Cafe Nevo

by Barbara Rogan

Vered dabbed at the afflicted hand with a napkin. “Yes, I am, and no, you may not.”

  “My dear,” he said reproachfully, “is that any way to treat an old friend?”

  She looked at him through dark glasses. “I know what you’ve been up to,” she said. “You disgust me.”

  “Business is business,” Pincas said. “I would never allow that to come between friends.”

  “I would.” Vered went back to her newspaper.

  Pincas wandered over to a table by the bar and sat down. “Well, well, well,” he said, looking at his nearest neighbor, and was about to address her more directly when Sternholz hustled up.

  “What do you want?”

  “Always the gracious host,” Pincas said for the girl to hear.

  “You have a complaint, take it up with management I’m busy. What do you want?”

  Pincas ordered a brandy, then, smiling broadly, bent his pudgy face toward the girl at the next table. But Sternholz was back between them before he could make his move. “Don’t bother her,” the waiter said into his ear.

  “Sternholz,” the fat man began angrily, but Sternholz held up a peremptory hand.

  “Bother her and I’ll kick you out of here.”

  Pincas, who saw nothing comical in this threat from a seventy-three-year-old man, straightened and said, “I’m not in the habit of bothering anyone, you old fool, much less schoolgirls. Why don’t you fetch my brandy and keep your nose out of my business?”

  “I wouldn’t put my nose within ten miles of your stinking business.”

  The girl at the next table gave no sign of having heard this exchange. She was a splash of sunshine in the gloomy tavern interior. Her hair, the rich auburn of loamy earth, fell in waves down to her shoulders; her green eyes were framed by high taut cheekbones and winged eyebrows. She wore no discernible make-up, save a touch of lipstick that emphasized a luscious lower lip. Every time he looked at her, Sternholz wanted to weep. She was as beautiful as her mother, and Yael Blume had been unquestionably the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

  The girl held a sketch pad on her lap and stabbed at it furtively with a soft lead pencil. She sat with her back to the bar, a half-empty cup of coffee on the table before her. With the waiter’s jealous eye on her, no one had dared approach her, but that didn’t stop them from staring or asking each other, “Who’s the new talent?” If she felt the attention, it didn’t seem to bother her, or perhaps she was so absorbed by the faces emerging on her pad that she had no notice to spare for their prototypes. Her name was Sarita Blume.

  “Welcome to Nevo, the bowels of Tel Aviv. This is our refuge, the bathroom of our souls. Rami Dotan, Khalil Mussara.” Caspi did not introduce Dory.

  “It’s a pleasure. I’ve admired your work.” Rami held out his hand. His English was respectable, his accent execrable.

  Khalil touched the proffered hand. He stood, forcing the others to remain on their feet. “You read it in Arabic?” he asked.

  “In English. The Oxford edition.”

  “A poor translation.”

  “Unfortunately I don’t read Arabic.”

  “Sit down already,” said Caspi. “What’ll you have? Sternholz!”

  The waiter approached.

  “Coffee,” said Khalil. “Black. Strong.”

  Caspi added, “Coffee all around.”

  Sternholz nodded dourly and retired, not before taking a long, hard look at the Arab. Khalil Mussara was a tall, lean man, classically handsome, in his mid-thirties. He wore dark glasses and spoke English with an Oxford accent. When the waiter had gone, there was an awkward silence; then Rami Dotan said: “Caspi has explained the project to you, of course. I only want to add that we at Dotan and Weiner regard this joint Israeli-Palestinian anthology as one of the most important projects we have ever undertaken, and we are prepared to treat it accordingly. It goes without saying that your participation, and that of my good friend Caspi, are essential to the book.”

  “Indeed,” said Caspi sonorously, hand on heart, “if by doing this book we can contribute an iota of understanding, if we can open one single mind to the light of tolerance and mutual respect, then we will all die happy men.” He laughed and punched Rami in the shoulder. “Relax, Rami. Khalil is as sold on the project as we are, aren’t you, mate?”

  Rami’s smile faded. Caspi loved to mock him publicly, and he was the last man to stand for it. But Rami, being a publisher, also loved money. Any author who sold 40,000 in hardcover was entitled to his little idiosyncrasies.

  “It depends,” the Palestinian said. Rami looked at him anxiously. Caspi’s smile froze in place.

  “Depends on what?” they said together.

  “On the contents, on the format, on the question of editorial control.”

  “What’s he talking about?” asked Dory. “Are you doing a book with him?”

  “Hush up, little pumpkin,” Caspi said, without removing his eyes from Khalil’s face.

  “The contents,” Rami repeated, spreading his hands. “But that is entirely up to the two of you. No politics, of course.”

  The Palestinian rose abruptly. “Then it is a farce. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  Caspi caught his arm. “Just a minute, fellow. Not so fast. Things can be worked out.” Though the words could possibly be construed as conciliatory, the tone was most definitely not, being arrogant and harsh. He pointed imperiously to Khalil’s chair. The Arab gave him a chilling look, but he sat obediently. “That’s better,” Caspi said, smiling. He turned to the publisher. “Rami, my friend, you’re full of shit.”

  “I am not. What I meant is that you both will have total freedom within the parameters of the book’s definition, which is modern Israeli and Palestinian literature. I’d say those are broad enough areas to give you plenty of scope, without getting political.”

  Caspi laughed. “Really, man, what would you have us write about, the birds and the bees?”

  “That’s all you ever write about anyway,” heckled Muny from a corner.

  Khalil ignored him. Condescendingly, he told Rami Dotan that apolitical Palestinian writing was a contradiction in terms. “In a country where it is a crime to call oneself a Palestinian, to teach our history and display our flag, no writer worthy of the name Palestinian could ignore his people’s plight. Any writer whose work does not grapple with our oppression is merely indulging in fantasy. If your intention is to compile a collection of Palestinian fantasies, you have come to the wrong man; and I do not think you will easily find the right one.”

  Rami whispered in Hebrew to Caspi: “We can do it without him.”

  “You fool,” snapped Caspi, “do you think he doesn’t understand Hebrew? If you do it without him, you do it without me.”

  Rami flushed. Caspi’s little pumpkin tossed her head and said, “I know what you can have in it.”

  All three men turned to her.

  “Jokes,” she said proudly.

  “Jokes?” they said together.

  “Sure, jokes. What are you laughing for? I read that in America joke books sell better than anything. And how can any two people get to know each other better than by finding out what makes each other laugh?”

  Khalil said stiffly, “We find little to laugh at these days.”

  “Oh, come on,” the girl said. “I don’t believe you don’t have jokes. The Jews were a persecuted minority for thousands of years and it never stopped them laughing.”

  “Have another cream puff, darling,” said Caspi.

  Meanwhile Muny, in response to the daily tides that governed his humors, was once again growing rowdy. He peered around the café and focused on Pincas Gordon. “Well,” he cried, “if it isn’t the old pirate himself, the king of the carpetbaggers, Pincas Lion-of-Judea Gordon in the plentiful flesh.”

  Pincas, half rising, bowed.

  “Dispossessed any widows lately? Bulldozed any orchards? Pulverized any orphanages?”

  “We had a good week,” Pincas replied, patting his ample stomac
h. It was never safe to bait Muny. Roaring incoherently, the drunken poet launched himself in Pincas’s direction. But Sternholz somehow got in the way. Pinching Muny’s arm with amazingly strong fingers, he said, “Once a day is enough. Sit down, or get out.” Muny subsided.

  Caspi had not failed to notice Pincas Gordon’s overtures toward his wife, but what galled him even more was the new Mercedes parked at the curb. “Nice car, Gordon!” he called over.

  “Brand-new,” Pincas boasted. “Right off the boat. Cost me a mint, I can tell you.”

  “Good color, too. Fascist black.”

  “What would you have ordered, Caspi? Pink?”

  “I hope you’re not implying that I’m gay?” Caspi said in a falsetto. Dory giggled loyally.

  “Far be it from me to impugn your cocksmanship. I was referring to your politics.”

  “You shared them once, or so you pretended.”

  “But I grew up, Peter Pan.”

  “You grew out.”

  “Pretty feeble, Caspi. Is something cramping your style? Someone, maybe?” He waggled a chin in Vered’s direction.

  “You are,” Caspi growled, all the humor suddenly drained out of him. “You’ve been haunting this place long enough, dead man.” The malice in his voice killed all other conversations.

  Pincas Gordon’s voice quavered indignantly. “I judge my friends by who they are, not what they do, and I expect to be judged in the same way.”

  Behind the bar, Sternholz snorted.

  “You don’t have any friends,” Caspi stated.

  “No friends? I’ll show you who has no friends! Waiter! Drinks for the house, on me.”

  “Pathetic,” Caspi commented, and turning away, he resumed his conversation with Khalil. Sternholz prepared drinks for everyone, so he could hit Pincas for the bill, but as he expected, all his customers turned them down. All except one. Sitting so far back in the shadows that he had been overlooked by all save Sternholz and the blindly observant Sarita sat a well-dressed man in his late fifties, early sixties.

  Pincas Gordon peered through the gloom to see who had accepted his drink. Then, recognizing the figure, he jumped up and hurried over.

  “Minister Brenner, I didn’t see you. I wouldn’t have thought you’d sit here.”

  “I’ve been coming to Nevo,” replied the Minister, who wore a knitted yarmulke on his bald pate, “since you were in diapers.”

  “It’s good of you to accept. These characters think they own the joint.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” the other said shortly.

  He would have liked to ask why Pincas came to Nevo, where he was obviously unpopular, but he didn’t want to encourage the man. He had accepted the drink on a regrettable impulse of pity for Pincas and dislike of Peter Caspi. The impulse had gone but the fat man showed no sign of following suit. Though Pincas did not quite dare to take a seat uninvited, he planted his back against the wall and settled in for a chat.

  It was an unfortunate meeting for the Minister, who had good reason for wishing to avoid association with Pincas Gordon. He looked around for Sternholz, but the waiter was busy making change and didn’t notice. As Pincas rambled on about Caspi, Minister Brenner grew increasingly annoyed. Sternholz oughtn’t to allow it. In the old days—but before he could complete the thought, Sternholz was there.

  “Back!” he ordered Pincas, waving an imaginary whip. “Back, I say!” Pincas balked, but the old man wouldn’t have it “Get back to your seat! Do you think he comes here to get annoyed by you?”

  Pincas winked at the Minister and said, “Why do we put up with him?” The Minister stared past him. “Far be it from me,” the fat man said unctuously, “to intrude where I’m not wanted.” He did not leave Nevo but returned to his own table.

  Arik had run out a few minutes earlier, returning with a copy of the International Herald Tribune. He pored over the paper, circling help wanted ads with a red pen. Every so often he interrupted his labors to raise his head and stare blearily at Sarita, who was oblivious, still engaged with her drawing. When Sternholz’s altercation with Pincas drew his attention to that dark corner, he recognized Brenner and jumped up.

  “Hey, you!” he bawled. The Minister raised an eyebrow. Arik waved the newspaper. “See this? You know what I’m doing? I’m getting out of this madhouse for good, and you know whose fault that is? Yours, you bastard; you fired me!”

  “I fired you?” the Minister said. “I don’t know you from Adam.”

  “You didn’t fire Adam, you old fart; you fired me, Arik Eshel!”

  “Arik Eshel? Are you Uri Eshel’s son?”

  Arik scowled. “I am.”

  “The one who quit the army over Lebanon?”

  “That’s right.”

  Brenner looked at him unsympathetically and declared, “You’re a sad disappointment to that fine man.”

  Arik, who had sloughed his drunkenness with remarkable ease, said, “I doubt my father confides in you. And I don’t believe you were uninvolved in my firing. But that doesn’t matter. It’s not that I object to. All’s fair in love and politics, but you shouldn’t have closed the center.”

  “I know nothing about it,” the Minister said, and turned his head away.

  A burst of laughter rose from Caspi’s table, followed by the writer’s booming voice. “No, sir,” he said, addressing Khalil, “this is not Mrs. Caspi. This is my darling Dory. Mrs. Caspi is the little frump sitting over there, sulking on her own. Vered, come here!”

  Vered didn’t stir. Sternholz, bone tired, sat down at an unoccupied table and put his head in his hands.

  “Verdele, love of my life, darling spouse, come over here. Someone wishes to meet you. No, don’t move, Dory, my poppet. Vered, get your ass over here!”

  Vered lit a cigarette and turned over a page of her paper. Khalil gave Caspi an angry look, then walked to Vered’s table.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I foolishly thought that girl was his wife and complimented her on her work. An absurd mistake; I apologize for the embarrassment.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” Vered said.

  “I wanted you to know that my friends read your column and respect your work.”

  Vered removed her dark glasses and looked up at him. “I don’t know you.”

  “I am Khalil Mussara.”

  She nodded and said, “Thank you.” The Arab stood uncertainly for a moment, then turned and walked out of Nevo.

  Caspi watched him cross Dizengoff and get into a bright red BMW parked at the curb.

  “I don’t believe it,” he cried, pained to the heart. “I don’t believe my fucking eyes. He doesn’t own a BMW.”

  “He does,” said Rami.

  “Far fucking out,” breathed Dory.

  “Where does that Arab come off,” Caspi asked feelingly, “owning a car like that?”

  Dory and Rami exchanged identical, startled glances. Caspi didn’t notice. He was staring after the car.

  Little Sarita had done enough. The light was fading. She went to Steraholz and, standing timidly by his elbow, asked for her check.

  “No charge,” he said.

  “But I had three coffees.”

  “It’s taken care of.”

  “By whom?”

  The waiter shrugged.

  “No, that’s impossible. I must pay.”

  “Look,” said Emmanuel Yehoshua Sternholz, getting painfully to his feet, “you sat there all afternoon. You drank your coffee quietly and drew your picture. You didn’t do any harm, didn’t cause any disruption, didn’t start any fights, just sat there and brightened up this miserable place. So why should you pay me? I should pay you. Let’s call it even.”

  Sarita flushed and said with distress, “But if you do that, how can I come back? And I have to come back.”

  “Next time,” Sternholz said, “if it makes you happy, you can pay.”

  “Well,” she said, giving him her hand, “Shabbat shalom.”

  He looked down at the lo
ng white fingers, graced by a ring he remembered. Sternholz shook her hand gently.

  “Shabbat shalom,” he said.

  At dawn, Sternholz sat in the armchair by his bedroom window, overlooking the sea. Beside him on a small glass-topped table were a bowl of fruit, a cup of coffee, and an uncapped whiskey bottle. The sea, mantled in royal blue, flecked with white, reflected the rising sun. In the gap between hotels Sternholz saw a narrow silver strand: the city that was built on dunes now had barely a handful of sand to spare its beaches. When he first came, the city at its northern tip was only three streets wide; beyond its eastern edge were sand dunes and orange orchards. The smell of the sea was strong throughout the city and it was a different smell then, wild and briny and sharp. When the wind shifted, the scent of orange blossoms filled the air. Now there was too much exhaust to smell the sea, and the orange groves were long gone. Sternholz had watched the city form and re-form, a seaside city swept by the tide of time. All his life Sternholz had lived in this place, for what came before this place was not life but prelude, a dark prehistory leading to his violent expulsion onto the Tel Aviv shore. He was young with the city and knew it as a time and place of healing grace and light.

  Emmanuel Yehoshua Sternholz had had the rare unbiddable fortune of living in the right time and the right place: the gift of timeliness. He had seen the city’s decline into greatness, its people’s into pettiness, but he regretted nothing. To mourn a city’s aging was to curse the wrinkles on one’s face: a repudiation of all that had passed, good and bad alike.

  Chapter Two

  The calls on Ilana’s tape were all from men—not surprising, in view of her vocation—and normally she would not have considered it or given it a thought. Today, however, she was disappointed. She had hoped, as she always did on her birthday, for a call from her mother. Though they had not met or spoken for fifteen years, Ilana knew that Katya had her address and number, because they corresponded by check.

  Ilana could not blame her. What mother would rejoice at her only daughter’s becoming a whore? Her own father had said it, last time they met, and though she rejected his tone of bitter disapprobation and the implied call to remorse, she did not dispute and never had disputed the definition. Just as extortion on a large enough scale is called manipulation, and gambling speculation, so successful prostitution is honored with finer names. But with the arrogance of great landowners who call themselves farmers, Ilana preferred the common term. She was a whore, though no one else would say it. She lived off men without benefit of civil or religious sanction; and if she lived well, that only made her a successful whore.