Yasmine (17 page)

“You have to build up a relationship with her. Maybe you should phone her,” I urged Michelle.

“I don’t think I should suck up to her,” she replied. She was clearly disappointed and annoyed that Yasmine had neither been in touch nor returned to the youth village. In the end I invited her to have dinner with me at the Rimmon restaurant, but she said she was too busy. Nevertheless I phoned her again two days later to invite her to a concert in Tel Aviv.

“Thanks, it sounds wonderful, and I haven’t been to the Culture Hall yet,” she said and asked me to phone her again on the day of the concert. Clearly this wasn’t going anywhere, as tickets had to be bought in advance, but I rang her in any case.

“I don’t really feel like going tonight,” she said. “Come to my place and I’ll cook you dinner.”

Now that was something. Who’d have thought that the pretty French brunette would cook for me? What should I give her in return? At the last moment I bought one of the fancy victory albums, with photos of all the generals and stories of heroism, designed to stir the imagination of the new immigrant. At least with Michelle I didn’t need to apologise for not losing.

I drove to her house in Beit Hakerem. Her flat was tastefully furnished in a light modern style, the pieces probably imported
from Paris, and frighteningly spotless. Kabi’s girlfriend Sandra had told us that new immigrant privileges had recently doubled, and Kabi said, “It’s obvious why – they want to encourage immigration from the West, because they’re afraid of us orientals. First they thought we might run away from the battlefield, and now that we’ve shown them we can fight, they’re even more afraid of us.”

Unfamiliar cooking smells were coming from the kitchen. The slightly hoarse voice of Juliette Greco filled the living room: “If you think love’s season lasts for ever, you are mistaken…” I sank into an armchair and surrendered to the music.

“Wine?” Michelle asked.

“Only for the Sabbath eve blessing.”

“Another provincial, like all Israelis,” she complained in her charming French accent. “I’ve yet to meet a single Israeli man with European culture.”

“I suppose I also fail that test. Incidentally, I’m not a sabra – can’t you tell from my funny oriental accent?”

She poured us red wine and raised her glass. “
L’Chaim
! And here’s to the Israel Defence Forces!”

These new immigrants really take Zionism seriously, I thought.

“To victory!” she raised her glass again.

I took a small sip and made a face. “It’s sour.”

“When will you Israelis become worldly?”

“We are Levantines,
ma chérie
. Zahlawi arrack is our drink.”

“Now let’s drink to the task you’ve given me.”

“
L’Chaim
,” I tried the dry wine again and decided this was a taste I just wasn’t going to acquire.

“I’ve cooked you a shoulder of beef with
champignons
, prunes and a little Dijon mustard.”

“Oh no, beef with prunes and mustard?”

“What did you expect, hummus?”

“What’s a
champignon
?”

Michelle laughed. “At least you’re not ashamed to ask. I went out once with a sabra who pretended to know everything. There was no second date.”

“Heaven, take pity on me!”

“Now tell me about this Yasmine of yours.”

“It’s an interesting story, but I’ll tell you another time.”

“Why are you being so mysterious?” She spread a white cloth on the table and set it with stylish china and cutlery, as if we were at a fancy restaurant.

“Your Hebrew is very good.”

“My father, God rest his soul, was a Zionist, a Hebrew teacher in Lyon. He spoke Hebrew to us, but unfortunately the French accent has stuck.”

“That’s what makes it so attractive.”

“Flatterer.” She lit the candles on the table, then turned off the record player.

“Why turn off the music?”

“Two orgasms don’t work together. Food is food and music is music.”

She served the beef with steamed vegetables, salad and French mustard, a mélange of colours and smells.

“Bon appétit,” she said and sliced the steaming meat. She tasted it, chewed slowly, and her nostrils widened, “Hmm…good. Why aren’t you eating?”

“Do you have any bread?”

“Isn’t there enough food on the table?”

“An old habit,” I replied. “Comes of growing up poor.” She handed me a little basket containing rye bread.

The smell of the meat was delicious. I tasted a little – it was rich, interesting, unlike anything I’d ever tasted.

“I don’t cook dinner for everyone, certainly not on the first date.”

“Why am I privileged?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Before you visited us I had been expecting a boring seedy bureaucrat with a pot-belly. But from the start your voice on the phone sounded so gentle, like a bird with a broken wing…” She stopped chewing and her eyes scrutinised me closely. “Excuse me for asking, but who cuts your hair? I can send you to a first-rate French barber.”

I put down my knife and fork, beginning to resent the barrage of comments and tests. I’d expected a relaxing evening, but her temperament kept me on edge. After dinner she brought in a tray of pale wood loaded with a variety of cheeses. Her eyes shone when she examined them, sniffed them and gestured to me to taste them. Her hands were big and strong – I hadn’t seen such hands outside the kibbutz.

“What’s wrong now? Why don’t you have some?”

“I never eat cheese.”

“
Merde
! This is crazy! Real French cheeses that I brought from Paris…Ah, such flavour, sure you don’t what to try?”

Later she made coffee in a percolator and brought in Gitanes and Cointreau. “It’s very sweet, just for you!” But when she saw me gulping it down she told me off: “Take it slowly, I don’t want you to fall asleep.”

“No danger of that.”

“So tell me, was this Yasmina a spy of ours?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then why are you all taking so much trouble?”

“For humanitarian reasons.”

“I see. Is that why you wanted to meet me too? Is that also part of your job?”

“I wish it was my job, having dinner with beautiful women.”

“
Oo la la
, at last an Israeli who knows how to pay compliments.”

I got up to help her clear the table, but she ordered me to sit down. I settled back in an armchair, relaxed and contented, enjoying the dry aroma of the cigarettes.

“So why doesn’t your Yasmina come to the youth village? I’ve been waiting and waiting, but mademoiselle doesn’t show up.”

“It’s madame. She’s a widow. Her husband died in unknown circumstances.”

“Maybe he was a spy.”

“Maybe. Or a fighter, one of the fedayeen…”

“I don’t understand anything any more,” she said, pouring me more of the good strong coffee. “Another Israeli conundrum.”

“If you’re so critical of us, why did you come to Israel?”

“That’s the whole point. I’m curious, from an anthropological point of view, to see if Jews can live together in a state of their own. I get the feeling I’m researching a madhouse. Everybody is against everybody else,” she said, carried away by her own eloquence.

“Very impressive. All the same, why? Why really?”

“To tell you the truth, I like it here. From the moment I arrived I’ve felt part of a big family. I’ve met so many people in such a short time, more than I knew in my whole life.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Not at all. You sabras have no idea what it’s like to live in a cold, uncaring city. Like on the Metro, for example. People don’t even look at you. On campus you’re not allowed to walk on the grass. Here the students not only walk on the grass,
they lie on it, getting tanned and enjoying life. This appeals to me.”

We moved to the sofa and I flopped into it, emitting heat like an oven. My eyes began to close and my head was drooping. It was time to leave.

Michelle’s hands dropped in disappointment.

“
Merde
, these Israelis. They either jump on you, or they walk away like strangers. Don’t I at least get a little kiss?”

On our second date I brought her a book of Omar Khayyam’s poetry, mostly wine poems, as well as hummus, which is believed to be as good for you as red wine. She opened the door in a white bathrobe, brushing her hair with her free hand. “Come in, make yourself comfortable. I just washed my hair and it’s still wet.”

“I like wet hair, it’s sexy.” I wasn’t sure she heard me, because at that moment she switched on her hairdryer which roared like a pneumatic drill. When she finished she emerged in a very short miniskirt and a very big white blouse which accentuated the mounds of her breasts.

“I’ve got news for you. But first, what will you drink?”

“Do you have arrack?” I asked doubtfully.

“I bought some for you, I already know you’re hopelessly conservative,” she laughed unwrapping the book. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Thanks! To tell you the truth, I wasn’t crazy about the victory album you gave me. Those pompous generals…not exactly chic. A little modesty wouldn’t hurt them.”

She went to the kitchen cupboard and took out the arrack, but immediately put it back. “I’m not going to let you drink this cleaning fluid. It’s so bad for you,” she declared and turned to the fridge instead. She took out a bottle of white wine, plus a
bottle of vodka from the freezer compartment. “This is excellent wine from the vineyard of my friend Jean-Claude. He wants to come here, marry me and start a vineyard here. Maybe in Judea or Samaria. Any suggestions?”

I shook my head. She turned on the record player and the voice of Edith Piaf, warm and strong, filled the air and made the angels dance in heaven. I leaned back in the armchair and took deep gulps of the sublime vodka.

“Your Lady Yasmina telephoned. We had a strange conversation. She asked about my working hours, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for me if she came again, but she didn’t mention a time.”

“Be nice to her, please.”

“Why is she so important to you? Every time I mention her your eyes light up.”

“Really? I…well, strictly between ourselves, some anti-Israeli elements in your city, in Paris, have been trying to win her over…We’re hoping to separate her from them. I can’t say any more,” I said in a tone full of importance.

“More mysteries!” she protested in her delightful accent. “Here’s to the IDF!” she added, and drank her white wine. “Today I made you a special meal, French cheeses, salad and a quiche, everything seasoned with garlic. I must get you accustomed to eating cheeses!”

“
Merde
,” I said, imitating her accent. “Isn’t my mother enough? And I brought you the best hummus in town.”

“Really? I’ve never tried hummus.”

Again she spread a white tablecloth, lit candles, and before we sat down she turned off the music. I recalled her saying she couldn’t cope with two orgasms at the same time. I tried to spread the hummus on the platter the way they do in
restaurants, poured olive oil on it and showed her how to wipe it off with a pitta. She tasted it and made a face. “What is this? Sand with oil? How can you eat it?”

“It’s original hummus from Abu Shukri in the Old City.”

“I’m afraid of them. I don’t trust their hygiene,” she pushed her plate away. I took it and finished it with pleasure.

“Taste the cheeses. I prepared everything for you. Try the camembert – such a smell, and the garlic one, such a delicacy…oh…” she moaned with pleasure. I licked the olive oil from my fingers, added hot pepper relish and moaned like her. We also drank a lot, during the meal and afterwards – she guzzled her Jean-Claude’s white wine, I kept on tippling the vodka. After the meal she brought in cognac. My head was swimming and my eyelids grew heavy.

“You’re falling asleep on me again?” she protested and turned the record player back on.

Edith Piaf woke me up. I’d seen her once in an old film, a little birdlike woman with a mighty, heartrending voice; she was sad and not good-looking, but when she sang she was beautiful.

Michelle sat down beside me, snuggled against me, unfastened some of my shirt buttons and slipped her hand in. “You have a hairy chest, that’s why I pamper you,” she laughed. I was fascinated by her uninhibited spirit. “Why are you so thin? You’re like a boy.” I undid the rest of the buttons and let her do what she wanted. “Why aren’t you sighing? In love you have to let yourself go.”

The vodka and cognac were making me dizzy. I needed fresh air and asked her to open the window. When she returned she took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom. I took my drink with me, although I knew that alcohol suppresses the libido. She turned off the music again. “Leave it, leave it. I like
music with loving,” I said. Never mind her two orgasms – who’s to say we’ll even have one? I had difficulty unbuttoning my trousers, then got the laces of my left shoe tangled up and had to pull it off by force, almost falling off the bed. I was left in my underpants.

“Take them off, take them off,” she urged, slapping my arse. “Ah what a sound!”

She was naked. She took her time stroking me and whispering French incantations in my ears. I got up and put the record back on – sing to me, Edith Piaf, sweep me away as you swept Jean Cocteau away. He loved you so much. You died on the same day, first you, then him just a few hours later. Sing to me, Edith! I said to her. Her anguished voice blended with that of Michelle, who was writhing and twisting, and my whole body sang with joy, the relief of being with a woman after three months of forced inactivity.

I went to the bathroom and stood for a long time under the shower, torn between the Jerusalemite’s habit of saving water and the wonderful freshness of the cool current. While drying myself my eyes were drawn to an attractive display of creams and perfumes. An unusual impulse made me open them and sniff the wonderful, foreign scents. Finding a light jasminscented spray I squirted some on myself and came out.

Michelle was asleep. I settled in an armchair in the living room and leafed through the poems of Omar Khayyam.