some," she said. "I have a gig up in Tel Aviv. A standing thing."
She took out the pills, poured a few for her own reserve and handed the packet to him.
"Hey, are you suffering? Are you?"
He laughed and took the pills from her. "I'm suffering. A thing for which I lack talent."
She took a couple of the pills and swallowed them with a swig from his bottle of mineral water.
"What next for you, my dear?" he asked. They had not seen each other for several days.
She inflated her cheeks slightly and puffed. "Don't know, Berger."
"What would you like most?"
"Most of all I'd like to go to Cuba again. I've always missed it."
"Would they take you back?"
"Maybe. Probably."
"But it won't last."
"Actually," she said, "I've thought of working in the Strip. But it's so religious there now. Bothers me a little."
"I failed you," Berger said.
"Don't feel sorry for me. Don't feel sorry for yourself. Those are the rules from which everything flows, right?"
"There's always some kind of blindness."
"I understand," she said.
She had met Berger the year before the intifada, when the Old City had been a magic carpet. Cairo had been a cab ride away. Everyone had been pals, or so it had seemed on the surface. It had been East of Suez, an open sesame of funky treasures where the best was like the worst. She had never understood the Kipling line until coming to Jerusalem.
That had been one of her years of conspicuous underemployment. She had been checking coats in New York, at an Upper East Side restaurant, singing whenever a gig came her way. It had been the shank of the eighties. She had fallen in among Sufis and they had somehow passed her along to Berger. Together they had pursued the Uncreated Light.
"Yes," Berger told her. "I know you do."
Everything had to end, and it had all ended badly for Berger. The
shebab
regarded him as a sodomite; he had once been a wooer of Arab boys. Gush Emunim had an eye for the madrasah; the militant Zionists were leaning on the Armenian, who was thinking of selling out to them and settling with his relations in Fresno. The Gush had discovered Berger, an Austrian, in solitary residence.
Then he had gotten sick. He had not been able to find the right doctor on the Palestinian side. The idea of an Israeli doctor gave him a feeling he described as "self-consciousness." It was the sort of self-consciousness any compatriot of Eichmann's might feel. Eventually he had gone to the French Hospital in Cairo. Sonia had tried getting some medical names from the American consulates on both sides of town but he had not been reassured.
"I'll go over to Tel Aviv in a couple of days," she told Berger. "Something may turn up. Will you be all right?"
"Yes, I think so."
She gave him a wide-eyed look. "Poor baby," she said slyly. "You'll have to be, huh?"
They laughed together.
"You know," he said, "I'm going out by the same door I came in. It's going to cost me everything I've ever learned in life to get it over with."
"Use it up," she said. "You're lucky to have it."
Her greatest pleasure in Berger was that she could say whatever occurred to her. He looked at her and shook his head.
"How does it go?" he asked. "I have talked the talk. And now I must walk the walk."
"That's the song, Berger."
He lowered a green curtain to divide his sleeping alcove from the rest of the apartment and set about changing his colostomy bag.
"Are you still in hope?" he asked. Their little group had developed its private diction.
She had opened a latticed Moorish door to the small sunny courtyard outside and moved her chair to sit beside it. An olive tree grew from the dry soil in the middle of the court. Two thirsty-looking potted orange trees sat on the loose cobblestones. The sky had a rich blue afternoon light.
Sonia sighed over the light, the green trees, the sumptuous weather. She was content, for the moment.
"Yes," she said. "In hope."
3
I N THE COMMUNITY center more than a hundred young Orthodox men were playing
She took out the pills, poured a few for her own reserve and handed the packet to him.
"Hey, are you suffering? Are you?"
He laughed and took the pills from her. "I'm suffering. A thing for which I lack talent."
She took a couple of the pills and swallowed them with a swig from his bottle of mineral water.
"What next for you, my dear?" he asked. They had not seen each other for several days.
She inflated her cheeks slightly and puffed. "Don't know, Berger."
"What would you like most?"
"Most of all I'd like to go to Cuba again. I've always missed it."
"Would they take you back?"
"Maybe. Probably."
"But it won't last."
"Actually," she said, "I've thought of working in the Strip. But it's so religious there now. Bothers me a little."
"I failed you," Berger said.
"Don't feel sorry for me. Don't feel sorry for yourself. Those are the rules from which everything flows, right?"
"There's always some kind of blindness."
"I understand," she said.
She had met Berger the year before the intifada, when the Old City had been a magic carpet. Cairo had been a cab ride away. Everyone had been pals, or so it had seemed on the surface. It had been East of Suez, an open sesame of funky treasures where the best was like the worst. She had never understood the Kipling line until coming to Jerusalem.
That had been one of her years of conspicuous underemployment. She had been checking coats in New York, at an Upper East Side restaurant, singing whenever a gig came her way. It had been the shank of the eighties. She had fallen in among Sufis and they had somehow passed her along to Berger. Together they had pursued the Uncreated Light.
"Yes," Berger told her. "I know you do."
Everything had to end, and it had all ended badly for Berger. The
shebab
regarded him as a sodomite; he had once been a wooer of Arab boys. Gush Emunim had an eye for the madrasah; the militant Zionists were leaning on the Armenian, who was thinking of selling out to them and settling with his relations in Fresno. The Gush had discovered Berger, an Austrian, in solitary residence.
Then he had gotten sick. He had not been able to find the right doctor on the Palestinian side. The idea of an Israeli doctor gave him a feeling he described as "self-consciousness." It was the sort of self-consciousness any compatriot of Eichmann's might feel. Eventually he had gone to the French Hospital in Cairo. Sonia had tried getting some medical names from the American consulates on both sides of town but he had not been reassured.
"I'll go over to Tel Aviv in a couple of days," she told Berger. "Something may turn up. Will you be all right?"
"Yes, I think so."
She gave him a wide-eyed look. "Poor baby," she said slyly. "You'll have to be, huh?"
They laughed together.
"You know," he said, "I'm going out by the same door I came in. It's going to cost me everything I've ever learned in life to get it over with."
"Use it up," she said. "You're lucky to have it."
Her greatest pleasure in Berger was that she could say whatever occurred to her. He looked at her and shook his head.
"How does it go?" he asked. "I have talked the talk. And now I must walk the walk."
"That's the song, Berger."
He lowered a green curtain to divide his sleeping alcove from the rest of the apartment and set about changing his colostomy bag.
"Are you still in hope?" he asked. Their little group had developed its private diction.
She had opened a latticed Moorish door to the small sunny courtyard outside and moved her chair to sit beside it. An olive tree grew from the dry soil in the middle of the court. Two thirsty-looking potted orange trees sat on the loose cobblestones. The sky had a rich blue afternoon light.
Sonia sighed over the light, the green trees, the sumptuous weather. She was content, for the moment.
"Yes," she said. "In hope."
3
I N THE COMMUNITY center more than a hundred young Orthodox men were playing
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