Israel (73 page)

One of the night watchmen let Becky into Pickman's through the employees' entrance. “Still coming down, eh, miss?” he asked sorrowfully, eyeing Benny's dripping umbrella. “I didn't bring one.”

“Take this one,” Becky said, thrusting the umbrella into his hands.

She managed to brush past her secretary and lock her office door before she began to cry. How could she still be in thrall to that louse after all these years? What kind of sorcerer was Benny Talkin to have cast such a spell over her?

Like the storm, her crying was furiously intense if relatively brief. Unlike the storm, her tears did not leave the world washed fresh and clean.

Becky was repairing her makeup when her secretary timidly knocked on her door. “Millie's on the line.”

Becky picked up the phone. Millie said, “He wants to talk to you,” and put her through to Carl Pickman.

“Good morning, Mr. Pickman.”

“Are you all right, Miss Herodetsky? Your voice sounds strained.”

“Thanks for asking. I'm just feeling a little blue. I
ran into somebody on my way to work.” She paused to chide herself. “I just had an upsetting morning. That's all.”

“How extraordinary,” Pickman said. “So did I. I was calling to ask if you'd take me to that spaghetti house again. I'm afraid they won't allow me in without you, my dear. Not after I threw my necktie into their nice clean sawdust.”

Becky chuckled. “Oh, all right, Mr. Pickman, if you'll promise to behave. I do have a reputation to uphold—are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. I was just taken aback.”

“I don't understand.”

“Nor should you, my dear. As I said, it's been an extraordinary morning.”

“Mr. Pickman, I have an idea. Why don't you come to my apartment after work and I'll fix us dinner?”

“Miss Herodetsky, I—”

“Please? Oh, please,” she implored. “I'm sure it'll be a lovely, warm evening and we can eat on the balcony. You'll be my first guest. It'll be just the thing to cheer us both up. Please say you'll come.”

Pickman laughed, trying to make a joke of her invitation. “Didn't you tell me you've got a fifth-floor walkup?”

“Well, yes, but I promise to make the climb worth your while.”

“Hmmm—”

“Unless, of course, you think it would be improper.”

There was an extended pause on the other end of the line. “Miss Herodetsky,” he finally said, “Just who has the right to say what is proper or improper for us?”

“Well, I surely don't know,” she replied, flustered.

“Would eight o'clock be convenient?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I'll bring some wine,” he said, and hung up.

*     *     *

Becky left work early that afternoon. She stopped at several butchers along Broadway until she found one who would produce a pound of steak for a dollar. That was a third more than the ceiling price the government had imposed, but she paid it, and gladly. What a special, lovely night this was going to be. It would be her chance to show Mr. Pickman how much she appreciated all he'd done for her as well as her first chance to show off her new home.

There'd been nobody to visit her. Grace Turner kept promising she would, but she was too busy with her own work and social life. Danny wasn't around to visit, and her father had not left the Lower East Side for years. Anyway, she was not about to let her convalescent father climb four flights of stairs just to see two little rooms and a terrace.

As soon as she got home she turned on her radio to hear the news and weather. She was in luck. The forecast called for a clear, sultry night. Out on the balcony she unfolded the card table. After the war, when such things were available, she would buy a wrought-iron patio set, but for now the card table would have to do. She laid her best cloth and set out candles.

It was six o'clock. Two hours to go.

Becky began to sweep, dust, polish—more to rid herself of nervous energy than anything. She made the salad. She showered. She put on a light cotton skirt and a sleeveless blouse. She brushed her hair and did her makeup.

Seven o'clock.

She put the potatoes into the oven to bake. She stood at the door of the terrace and looked at the table she'd set. She told herself she absolutely would not burst into tears.

Why, oh why did she have to have run into Benny Talkin? Why couldn't she get over him? How demeaning to be just as heartbroken today as on the day he betrayed her, four long years ago. She couldn't help imagining that
it was Benny she was waiting for and that there would be not merely polite, friendly conversation, but his strong arms around her as no man's had been before him and no man's had been since.

At eight on the dot Pickman arrived with four bottles of wine, two red and two white. “You didn't say what we were having, so I brought a selection.”

He was still dressed for the office in a blue suit, white shirt, tie and wingtips. Becky smiled brightly, feeling sick to her stomach at the thick silence of unease. Pickman rather weakly smiled back.

He's used to formal meals that feature half a dozen forks, finger bowls and sherbet to clear the palate
. She hadn't a thing to serve while they waited for dinner. There was nothing in her refrigerator but some Muenster cheese, yellow and dry as parchment.
Benny always enjoyed a steak and a baked potato
.

“Why don't you make yourself comfortable?” she told him. His look told her that it had come out sounding a trifle snappish. She felt her eyes filling up. Oh, that louse!

“Why don't I open the wine?” he suggested.

Becky nodded. “Oh, Mr. Pickman, I don't have a—”

“I figured. I brought a corkscrew along. Here. Put these whites in the icebox to cool. Perhaps we'll have some with dessert.”

Dessert? She had no dessert. She felt feverish as she put away a fat dark green bottle and a tall light green one.

“I have a cellarful of wonderful German and Italian wines at home, but I have no palate for them now. The day the war ends I'll either serve them up at a victory party or smash them all with a hammer—not that I think there's much doubt now which way the war's going. Anyway, tonight it's all French, though I'm told it makes sense to look into some of the Californias.”

“I forgot to get dessert.”

“Never mind. I brought sauterne and champagne. You can pick one for dessert.” He pulled the cork and asked for glasses.

Becky went to the cupboard. “I probably don't have the right kind.”

Carl took her in his arms and kissed her lightly on the lips. He kissed her again and her lips parted in response to his lightly thrusting tongue. She caught the peppery scent of his shaving lotion and felt the corded muscles of his arms and back, surprisingly thick and strong beneath his blue jacket.

“I thought this would help to pass the time while the wine breathes,” he murmured, his emerald green eyes intently watching her. Then he blushed. “Oh, that was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it, Miss Herodetsky—blast! May I call you Rebecca?” She nodded, eyes like saucers. “I rehearsed it and rehearsed it in the taxi—I thought a man had to have something clever to say to a woman—”

“Mr. Pickman, you don't have to say clever things. There's nothing to be sorry about.” She hugged him. “I'm glad you're holding me. Tonight I think I'd like to be held.”

“Rebecca, I'd like to make love to you.”

She began to tremble. Why not? she thought. Look at him, feel his touch. He's as frightened as you are. This isn't just another conquest for him. And it's time.

“I've—I've never been with a man before.” She spoke so softly, with her face pressed against his chest, that he might not have heard. She took him by the hand and led him toward the bedroom. They undressed silently. He resolutely turned his back, so she covertly watched him. Finally he turned and stood naked before her in the twilight. She saw that he was flaccid; should he be? When exactly did it change? Her heart was thumping and she was finding it difficult to breathe. She was naked in front of a
man. Her breasts felt huge, ungainly. Was she pretty enough for him? Was he disappointed?

He stepped toward her. He was so tall, so handsome, an aristocrat. Who was she to please such a man with her dark features and peasant hips?

Carl held out his arms and they embraced. Both moaned at the shock. Becky felt him beginning to swell and harden as he rolled against her thighs. She began to nibble kisses across the broad expanse of his chest, sprinkled with greying hairs. His hands, fluttering mothlike, slid down her spine.

Still holding each other, they glided like dancers toward her wide, foolish bed, a grand four-poster with a canopy that almost brushed her bedroom ceiling. It was the sort of bed Becky had dreamed about since she was little.

Becky felt herself growing wet beneath his stroking fingers and then surrendered herself to the wonderful sensation of his lips and tongue on her taut nipples. When she heard him fumbling with something in a crinkly wrapping she squeezed shut her eyes. The protection, she thought, so there aren't babies. He was going to do it now . . . She floated back against her pillows, tense and expectant in the semidarkness.

He held her gently and lovingly. When he filled her she cried out, not in pain but in wonder and apprehension.

He moved within her. She wondered, what next and when? Carl rose up. His back arched and the cords strained in his neck. He moaned and shuddered and Becky held him as they exchanged roles. Now she was the protectress and he the vulnerable one. He lightly collapsed on her, sweat-damp and short of breath.

She thought sleepily, Is that all? Far less than when I touch myself.

When she awoke the bedroom was dark and she was alone in her bed. She could hear noise coming from the
kitchen. She took her robe from the closet and tiptoed out. She saw Pickman, barefoot, dressed only in his trousers and sleeveless undershirt, fussing at the counter, his back to her. She took the opportunity to gaze at him unawares. He was as strong and youthful-looking as a man half his age. Surely he was an accomplished lover, as he was accomplished in everything else. If she'd taken little pleasure, the fault was probably hers and not his.

He sensed her standing there, turned and smiled. “Hello.”

“Hi.” She smiled back, feeling bashful. “What time is it?”

“A little after ten. Have some wine.” He winked at her. “It's breathed enough.”

“I'm starving,” Becky exclaimed, pouring herself a glass. “Oh, the potatoes!”

“They're fine. I checked. You can't overbake a potato. Now relax and drink your wine and I'll put the steak into the broiler.”

“Mr. Pickman, it's my kitchen.”

“But I never get a chance to cook,” he complained.

“You know how?”

“The best chefs are men, Rebecca.”

“Not on Cherry Street, they're not.”

The candles had burned themselves down to stubs, so they ate by starlight, laughing and talking quietly. All around them the night was filled with city sounds and the feathery rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. After they were done Carl went back inside, to return with the sauterne and two fresh glasses. Becky dug out an old rug and the two sat with their arms around each other on the terrace floor, leaning against the wall, gazing at the heavens. Sipping the pale wine, Becky felt like a honey bee drunk on nectar in a field full of wild flowers. Carl's strong
fingers now and again gently tilted up her chin to lick the sugary drops from her lips.

“I love you, Rebecca.”

What could she say to him, that when they first met she'd looked up to him as a sort of father figure and teacher? That she was a good and dutiful Jewish girl in search of a man to take over from her natural father? That as Abe Herodetzky taught his child to transform onions and potatoes into pennies, she looked to Carl Pickman to initiate her into the wonders of business—and life—on a far grander scale?

Or should she just tell him that when they were making love, she desperately fought against her desire to pretend he was a cheap, lying ganef who'd thrown her over for a rich shiksa?

“You're crying,” Pickman murmured. “Don't, Rebecca, my darling, you don't have to cry. It'll be all right. You'll see.”

“You don't understand.”

“But I do.” He squeezed her hand. “I'm leaving my wife. No, don't say anything. Let me finish. It's not just tonight, although I must tell you this is the first time in my marriage I've been unfaithful. There's nothing between Trude and me anymore. There certainly isn't any love, and lately we've begun to hate each other.”

“I'm sorry.” Sorry, but I love another man.

“Don't be, my love. You've shown me what life is all about. What a man has a right to aspire to, and if he's lucky what he has a right to have. Becky, I know you don't love me—yet. All I'm asking for is the chance to try and win you. And while I'm trying, I want you to know that I'll be in the process of freeing myself. I know you're too fine a woman to be some man's mistress, my love. As soon as it's possible, if you're willing, I intend to make you my wife.”

Soon after Herschel left Tel Aviv for one of the lrgun training camps strung along the coastline, the cities of Palestine became urban battle zones. British property was destroyed by lrgun bombs, and shootouts with the police became commonplace. The British, reacting as Begin predicted, instituted curfews and a firm policy of suppression, which included a possible death sentence for any Jews who possessed guns or explosives.

The Arab population was terrified. The observation, “There are no police,” moved through the Arab quarters as the fellahin viewed the bombed-out remains of the Criminal Investigation Department and of the police stations.