Cut Throat Dog (26 page)

You know what happened, says Yadanuga. Mona told you.

I want to hear it from you, says Hanina.

It’s ancient history, says Yadanuga. It happened so many years ago.

But we’ve never talked about it, insists Hanina.

It’s hard for me to talk about it, says Yadanuga.

I can imagine, says Hanina. But you asked me what kind of a person I am—so I ask you: what kind of a person are you, Yadanuga?

Look, says Yadanuga, we were children of twenty-something, and we played dangerous games. Mona loved us both, and we both loved her. There was a strong attraction between us. She attracted me no less than I attracted her. You knew that. But you volunteered for the suicide mission in Norway anyway. You knew exactly what you were doing when you left the two of us alone together.

I had no choice, says Hanina.

Yes you did, retorts Yadanuga. You could have insisted that they send Mona to wait for you in a hotel in Oslo.

I suggested it to her, says Hanina. But she wanted to stay in Israel.

You could have demanded that she come with you, says Yadanuga.

No, says Shakespeare, I’ve never demanded anything of other people, and I hope that I never will.

Why not?

Because that’s who I am, says Shakespeare. And a minute later he adds: What people give you against their will there’s no point in accepting.

You demanded that I talk, and I talked against my will, says Yadanuga.

And you know what, I didn’t accept any of it, says Shakespeare. ‘We were children’ and ‘You knew exactly what you were doing’? Give me a break.

What do you want? You want me to go into detail? Tell you exactly how it happened? What we did? What we said before, and what we didn’t say afterwards?

Why not? says Shakespeare. God’s in the details.

Okay, says Yadanuga. We were summoned for a briefing. As far as I remember, it was something like eleven in the morning. When I arrived at the briefing room Mona came out to meet me and said that they were busy conducting an investigation into the failure of operation ‘Delicate Balance’, and that it would take until at least until three o’clock in the afternoon. We have a minimum of four hours, she said, and then I suggested taking a stroll in the avenue. It was a fine winter day. Blue skies, a low but warm sun. We walked along the avenue between the fields next to the camp, hand in hand. We went on walking like this, holding hands, for about a quarter of an hour, or more, without saying a word. We simply couldn’t talk, because we were both choked with lust. Our feet led us of their own accord to a hole in the fence of the camp, next to Mona’s room. We went into her room, and the next minute we were naked and in each other’s arms, and that’s it.

That’s it what? demands Shakespeare.

It was a lousy fuck, what can I tell you, one of the worst fucks of my life, confesses Yadanuga. I’m not saying this to make it easier for you. We were both too hot. We lusted for each other too much, and I came before I realized what was happening.

But after that there was a second time and third time, says Shakespeare.

There wasn’t a third time, says Yadanuga.

So there are two versions, says Shakespeare.

There wasn’t a second time either, says Yadanuga.

What happened, asks Shakespeare, did you have a guilty conscience?

That too, says Yadanuga.

What else? demands Shakespeare.

We were incompatible, says Yadanuga.

You were in such a hurry to jump to conclusions? inquires Shakespeare. The first time isn’t usually the best.

It happened because of you too, says Yadanuga.

How because of me? demands Shakespeare.

You were in Norway, alone, on a mission that bordered on suicide. We didn’t know if you were dead or alive. This excited us, but at the same time it also ruined any chance of something good coming out of it.

I’m sorry for ruining things for you, apologizes Shakespeare.

Don’t play the innocent, Shakespeare, says Yadanuga, you knew very well what you were doing when you left us alone together.

So now it seems that I did it on purpose, says Shakespeare.

I didn’t say that, protests Yadanuga. But we both loved her, and you got her.

Let me tell you a secret, Yadanuga: when I volunteered for the mission in Norway, I abandoned the field, and I took into account the possibility that if I came back alive the two of you would inform me that you’d decided to get married.

But exactly the opposite happened, says Yadanuga, and what happened between me and Mona was a one-off, unsuccessful and insignificant.

Maybe insignificant for you, says Shakespeare.

Yadanuga is silent, and Shakespeare goes on:

When it was all over and I emerged safe and sound from the passport control at Schipol, Mona was waiting for me there in jeans and a white sweater, and she came to meet with outstretched arms and we embraced, and she clung to me wildly, with a passionate devotion I’d never seen in her
before, but at the same time her body told me: judge for yourself if I’ve never known love.

And after that you got married, says Yadanuga.

Yes, says Shakespeare. We drove straight from the airport to Amsterdam and got married.

Why did you do it? Because you swore an oath?

No, says Shakespeare, because we were children, and we didn’t know what we were doing.

And without knowing what he was doing at that moment, the leg-man’s lips began to softly sing an old lullaby:

I know that tune, says the waitress as she sets the glasses with the golden liquid, saturated with the smells of peat and smoke before them, and Yadanuga announces ceremoniously:

You’ve been accepted into the unit!

Thank you, says the waitress, without asking what unit, and what exactly she did to be accepted. Suddenly an intimacy has come into being between them, which makes such questions redundant, because it is clear that what is at stake here is not any kind of unit, but simply a wish for closeness. And accordingly she sets a bowl of ice cubes with a pair of stainless steel tongs carefully down on the table, and says:

My grandmother on my mother’s side used to sing that song to me when I was a baby.

What do you say, exclaims Shakespeare, where did your grandmother come from?

A place you’ve probably never heard of, she smiles, straightening up and showing her tanned stomach. I’m not sure how to pronounce the name. Karshimiz or Karzimish.

You must mean Kazimierz, suggests Shakespeare.

Right! exclaims the waitress. How did you know?

I was there once, he says, but what’s the ice for?

If you want to put it in the whiskey, says the waitress as if stating the obvious.

You don’t dilute this whiskey with ice, Shakespeare explains to her. In Scotland they would have you put to death for merely suggesting such a thing.

How? inquires the waitress enthusiastically. By burning, or drowning in some loch?

By hanging, Shakespeare informs her. Burning and drowning were taken off the menu in the seventeenth century.

Is it true that those condemned to death get an erection and ejaculate when they hang them? The young waitress teases the two broad-shouldered heavy-jawed men.

Yes it is, confirms Shakespeare, and if you were the hangman’s wife, you would have the right to collect the sperm ejaculated by the hanged man.

Wow! cries the excited waitress. But what would I do with it?

You would divide it up into small portions, and the night after the hanging you would sell it for a good price to barren women who have a hard time getting pregnant.

Whoa!
exclaims the waitress gaily. Do you know any eligible hangmen?

Allow me to introduce you to my friend, says Shakespeare.

So you’re both eligible hangmen? The waitress teases.

Sorry, not me, admits Shakespeare.

You’re just trying to get out of it! the waitress accuses him, but Yadanuga comes to his friend’s defense:

He’s seriously involved at the moment.

I don’t believe it, says the waitress. He looks like a confirmed bachelor.

Sorry, says Shakespeare, the truth is that I have unfinished business with the daughter of a family of hangmen.

Whoa!
the waitress responds with demonstrative disbelief.

The granddaughter of a hangman from Nuremberg, says Shakespeare.

All in the family, jokes the waitress.

Hangmen marry only the daughters of hangmen, Shakespeare explains.

Obviously, says the waitress. Who’d want to have anything to do with a hangman?

So we don’t have a chance with you, concludes Yadanuga sadly.

Who told you I wasn’t a hangman’s daughter? The waitress flirts with him.

You’re a hangman’s daughter? Yadanuga’s spirits rise.

The daughter of a hangman son of a hangman, the waitress winks at him.

Then if you’re looking for an eligible hangman, Yadanuga’s your man! says Shakespeare and points to his friend with the gray lion’s mane on top of the strong face where the eyes of a child peep out of the lines etched by time and cruel deeds.

Yadanuga, croons the waitress in a wet voice, what a great name! Where does it come from?

From his tender hand, Shakespeare points proudly to his friend. The man you see before you is a born samurai. A master of knives and swords unrivaled in the Middle East. When he received the command ‘execute’, he would finish the job before the man condemned to death knew what hit him.

Whoa!
says the waitress. Can I join you after I get off work?

We’ll keep a place for you, promises Shakespeare. Just tell us under what name, please?

Talitha, laughs Talitha, have you forgotten? You yourself gave me that name! And she hurries off to another table, where a bald man is beckoning her to bring him the bill.

Talitha, says Yadanuga, his eyes following her receding waist with frank yearning, where did you get that name from?

I don’t know where the names come from, admits Shakespeare, and I don’t want to know either. Just look at her, can’t you see that she’s as pure and innocent as a lamb?

If only I was fifteen years younger, laments Yadanuga.

You’re already ten years younger, says Shakespeare.

Come on, says Yadanuga, don’t exaggerate.

Did I say ten? Shakespeare corrects himself. Fifteen at least, if not twenty!

Okay, okay, Yadanuga makes haste to change the subject, why don’t you go on from where you broke off?

Where were we? asks Shakespeare.

Where were we? wonders Yadanuga. To tell the truth I don’t remember.

At that moment the cell phone in his pocket vibrates. Shakespeare quickly pulls it out. The caller is unidentified. He presses the green button and puts the phone to his ear. A stream of crude American curses trickles through the holes and drips poison into Hamlet’s father’s ear.

Do you want to talk to Winnie? asks Shakespeare. The stream of curses breaks off abruptly. For a moment there is
complete silence in interstellar space, and then Tony’s voice comes through again, shaky and faltering:

Let me talk to her …

Stay on the line, says Shakespeare. He holds the silver cell phone up and beckons Talitha with it, as if the call is for her. It appears that her radar, from the other end of the restaurant, is directed exclusively at the hangmen’s table. Within seconds she is standing next to the table of her fellow members in the unit. Her laughing eyes are teasing.

Who is it? she asks Yadanuga.

I don’t know, he says, ask Shakespeare.

You’re a sales assistant in Stephan Kellian’s clothes shop in New York, and a hooker in your spare time. Your name’s Winnie, your voice sounds like Sarah Jessica Parker, and this is Tony, your pimp—who you escaped from—with me.

Give me the shit, says Talitha gleefully, eagerly embracing the role.

Shakespeare hands her Tony’s silver heart, which trembles in her hand like a fish in a net.

Tony? I’m out of my mind with longing! I miss you so much! Where are you? Talitha-Winnie begins in a voice so sexy that the people at the nearby tables stop chewing, their gluttony joined by lasciviousness, and their hungry eyes devour their pretty waitress who has found her love.

I’m dying to suck your cock, she almost comes in Sarah Jessica parker’s voice. I can’t! … Because they won’t let me … yes! The cut-throat dog brought a friend of his … what? I can’t! I’m terrified of them … they’re dangerous characters … hangman … yes! Hangmen! You don’t know what hangmen are? Hangmen! I can’t answer my cell phone. They took it away from me. Where am I?… She signals to Shakespeare to supply her with information. He writes on a paper napkin
stained with olive oil, and Talitha Jessica Parker deciphers quickly and transmits in a voice full of longing:

I’m in Tucson, Arizona … in a motel, on Benson Highway and West Nebraska Street … I’m so sick of the topopo salad that they keep feeding me … So come! Come! She implores in a voice impossible to refuse. They’re taking the phone away from me … I kiss you, you know where.…

She hands the cell phone to Shakespeare, who says to Tony:

Are you done?

If you’re half a man—come and meet me you fucking Jewboy!

It may happen sooner than you think, says Shakespeare and hangs up.

Poor guy! says Talitha compassionately. He misses me so much!

I’m not surprised, flatters Yadanuga. You’re really dangerous. Your voice in inflammatory. Lethal. Capable of starting a world war.

Tell me, she turns to Yadanuga, is your friend really as crazy as he looks?

Even crazier, says Yadanuga.

Will he really go to meet him? She talks to Yadanuga about Shakespeare as if he isn’t there.

His word, says Yadanuga, is like a bullet between the eyes.

I suppose the pimp will come armed, she says.

Then he’ll have a problem, states Yadanuga without clarifying whose problem it will be, the pimp’s or Shakespeare’s.

Isn’t he afraid of anything? She continues addressing herself to Yadanuga.