear in New York for ten years after one bad review from Schonberg, and he was an excellent pianist.

  Maybe D’vora’s parents’ impending arrival, or the fact that five weeks had passed since he wrote Amina, without receiving an answer, made him so prickly.

  The baritone annoyed him. He have to appease D’vora soon, especially since she’d been so good to him. She even succeeded in subletting the apartment of a bassoonist living in their building, who was going on tour with “Fiddler on the Roof.”

  “My parents’ visit will disturb neither our practice nor our life during their stay in New York,” she said, “Just the opposite, my mother is going to spoil you and cook your favorite dishes. You’ll be pampered, and I’ll have a difficult time to wean you after they leave.”

  At that, Shlomi smiled. In his mind’s eye he could already see D’vora’s waist as well as his gaining a few inches from her mother’s sauces and her habit of adding sour cream and sugar to the vegetable salads. Oh, well, what doesn’t one do for shalom bait. Shlomi laughed to himself—he was already thinking like a married man.

  As always, D’vora was right. He had nothing to fear from her parents’ visit. He felt surrounded by love. At home after D’vora’s quartet’s second concert, Shlomi opened a bottle of champagne. “For D’vora’s continued success, and to you,” he toasted her parents, “I wish to always have naches from her.”

  “Amen,” her parents said in one voice. “To have naches from you both!” and they raised their glasses.

  “As we are here together, tonight, to celebrate D’vora’s successful concert, I want to ask your consent for our marriage.” Surprised, D’vora opened her mouth but Shlomi was quicker, “D’vora is the most important person in my life; we have known each other as teenagers, and have lived together for the last four years. Nothing would make me happier,” Shlomi said, opening a small box, “than to put this ring on her finger, of course if you have no objection to her marrying me.”

  D’vora’s mother had tears in her eyes. “My boy,” she said, “now I can really call you my son.” D’vora’s father shook his hand. D’vora remained mute. She looked at the diamond circling her finger. “You never stop astonishing me,” she whispered. Shlomi heard the reproach in her voice.

  “L’chaim, for a good life together,” wished D’vora’s parents. “We hope that you plan to have the wedding in Israel.”

  Taking D’vora’s arm, Shlomi said, “I think my sweetheart would want us to wait. Her career is on the rise, and I have obligations to fulfill.”

  D’vora echoed his words, “Shlomi is right.” For the first time that evening, she kissed him and looked straight into his eyes, “I am happy to be your life partner.”

  “Children, children, don’t be so formal with each other; you’ve been life partners for quite some time. As a matter of fact we thought, as we were getting older, that it’s about time to enjoy a few grandchildren.” D’vora smiled, embarrassed.

  Shlomi paled. “We might not have children,” he said. Three pairs of eyes focused on him. “I doubt you’d like to have one-quarter Arab grandchildren.”

  “What did you say?” D’vora’s mother asked, alarmed.

  “Shlomi, I don’t believe you said that,” D’vora whispered, her face red, “Why do you want to spoil an evening that started so beautifully?”

  “Because your parents should know who fathered me.” Shlomi said in a tortured voice.

  The next morning, D’vora’s parents left for Florida as planned. They called the same afternoon, “There’s something we have left unfinished last evening,” D’vora’s father said, “We love you. Shlomi, we consider you our son and you’ll always be. Last night we were all too excited, but this is what we wanted you to hear. You are our son, and if G-d blesses your and D’vora’s house with children, you’ll make us the happiest grandparents.”

  5 3

  Shlomi was on his way home from a harrowing recording session of the Walton violin concerto, so tired he did not even stop at a take-out to shop for his dinner. D’vora was in Israel, summoned there at the last minute by her former cello teacher who had fallen ill, to replace him in a concert honoring Odeon Partos, the rector of the Tel-Aviv Music Conservatory.

  “You can’t refuse,” Shlomi said when D’vora told him. “You’ve been his favorite student. And while in New York it is still winter, you’ll bask in the Israeli April sun.”

  D’vora looked at him quizzically. “Is there an ulterior motive in your wanting to see me gone?”

  “You’ll benefit from it, while I’ll be madly practicing for the Walton recording. I’d rather be in your place.”

  From the beginning Shlomi had not been enthusiastic about the recording, but he’d signed the contract and had to honor his commitment. He complained to D’vora, “This piece sounds like a rainy day in England, small drops on perfectly manicured lawns. No lightning, no thunder.”

  D’vora laughed, “It’s his country’s character. Stop searching for the romantic in every composer.”

  D’vora was right. Trying to emphasize a romantic line brought the first incident with the English conductor.

  “No rubato. Please, Mr. Gal, respect what’s written.”

  “What’s written is a matter of interpretation,” answered Shlomi. He was upset and became even more so during the next interruptions.

  Ten hours, Shlomi muttered to himself, ten hours to record one movement! What a dog’s life! He almost failed to notice that he was in front of his building. He checked his mail. Two letters, one from Otto in Germany. Aha, Shlomi thought, Otto got tired of waiting for me to travel with him.

  But who is Rama? The second letter came from England; on the back of the envelope there was only one name, Rama, POB 4670 London, UK. He opened the door of his apartment and heard the telephone. He ran, but the rings stopped. Maybe it was D’vora. What time is it? Nine p.m. Her concert was tonight, but she wouldn’t call at this hour, four a.m. in Israel.

  He sat down, trying to catch his breath. He looked at the two letters in his hand. Rama… why did this name ring a bell? Three months after he wrote to Amina, he gave up hoping to receive a letter from her. Rama! When he opened the letter thin papers fell out along with the picture of a small boy holding the hand of a girl in a long embroidered dress. They were both smiling. On the back of the picture the names Selim and Rama 1946, were written in Arabic.

  March 25, 1970

  Dear Selim,

  I am Rama, your father’s younger sister. I can’t describe my joy when my sister Amina called to tell me about your letter.

  Oh, my dear Selim, my nephew. When Samira let me hold you a few minutes after your birth, I kissed your eyebrows, my heart trembling with happiness. Your mother, Suha, looked peaceful and more beautiful than ever. And Musa, my brother—no one was prouder than him. He opened the front door and invited every passer-by to come in and drink a glass of arrack in your honor.

  I remember you started to sing even before you started to speak. Your mother taught you songs and it was lovely to hear the two of you singing together. I couldn’t wait to come home from school and play with you. You were my favorite doll.

  I am so excited, dear Selim Ibn Musa Ibn Faud, our youngest Masri. Amina told me that you have a great gift, that when people listen to you playing the violin they forget the vicissitudes of everyday life.

  The phone rang. It took Shlomi a few seconds to hear it, engrossed as he was in the letter.

&nbs
p; “Hello, this is the third time I’ve tried to reach you. The minute I leave home, you become a vagabond,” D’vora said, but her voice sounded full of joy.

  “How was the concert?”

  “A triumph! I want to tell you that everybody already knows about our engagement.”

  “Well it didn’t take long for your parents to spread the—”

  “Listen,” D’vora interrupted him, “there is a good chance that Haifa Symphony will ask us to play the Brahms Double concerto next season. Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”

  “Indeed! I am just reading a letter. You couldn’t guess from whom,”

  “From Amina?”

  “No, from Rama, her younger sister. Come home, my love. I am lost without you.”

  Suddenly, the contact was lost. Though he was tired and hungry, Shlomi couldn’t put Rama’s letter down.

  Your father is away on business in the Arab Emirates and we have no way to reach him, but we barely can wait to tell him the great news.

  I was the first to teach your mother Arabic, and proud of her progress. The dress I wore in the photo and the embroidery were made by your mother. She had hands of gold.

  Dear nephew, I pinch myself to make sure it’s you I’m writing to. Please come to London soon.

  Your aunt who longs to meet you,

  Rama

  Shlomi read the letter twice. He tried to recognize himself in the plump little child. What a wonder to see himself as a child for the first time. In the mirror he compared the picture with his adult face. He gave up. Maybe D’vora would see a likeness. He smiled thinking of her excitement on the phone.

  Before he went to sleep he put the picture next to the photo Chana had given him.

  At breakfast the next morning, Shlomi opened Otto’s letter.

  Baden-Baden March 23, 1970

  My Dear Shlomi,

  I am sorry I didn’t consult with you before leaving for Germany, but when you know the reason you’ll understand my haste. Our dear friend Heinrich Schultz, the cellist of our old trio, lives now in a musicians’ retirement home in Baden-Baden. I started corresponding with him after he inquired about my whereabouts at the Israeli Philharmonic. I told you that Heinrich’s brother was crucial to our escape from Nazi Germany.