6

On Stage

A.

On an evening in early July, two figures walked down Rabbi Friedman Alley in Tel Aviv: an ageless, skinny, and flaccid man, trailing the scent of aftershave, alongside a good-looking woman in her late forties with a juicy rear end. The air hung moist, viscous, and lifeless over Tel Aviv, and the couple, though they had just left their home on nearby Judah the Maccabee Street, was already sweating. The cacophony of television sets broadcasting a party assembly rose from the open windows. The prime minister, a stubborn dwarf, was wrangling with three of his ministers who demanded the immediate cancelation of a measly peace offering made toward the Palestinians, which cast, they believed, a heavy threat over the future of the State of Israel. On its way, the couple waved at the kind Mrs. Biron, one of the neighborhood’s longtime residents, who was sipping iced tea on her balcony, observing her surroundings like a retired beat cop. On both sides of the alley were skinned low-rise projects, delineated by crooked fences. Dvora Saltzman made some comment regarding the neglect that had taken over the neighborhood. On the eastern end lived renters side by side with the elderly longtime residents. No one bothered to water the dying lawns. To the west, on the other hand, there still lived some powerful homeowners. Those tended small flower gardens and tiny orchards—two or three pomegranate trees, vines, and citrus trees, their fruit frequently robbed by students from the nearby high school. At the end of the alley a couple of two-story houses built about twenty years earlier stood out—pretty, elegant, whitewashed; erected, unlike the neighboring buildings, on thin pillars, and featuring an electronic door and intercom buzzers. The marble floor tiles of the lobby were polished once a week and philodendrons grew in decorative clay pots. This was where the privileged residents of the alley lived: an architect who enjoyed a certain fame in the early ’80s, an attorney or two and even a member of Knesset, a conservative and cordial yes-man. And here, in a spacious apartment that faced the street, the Zinmans had established their home and haven.

A freezing chill welcomed the Saltzmans. Their hosts had recently purchased an air conditioner that cost a fortune, and Yosef wanted everyone to know . . .

In the living room, they found the man of the house and Aunt Masha in the midst of a medical procedure. Miss Lifschitz sat up straight and breathed slowly. Yosef Zinman, glasses on the tip of his nose affording him a scientific appearance, pumped into a small bellows attached by a tube to a cloth sleeve which was wrapped around her arm. An excited political correspondent was on the television, behind him a loud crowd—the party meeting was, it seemed, on the verge of total chaos.

“How high?” Shraga asked.

“Shh!” Yosef reproached him without taking his eyes off the blood pressure gauge in his hand. When he released the valve the needle was on its way. It lingered over the scale for a moment, wavered and finally stopped.

“One-twenty over eighty!” Yosef announced in a voice not devoid of envy. “Like an eighteen-year-old.”

About a year earlier, the shopkeeper (who was taken with any sort of invention and improvement) asked an acquaintance visiting the United States to bring back a blood pressure gauge. Since then, any familial gathering at the Zinman residence began with a checkup. “People should know how to cure themselves,” Yosef preached whenever he had the chance. Now, when the old woman’s tremendous health was revealed, he checked himself too, to compare. He wrapped the plastic sleeve around his arm, pumped it up as far as he could, and then devoted his full attention to the scale. His eyes almost bugged when he saw the result.

“One-sixty-one over one-hundred-and-four,” he whispered.

“Is it any wonder?” Aunt Masha said with imperial calm from her pedestal of health. “I could have told you that without the gadget. Look at you, what a belly you’ve grown.”

“Nonsense.” Yosef grew angry. “It’s because of the politics. Turn off that television and we’ll check it again.”

His orders were followed and the same result was attained, which led to a deluge of pity and worry pouring over his head. Shraga Saltzman jumped at the chance to give his brother-in-law scholarly advice and, yearning to set an example, demanded an immediate test and stretched out his skinny arm. Zinman pushed up his glasses, wrinkled his nose as if sipping steaming soup, and looked at the gauge. He looked and looked and said nothing.

“Well?” Shraga urged him. “What does it say?”

Rather than answer, Yosef loosened the Velcro strap, wrapped it again and pumped air into it once more. He tapped the glass with his finger, tilted the gauge here and there and fixed his patient with a worried look.

“Well? Nu?”

“Zero over zero,” Yosef announced. “According to my indication—the blood pressure of a carcass.”

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Miss Lifschitz said in a gloomy voice.

Tzippi Zinman, stepping out of the kitchen with a tray crammed full of goodies, insisted that they “stop playing with that stupid gadget already,” and Shraga (who’d grown dizzy) demanded that someone make him some strong black coffee right away.

The sisters set the table with a pie, radishes, salad (which was the family’s shorthand for egg salad) and pink slices of salted herring prepared by the host. They sat down to eat without waiting for Avrum, and the moment Tzippi reached her hand to the breadbasket, the doorbell rang.

“A gast in shtetl!” Zinman called out.

Throughout the years, the family members had accepted Avrum’s tardiness and stopped expecting an apology or an explanation. Avrum never just came over or visited or arrived; Avrum Shlossman entered—even places that didn’t have a door. His entrances awoke a special trembling in those present, a sort of festive expectation; for what, no one could say.

He bore his fifty-one years of age with grace—tall, elegant, his hair moistened with a cream that allotted it an eternal freshness, overflowing with charm and double entendre. Every word he said, each wave of the hand or tilting of the head in acceptance of a kiss emanated ceremoniousness and burned with that theatrical, childish flame that prevented people from getting angry at him, just as they were prevented from taking him seriously.

From the moment he entered, the party grew cheerful. People talked louder, ate faster, and competed to see who could tell the wittier anecdote, until, as was their custom, they arrived at the tale of Yosef Zinman and the Italian nun—the story of “The Portofino Fart”—performed that night as a duet by the host and hostess. Since they remembered Portofino, they remembered Europe; and since they remembered Europe, they remembered their planned trip to Seefeld, and the Zinmans got up to prepare the living room for the slide show.

B.

A constant struggle between two opposing forces granted the Zinman home its unique style: on the one hand there was Tzippi’s affinity for the contemporary (to her, “pretty” and “new” were synonymous), and on the other was her heart’s desire for the past, not necessarily her own, but a past that could have been hers had she lived in a different time and place, a past entirely made up of a reflection forever frozen in china pots and silver sugar dishes. This category also included the pictures on the wall—some northern landscapes, others still life; cabins, a European beach, and fishing boats. The armchair and the sofa, on the other hand, were completely modern: square outlines and gray- and pink-checkered upholstery, the most fashionable colors. At the center of the living room a low and wide glass table leaned against shiny nickel legs. Ashtrays were scattered in every corner, but the living room was clean of tobacco stench and smelled pleasantly of recently scrubbed floors. Tzippi Zinman was no less of an extremist than her older sister when it came to household cleanliness; her pedantry, however, stemmed not from refined taste, but mainly from her passion toward the spotless, the burnished, the free of any and all scars that cried out: “Now!” Sometimes, on a quiet evening, Tzippi might sit comfortably and examine her surroundings with a gloomy face, not finding inner peace until she located a corner to leach onto—say, the balcony. “Time to freshen up,” she’d tell her husband then. The next evening she’d already be enjoying the four new stools adorning the balcony. They’d be equal to their predecessors in all measures but their newness, a fact that instilled them with a charm that filled her with happiness.

“Get the big picture off the wall,” Fat Tuvia ordered as he entered, carrying the slide projector. Three or four volumes of the encyclopedia were already waiting on the dining table, a makeshift platform to raise the projector up higher. While he played with the knobs and pressed the buttons, his mother emerged from the kitchen for the umpteenth time.

“Voilà!” Avrum raised his pointing finger and furrowed his brow like a town crier. “The cake!”

“It’s from Hans Bertele’s bakery, he just opened it on Ibn Gvirol Street. You should have seen the line,” Tzippi said. Speaking of which, she was also enthusiastic about new food.

“Oh, come on, who needs this?” Aunt Masha complained, nevertheless handing over her plate. “Who needs this, I ask you?! Certainly not Yosef, with his high blood pressure.”

“Let me enjoy life!” Yosef Zinman grumbled, and for defiance’s sake, added a few butter cookies to his plate as well.

“Criminal!” Miss Lifschitz said, her eyes bulging. “You’ll do anything in your power to turn your wife into a widow! And what about you, Tzippke? Gorging on all this fatty food instead of getting a hold of yourself. You two should be ashamed!”

“I’m not about to kill myself just to be healthy,” Tzippi announced proudly.

“Shraga didn’t get a piece of cake yet . . .”

“Who wants coffee? Who wants tea?”

“Can we turn the air conditioning up a bit?”

The room was finally darkened. A white square flickered over their heads, bounced up to the ceiling and then sharpened and steadied in the middle of the wall. A ticking was heard, and suddenly a somewhat faded photo appeared, showing two spots of intense color—the Zinmans in yolk-colored rain jackets, holding umbrellas over their heads, smiling, behind them a few wooden houses with planters and an empty restaurant terrace.

“Seefeld,” Fat Tuvia exclaimed. “Mom and Dad on the first day, going to eat butter-fried knaidlach.”

Beneath the veil of darkness, Zinman grabbed another cookie.

“Oy, the knaidlach!” Tzippi sighed.

The slide changed; enthusiastic calls all around.

“Grimml Waterfalls,” Tuvia said.

“Krimml,” his father corrected. “An hour and a half from Seefeld, considered some of the most beautiful in the world. Look at how they pour into each other in the middle of the forest: you walk and walk and it never ends. By the way, it’s recommended to do the route from top to bottom, not the other way around. What can I tell you? I wouldn’t mind going again, so you can enjoy it, too. What do you say, Tzip?”

“Oh, Krimml.”

A few other waterfall pictures, and then—a lovely photo from one of the towns: blue sky, rolling meadows, a church with two steeples and a greening copper roof. In front, a carriage harnessed to a horse decorated with tassels and fringe. By its side—Tzippi Zinman, hugging a coachman with an enormous chin in a green hat, his thighs stuffed into tight breeches.

“The kaka-meister,” Fat Tuvia explained. “It was a nice day and they felt like taking a carriage ride in the area, great fun. The guy takes them to see the pedestrian mall, the church, they leave town toward the lake to catch some sun . . . but what happens? Hardly five minutes go by and they stop. The horse, pardon my French, wants to take a crap; he’s only human, after all. The coachman waits for him to finish, then takes a brush and a dustpan from under his seat and gets off to collect the product! Okay. He dumps it all in a bucket that hangs off the back and returns to his seat. They keep going—and oops! Again with the brush and the dustpan. The horse must have had a hell of a meal; every ten minutes they had to stop. Eventually Mom started calling him herr kaka-meister, and that idiot smiles and says, jawohl, jawohl.”

“What a putz! Unbelievable.” Tzippi chuckled.

“On the way to Mad Ludwig’s castle, with Dolly and Danny Shem-Tov,” Fat Tuvia said, explaining the next slide. “Is this the thing with the bee?”

“Uh-huh,” confirmed his mother.

“First thing in the morning, Dad asks the innkeeper to buy some extra rolls, goes into the kitchen and makes some sandwiches for a picnic. The owner—Mrs. Bubinger, if I’m not mistaken, a nice woman, she’s known them for years—lends them a thermos for coffee and puts a few hardboiled eggs in the picnic basket, just in case. Long story short, we’re on our way. After an hour or two we’re in the mood for something sweet. We stop at a snack bar. Dolly and Danny go in to look for chocolate and Mom steps outside for a cigarette. The weather’s great, and Mom’s wearing a pair of those wide pants with an elastic waist. Anyway, the two come back from the snack bar and we’re free to move on. Mom gets in the car, and suddenly she feels a tickle on her butt . . .”

“A tickle?” Tzippi interrupted. “You call that a tickle?”

“Maybe a sting,” her son admitted. “At any rate—something’s moving around inside her pants. She begins screaming, jumping around like a crazy person . . .”

“So embarrassing . . .” Tzippi put her face in her hands and bit her lower lip to stop herself from laughing before the punch line and spoiling the story for her guests.

“And Dad,” Tuvia continued. “Dad is yelling, ‘What are you dancing around for, what are you dancing around for . . . ?’”

“I knew right away it was a bee,” Yosef Zinman said.

“Dad knew right away she had a bee in her pants and told her to calm down if she didn’t want to get stung, and that he was going to set it loose.”

“Oh!” Tzippi moaned with laughter.

“So he bends down and shakes her pants, but the bee won’t come out and he keeps pulling and pulling and then he pulled her pants all the way down!”

“In front of everybody!” Yosef cheered. “You should have seen Danny Shem-Tov’s face!”

“Oh,” his wife yowled, crying tears of pleasure. “I can’t take it anymore!”

“What, you rented a Mercedes?” Shraga Saltzman awoke from his fake snooze, its entire purpose signaling to his brother-in-law that he was nobody’s fool.

“We got an upgrade,” Yosef boasted.

“Do you have a picture of that inn?” Dvora asked.

Tuvia changed the slides quickly until he reached a photo of a three-story inn set in the midst of a blooming garden. The walls were painted pink, the shutters white, the wooden balconies stretched along the front were covered with striped awnings. A few recliners stood on the sides of the path leading to the front door, above which the name Bubinger appeared, in surprisingly simple lettering. Dvora was impressed with the beauty of the place and Yosef explained that there was no “not pretty” in Seefeld.

“Is it clean?”

“Come on, what do you think Dvoraleh, that I’d take you to a filthy place?” Tzippi rumbled. “You can eat off the floor there, period, exclamation mark.”

Dvora looked at—no, practically ate up—the inn, and imagined herself stepping inside, carefully pacing the soft carpets padding the hallways, and, after trying out and considering her options, chose the balcony on the right corner of the second floor, where she would sit with Shraga as they beheld the snowy peaks. The owner walks briskly in—a chubby, smiling woman whose braid is wrapped around the top of her head like a crown—and serves hot cocoa and homemade cookies. In the garden, under the sun umbrella, she finds her sister, surrounded by a blinding abundance of petunias, buttercups, tulips, and whatnot as she flips through some journal. Avrum, whom she places in the adjacent room, smiles and waves from his balcony. His face is tan, just like in the photos from his boyhood days in Frankfurt, and his hair is fuller. Not far away, she hears the sweet voice of Julie Andrews. And then, suddenly, that despicable, gnawing, stifling worry drips into the lucid dream—a black drop that spreads and spreads until it muddies the entire vision. Though she knew if she spoke the words she didn’t want to say, the loveliness would evaporate in a blink, she had no choice but to extract the question from her mouth.

“Is it expensive?”

“Pfff.” Yosef Zinman shrugged. “Pennies. Maybe forty dollars a night.”

“Per person?”

“Are you crazy? Per couple!”

“And she has enough room for all of us?”

“Of course!” Tzippi answered in her husband’s place. “It isn’t a large inn, but she’ll always have room for us. It’s good that you mentioned it; let’s do the math, so we know how many rooms to book.”

And since there was never a bigger expert at counting and accounting than Yosef Zinman, he opened his left hand and used his right thumb to bend his fingers back one by one: one room for the Zinmans, a second for the Saltzmans, a third for Avrum, Aunt Masha . . .

“Who said I was even coming?” the old lady said, frowning. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. Who knows if I’ll even be alive.”

“Oh, Masha, come on,” Zinman roared. “Today yes, tomorrow no . . . what do you think this is, a game? It’s July! If we want to go on Sukkot, we have to start making arrangements.”

“What about you kids?” Dvora turned to Fat Tuvia.

“I’m definitely in, but I wouldn’t count on Shirley,” he answered. “Will Yellow Tuvia come from America? We can share a room.”

“Of course not, he won’t even miss a day of school, especially now that he’s doing so well. You know that big professor from Boston just added him to his research team. There were eight applicants, but with his grades there was no question about it.”

“You don’t say . . .” Tzippi said.

“And what about Bina?” Tuvia insisted.

The slide disappeared; as the discussion carried on, Tuvia turned off the projector. In spite of the darkness, Dvora could still feel Shraga’s alert look.

“I’m willing to take her, but only if I’m not the only one who looks after her. We each do our part.”

“Of course we’ll help you! She’s our sister too!” Avrum jumped up, then immediately retreated back to his armchair; even he, who was the strongest believer in his own fabrications, realized exaggerated promises should not be made with so many witnesses around.

“She can share a room with Aunt Masha, we’ll pay,” Zinman offered, not without malice, and got up to turn on the light. The truth was, Miss Lifschitz had already made up her mind to stay in Israel—she spent most of her days avoiding the sort of gratuitous intimacy that is forced upon travel companions, and the older she got, the more she enjoyed being alone within her own space and within her own habits. More than anything, she was revolted by any sort of change, and one could suppose that the resentment she felt toward the idea of her own death originated from nothing else than the fact that it involved a certain change. But now she didn’t want to seem egotistical, refusing to share a room with Bina, and as she thanked Yosef warmly for his generous offer, began calculating the appropriate date on which to tell her family about a certain medical examination that could not be postponed—a feminine issue, say—that would take place, unfortunately, exactly during Sukkot.

“What about passports?” Zinman asked.

“We’ve got them,” said Dvora. “We went to Marseilles.”

“Marseilles, Marseilles.” The man of the house chuckled from his position as tourism expert. “With all due respect, Dvoraleh, that was back in the days of the Ottoman Empire. Do me a favor and don’t forget to renew your passports, we don’t want any surprises. Today it’s not a problem, you know, you don’t have to go all the way downtown and wait in line for hours anymore. You have a station right here, by the Kastel, a Ministry of Interior office, they do it on the spot.”

“How would I know,” the cosmetician said, taking offense.

He sighed and went to get a passport from the sideboard drawer to demonstrate. They all gathered around to watch his demonstration—here was the expiration date, the border control stamps from each and every year, and there was one from the Milan airport, the Munich airport, and another and another . . . They were especially impressed by the French visa pasted onto one of the pages, imbuing the passport with a noble air. Then they teased Yosske, who’d lost quite a bit of his hair and gained quite a bit of weight since the passport photo had been taken. Dvora’s head was spinning with terms—duty free, turbulence, customs—terms she had only a vague understanding of, and which were now piled up to create a threatening mountain. She was especially scared about the matter of overweight luggage.

“We’ll send a fax to Frau Bubinger,” said Yosef. “And what about dollars? We only buy $100 or $200 at the bank, the rest we buy on the black market.”

“Then we’ll do the same—we’ll give you the money and you’ll buy them for us,” Shraga quickly declared. As a sworn bum, he was not impervious to the advantages hidden in appointing his brother-in-law with the role of trip leader. “You have someone good? I don’t want them to stick us with fake notes, God forbid.”

Though the regulation obligating those traveling abroad to get their passports stamped at the bank as proof of having legally purchased foreign currency had recently been cancelled, Zinman still believed the government had its own ways of tracking his actions, and in order not to raise the authority’s suspicions he made sure, before any trip, to buy a modest sum officially. To maintain good neighborly relations, he also bought some marks from Yunger the butcher. Most of it, though, he bought from an old pimp on Lilienblum Street, an acquaintance of his parents from back in Poland, who made a nice living from the gap between the dollar’s market exchange rate and the rate of that exaggerated hybrid the bank called “travel dollars.” Since he attested that the money changer never cheated him, nor his father, Berl Zinman, may he rest in peace, the Saltzmans authorized Yosef to act on their behalf in this matter as well. Tzippi, who was tired of the small print that had taken over the evening, wanted to return to the headline, and hinted to her son that he should turn on the projector again. But just then the phone rang. Impatiently, she walked over to the little nook, designed in an antiquated style, with a little phone table and a fake Tiffany lamp, and picked up.

“Dvora,” she called. “It’s for you!”

And thus the evening was sentenced to an early end.

C.

When Bina Shlossman was born, thirty-four years ago, her older sister Dvora—who was at the time a fourteen-year-old girl with wise eyes and an inward expression—could not contain her happiness. From the very first moment she had a positive influence on the baby. The little one rested her head on Dvora’s shoulder for hours as Dvora spun around in a slow waltz and whispered sweet nothings into her tiny ear. Later, when Bina’s special condition was revealed, Dvora’s love did not diminish in the slightest. On the contrary, it grew. While the parents lamented their bad luck, Dvora refused to despair. Thanks to her, the girl learned how to read and write, and made friends with other less fortunates whom the young woman also took under her wing. Everyone was impressed by her patience. In winter she knitted doll shoes and in summer the two stood barefoot in the kitchen to make fruit salad, singing some pop hit at the tops of their lungs and cracking up over a flying loquat pit. Their visits to the Tel Aviv Zoo pleased both of them equally; after Binchi rode for the first time on the back of one of the enormous, ancient turtles that served as entertainment for children at the time, Dvora was so happy she couldn’t fall asleep that night. Once in a while, she organized a residential fair called “the Surprise Market,” in which Bina sold plastic necklaces, used toys, and other knickknacks to relatives and friends. The merchandise was presented on the Shlossmans’ large dining table, which was decorated with a floral tablecloth. Guests enjoyed pretzels and fruit and made exaggerated sounds of excitements in light of the treasures. After the fair, Bina counted her profits again and again with heartbreaking patience, and the next day went out with Dvora to buy new socks or a picture book.

In the first years of their marriage, the Saltzmans rented a two-bedroom apartment on Weizmann Street, a five-minute walk from the perfumery. This way, Dvora was able to continue to spend many hours with her little sister. No one was happier than Bina when she was invited to spend the night at her sister’s new home. On those nights, they drank extra-sweet fruit soda, which sprayed out of the seltzer bottle with a cheerful sound, and played simple card games. The apartment was small; the expectations—great. Shraga, still employed at the tax department of the National Health Fund, planned to advance and promote himself, and the couple began carefully considering having a child of their own. And thus, on a fine April day in 1965, a sweet, fair-haired creature came into this world. The family was concerned that Bina might be neglected now, due to the new circumstances. This was not the case. It seemed the deep affection between the sisters only grew upon the birth of Yellow Tuvia. Dvora’s heart, wondrously, contained room enough for both children, and no one was more delighted than Bina when she was asked to stir the child’s porridge or fold his cloth diapers.

In those days, Bina began suffering from terrible pain. The family doctor and two experts who followed uttered the word celiac and provided a special menu that Bina would be forced to follow for the rest of her life. In a way, the family was relieved, having foreseen a much worse disaster. An illness solved by a healthy diet seemed simple at first. “Ce-li-ac,” Tzippi Zinman rolled the consonants on her tongue with something close to pleasure—here was a respectable disease with a scientific name, garnering compassion, not pity. She made sure to wave the explicit name in public, while rarely considering the excruciating everyday burden it entailed for those who lived with Bina. Hinde, the elderly mother, bent with hard work and sorrow, could not withstand the new challenge. Once more, Dvora reported for duty with devotion. She participated in family meetings and examined the possibilities. She found an agency in London that exported small bags of special flour and learned how to make all kinds of pastries whose preparation took long hours (and which, to be frank, mostly had quite a sticky and repulsive texture). Each meal now entailed three or four pots. Since the patient herself could not fathom the sudden decrees, she often broke the doctor’s rules. Being a glutton by nature, she couldn’t resist the sight of a freshly baked pretzel slung over a wooden stick or a cinnamon roll just out of the oven. It didn’t take long for the pain to arrive—sometimes it took two hours and other times it took twenty-four—but when it was accompanied by that watery discharge, the patient was left exhausted. The crying and the screaming tore Dvora’s heart. When the crisis was over, Bina made solemn oaths and promises she couldn’t keep. Though she was already an adolescent, her childhood lingered on, as we know, forever, and she seemed never truly to perceive the relation between cause and illness. Therefore, she required constant care, and Dvora was forced to spend longer hours in the apartment above the perfumery. When Shraga was fired, there was no more point to, or means for, keeping two households. Shortly before Hinde’s death, the Saltzmans moved into her home, and after she passed away they were appointed as the official trustees of her inheritance.

And so, from that time on, for thirteen years, Dvora never spent more than two days in a row away from her younger sister.

D.

“Duvia, Duvia, can you break a hundred?” Sara Consignment called over to Fat Tuvia, waving a bill over the heads of customers threatening to bring down her stall.

“Don’t give it to her,” Nachliel Zarfaty muttered hatefully from the nearby stall. He hadn’t sold one item that morning; a wandering customer stopped by here and there, touched the merchandise a little, and continued over to the competition’s stall.

“Don’t take it to heart,” Dvora consoled him. “People will buy from you too, just wait. It’s only 10:30. What’s going on in Jerusalem?”

A few days earlier, a Palestinian passenger had attacked a bus driver on the way from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, took hold of the wheel, and drove the bus into the abyss. A few terrified passengers fell out when the bus went down. Others were trapped in the flames. The bus finally stopped in a thorn field that caught fire. Many were killed—innocent people, including two Canadian tourists, a newly arrived immigrant, a little girl. The entire country had been roiling since. A group of bullies, reinforced by a divine decree, took the chance to pour oil onto the flame. They went wild during one of the funerals and stoned the cars of Arab residents in Jerusalem. People were stabbed in Yavne, shot in Gaza; death beat down arbitrarily in all directions. Nachliel Zarfaty, who, deep inside, was embarrassed to be selling in times like these, self-righteously placed a small radio at the corner of his table, listened to reports and updated the others on new developments once in a while.

“Turn it down a little,” Fat Tuvia suggested. “It’s depressing the clients.” He himself wore his famous umbrella hat, a trick he had come up with to draw the attention of vacationers.

Sara Burko, who had despaired with waving, walked over briskly. “Duvia, honey, didn’t you hear my yelling? Maybe you can break a hundred?”

“Let’s see,” Tuvia said leisurely, pulling out some wrinkled bills and glancing over at Zarfaty. “Twenty, thirty, fifty . . . no. Sorry.”

“Nachliel, do me a favor,” the peddler begged. “I’m about to lose the client.”

“Hmm!” Zarfaty huffed. Here was his chance to teach that crook a lesson. She had no shame or solidarity, and while the entire country was burning—the radio just mentioned a coalition crisis!—she had only one thing on her mind. Beneath his black curls, hard words ran amok: how would he begin? How would he scold her? How could one even express such discontent? It was hard to choose. On the other hand, was it his place? What if she talked back? What if a fight ensued, just when customers arrived? It was best to save his rebuke for a more appropriate time, as he pulled a stack of twenties from his pocket.

The work of the righteous is done by others: the loudspeakers announced that the bingo game would take place in fifteen minutes, and many of the women, seduced by the new bait, deserted Sara Consignment’s stall one by one. Those who remained scattered among the other stalls, and even Zarfaty finally had some work. A few barefoot, wet kids, Popsicles in hand and diving goggles around their necks, were attracted to Tuvia’s whimsical hat. Since they came over, he convinced them to buy surfing pants and even granted them a “youth discount.”

“We’re finally having some fun,” he said, patting his pocket. Dvora smiled distractedly; her mind was on Bina, who sat, limp and staring by the stall, her fat legs spread in heart-wrenching crookedness, her mouth open. She gathered her hair into a short ponytail on account of the heat, and Dvora suddenly noticed a few white hairs glistening in the sun.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?” Dvora sighed and pulled out the Styrofoam water cooler. It was all Shraga’s fault. He forgot to lock the bread drawer before they left the house the other night. She wasn’t too happy to leave Bina unattended in the first place, but he convinced her—it wasn’t like they were going out of town, they were only popping over to watch some slides at Tzippi and Yosef’s, five minutes away. Bina, who knew all the relatives’ phone numbers by heart, could be trusted. Bina did call, of course; crying, scared, crazed with pain after gorging on all the treasures of the drawer—toasted crackers, a sesame roll, a bag of Bissli, everything she was strictly forbidden to eat. From the moment Dvora was called over to the phone nook, things took their usual course—the run home, the regret, the remorse, the urge to compensate, to console, to distract from the suffering with some sparkling treat. And so, with an insouciance that would later be interpreted as gross irresponsibility, Dvora found herself sitting on Bina’s bed, telling her about Seefeld. The exhausted Bina covered herself in a light comforter, rested her head in her sister’s lap, and listened. As she smoothed her hair, the cosmetician described everything she remembered from the slide show: the snowy peaks, the steeples of King Ludwig’s castle, the carriage drawn by a decorated horse. Without noticing, the Bubingers, the innkeepers (whom she’d never seen), also made their way into her stories, jolly and wearing feathered caps; behind them wobbled a small dachshund. As she exaggerated in her tales, a fear rose in her—a vague, yet certain, sense of imminent regret—but still she couldn’t stop the flow of words. And Bina? Bina, who had never been out of the country—certainly not with all her relatives—drank up every last drop. The tormented face softened, the eyes twinkled behind tear-stained lids. She wanted to hear more and more about Seefeld and would not relax until her sister promised to bring her a brochure with photographs. Eventually, exhaustion won over her aching body.

After she turned out the lights and wiped away a tear, Dvora went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and announced defiantly to Shraga that on the following Monday she would be taking Bina to the water park with her. Her husband, who could not tell where this spitefulness had come from, shrugged with wonder and said if she felt like it, who was he to stop her.

“You have to drink lots of water in summer,” Bina proclaimed. “Tuvia, you have some water, too.”

“Thank you,” Tuvia said and took a sip, though he wasn’t thirsty.

“Turn up the radio,” Bina said. “The prime minister is speaking!” She’d always felt a personal affinity to the nation’s leaders.

“Nachliel, do me a favor, lend me your radio for a few minutes,” Fat Tuvia said. Zarfaty, who’d been sneaking looks of curiosity mixed with fear at Bina, obliged at once.

“There you goooo!” he said with the overeager cheerfulness of a schoolteacher.

Bina, who finally found a source of entertainment, put her ear to the device and listened with a worried face. Zarfaty, anxious about the fate of the radio, moved his plastic chair closer to the family’s stall. The radio cackled some tune, a few flies buzzed around, the other merchants leisurely arranged the goods for the next wave of customers. Dvora pulled out a plastic container filled with large, warm, sweet grapes and offered them around.

“The prime minister is taking care of our country,” said Bina.

“So they say,” Zarfaty confirmed.

“Are you selling those shirts over there?” Bina asked. “They’re so pretty.”

“Thank you very much,” said Zarfaty.

“They’re going to buy me a Popsicle later,” she said. “Oh, look, look—a clown!”

Indeed, our old acquaintance, the very same tall-statured clown, appeared behind Dvora, a duffle bag printed with colorful circles slung over his shoulder. When he removed his powder-blue beret with the wooly pom-pom at the top, everybody could suddenly see that the guy was balding. Fat Tuvia poured him a glass of cold water, and the clown pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat that ran down his neck in two wet streams. Since he viewed Tuvia as his ally, he voiced his bitter complaints to him. He was dying to go home and peel off that terrible satin suit that kept clinging to his balls, he ranted, and next week he had a makeup exam, and of course he hadn’t had a chance to study yet, but he was sentenced to wait until the end of bingo, he sighed, because he’d been ordered to go up on stage at the beginning of the fashion show, just for laughs, and walk among the models.

“How did ticket sales go?” Dvora asked.

“Very well,” the clown answered.

“How much do they go for?” Dvora wanted to know. The clown said he sold one for five and three for ten. “Are there any left?” she asked.

“Of course, of course.” He was about to go off on a last round of sales, he had orders from the boss to milk the audience for all it’s worth.

Ten shekels, she thought; Bina would definitely enjoy it. If she was lucky, she’d win something, and if she didn’t, Dvora could always console her with a piece of candy or a colorful plastic visor, anything to get her away from the stall, so she didn’t disrupt sales; still, people were watching. Fat Tuvia would be fine on his own.

“Give me three.” She pulled a bill from her purse and stood up. “Come on, Binchi, let’s go play bingo.”

E.

“Ladieeees and gentlemeeeen, employee committee members and all the wonderful families, welcome to this groovy day of fun fun fun and one big blast! Last chance to get your tickets, ladieeees and gentlemeeeen, the price is low and morale is high! Hey, you snob, have you gotten your bingo ticket yet?? In exactly one minute, yes, just one more minute, our bingo game will begin and the prrrrrizes are out of this worrrrrld: an elegant travel bag for domestic and international travel! A folding picnic set—a table and four chairs! And the grand prize—a BMX bike for kids! And many more prizes are waiting for you today, just come and get them!”

Our friend Albert Ben Arroya was on stage, wearing his old and peeling leather photographer’s vest. His throat—sore; his forehead—scorched and sweaty; his eyes—bobbling from here to there, assessing, calculating. The lawn at his feet was swarming with people, but it was not enough for him. “Our charming clown is walking among you,” he announced again and again, “and anyone who doesn’t have a ticket yet—now’s the time! One ticket for five shekels, three for ten. Three for ten, dear audience, now’s the time, the time is now! Who doesn’t have tickets yet, who doesn’t have tickets yet, what a terrific game we’re about to have, don’t miss out . . . here we go!”

“Here we go!” Bina chirped. Her excitement knew no boundaries.

“And the first number, the first number is twenty-three! I repeat, twenty-three. What a beautiful number, twenty-thrrrrrree! Ladieeees and gentlemeeeen, our machine operates, as you can see, with no human intervention. No forgeries, no cheating, only luck counts—seventeen!!! Seventeen, seventeen, seventeeeeen!!! At this point, please be advised, we’re going for a vertical row. The first one to complete a row—not horizontal, vertical—and yell ‘bingo’ will get a gorgeous prize from me, on the spot. What a day, what a day, this is insanity. The next number: tennnn! What a perfect number, ten! Sir, very nice of you to take your mother-in-law for a fun day at the park, you’re a saint. Oh, that isn’t your mother-in-law, it’s your wife? My condolences. Four, the next number is fourrrr!”

“I’ve got four!” Bina cheered. “Look, Dvora, four!”

“Good, poke a hole in it.”

“Thirty-six, ladieeees and gentlemeeeen, what a great day we’ve got ahead of us, a bathing suit fashion show with the biggest models in the country—Natalie Pepper, Miss Universe Runner-Up, the hot new talent Gali Habousha, and many more surprises. You’re drooling already, huh? There’s reason to live, gentlemennn, there’s definitely reason to live! Let’s see what the machine tells us—we’ll just get the ball out of there, and . . . forty-sixxxxx!”

“And the next number—sixty-three!”

“Bingo!!!” a shout rose from the crowd. “I can’t believe it! Bingo!”

Amplifiers sounded the opening notes of a famous radio sports show. The sea of people parted and the winner, a matron of about sixty, wearing a floral bathing suit and a turban headdress, passed through. When she reached the stairs that led up to the stage, she stumbled and fell on her face. Her gigantic buttocks stuck up in the air, to the joy of the other vacationers.

“What’s your name, kiddo?” Albert Ben Arroya asked, sending a chivalrous arm to her aid.

“Rina Babayof,” the winner answered with a gummy grin as she climbed onto the stage.

“You got something stuck to you back there.” Pretending to worry about her well-being, he slapped her behind. “Oh, sorry, it’s attached.”

“I want that floor fan,” Mrs. Babayof announced, placing her hands on her hips.

“You want, you want. Herzl wanted a country, and look what happened there,” he chuckled. “Take a pair of beach paddles and go in peace.”

“I don’t want beach paddles,” Mrs. Babayof insisted, inspiring bursts of laughter from the audience. “What do I need beach paddles for? Come on, give me that fan.”

“Life isn’t a request show,” Ben Arroya scolded her. “But I’m willing to meet you halfway. Mrs. Babayof, may I call you Rina? Rina—is your husband here?”

“Sure,” she confirmed. “His name is Nissim Babayof, he’s over there, by the tree.”

“Buddy!” Albert Ben Arroya screamed. The wattle below his chin reddened more deeply. “Come here, Mister Nissim, come help your wife get a floor fan out of me.”

The audience soon had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mr. Babayof, a middle-aged man sporting a giant paunch ornamented with gray fuzz, above which rested slightly swollen man breasts. These qualities, in addition to his squinted eyes and the look of satisfaction on his face, gave him the appearance of a bathing Buddha.

“What a gentleman, what a gentleman!” Albert praised him. The host had a special gift: the more he carried on with compliments and honorary titles, the more humiliated his conversation partner felt. When he said, “with all due respect,” a freezing chill of contempt blew between his lips; when he said, “sir,” you heard “stupid”; and when he wanted to strike with all his might he’d treat his recipient with a “doctor,” or, worse yet, “professor.” After he demonstrated uninterested interest in his guest’s life story—it turned out Nissim was a union member from Rehovot whose second granddaughter had recently been born—he pulled slim-fitting cotton pants from a box that was set up on stage and ordered Nissim to put them on. Mr. Babayof embarked on a strange dance—bending, breathing, straightening, and hopping until he succeeded, with effort, to wrap the piece of clothing around his rolls of fat (though he skipped the last button).

“How many children did you say you have?”

“A son who’s an officer in the army and two daughters,” Babayof answered importantly.

“Very good.” Ben Arroya wrinkled his potholed face with a loathsome smile. “Because the way you just squished your Jozelito, I’m not sure you’ll make ziggi-ziggi ever again.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Bina, who asked Dvora with a whisper, “Why did he say that?”

“Tell me something, Rina—are you good with your hands?” Ben Arroya asked.

“My wife is very talented with her hands,” Babayof answered too quickly and regretted it immediately, since Ben Arroya, only waiting for the opportunity to pounce on his prey, twisted his face, winked and gestured until he finally managed to raise bellowing laughter from the audience.

“What a fool, my God! I thought I was in Shfayim, but I guess I’m at the zoo. Rina, now listen to me. I’m giving you a needle and some thread, and this patch. You have two minutes, Rina, two minutes, to sew this patch onto Nissim’s butt. If you can do it, you get to take that floor fan home. If not, you’ll have to make do with the paddles. Capisce?” He moved a ratty curtain and revealed a large hourglass hanging from scaffolding. “Don’t think twice—pay the price!” he screamed. “Ready, set, go!”

The host (who was a classical music enthusiast) liked to accompany the patch game with Flight of the Bumblebee—a piece of music to which he attributed great psychological effect. And indeed, the contestant kneeled down and began patching vigorously. Though he tried to contain himself, Union Member Babayof couldn’t control his natural urges. He quickly began jumping and prancing around. His small nipples swayed this way and that as his wife soldiered on with a drawn needle, reproaching him to the pleasure of the viewers. Albert Ben Arroya made all kinds of bizarre exclamations into the microphone, such as “Lam-ba-da!” or “chaka-chaka-chaka!” which rallied the crowd, though no one understood their meaning. The audience went wild. This time Bina laughed, a laugh of pure, sweet, light-as-afeather pleasure, as if she had unzipped herself and stepped out of the ungainly suit of her body. Even Dvora, who had always stayed away from party games, was intoxicated by the gaiety that overtook her sister and found herself tearing with laughter.

Suddenly, a loud buzzer sounded.

“Time’s up!”

The Babayofs, only human, after all, stood at the front of the stage and took a bow.

“Let’s hear it for Rina and Nissim!” called Albert Ben Arroya, pushing himself between the two, holding their hands and lifting them into the air victoriously. “You were cool, no doubt about it. Here’s your prize, enjoy. We give—you get. You’ll settle the score between the two of you at home.”

Rina Babayof, beaming like a bride, hugged the fan with one hand and waved to the audience with the other. As she walked off stage, a gathering formed; her friends—and other curious bystanders—wanted to congratulate her, to touch her winnings, to reminisce about what had just happened. Nissim Babayof even pulled down his bathing suit a bit and presented them with a piece of skin dotted like a sieve. But their moments of fame were not prolonged. By the time Ben Arroya returned to his bingo machine, the happy winners were already lost in the crowd from which they had hailed invisible.

One by one, prizes were handed out, to Dvora’s discontent. She wanted so badly for Bina to win something, and was so worried that she might not, that she pulled one of the tickets from her hand (with unnecessary aggressiveness, one might add), the one that had been mostly poked through, in order to play it for her. But Bina got angry and Dvora had to let go, muttering words of reproach she immediately regretted. At any rate, the game ended without them winning a thing. Surprisingly, Bina was not saddened a bit. She smoothed out her three tickets, placed her precious mementos in the fanny pack tied like a belt around her waist, and said, “Now a Popsicle.” The two women linked arms and walked to the snack bar. Dvora, who still wanted to compensate Bina for the disappointment that never was, promised to buy her a cap with the logo of the waterpark as well. As they made their way through the masses, they recalled Albert Ben Arroya’s shenanigans and giggled. Then they took their time near the wave pool, watching bathers. Over the tumult, they heard some familiar tunes, and Bina broke into song. “Every day is a holiday, a holiday every day, every day is a holiday—”

“Hallelujah!” Dvora joined in.

F.

“You Buy—You’re Happy!” announces a sign outside one of the stores on Sheinkin Street. This statement, unfortunately, has nothing to do with the clothing business, since there is never a garment purchase that is not accompanied by heartache. Let us pull the curtain aside and emerge from the dressing room wearing a piece of clothing we are considering buying. A familiar, even beloved, creature looks at us from the mirror. But, being mummified in the new outfit, something strange, hypnotizing, even terrifying comes over this creature. The person in the mirror is an ambassador of a kingdom to which we are led against our will—it is not we ourselves who are reflected in this vision, but the people we might become. We are facing the future, the pattern that would fit the changes to our age and stature: a softer cut, a moderate shade. That very moment, we are plagued by the sorrow of parting from our old garment, which is tightly knit into our very being; with it, we also shed the days we spent inside of it. This was the shirt we wore on that wonderful spring outing with our loved one! And in these very pants we spent that one New Year’s Eve, when we were crowned the life of the party! That same outfit we wrapped around ourselves with vanity, with conceit, with thoughtless comfort, is now tossed into the corner of the dressing room like a broken shell, wretched, faded from washing. The character that has just stepped out of the room is partially who it was in the past and partially who it is to become, but it has no being of its own—just a gust of steam painted on the glass, evaporating in a flash.

Sara Consignment’s success stemmed from her wondrous ability to capture that slippery “now,” born and departed almost in the same instant. This alchemist was able to convince her customers that they could burn the candle of time at both ends—the decisiveness, the heatedness, the foreign accent and the flow of European words, all positioned her as the ultimate authority, beyond boundaries of place and time. Her unique position allowed her to observe the fashion world from a certain distance and determine the true nature of changing moods. This, for example, was how she was able to foresee the unprecedented success that shoulder pads would enjoy at that time, and the massive impression that intentionally mangled jeans with lace peeking out of their holes would make in the following winter season. One should not conclude that each passing trend won her approval—on the contrary; she knew intuitively to ignore the incidental and adhere the contemporary. It’s hard to say what principle guided her in assembling her goods, a mélange of garments and accessories she called “the collection.” The labels could bear celebrated names, or sometimes a completely anonymous logo. One thing that must be said in her favor was that Sara Burko paid attention to details, large and small, and never placed low-quality clothing on her hangers. The items in “the collection” excited the heart and succeeded in hiding the wearer’s shortcomings, and her customers showed their gratitude with cash. She herself dressed in a manner that was neither fashionable nor unfashionable, and hadn’t bothered to change her hairstyle in over a decade; thus, she removed herself even farther from customary behavior. The mane of red curls partially concealing her dark eyes, the owlish nose, the average figure—all these did nothing to attest to her greatness.

“Duvia, your hat is a hit,” Sara Consignment said. The bingo game dragged on and the heat-stricken merchants, welcoming the time of rest decreed upon them, gathered near the Paloma Bianca stall and enjoyed the shade of the poinciana tree and the light breeze blowing among its branches.

“These days, gimmicks are customary,” Nachliel Zarfaty said, adding a scientific air to Sara Consignment’s diagnosis. “Humor catches the customers’ attention and relaxes them.”

“So did it help you catch clients today?” she asked.

“It got what it got,” Tuvia blurted with the same retail indifference he had observed and revered in his father. “Take it from me, I’m not worried—those who didn’t buy earlier will buy later. No pressure. The customer is like a carp—you have to let it swim around a little before you hit it over the head.”

“The clientele has been very problematic so far,” Sara Burko sighed. “The entire collection is still hanging on my stand. Everyone wants special consideration. If I were a private firm—all right, but everything I have is by consignment. I have to give 50–60 percent of every sale to the manufacturer!”

“Pfff.” Nachliel Zarfaty poked Tuvia in the ribs. “She doesn’t pay more than 30 percent, or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

“They say today all the visitors are families of Dan Bus Company members,” she continued. “They should be ashamed of themselves: they make a bundle but they don’t spend a shekel, on principle. Wait and see how I’ll shove it down their throats after the fashion show, straight down their throats, no shame. How is it going for you?”

“Lousy,” Zarfaty lamented. “Everybody’s looking for a bargain. There was a woman here earlier, she tried on a tunic made of Cool Wool—I don’t have to explain it to you: made in Italy, the color won’t come off even after a thousand washes. I sell it for 120, but for the siftach, like the kids say, I agreed to give it to her for 95 . . .”

“A freebee! A freebee!” Sara Consignment railed. “At this rate you’ll go bank-robbed!”

“And she tells me—60 or I’ll walk away. What could I have done, I ask you.”

“Uneggceptable!” She shook her head. “Who are we trying so hard for? These degenerates? If people want cheap they should go to Nachalat Binyamin, they’ll get what they deserve. What do you think, that I did any better? The meshuggaas made a phenomenal mess and hardly bought a thing. Maybe, maybe, I got 140 shekels so far.”

“Scoundrels,” Zarfaty hissed. Suffice it to say, he didn’t believe a word she said, just as she didn’t believe a word out of his mouth, but when there is time to be passed, it is nice to gather under the shadowy roof of complaint. The truth was, they had each managed to accumulate nice bundles of money, but Tuvia Zinman’s presence fanned the flames: both wanted a discount in rental fees from his mother and were trying to create popular public opinion for their issues. Sara Burko schemed to drag Papa Frumkin into the cause, and perhaps even the bedding and towel merchant—but the attention of those two was now fully devoted to the stage, where, to the audience’s glee, a plump lady was chasing her husband with a gigantic needle in hand. For now, the merchant sat near Zarfaty’s stall (a spot from which she could easily watch over her goods), fished a cheese sandwich from her bag, and peeled an egg that smelled particularly sulfurous. The little man, who was being beckoned by the call of nature, asked her to keep an eye on his stall for a few moments and went off. As she devoured her meal with small, mousy bites, a myriad of words ran around inside her brain, ideas and crumbs of ideas she had not had the chance to put into words that morning. Some of them she planned to voice as comments to Tuvia, but being of developed musical sensibilities, she debated the appropriate tone: should she open with a melancholic commercial requiem, or rather go for a direct attack, accompanied by doomsday trumpets? But by the time she had her instruments in tune, Tuvia’s mind was already on something else—the same matter that had been pecking at his soul for the past week, sending strange chills through his body.

“Hey, how are you?”

The blond curls had been pulled back and held with a band at the back of her neck. The round forehead was exposed in all its glory, the lips full of sweetness as she smiled. One could not help but sneak a peek at the pretty breasts, contained in a black bikini top, at the freckle-dotted shoulders or the curvy hips bursting out of shorts that had been cut by an amateur hand. Around her eyes were small wrinkles, uncommon for someone so young. They contained a very special gaze, assertive yet alert and restless.

“Terrific,” Fat Tuvia said. “You?”

“Nothing. You know, the usual. Your hat is cool.”

In spite of the compliment, he suddenly felt embarrassed about the umbrella atop his head, and took it off at once.

“Are you alone today?”

“No, my partner is here too, but she’s walking around, probably went to the snack bar.”

“I thought she was your mother.”

“No, she’s my aunt. My mother is Tzippi Zinman, who runs the fashion show and the stalls.”

“So,” Maya said, “you’re stuck here until your aunt gets back?”

She shot her questions like small boats headed toward an iceberg, but Tuvia allowed them to drop anchor safely at his feet. “That’s the job,” he said and shrugged.

“What a bummer, standing like this in the heat all day—don’t you feel like going in the water?”

“I don’t mind it.” (This was the truth, but also a lie; in all his days spent at the water park it had never even occurred to him, but now that she had spoken those words, he wanted to answer differently.)

“You don’t come here every day, do you?”

“No, only on days when there’s a closed event. That’s our contract. Why, are you here every day?”

In fact, she was born in Shfayim; not just she, but her mother, too. Her father, she added (a cloud passed over her pretty face) had been living in a kibbutz down south with his second wife for years. She herself lived in a studio apartment allocated to her in what was called “immigrant housing” and was meant for single kibbutz members. It was a temporary arrangement, just until she went to South America, and since she had not yet accumulated enough travel points from the kibbutz, she worked as a lifeguard at the water park in the meantime. Her words annoyed Fat Tuvia. He roiled over all those kibbutzniks who simply got up and went to the jungles, and he felt like telling her that he was planning a trip, too—to Seefeld, no less!—but he doubted that the peaceful Tyrolean town could put up a fight against Rio de Janeiro or the temples of Machu Picchu.

“Is it hard work?” he asked.

“Beats bean picking. I had to take a course, but it was really easy—a little first aid, mouth-to-mouth, that kind of stuff. For real, I didn’t get to save anyone yet. It isn’t always so crowded like today—most of the time I just hang out. What about you? Where do you live?”

“Tel Aviv.”

“He’s hip! He’s hip!” Sara Consignment called from her corner, eavesdropping and considering it her duty to improve Tuvia’s stance with the young lady.

“Is she your aunt too?” Maya asked.

Tuvia Zinman was appalled to his core. “That’s all I need. She’s just some Romanian who sells here and likes to butt in. A real headache.”

A shrill beep sounded, growing louder and immediately dying down. Afterwards an announcement was repeated several times through the amplifiers, that in five minutes the wave pool would be starting up.

“Damn, I have to go. Hey, when are you working again this week?”

“Tomorrow and Wednesday, then on Sunday again, at the police union event.”

“I can let you in for night swimming if you feel like it. I’m off duty on Thursday and I was going to come just for fun. It’s completely different here at night. There’ll probably be tons of cool kids here, they might even make burgers. You should come—I’ll wait for you by the gate at 9:30. Bye.”

A racket came from the stage: bingo was over. The grand prize, a state-of-the-art bicycle, was won by the son of one of the ticket sellers, a skinny kid of about fifteen, his face covered in pimples, who shook Albert Ben Arroya’s hand with immense excitement. The disappointed ones who had not won turned to seek consolation. The moment our heroes had been waiting for ever since that morning had finally arrived. Sara Consignment returned to her stall to lurk for prey. The towel merchant spread out some tropical models. Mama Frumkin pushed her table a little forward, and Fat Tuvia cleared the cups and put his umbrella cap back on.

G.

In truth, Tzippi cannot be blamed for what happened next. Many occurrences have reason, it seems, but they do not always have a plan behind them. Her intention, without a doubt, was to be helpful and thoughtful—granted, an area she had never excelled in, but had she not suggested what she did, that shameful comedy would never have been staged—a vision that pleased anyone who watched it, just as it had the one who participated in it, but ripped Dvora’s heart to shreds. Some would say she was justified in her anger at her sister, who tended to scatter big promises without a thought to consequence. But this was neither negligence nor hypocrisy; in spite of the tendency—attributed to her in the family—to shirk responsibility, Tzippi Zinman respected the principles of morality no less than others. The promises she made stemmed from a deep, noble place: the fact that no actual deed could awaken in her soul the same kind of excitement generated by the mere announcement of her intentions.

Some years earlier, Dvora had been hospitalized due to a small lump in her stomach. She underwent a successful operation, but for ten days the doctors were unable to establish an unequivocal diagnosis. The worst was discussed behind the patient’s back, yet she herself unknowingly acquired a bitter smile of acceptance. In one of those days of limbo, Tzippi came to visit. She took her sister for some fresh air in the garden outside of the main building, where they sat and talked, as people are wont to do on such occasions, about all sorts of intimate matters. After she herself devoured all the bourekas she had brought (she had forgotten about the diet undertaken by those healing from surgery), the visitor took the patient’s hands in hers and swore on all that was dear to her that if her sister “came out of it,” she herself would quit smoking. Dvora acknowledged the significance of the moment, since not once in her twenty-eight years of smoking had her sister made any such declaration. The vow was made with the appropriate solemnity; tears were shed and the two emotional sisters embraced warmly. Dvora had indeed “come out of it,” as became clear within a few days, while Tzippi made do with that touching moment, which indeed held more awe than any act in the real world, and continued smoking as usual. Dvora was not angry; she understood, but once again had to sadly recognize her sister’s frivolous nature.

Even in her youth, when the scale of hardship that life had in store for the Shlossman family was revealed, Tzippi refused to be bridled to the family wagon. Through the years, whenever she felt she might have gilded the lily, or when she was simply in the mood, she would help bear the burden for a short while. Usually her contribution did not extend beyond all sorts of flashy gestures, making an impression while not leaving a mark, but she thought it was enough to grant her temporary amnesty. Since she had never persevered in her efforts, she could never accurately evaluate the weight of the burden. Over the years, her relatives had not always bothered to inform her whenever they had to add another crate to their load; some boxes she had never peeked into, some packages she did not feel like opening. The weight fell, almost entirely, on Dvora. With time, Tzippi Zinman got used to seeing it as a sort of dusty luggage bearing the words: “Dvora’s responsibility.” Her own endeavors were always newer, more exciting and urgent, and therefore more important. In order to fight off criticism, she made a name for herself as one who never has enough time. She found myriad reasons to absolve what was in truth no more than pure selfishness. She avoided arguing with Dvora about anything that had to do with their little sister. In the company of strangers she would put on an act of modesty and say she had no right to intervene, and in private she would whisper to her husband: good riddance. In her mind, she imposed more and more duties upon her sister, all of which seemed appropriate due to her sister being, in her opinion, the successful daughter—or, at the very least, the one favored by their late mother. In her youth, Tzippi did all that was in her power in order to evade the reign of that tyrant, but her heart was still filled with yearning whenever she visited the family business. At Hinde’s Perfumery, and especially at the atelier in the back of the store, where the eldest daughter and her mother concocted all sorts of potions, a peaceful professional life carried on, a camaraderie in which she had no part. Though legally the perfumery could not be inherited by any other than Dvora, who was a partner in the business and a key-money resident in her own right, Tzippi saw herself as having been shortchanged.

This perception was emphasized by another affair, which was also discussed only behind Dvora’s back. In the fall of 1974, after a tombstone was set on Hinde Shlossman’s grave, Tzippi and Avrum hurried to sell to the Saltzmans their share of the apartment the deceased had left behind. The purchasing terms were extremely convenient, as we have mentioned before, and not necessarily undertaken out of pure generosity. Dvora, who viewed herself as entitled to this privilege, received the terms silently. With the years, the considerations and the mood that had led at the time to the transaction were forgotten, and their place was taken, on both sides of the family, by pedantic, greedy accounting. The Saltzmans, the failing cosmeticians of Judah the Maccabee Street, complained about their wealthy relatives who contributed nothing to Bina’s upkeep, while in the Zinman household, Tzippi’s views took hold: she had been forced to sell her rights to her mother’s apartment at a ridiculous price. Eventually, all those involved saw themselves as victims.

However, it would be wrong to say that Tzippi was coldhearted or indifferent to the hardships of others. And as evidence, that day, as she saw her sisters returning from their tour of the water park, she walked out to greet them of her own volition and offered to keep an eye on Bina for a while and even to take her for a visit backstage. Bina was very happy, and Dvora was relieved. Rush hour was nearing, and now she would be able to devote herself wholeheartedly to the stall. She made Bina swear to obey Tzippi and not to interrupt, stuffed a fifty shekel bill into her pocket just in case, and sent her on her way with a kiss, never suspecting even a hint of what was to happen twenty minutes later, or perhaps less.

H.

The stage to which Tzippi and Bina now turned was no bigger than a large hut, made up of rusting iron pipes and sheets stretched between them. From the stage, a wooden dock stretched over stilts, serving as a catwalk. Since no one bothered to build side walls that would close the space below this dock, children crawled underneath it, peeking up through the cracks. A red curtain served as a back wall; beyond it, models emerged; behind it they were swallowed, their faces revealing none of the desperation they felt about the rude audience, the miserable outfits, the humiliating conditions. Occasionally one of them twisted an ankle on the rickety staircase leading backstage—a sort of corral roofed with a sheet of blue raffia, soaking the room with darkness. Two creaking fans stood about like storks, blowing the air around, but the feeling of suffocation still lingered, because all openings were sealed as tightly as possible as protection against curious parties. A large mirror with silver paint peeling around its corners, two or three plastic chairs, a folding table and a nickel clothing rack covered in hangers gave this ruin the title “dressing room.”

In Bina’s eyes, there was no end to the splendor. She sat at the table as Tzippi had ordered her to, thirstily examining the many treasures: powder puffs, eye-shadow brushes, colorful bathing suits, jackets embroidered with countless tiny silver sequins, and of course the wonderful wedding dress, carefully wrapped in plastic and saved as a surprise for the finale. But all of these were belittled by the presence of Natalie Pepper; Bina had never met a real beauty queen before! She could barely stop herself from standing up and putting her hands on the woman’s golden French braid. We know the constant suffering of Bina’s body, but on the outskirts of her soul, ignorant of the circumstances of her fate, that dreamy brook, the water of which we all drank from in our childhoods, still babbled. Its flow was irregular and weakened by calamities, but now its bounty was brimming. In her imagination, she pictured herself walking down Judah the Maccabee Street with Natalie Pepper like a couple of princesses. She imagined them buying shiny Indian velvet skirts like the ones she had recently seen in one of the store windows, and later sitting at Café Alexander with all the important people, eating chocolate mousse and banana cake, or better yet—ice cream. When they finished, they would go upstairs to watch TV, and who knows? Natalie might even let her try on her patent-leather shoes, and in return Bina would teach her how to make paper swans. A bottle of sweet juice was placed on the dressing room table and Bina poured herself a cup. Suddenly Natalie Pepper addressed her, asking her to turn the fan in her direction. Poor Bina turned completely red and, with a shy smile, hurried to fulfil the model’s wish.

In the meantime, Tzippi returned with her hands full from a round at the stalls. She gathered the models, divided the items between them, and explained the breakdown of the show. Some twisted their faces at the sight of Mandy Line’s cheap shirts and surfing pants, but the agent fearlessly subdued their uprising and demonstrated how, by tying the ends of the shirt above the belly button, “like in Mediterranean beach clubs,” even these rags could look fetching. Albert Ben Arroya’s head appeared from behind the curtain to rush Tzippi and sneak a peek at the half-naked girls. Normally, the models would raise a riot, but now, with the increasing bustle, they did not even notice him. They all lined up in front of the mirror for a final look-over. Lipsticks were cocked for adjustments, pantyhose were stretched. The moment was approaching—not the moment they were waiting for per se, but who could have known that?

I.

First applause resounded around the stage: five models emerged wearing Paloma Bianca summery viscose dresses. Hundreds of excited viewers gathered around the wooden dock. The vacationers that were pushed to the edge of the crowd had despaired of the possibility of seeing anything and walked off to the stalls. Some bought, some accompanied shoppers as consultants, others just posed a bother, and others still decided to forego the principle of payment for goods—Tuvia caught one fat kid with the wisps of a mustache pulling a shirt out of the pile, and grabbed him by the ear. After he kicked him away, Tuvia stood behind the stall with his umbrella cap on and tossed about loud exclamations. Dvora, who shied away from any loud and flashy displays, was in charge of the cash register. They paid their respects to the law through the use of a green iron box that rested prominently on the table, and a wide-open receipt book. Each piece of income had its own destiny, and a quick look between the partners was enough to determine the fate of each payment. When a suspicious character appeared at the stall, Dvora raised her pen and scribbled a quick receipt. If the buyer was some bespectacled high schooler, Tuvia lazily stuffed the money into his ever-filling pocket.

In spite of all the concerns and lamentations we had been privy to that morning, the shoppers overtook the stalls. Nachliel Zarfaty, the Frumkins, the towel salesmen—cash flew through all their hands. The models strutted on the catwalk, and at the foot of the stage people sold and bought, bought and sold. Estee Creations got rid of twenty-four pairs of feathered earrings. “It seems like small business, but why mock it, it’s another shekel in your pocket,” Tuvia said. They could not catch their breath; by the time they refolded and rearranged the clothes, another wave of customers arrived to ruffle the goods. The stacks grew thin, the surfing pants with the palm tree prints ran out. The sales awoke an excitement in Dvora; she took pleasure in the vitality of her own movements, in the wordless coordination between her and Tuvia, in the wealth accruing in the legal register and in the secret bundle, in short—in the bright face of success. “Please welcome Gali Habousha, Tami Ben Ami’s hot new successor, in the beach-girl look of the summer of ’89!” she heard the words spilling out of Albert Ben Arroya’s mouth. “Sexy, sexy, sexy! What a celebration with Mandy Line’s surfing pants, a young look for him and her, yesterday in L.A., today in Shfayim, special prices for Dan union members!” In the heat of commerce she even started believing the lies the host was disseminating, regarding the innovative sewing, the breathable cotton, and the hot young designer named Mandy. The area around the stall grew more and more crowded. Young boys and heavyset mothers were joined by dozens of eager women demanding “outfits” like the ones they saw up on stage. Who could understand the crowd—one day the stall was as dead as a cemetery, the next it was too busy to breathe. Papa Frumkin, who was proficient in the mysteries of the consumer’s soul and knew one had to strike while the iron was hot, sent his old lady over to Dvora’s with plastic visors offered for a special price; those quickly sold out too. Fat Tuvia ran out to get one last bag of goods he had kept in the car just in case. As the number of items dwindled, the pressure rose. People fought over each shirt, one snatching from the other, the other snatching from the first. More and more one hundred shekel bills were broken. Dvora was lost in commercial intoxication. She seemed to believe that even the great Sara Consignment was sending envious looks her way.

Suddenly laughter was heard: monkey screeches that ignited around the stage and spread through the audience like flames through a thorn field. At first, Dvora had not noticed and continued to fold shirts. Then the voices grew louder and an ominous recognition began bubbling inside of her. She dropped the shirt from her hands and turned her head toward the stage. The laughter became an unbridled, wild bellowing. Albert Ben Arroya fed the fire with a dry throat. Here and there someone whistled encouragingly. Somebody clapped; another joined in, and another. Within seconds the applause crystallized into heavy, threatening lava that flowed from the back of the stage to the dock and over to the stalls. Though she still did not know what had gotten things so heated, her heart told her it was bad news. Somebody spat out that terrible word; and then she realized. She threw herself into the crowd and the closer she got to the dock, the more crowded it became: everyone wanted to see it for themselves. From each direction, twisted, red masks, gaping mouths, lolling tongues, people calling out, “Hey, lady!” and “Will ya stop pushing??” and she was shoved back again and again. A two-minute trip seemed to take forever. Suddenly everything stopped. Her eyes went dark for a moment, as if the world were nothing more than a gigantic slide show and the last slide had disappeared, leaving a black emptiness in its wake. The whirlwind around her froze, the sounds grew faint; she felt as if she were standing alone on the banks of time. Then a new, blinding image was revealed. Her face was aflame. Shame mixed with tears of rage. Right in front of her, on stage, wearing surfing pants and a too-tight bikini top, the flesh of her breasts squeezing out of it, Bina, poor Bina, her ludicrous younger sister, wiggled her bum. The pants that rode up wedged in between the two, fat, exposed cheeks of her buttocks. One hand supported her nude waist coquettishly, while the other waved to the audience. The crowd raged and roared on both sides of the dock. When she reached the end of the catwalk she bowed to the right, then to the left, squeezed her fists like a drummer and swung from side to side in a duck-like dance. A delicate, heartbreaking smile spread across her face. There was no end to her joy.

The sun was stuck in the middle of the sky. The blinding light enveloped all, leaving no corner free of it. It seemed that nobody would ever cast a shadow onto the earth, that everything had been devoured by heat. Even noises were all melted into a meaningless jumble—songs became distorted, calls of joy weakened and disappeared, Nachliel Zarfaty’s little radio produced only crumbs of words. Everything was boiling, everything was scorching, desires softened like wax. The raffia canopies painted the vacationers blue as they sat, exhausted, in the shade, poking their plastic forks at the leftovers of their food. Even the most energetic toddlers collapsed to rest, goggles raised over their wet hair, their bodies wrapped in towels. The pools emptied, the stalls were deserted, the merchants counted their earnings.

“I don’t think we’ll get anything more out of this.” Sara Consignment sighed. “Let’s go, Nachlieli, we can call it a day.”