So she gets up delicately, as if to disappear without making a sound, almost sliding, but she sees Elias crying his eyes out and that holds her back for a few moments. Just a few moments. She quickly caresses his hair, and then she clears out.
The sky fell on his head, poor Elias. And not just the sky. The planets and the stars, too, especially his lucky star with girls since it’s the first time one has ever left him.
The first mad love of his life flies off, and here he is like a schmuck on the sidewalk of the Café Français, the worst spot in Tel Aviv to burst into tears. The day is not over, but it already seems interminable to him, and he can’t see how to get through tomorrow under these conditions, much less survive for a few days. That’s typical of what you feel after an unhappy love affair: it prevents you from moving forward, it nails you to the spot and crucifies you. All Elias wants is to die. He needs a support, a charitable hand. It’s too hard to face the nothingness that’s coming in. What meaning does his life have now? He’d dreamed of a future with Olga. A pretty house in Yafo, the garden, the kids, the dog.
“Got it, Elias, there’s a car available. You coming to get it? I need someone at the border.”
“She left me, Marcel!” Elias howls. “Olga dropped me! You brought me bad luck, you bastard! I don’t give a shit about Gaza! I’m gonna die, shit, I’m gonna die!” He sobs into the phone.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t even know. In the street.”
“Get a grip on yourself, Elias! I’m begging you, tell me where you are!”
“I wanna die!” Elias is still bellowing, in a quavering voice. “I don’t wanna live any mo-o-o-re!”
“I’m coming!” says Manu.
“I’m coming!” says Diabolo, in turn.
They find Elias right in Bnei Brak, sitting on a park bench in the neighborhood of the nuts in black—and for good reason, because in that area you can’t find a single café. The stores are hideous, the stands would make any customer flee, you’d think you were on the outskirts of Lahore if it weren’t for the clear laughter of adorable high school girls in pleated skirts at the bus stops.
“I’ve got my dose of ugly crap for today,” Diabolo decides as he forces Elias to get into the Fiat 500.
“I wanna die!” Elias howls, resisting.
“OK, but not here,” Manu retorts, helping Diabolo push him inside.
They start off.
“All that for a chick of twenty-five,” mumbles Diabolo crossly, lighting up a Cohiba.
“She really threw you out?” Manu asks, thinking maybe that might be good for Juliette. Besides, should he announce it to Juliette? After all, if Elias would go back to her after this, that would help him out. It would bother him, too, because he’s becoming more attached to Juliette. So what should he do? A dilemma, for two blondes!
“Shit, how’m I gonna live without her?” Elias is still sobbing. “You can’t understand how much I love her! I don’t want anyone else! I wanna di-i-i-i-e!”
“Oh, shut up!”
They go back under pouring rain to spend an all-guys night in Kerem. Water is beginning to rush down the sloping streets and make ponds at the intersections. Not a soul on the Tayelet, and the beach cafés have all packed up their outdoor chairs and tables. It thunders over the city like an F-16 going Mach 2. It’s spectacular to watch, that sky striped with flashes of lightning—a bit apocalyptic, too, but that’s Tel Aviv in winter. Diabolo heats up the oven and in no time at all comes out with a chicken basquaise with tiny lima beans. They don’t even leave a bone.
“I wanna di-i-i-e!” Elias yells again over dessert.
CHAPTER 11
Juliette is somewhat apprehensive as she walks to the address listed in the ad. It’s painful to go back there. Bad memories come flooding in, but she finally overcomes those unpleasant thoughts because the rent is very low and also because the landlady is a darling Yiddish mama: “I’d rather have a girl like you than the tenant who used to be here—a guy with his fly open all the time! Keep the deposit for your wedding dress,” she adds, kissing her like good bread. “A beautiful blonde like you still unmarried? The good Lord’s gone crazy!”
Juliette signs the one-year renewable lease at three thousand shekels a month, and now she’s ready to settle in with Elias’s old cat in Elias’s old furnished room on Levinsky Street, just across the street from the high-rise where Elias is now living.
She calls her mother immediately to tell her the good news, for it really is good news to have finally found a place to live.
“So you’re living with Elias?” Sandrine asks.
“Uh, yes… I mean, no… well, not with him directly but in this place… with Jean-Pierre,” Juliette stammers.
“Jean-Pierre? Who is this boy?”
“I’ll explain it to you later.”
“Explain it to me now, darling.”
“I can’t, Mom, my battery’s almost dead. Love you, Mom.” And she hangs up.
Since she’s been in Tel Aviv, Juliette has always used this stratagem to dodge questions from her mother and avoid worrying her. Sandrine is such a fragile woman. She runs back down Abarbanel Street to tell Manu she’s finally going to free up his bedroom and clear out.
“You don’t even have a bed,” he points out.
“No problem, I’ll buy a foam mattress on Herzl Street. They have some cheap ones.”
“You’re not going to repaint the place before you move in? It was pretty grotty when Elias was there.”
“The landlady repainted. It’s spotless.”
“At least wait till your stuff comes in from Jeru.”
“No, no, I’m ready to be in my own place.”
“Well, at least stay tonight.”
“No, Manu, I’m telling you, I’ve squatted here long enough.”
“OK. But I’m going to miss you. I like you being here,” he declares, taking her in his arms.
She lets him, but she doesn’t know how to react to this sudden surge of affection. Normally, you don’t get a hard-on when you hug a friend. Now, she can feel the erection taking shape in his jeans, a big stick, in fact. But she doesn’t dare push him away either. She just hopes he’s not going to take advantage of the situation—try to kiss her, for example.
“Just a kiss,” Manu whispers, searching for her mouth.
“Stop, please, Manu, stop it… we have… I mean, you could be my father…”
“I like you, Juliette.”
“Don’t say that, please, Manu,” she begs, while he squeezes her a little harder and his hand slips down her dress and pushes into the cloth, between her buttocks.
She knees him in the groin, and he lets go of her fast, collapsing onto the couch, writhing in pain.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Manu, forgive me, please forgive me,” she implores, falling at his feet. “I didn’t want to… but understand me… wait, I’ll get you a glass of water… oh, God, what have I done!”
She runs to the fridge and takes out a bottle of Ein Gedi, takes a glass from the cupboard, and comes back to give Manu a drink. He’s all hunched up on the couch.
“Drink, Manu, please! Drink, you’ll see, that’ll do you good,” she begs, holding out the glass, which he doesn’t take. “Breathe! Breathe in, it’ll go away.”