“I did.”
They started arguing again. I turned away and studied the street. There was everything a man could ever need: army Willys, mules, girls, soldiers, Arabs, whites; the street smelled of hot copper and spicy foods, mules, hair cream, sea breeze, and gas; now, at six in the evening, the shadow of two slim minarets fell across it. I regretted Robert was about to wind up the deal and we would have to get back on the crowded bus and return to Tel Aviv. It would have been so much more enjoyable to stay on in the cafe, order beer, and wait until dusk, when the shadows of the slim minarets would fade and vanish and the charred sky would cover the earth with blackness.
Surprisingly, though, the bus wasn’t crowded; apart from Robert and me, there were only several workers, and they fell asleep right away. The driver sped along the narrow streets, then turned toward the sea; at last we felt the fresh breeze that always begins just before the tide. The smell of copper, mules, and hair cream disappeared. The sea looked cool and bright. The first stars emerged. It crossed my mind that in prayers in Poland to the Holy Virgin, she is often called “the Morning Star.” I asked Robert whether it could possibly be because another name for the star which shines the longest is the Star of Hope, but he told me to think of Tiberias instead and to find a good name for the dog.
“Its name must be as powerful as thunder,” he said. “The dog appears on the scene, barks twice, we call out its name, and suddenly everything falls into place. Think of how Dostoyevsky named his characters. Take Dmitry Karamazov. That name is dynamite. There’s strength in it, there’s truth about human nature, there’s everything you can wish for.”
“What do you know about the girl in Tiberias?”
“She’s a divorcée. It’ll work out fine. Her husband turned out not to be the strong, virtuous man she had hoped to marry. He failed to fulfill her dreams and was blind to her sensitive nature. That’s why she plunged into an affair with her chauffeur, and when he’d had enough and wanted to back out, she threatened to fire him and spill the goods on him to his wife. The chauffeur had a mental breakdown and ended up in a psychiatric clinic; the woman’s husband had to pay the bills. And now you’ll walk into her life.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “Who can afford a chauffeur in America these days?”
“Her husband is nearsighted. He can’t watch movies or read books. And he didn’t pay the chauffeur full wages. Don’t worry.”
“I wish this would end. Why did I have to be born so goddamn poor?”
“And me?”
The bus slowed down. “Your stop,” the driver called out to us over his shoulder.
We got out.
“I know what we can name the dog,” I said to Robert.
“What?”
“Loser. It’ll be like a paradoxical reaction. The last time I was in the hospital there were some patients who were trying to kick their addiction to sleeping pills. They suffered terribly. To fall asleep, just before bedtime, they had to drink giant mugs of strong black coffee. It’s what the doctors call a paradoxical reaction. It’ll be the same with the new dog. It’s fine looking, it’ll eat for two, so the name should work. What do you think?”
“Okay. From time to time you’ll allude to the dog when you’re talking to her. Subtly, of course. I’ll tell you how.”
“Sure,” I said. “You know best.”
In the evening we sat down to dinner: Robert, me, and little Johnny. A sickening family atmosphere prevailed in this hotel; I had to pass the time of day with these loafers and participate in conversations about food, the weather, and the beauty of the land. It was simply awful; Robert was much better at small talk. He could discuss any topic for hours.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked the kid.
“Go to hell,” he said, then added: “She’s making herself look beautiful. As if you didn’t know.” He turned to Robert. “Has he always been this dumb?”
Robert interrupted the conversation he was having with some old geezer who, by the looks of him, should have long been dead. “Yes, my dear?” Robert asked.
“Nothing,” Johnny said. “You’re just as dumb as he is.”
The guests at the next table burst out laughing. I flushed red and got up abruptly, walked over to the elevator, and pressed the button. Someone from the next table, a man in his early fifties with the contented look of a gangster who has made enough money to give up crime and turn into an honest citizen, joined me at the elevator.
“That kid sure made a fool of you,” he said.
“Is that what you think?” I pushed him into the elevator and walked up the stairs. I opened the door to her room; she was sitting on the bed with an unlit cigarette in her hand.
“Don’t you feel well?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Except Johnny’s father is coming here tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“He called to ask whether it’d be okay. I told him yes.”
“It’ll turn out fine, don’t worry. Light your cigarette and come downstairs with me.”
“You think it will?”
“I’m certain.”
“You don’t know what it means to Johnny to actually meet his father. It’s all my fault, of course. It was me who kept telling him how wise and strong his daddy was; I said everything he wanted to hear. And now he believes everything I told him and expects to meet some superman.”
“I don’t see how you can change that at this point.”
“I know. But Johnny is too young to understand. He’s expecting a strong, wonderful stranger to come up to him and say: ‘John, my son, I’m your daddy.’”
“And what’s your ex-husband really like?”
“I’m not sure. But he’s not what Johnny’s been dreaming about.” Suddenly she burst into tears and cried just like that time on the beach, hopelessly and unobtrusively, as a child might. “I didn’t want Johnny to suffer. Or feel unloved. What else could I do?”
“Come on, let’s go,” I said. “It’ll be okay.”
She looked up at me and smiled. “You really think so?”
“Remember, I’ll be there. And so will Uncle Robert. And the dog.”
We went downstairs. The reformed gangster I had met at the elevator sent me a murderous look. I sat down.
A strange calm descended over me, as it sometimes does. As soon as the man walked into the dining room, I knew what was going to happen. He recognized me immediately: it was that poor wino who had asked Robert for a beer and who I’d chased away. He was more drunk than before and there was a foolish grin on his face; he must have wanted to muster up his courage. Then he saw me; I had no doubt what he’d do. As the memory of our previous meetings stirred in his unhappy, intoxicated mind, his grin vanished. He came up to us, bumping into the waiter serving soup to the guests sitting at the next table; the soup landed right in their laps.
“You whore,” he said to her.
I got up. “Is that the way to greet a lady?” I asked.
“Whore,” he said again.
She clutched my hand.
We looked at each other, and at that moment he must have understood everything. It became very quiet. He hit me in the face and two women screamed. I grabbed him by the throat, but then I saw the expression on the kid’s face. He was watching me, pale and frightened; his nose wrinkled like a dog’s, his upper lip curled, showing his teeth.
I didn’t say anything, just pushed the drunk away, or, rather, let go of him, and he staggered and almost fell. A deep silence descended over the room. I started walking toward the door, tossing away a napkin I had unconsciously picked up from the table. When the door slammed behind me, pandemonium broke out.
Robert caught up with me on the stairs. His face was pale and covered with sweat.