No Medals Today

by Shlomi Tal

  Today, three more diplomats’ families are arriving from Africa. They will be transported in a hired bus directly to Orly in time for their flight home to Israel in the evening. This is still a burden that requires manpower we don’t have. The flights from Africa arrive early in the morning at the northern airport; the flight to Israel leaves in the evening from the southern airport. The “refugees,” as we call the expelled diplomats from Africa, have to be transported to a hotel at the southern airport, Orly, to spend the day, and their meals and lodging have to be taken care of. There are usually children involved, and that requires special attention. The refugees bring classified, top-secret mail with them that has to reach the embassy and be handled appropriately. One or two of them also come to the embassy to receive and give information.

  Yossi Ben-David is not a man of glad or sad tidings today; he has nothing new to report about Zvika. He has been given the job of notifying two Jewish families that their sons have been killed in the war. They are the children of Israeli émigrés who live in France, and they went to fight in Israel as soon as the war broke out. There were dozens like them, six of whom have been killed so far and some twenty injured; Yossi has the task of informing all of their families. It’s a lousy job. Yossi has lost a considerable amount of weight since he began this assignment, and he has become gaunt and sallow.

  It’s a busy day but less than usual because it’s the Sabbath. I decide it’s an excellent idea to take off two hours and see Chantal. We agree to meet at her house, where she will prepare lunch. I grab a bottle of fine Chateau Rothschild wine from the embassy canteen before I leave.

  ***

  I set out at midday on my way to Chantal, feeling happy and cheerful. It’s been more than a week since I last saw her. This pregnancy business must be affecting her badly. I am glad I am going to her, and somehow, her pregnancy doesn’t bother me at all. Not only the possible pregnancy has whipped up the atmosphere between us—there is also the fact that she doesn’t understand a thing about this war. Those few phone calls caused more distance between us than anything else. She appears to believe I have dropped her for another woman.

  On my way, I organize my thoughts. Now I have to release myself from the pressures of the war and be in the here and now. I tell myself that I have left the diplomat, the embassy man, in Rue Rabelais, behind the heavy wooden door at the entrance. Now, I am Yiftach—the horny lover, perhaps even the soon-to-be father of a cute little Frenchman.

  How am I to cope with Chantal’s pregnancy? I have no idea. We’ll see how things develop when we meet. I have never dealt with a situation like this, so I have no prior experience. I will deal with the matter as it develops. For the first time, I wonder how, in fact, she got pregnant. When we talked about it at the time, she said I had nothing to worry about. So how did it happen, anyway? I’ll check with her soon. I stop at a flower shop and buy a bunch of red roses. This can only help me. A policeman in uniform waits near my double-parked car. He knows from the diplomat’s number plate that the car belongs to the Israeli embassy. With a broad smile on my lips, I pull a single rose out of the bunch I bought for Chantal and offer it to him. He can’t do anything to me for double parking, so why not be pleasant to a cop doing his job? “It’s my wife’s birthday today, so I bought her some flowers,” I lied. The cop smiled at me, refusing to take the rose but responding, “I’m a Jew, so when I saw that the car belonged to the embassy, I had to bless Israel through you and tell you that I pray every day that you will succeed in this war. Have a great day, and happy birthday to your wife.” He stops for a moment and then adds in Hebrew, “Shabbat shalom” (“good Sabbath”). Before I can answer him, he is gone.

  I cautiously ring the bell. Chantal opens the door immediately with a broad smile. With open arms around my neck, she falls on me. “How happy I am to see you Yves-Tah, chérie,” she sobs. I am amazed at this warm reception—it is as if I were the prodigal son who has returned home after twenty years, rather than less than twenty days. “Thank you for the flowers. Red roses! What a declaration! Are you sure you understand what they mean?” She is thoroughly confused, and so am I. “My love, I have to apologize to you. I am definitely not pregnant, nor did I think I was. I’m really sorry I used such a cheap trick to try and threaten you. I was frightened I was losing you, and that fear drove me out of my mind.” She places the flowers on the table, and I set down the bottle of wine beside them. Just a second, wait a moment, she isn’t pregnant! I am flooded with an overwhelming sense of elation. I have no problems now! I don’t have to struggle with anything! She falls all over me again and hugs me. “Forgive me, my love, forgive me. I regretted what I said the moment I hung up the phone on Wednesday evening. That same night, I heard on television that your ambassador’s son was killed. Only then I really began to understand what this war is for all of you.”

  At long last, she is starting to realize what I am going through.

  “When you announced that you were pregnant, I was just being arrested at Orly airport. Are you really not pregnant? I was getting used to the idea that I would be the father of a cute little French kid!” I lie with a smile of relief. “You know, I wasn’t just arrested—it was the SDECE that held me!”

  “What? Did the SDECE detain you? What did you do?” Chantal is really shocked.

  “Don’t worry, chérie, it was a mistake. Only it took them two hours to check that everything was actually all right.” I regret telling her about it, and I immediately change the subject back to her: “Can you explain it to me? Were you pregnant and fixed it, or weren’t you pregnant at all?”

  “No, chérie, I know how to take care of that. I wasn’t pregnant, not even for a minute. My cycle is regular, and I have no gynecological problems.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. If you had been pregnant and got rid of it”—I don’t know the correct terms in French, so I am trying to explain as best I can—“I would be angry, because if you are pregnant, I have a part in it, and I would be happy to be involved. But if you aren’t, then let’s celebrate the event: we’ll go to the table, because, in spite of everything, I have to get back to that war. What did you prepare for lunch today?”

  “I made roast veal with a cream and mushroom sauce, and I have to finish cooking that because it is served straight from the pan onto the plate. I also prepared a lettuce salad with the dressing you love, and I left the ingredients for you to make a chopped Israeli salad and your avocado salad that I also find delicious. The salads are the first course. So let’s go to the table.” I cut up the vegetables for the Israeli salad and slice the baguette, thinking of Yechiel in Tel Aviv, then I finish making the avocado salad and gaze at Chantal. Her hair is tied back, and she is wearing an ivory-colored skirt and a red T-shirt that emphasizes her beautiful breasts while it hides them. I recall how her breasts look when they burst out of the confines of her brassiere as she unhooks it—Enough! There’s no time to make love today and anyway, Chantal hates a “quickie.” She has told me that many times. “Get that into your head!” I command myself. “Today will be lunch, that’s all.”

  The meal goes smoothly. I explain the essence of my work to Chantal, taking care not to divulge anything classified. I tell her about the closing of our embassies in Africa and the transfer of the expelled diplomats and their families back to Israel via Paris, about the call-up and repatriation of IDF reservists, and about the mobilization of the French Jewish community on behalf of Israel.

  Relaxed, Chantal listens intently and asks many questions, which I reply to at length. She also tells me about some of her problems at work and how, because of her connection to me, she is beginning to take an interest in the war. Chantal tells me that people are talking about this war, and she is discovering how many Jews live in France and in her immediate environment. Many people have hated Arabs ever since they were forced out of Algeria. She has suddenly discovered that there are many pied noirs in France. In most cases, the people who were expelled from Algeria had been wealthy property
owners, but they were penniless when they reached France. They are supporters of Israel, not because they believe her to be right, but because of their blind hatred of anything connected to the Arabs—exactly as the Arabs in France hate everything connected with Israel and the Jews.

  We sipped our after dinner liqueur and coffee on the sofa, Chantal on my lap.

  “When this war is over, I will take you to London for a weekend. Would you like that?”

  “I’ve never been to London, but I prefer Venice. Have you been there?”

  “Of course I’ve been to Venice. I’ve been there twice. A trip to Venice is an excellent idea. It’s a romantic city, especially for lovers like us. Only one should go to Venice in spring, not winter. London is great all the year round. Your English is quite good, so you will find London stimulating. The shows are excellent. Let’s make a deal: We’ll go to London when the war is over and also spend time in Venice in the spring. What do you say?”

  “My love, will you really take me to all those places?”

  “We only live once, my dearest. When I came to serve in Paris, it was the first time ever I traveled abroad. I discovered a whole wonderful world I had never known. My wife and I spent every weekend in a different place, to see, enjoy, and uncover our new world. Here the weekends are two days, so there is time! We traveled with the children, and it was great.”

  “If life with your wife is so wonderful, why do you need a lover?”

  “I can’t answer that, because I, myself, don’t know exactly why. To tell the truth, I wasn’t looking for a lover. I was euphoric with the pleasure of becoming acquainted with a new country, knowing that I was visiting for a limited time. At first, with Veronique, it was like a spark that lit up and turned into a flame—a magical love affair that permeated me with something new and exciting and filled me with lust. I found an openness in Veronique that I was not familiar with. She was the symbol of liberated French sexuality. It flattered me that she was interested in a foreigner who could barely speak French. Also—and this might sound strange to you—I was happy that Veronique was always correcting my French. She was my teacher. Veronique educated me in French and sex.”

  Chantal slaps me gently and stops me with a broad smile, “Actually, I think you are quite proficient in these matters, and you don’t need to learn anything new. I am very satisfied with what you already know.”

  “So, will you give me a certificate of approval?”

  Chantal stands up, bends over me and asks, with a smile on her lips, “Do you need references? Why and for who?”

  “To show the next time I want to make out with a woman.”

  Chantal slaps me teasingly again, then comes back and enfolds herself in my arms. “I am an egoist. No notes and no references—I am keeping you for myself, my little devil.”

  “And what drew you to a foreigner like me, a married man who declares that he loves his wife and has no intention of leaving her?”

  “That actually appealed to me. All the married men who tried to chase me told me how much they suffered at home, but I know that husbands who complain about their wives, are just looking for a lay and nothing more. I don’t like that. It’s different with you because I knew your story from Veronique. I want to live for the moment. I have no desire to start a family, and certainly not with a foreigner like you, even if you are an incredible guy. Her stories made me curious to meet you, and you are exactly what I need: to make love without any strings attached, to go out to a restaurant or a movie sometimes—and now you have even offered to take me away for a weekend. You’re pampering me more than anyone else has ever done. I have fallen in love with you, and I love being held in your embrace. It makes me feel great, and that is all I need right now. When I have had enough, I will say good-bye nicely and send you on your way, back to your wife or to your next lover. If you get tired of me, and I hope it won’t be soon, our affair will leave me—and you too, I hope—with a marvelous memory of a great love.”

  “I know I have been in love with you for a long time and I told you that! What is more, I know that I also love my wife. I think about it very often. How is it possible to love two women at the same time? Perhaps each love is different. When I am with you, you are the only woman who exists for me. It is a different love with my wife. We have two children and another kind of life. The relationship is also not the same. It is hard for me to explain it to you because I also have difficulty explaining it to myself. My love for you is unlike my love for my wife. Perhaps one day I will understand it.” I stop talking and wonder what to say now.

  “Come, make love to me, my beloved, give me a little stolen happiness. No, not a little—give me a lot. Enough talking.”

  It was not in the plan, but I succumb quickly and agree without hesitation.

  ***

  When I return to the embassy at four thirty in the afternoon, Emi is furious with me for disappearing for such a long time. He is angry at having to cover for me while I play around in the middle of the war. Because of the increased burden my absence caused, Emi has not yet managed to scan through the Sabbath newspapers that arrived in this morning’s DIP from Tel Aviv, and this makes him angry.

  I, on the other hand, wander around as if I am floating on air. The world is in flames, but everything has fallen into place in my little life; the threat of pregnancy no longer exists, I am not going to be the father of a French baby, and I don’t feel even a moment of regret.

  That evening I an informed that tomorrow, Sunday, in the morning, the Israeli finance minister, Pinchas Sapir, will be arriving for one day to collect donations for Israel. We are the last stop on his current round, and he will return to Israel on the El Al evening flight. At precisely seven in the morning, a meeting will convene to discuss the agenda and its organization. I am asked to attend.

  Sunday, October 14

  Lunch at the Rothschild’s’

  The meeting at the embassy begins exactly on time. On the agenda: the visit of the minister of finance, Pinchas Sapir, to Paris. The Israeli plenipotentiary minister in Paris opens the meeting and reports that the Department of Protocol at the French Foreign Office has been notified of the visit. Their Department of Ceremonies has reported to the Paris chief of police, who has assigned three thousand policemen to secure the minister’s visit.

  “Three thousand? Are you sure you’re not mistaken—perhaps it is three hundred?” the security officer asks.

  “Gentlemen, it really is three thousand. I was also doubtful and was told they can’t take chances.” The leader of the legation continued, “We have to submit the route along which the minister will be traveling and the places he will visit without delay so that they can secure the streets and the venues.”

  “What time is his plane scheduled to land?” the security officer inquires.

  “It hasn’t been fixed yet,” the legation leader replies. “The minister has a breakfast appointment at seven o’clock at his hotel in London with a donor who has promised two million pounds sterling for that honor. By the way, it is now six-fifteen in the morning in London. Immediately after his meeting, the minister will depart for Heathrow. He is flying here on a regular commercial flight. The embassy in London recommended a British flight because the English are happier to be helpful when it’s one of their flights. We will tell the French to prepare accordingly, and if there are any changes, we will report to them. From past experience I know that if we simply tell them that we don’t know what flight the minister is arriving on, they will suspect we are hiding it from them because of our renowned paranoia in matters of security. They don’t know, nor do they need to know, that it is impossible to rely on the minister to be precise or keep to a schedule.”

  “Okay, we’ll notify the French that he is coming on a flight that takes off at ten and that, because of the hours’ time difference between England and France, will land here around noon. We will take him directly to the Rothschild residence, which is not far from here.”

  “Why shouldn’t we
hold a reception for him at the embassy? We can invite the press, radio, and television! We’ll be on our home ground here,” asserts Pini, our press secretary.

  “No way, Pini,” says the security officer, alarmed, “I won’t admit any of the attendees to the embassy without a security check. And I still have no idea who they may be or when they will arrive. I also don’t have enough security personnel. I need several days to prepare for an event like that, and I don’t even have three hours. It will not take place at the embassy. Period!”

  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” the ambassador says calmly, holding up his hand to tell them to stop, “we’ll do everything at Rothschild’s house. Even if we wanted to receive the minister here, we wouldn’t be able to arrange it. We don’t have enough personnel for entertaining, and there are the security problems that the security officer raised. Even if we could organize the manpower, no catering company would be able to supply us with anything at such short notice—especially on a Sunday. The minister is coming here with a single, clear objective—to raise funds. We have invited two supportive local journalists and one Israeli journalist, Tamar Golan, to a reception at the baron’s home. They will only cover the event. The minister refuses to give any interviews to any of the media. In his words, every minute wasted on a press interview was a minute less devoted to fundraising. Baron Rothschild has placed his guest apartment and his whole staff at our disposal beginning at ten in the morning. One of his assistants will take care of everything. The plan, as of now, is to have lunch at one. Cocktails and canapés will be served to the invited guests before the meal, beginning at eleven-forty-five. This implies that only people whose presence is requested in advance will be admitted. The security officer is responsible for the minister’s safety and for the security of the whole event. If everything goes as planned, the minister will arrive at Rothschild’s house before one o’clock in the afternoon. As soon as he comes, the luncheon will begin. It is Sunday today, so there is not much traffic, and the police escort assigned to the minister will fly all the way here. We have to discuss the question of who will dine at the minister’s table, which seats a dozen people. Not counting the minister and myself, my wife, who won’t be attending, Baron Rothschild, and his wife, there are eight places at the table. The eight people who donate the most will have the honor of dining at the minister’s table.”