Avner Mandelman Read online

  Ruthy disappeared in the kitchen. Her voice called out, “I am making you some yogurt with cheese, with a matza. You want some vegetables, too?”

  Ehud helped me open the sofa—it became a bed after a mighty tug at its front edge, and together we spread a pale blue bedsheet on the mattress.

  “A heart attack?” Ehud asked. “He was what, seventy-five?” He hopped around the sofa on his short right leg, tucking the bedsheet in.

  “Seventy-one,” I said. “A burglar killed him, with a knife.”

  Ehud stopped in mid-motion. “The fucking Arab. Did they catch him?”

  “What Arab? Arab, Arab! They all are saying Arab. There are Jewish burglars, too.”

  “You know who I mean.”

  Ruthy returned with a tray. I ate, looking neither at my food nor at her. Ehud looked at us both. He said to me, “We’re getting married next month, in Kfar Saba.”

  “Mazel tov,” I said through the yogurt.

  “You are invited, too,” Ruthy said, “if you can stay.” She paused. “Are you married?”

  “Almost,” I said, and ate a spoonful of my yogurt. “Thank you, really, I am sorry I didn’t call, but I didn’t want to go to a hotel and—”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Ehud said. “It’s your apartment, now. We’re just the tenants.”

  It occurred to me that this was true. After my mother’s death my father had rented out the apartment on Ibn Gvirol. For himself he rented a loft on Lillienblum Street from Mr. Glantz, from whom he used to take rooms long ago, before he met my mother.

  I knew Ehud Reznik had rented the Ibn Gvirol apartment. I didn’t know he was living there with Ruthy.

  Ruthy said abruptly, “Good night. You know where everything is.”

  Ehud said, “You need a lift tomorrow someplace, maybe? We can talk later, if you want.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ve got to see the lawyer, his office is on Balfour Street. But I can take bus number five.”

  Both looked at me as I wolfed down the carrot, the tomato, the cucumber. Israeli vegetables taste heavenly, unlike any others in the world. It’s something in the soil. Maybe it’s all this blood.

  “How’s the chocolate business?” I asked Ehud. His father owned a chocolate factory in Ramat Gan, where Ehud, since he had left theater productions, now worked.

  Ehud reddened. “Good, good.”

  I didn’t ask Ruthy how the theater business was. I had read someplace—I think in a copy of Ma’ariv I had once bought in Toronto—that she played small roles in a new theater group called Lo Harbeh—Nothing Much. At her age, twenty-nine, her mother had already played the role of Leah’le, in The Dybbuk.

  Ehud said, “Really, about your father, I—”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, waving my hand. Yogurt sprayed on the sofa and I cleaned it with my palm.

  Both looked at me silently as I ate.

  4

  PRESENTLY THEY TURNED IN and closed the bedroom door behind them. For a long time I watched the closed door and listened to the sounds coming from within. Once or twice I heard Ehud’s voice, protesting weakly. “No, no. Not now.”

  “Yes, now,” Ruthy’s voice said. “Now!” Then there were some more sounds.

  Finally I slid into the old darkness.

  Next day I was awakened by the clashes of garbage cans and the screams of children, as the nightmarish black slowly transformed into a room full of gray light. Ruthy and Ehud had left me a crumpled note. They would return that evening, they wrote, he from the factory, she from some drama class. If I needed anything I should take it. Here was a spare key, and a hundred-shekel note, “for chewing gum,” Ehud wrote.

  I opened the fridge and poked a while inside. Cheese leftovers, and Eshel (the Israeli yogurt), and tomatoes and cucumbers in plastic bags, and bottles of Maccabee beer—strictly not kosher for Passover.

  I peeled a cucumber and ate it while I shaved, glancing at a HaAretz newspaper I had propped up on the washing machine. The religious parties were again threatening to leave the coalition; one more Labor minister had been convicted of bribery; six soldiers had died in an ambush near the Lebanon border—

  I threw the newspaper on a pile of wet towels. Nothing will ever change here; the young die so that the old can continue to bicker. I should call the lawyer right now, sign whatever I had to sign, and leave this damn place as soon as I could before the evil reclaimed me.

  I rinsed my face and telephoned Mr. Gelber.

  He picked up on the first ring. Y … yes, he stammered, he was expecting my call, yes, and I should come right away … He lived just around the corner, on Yahalal Street—yes, yes, just where Itzik Vasserman the violinist used to live. Third floor—

  A line of taxicabs stood in front of Sharf’s kiosk. A wiry young man in Atta jeans and a gray T-shirt stared at me narrow-eyed from a boulevard bench, pigeons strutting all around him. Three muscular yeshiva boys loitered at the entrance to the apartment house on Yahalal Street, in the ground floor of which a synagogue had apparently been installed. I pushed through them and climbed the narrow stairs. Mr. Ya’akov Gelber, his pudgy face drawn, opened his door dressed in short khaki pants and a loose stained undershirt, a knit skullcap on his head. “Good … morning, Mr. Starkman,” he stammered, and made a jerky little bow, holding on to the skullcap, “and my … my most sincere condolences,” he blinked moistly. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee,” I said. “Thank you.”

  His wife and two children were seated on the living room floor, playing dominoes; they didn’t look up. A stocky man sat on the sofa, splitting sunflower seeds with his teeth. He threw me a sharp look, then stared pointedly up at the wall, where the ubiquitous photos of grandparents who had gone with Hitler were hanging, framed under glass.

  “My … my cousin,” Mr. Gelber stammered, “visiting from Haifa …”

  He ushered me into his study by way of the kitchen. It was a tiny room overflowing with paper, overlooking the garbage-can shed in the yard. Children’s pencil drawings were tacked to the wall. Mr. Gelber sank into a swivel chair and motioned to me to sit opposite him, handing me a glass of hot Nescafé. “Yes, yes … a tragedy,” he stammered. “A vigorous man … but these things—yes, more and more …” He stopped, handing me the bowl of sugar. Its lid rattled.

  “Yes,” I said, not knowing what I was confirming. Some coffee had spilled on my jeans and I tried to rub it out. I felt an irrational urge to flee and pressed my palms down on my thighs to stay seated. There was an awkward silence. Mr. Gelber breathed shallowly and moistly, as if fearing to intrude upon my presumed grief, and with a visible effort asked about the length of my flight, the exact hour of my arrival, and how long I planned to stay. He seemed strangely cheered to hear I was returning to Toronto the day after the funeral, and from under a pile of papers he pulled a plain white envelope, extracting from it a sheaf of typed sheets clasped by a metal clip.

  Mr. Gelber said, “He typed it himself and wrote on the back flap that it was to be opened only in case of his death.” He stared at me with bulging eyes. “Did he talk to you about it?”

  “We were not in touch,” I said.

  Mr. Gelber said, “The police found the will in the store—my name and phone number were inside—so they called me and I drove right over and we opened it together.” His voice turned plaintive. “He composed it all himself, but it was cosigned by two witnesses, so it’s legal—”

  “I didn’t know he could type,” I said.

  “Well, he could do many things,” Mr. Gelber muttered crossly. “But it’s very simple, really, except for one or two small things.”

  I waited, again forcing myself to sit still.

  Mr. Gelber scanned the first page. “He owned the store, you know, and also the apartment, but the mortgages ate up more than half the value. What he borrowed the money for, I have no idea. Did he send you money to Canada?” He fixed me with an accusatory stare.

  “No.”

  Mr. Gelber raised a disbelievi
ng eyebrow. I scowled and he dropped his eyes; then without preamble he launched into a recitation of bank accounts: one at Discount Bank, where the store’s cash receipts and rent from the apartment were deposited, with all month-end balances regularly given to charity. A foreign-currency account at Bank Le’umi, where deutsche mark compensation payments from Germany were deposited—also given out to charity (“How he had enough to live on,” Mr. Gelber muttered, “I don’t know”); and another account in Mizrachi Bank, for royalties on the literary works of Paltiel Rubin—

  “Paltiel Rubin?” I said. “The wrestler poet?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Gelber, evading my eyes. “Your father, may he rest in peace, was his literary executor. They used to be friends, many years ago, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Everyone knew that. But executor?

  Mr. Gelber blew his nose into his hand and wiped it absently on the seat of his pants. “There was also some cash in the store’s register. It’s in the hands of the police, but when they finish their investigation—” He twisted his mouth to show what he thought of the police’s investigatory skills, or maybe of the chance to ever see this money again. “Some Moroccan inspector, Amzaleg, that’s the one I talked to.”

  I felt feverish. “Do they need me for anything?”

  “I don’t know … but you can call them …” It was clear that, aside from the store’s cash they now kept, Mr. Gelber was not interested in the police. He scanned the page in his hand. “Nu … to make a long story short, the estate, net of the mortgages, is worth a hundred and eighty-three thousand shekels, give or take.” He blinked upward, his lips puckered as if looking at a distant calculator. “Something like sixty-five thousand Canadian dollars, what?”

  I nodded, numbly. The room rotated.

  Mr. Gelber said self-deprecatingly, “Minus my eight percent, of course, which you’ll find is the standard fee, from the days of the British Mandate—from the days of the Turks, even—”

  From the living room came a telephone ring, which immediately stopped, as if someone had picked up the receiver. Mr. Gelber threw a look at the study’s door, then wrenched his eyes back to me. “I—I am going over all this quickly … Later you can read the summary for yourself—”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I trust you.”

  He squinted at me, as if checking whether I had spoken in jest. I hadn’t.

  There was a brief silence. Mr. Gelber spoke haltingly. “There are some … a few more details …” He probed with shaky fingers inside the white envelope. I glimpsed my father’s scrawl on the flap and my nose tingled.

  I forced my eyes away.

  “It’s only two people, really,” Mr. Gelber said. “It’s you, and your uncle in—” He consulted the sheet before him. “Tveriah …”

  “Uncle Mordechai,” I said. “Mordechai Starkman.”

  “Yes … Mordechai Starkman, from Tveriah … It’s all to be divided ninety-ten between you two … ninety percent to you, ten to him, except for … for a few things that go only to you … There are the royalties on some old literary properties …” Mr. Gelber paused, then went on with an effort, “The royalties on seventeen poems of Paltiel Rubin, and half the royalties on the poem Golyatt, belonged to your father.”

  I sat up. “Golyatt?”

  “Yes, and also a half interest in a few old plays, and full interest in a play called”—he made a show of squinting closely at the page—“The Debba. It has only been produced once.” His eyes assiduously avoided mine. “In Haifa, 1946.”

  “My father wrote half of Golyatt?”

  “No, no … It doesn’t say that.” Mr. Gelber wiped his bald pate with a pudgy palm. “It only says he has a half interest …” He gave me a wan smile. “What do I know? He may have helped the destitute poet in an hour of need, in exchange for a share—”

  “Golyatt?” I repeated, quoting from memory the poem all schoolchildren learn by heart at the age of ten, “‘Thou art my enemy, O friend of mine, my rival and my fate, thy giant shadow on my bride looms …’”

  “Yes, this one,” Mr. Gelber said in a small voice. “Now about the funeral …”

  “And which poems?” I asked. “Not the sonnets?”

  “I—I am afraid I am not much of a …” He looked down at the page, “Here it says, ‘Seventeen poems, first printed in the newspaper Davar between 1932 and 1935, then collected by the publishing house of Shomron in a special edition to commemorate—’”

  “The sonnets,” I said. “Golyatt, and the sonnets.”

  “I am afraid the income does not amount to much, no more than two thousand shekels per year, and this is mainly from royalties on the syllabus used by the Ministry of Education, and they don’t pay more than—”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I understand.” I understood nothing. A feeling of black oppression enveloped me, and the same strong urge to flee.

  There was the patter of feet. The study’s door opened a crack, and Mrs. Gelber, a small homely woman with a gray mustache over a brown lip, poked her head in. “I am sorry, Ya’akov,” she whispered, “but he asked me to remind you that you should be going soon to your meeting.” Her eyes fixed upon the white envelope on the desktop.

  Mr. Gelber hissed back, “Tell him … we—we are almost finished …”

  His wife flicked her gaze at me with something akin to fear before scuttling out. Perhaps she had learned what I used to do in the army.

  My legs shook as I began to rise. “If there’s anything else—”

  Mr. Gelber said nervously. “Um, yes, we’ll talk tomorrow in my office, but you should know there was this one little thing …”

  “Yes? What thing?”

  He seemed oddly ill at ease. “There is a request in the will—a legal stipulation, strictly speaking—that the play be staged within forty-five days of passing, before the estate is settled fully … that is—”

  “Staged by whom?”

  “By … by the senior beneficiary, it says.”

  My throat seized. Here he was, my father, still trying to make me do his bidding, even from beyond the grave … I began to snarl that I was not going to stage any play, but Mr. Gelber clutched at my wrist and spoke over my words. “Listen, if you try to do this, it could run to a hundred and fifty thousand shekels—what am I saying? Two hundred thousand. Minimum.”

  “Well, I don’t—”

  But again he did not let me speak. “There are four actors, one of whom is a woman, which since last year’s legislation unfortunately must be paid the same … and the animal, which can be a drama student in a fur suit … but even if you use synthetic fur, it’d still cost … and the scenery, and the accompaniment for the songs … and to pay for the director, and the municipal license … and the hall for the rehearsals, and the advertising—you know how much it’d cost?” He let go my arm, wiped his face, and flicked a wide-eyed look at the door. “I am telling you, it could eat up the estate … what am I saying? Even more …”

  “What animal?” I said.

  “The Debba, the spotted hyena … I looked at the play after we opened the will.” He gave me a quivering smile, indicating the envelope with a palm.

  I said, “Well, I’m not doing any damn play. After the shivah I am gone.”

  Mr. Gelber’s cheeks acquired a ruddy color. “You are not?”

  “No. Tell the judge to give the money to some bereaved parents.”

  I don’t know why I said this. I hadn’t seen any bereaved parents since I left. “Is there anything else?”

  Mr. Gelber stared up at me with almost physical relief. “Well, I suppose it’s really all the same, since staging this play would cost as much as …” He rubbed his hands. “All right, I suppose you can just sign that you give up your claim to the estate … Your uncle Mordechai already said he doesn’t care one way or another …”

  “Yeah. For sure.”

  I hadn’t spoken to my father (except for that brief telephone conversation) for seven years. Uncle Mordechai h
adn’t spoken to him for thirty.

  I said, “So the estate will go to the state’s treasury?”

  “Probably.” Mr. Gelber laid a densely typed legal sheet atop the envelope on his desk and thrust a plastic ballpoint pen at me. “Here. You sign here, and here, and here …” He gave me a forced wink. “Between us, I don’t think it could be staged now anyway. Not today …” As he directed my fingers to the dotted line to consign my father’s bequest to oblivion, the pen felt hot and slippery in my hand.

  A whisper came through the door. “You finished, Ya’akov? He’s waiting.”

  “Yes, yes!” Mr. Gelber hissed, his eyes on the hovering pen. “Tell him I am coming, Chedva.” He turned to me. “Nu? Sign, sign!”

  I began to write my name in Hebrew but my fingers had turned into gelignite putty. In panic and rage I pressed hard and the plastic shaft snapped in my hands, and as it did, a smaller envelope slipped out of the large one. Mr. Gelber made a swift grab at it but it evaded his grasp and fluttered to the floor. It was the kind used for sending New Year’s greeting cards, but this one’s flap was sealed shut. On the front was written in my father’s crabbed scrawl:

  To my son, my eldest, my beloved; David.

  I stared at the script for a long while, my eyes blind with wet heat. Didn’t my father ever let up? Through the wetness I saw Mr. Gelber bending over to pick up the envelope. I snatched it out of his grasp and inserted it back inside the larger envelope. For the first time, his desperation for my signature penetrated through my haze. Why was he so eager that I relinquish my father’s estate? Without thinking, I tucked the envelope under my arm and shakily rose to my feet.

  Mr. Gelber gaped at me, his cheeks taut. “So you sign or not?”

  I stumbled through the kitchen to the front door, the envelope radiating heat into my armpit. Mr. Gelber’s wife and children were nowhere to be seen, but his cousin was waiting outside in the hallway, leaning on the wall. He stared at the envelope under my arm and began to lean forward as Mr. Gelber barged out after me, waving a pen.

  I called over my shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow in your office, after the funeral,” then skipped down the stairs. Mr. Gelber cried forlornly after me, “Don’t be a donkey! I am telling you, it doesn’t have a chance … not today …”