All Backs Were Turned (6 page)

“Right,” Dov said. “I couldn't have.”

“Even if he had called your mother a whore?”

“Yes, even then.”

“Even if he had said you're a worthless bum,” the man continued, his hand still high in the air, “an officer stripped of his rank and booted out of the army, a man left by his wife, a man whom nobody in the whole country trusts enough to lend one measly pound?”

“Yes,” Dov said.

“What if he said your wife had started whoring around and would soon give birth to somebody's bastard? If somebody came up to you and said all those things, would you hit him?”

“No, I wouldn't,” Dov said.

“You and I are in the same position,” the other said. “You know why I didn't hit your brother last night. But I don't hold a grudge against him. I even want to do something for him.”

“Like what?” Dov asked.

“I want to lend him some money.”

“He doesn't need it,” Dov said. “He has to live on what he makes himself.”

“He'll need it to pay his way,” the man said. “So he can leave Eilat and go wherever he wants. I'm afraid, Dov. I'm afraid one day he'll provoke me so much that I'll forget myself and hit him. And you know what that would mean for me. Tell him to leave Eilat; tell him I'm ready to help him. He can pay me back when he gets rich. I can wait.”

“He won't leave Eilat,” Dov said. “And he doesn't need your money.”

“I advise him to leave, Dov.”

“He doesn't need your advice either. He's got a father and an older brother.”

“I want him to leave Eilat,” the man said. “I don't like looking at a man who's hit me in the face.”

“He's losing his livelihood because of you,” Dov said. “You can't expect him to like you.”

“Dov, your brother is young and strong. He can fish from a rowboat. I'm twice as old as he is. And I spent five years in a German camp before coming here. I wanted to make some money, enough to survive on without having to look up to people or cater to them. So I did something I shouldn't have. I got caught and landed in jail. Now all I want is to live in peace. It's not my fault I'm not as young as your brother.” He paused and then went on. “Tell him to leave Eilat, Dov. For five years men hit me in the face and I had to bear it. I had to look at them day after day. But I won't bear that here in Israel. I don't want to see your brother ever again. Tell him to leave.” He turned to the other two men who were standing some distance away and said, “I've finished! I need your help now!”

He and one of the other men tried to lift the wheel and put it back on the axle; their necks and arms turned red from the strain, but their efforts were unsuccessful.

“No way,” one of them gasped. “We need two pipes and some bricks.”

Dov had been standing motionless; now he tossed away the half-full can of corned beef. The men turned quickly in his direction. They looked at his pale, sweaty face and his joined eyebrows. He walked up to them and pushed them gently away, then dropped to one knee, lifted the wheel and placed it on the axle.

He got to his feet, breathing hard, and wiped his hands on an oily rag. Then he turned to the men; they backed away from him. But he just stood there, catching his breath.

“Forget the bricks and pipes,” he said. “The trouble with this pit is that it's much too shallow. Can you move your truck out now so he can bring in my jeep?” He turned to the garage owner, who'd come in, the beer bottle still in his hand. “Get going on my brakes, okay? I'll be back in an hour.” He was almost out the door, half a step away from the glare and sunlight, when suddenly he stopped. “My brother was born in this country,” he said. “He has a right to live wherever he wants and do whatever he likes.” He wiped the sweat off his brow and strode out into the glare and dust.

I
SRAEL HAD ALMOST FINISHED SHAVING WHEN
E
STHER
entered the kitchen. He turned to her.

“I borrowed your mirror,” he said. “I took it without asking because I didn't want to wake you up.”

She held out two leather wrist straps. “You forgot these,” she said.

He took them from her and shoved them into his pocket quickly and savagely.

“I wasn't going to steal them,” she said. “I gave them back to you, didn't I?”

“Where did you find them?”

“On the table.”

“They're not mine,” he said. “They're Dov's.” He took them out of his pocket and looked at them for a moment; then he put them back.

“Did Dov tell you where he was going?”

“He said he'd be back around ten,” Esther said. “He said something about going to the airport. They left together. Dov and Dov.” She touched Israel's shoulder, and he spun around; half of his face was still covered with soap. “What do you think? Will he help us?”

“With what?”

“Will he do something about those men?”

“Esther,” Israel said, “Dov isn't twenty anymore. He's tired.”

“Well, I'm twenty,” Esther said. “I have the right to expect something more from life. I spent two years in the army, then I married my Dov.” She fell silent and stood there, leaning against the window ledge. He could see a drop of sweat at the base of her short, straight nose. “I only see him at night,” she said. “He's always worked like a horse, but then those men came here and nobody wants to help him.”

“Dov is tired,” Israel said. “He didn't have an easy life. And now he can't take any risks.”

They heard heavy footsteps in the hall and turned around; Dov's father stood in the doorway.

“Yes,” the old man said. “He won't take any risks. He burned everything behind him and came here like a worthless bum to eat his brother's bread. He's not too old for that, and he knew he was not risking anything by coming here; he knew his brother loved him and would share his last piece of bread with him.”

“And what do you think he should do about those men?” Israel asked.

“What's done, or should be done, with thieves,” the old man said. “No matter what people think.”

“I hate violence,” Israel said. “I came here so that I'd never have to look at it again.”

“I see,” the old man said. “You came here so you'd never again have to look upon violence. Beautifully said, Israel.” He took a step toward him. “Do you think the men who came here before you had this country handed to them on a plate?” he asked. “No, Israel. Nobody gave it to them. To take it, they had to resort to violence, and the best of them died doing it, as usually happens. How can you, a Jew, speak to me of violence?”

“You're an old and religious man,” Israel said. “It wouldn't be proper for me to argue with you.”

“You wouldn't know how to,” the old man said. He stepped up to Israel and took him by the arm. Israel shivered. Although it was almost a hundred and forty degrees, the old man's hand was cool and dry.

“Look at him, Esther,” the old man said. “He's unique. He should like violence. All weak men do.”

“Do you want some tea, Pop?” Esther asked.

“No,” the old man said. “I want you to look at him. Look at him, Esther.” He watched her in silence, his lined face twitching slightly; he continued to hold Israel's arm in his bony hand. “I asked you to look at him, Esther,” he said again.

She turned her head and regarded Israel. Her expression didn't change; her gaze was intent, but indifferent.

“Would you want him for your husband, Esther?”

“I already have a husband, Pop,” Esther said quietly. “That's the only answer I can give you.”

“Would you like to have him in your bed, Esther?” the old man asked. “Look at his arms, Esther. I bet I'm stronger than he is.” The cool hand tightened its grip on Israel's arm. “Would you go to bed with him, Esther, if you didn't have a husband and could do whatever you liked?”

Once again she fixed her eyes on Israel, and they studied each other. She gazed at his tired, alert, and handsome face; he stared at her thick hair and strong, brown neck.

“No,” she said.

The old man released Israel's arm and patted Esther's cheek. “You're a good child, Esther,” he said. “I'm sorry it is one of my sons that will ruin your life.”

“Does a man have to believe in violence and beat up people to deserve respect?” Israel asked.

“No,” the old man said. “He doesn't. He can die like all good Jews did.” He turned around and began to walk away. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and faced them again; and again they saw his wrinkled face and his madman's eyes. “Why don't you have a child, Esther?” he asked suddenly.

“We've been married only three months, Pop,” Esther said, not looking at either of them. “We thought we would wait awhile—”

“I can't wait,” the old man said impatiently. “I'm eighty years old, Esther. At this age every day is a gift from God. I want to see my grandsons before I die. My older son won't have any children, so it is my younger son's duty to give me that joy. I'll ask you again a month from now, Esther. Remember, I love you like my own daughter.”

“Yes, Pop,” she said. She stepped up to him. “Pop, I want to ask you something.”

“Yes, Esther?”

“What will happen to Dina, Dov's wife?”

“Nothing, Esther,” the old man said. “Nothing happens to women throughout their lives. They come into this world and they die unchanged.”

“But what do you think should happen to her, Pop?”

“I don't know, Esther. You heard what my son said. He came to me and said his wife was going to give birth to a bastard.” He paused. “When I was a kid, my father bought a German shepherd bitch. But he didn't keep a close watch on her and one day she was covered by a mongrel. When she whelped, we went to the river and drowned the pups. And the next day my father took the bitch and his gun and went to the woods. He never told me what he did with her. What d'you think?”

“Your father was a wise man, Pop,” Esther said. “That's what I think.”

“So do I,” Dov's father said and went out into the hall. They listened to the heavy tread of his receding footsteps, and then they heard his quiet, monotonous voice; he had begun to pray.

“You don't have an easy life with him here,” Israel said. He was still looking at Esther, at her strong neck and thick eyebrows, which came together above her nose, just like Dov's.

“You won't either,” she said.

“Dov was right,” Israel said softly. “He's cruel like a child. Like every old person, like my mother.”

“Where's your mother now?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I just know where I buried her.”

They heard through the window the roar of the jeep's engine and the squeal of brakes; a moment later Dov marched into the kitchen. He took off his shirt and threw it on the floor.

“Go to the airport, Israel,” he said. “I had the brakes fixed; they should work fine now. The plane's landing in a few minutes.”

“I wish you'd go the first time,” Israel said.

“Yeah, I know,” Dov said. “But I want you to go. Maybe you'll turn my luck.”

“Listen, Dov—”

Dov reached into his pocket for the car keys and tossed them to him. “The plane's coming.”

“Dov,” Israel said, “I think they're right, all those people who feel we shouldn't stick together. Your father is right, your brother is right, and so was the fat guy who lent you his jeep. I don't believe I can turn your luck.” He went up to Dov, who had lowered himself into a chair, and looked at his heavy brown shoulders, glistening with sweat. “I'll go back to Tel Aviv, Dov. I'll find myself a job there.”

“You won't find one,” Dov said. “You couldn't find one before.”

“Nobody will ever like me as long as I tag along with you,” Israel said. “You know that. They all think I'm a burden to you. The worst thing is, I've begun to think so myself. Maybe I was afraid to admit it until now.” When Dov remained silent, he said, “Yes, I was afraid to admit it. I was too weak even to admit that.”

“The plane's landing any minute now,” Dov said. “Get moving, Israel. Nobody's going to pay us for sitting on our butts.”

Israel stepped to the door. He stopped and once again looked at Dov, who was sitting motionless, breathing hard, his arms lowered, a grimace on his face.

“Remember what I told you,” Israel said.

“What was that?”

“I don't believe I can ever turn your luck, and nobody's going to like me as long as I tag along with you.”

“It's too hot for me to rack my brain over people's likes and dislikes,” Dov said. “Find me a simpler problem.”

“Israel is right,” Esther said.

They both turned to her. “

Anybody ask your opinion, Esther?” Dov said. “

No,” she said. “You're just like your brother. Neither of you has ever asked for my opinion. You love only each other. Dov loves Dov, Dov admires Dov, and Dov listens only to what Dov says. You need women only between ten in the evening and six in the morning, and only for one reason: so you'll fall asleep more easily and dream of each other. But I shouldn't be telling you all that. I should be listening to what you're saying so that I can repeat it all later to my Dov and finally hold his attention.”

She walked past Israel. As he moved out of her way, he felt the heat from her body. She left the kitchen, softly closing the door.

“See?” Israel said. “

She shouldn't have opened her trap,” Dov said. “I'm surprised my brother never taught her better. Look, the problem is not you; the problem is me and my unwillingness to get involved in their squabble with those fishermen. I won't get involved. They can talk themselves blue in the face; it won't help.” He gave Israel his sunglasses. “Forget the whole thing.”

“They won't.”

“Now go to the airport and try to pick up a tourist,” Dov said. “If you see a Jew in a suit with a camera in his hand, walk up to him and be ready to bargain about the price, because he'll never pay as much as you ask. Since you'll probably be talking in English, at some point just say to him, Man, I need the gelt. He should understand; if he does, take him where he wants to go. If he looks like a religious man, charge him double.”

“Will you remember what I said?”

“No, I've already forgotten. It's a hundred and forty degrees outdoors and probably more inside. People who live here have to take salt pills because if they don't, their bones snap like twigs. If we stay here two years longer, we'll lose all our teeth and hair. We'll never look like those actors who play sons of the desert and heroes of the tropics. I'm sorry, Israel. I'm locked up in my body as if it were a cage nobody's going to open until my death. That's all I can think about. Or maybe I can't. Maybe it just seems to me that I'm thinking. There'll be no rain here until the end of October.”

“Yes,” Israel said. “Or even until the end of November.”

He stood for a moment in the doorway staring at Dov who continued to sit inert, his eyes closed, breathing hard. Sitting like that in the glare coming through the window, naked to the waist, he looked like a blind man. The shirt he had thrown down on the floor was still there, though he had moved it with his foot; a wet mark on the tiles showed where it had first landed. Dov's heavy body didn't budge when Israel finally left, slamming the door.