10

The Final Day

A.

Rumor had it that Anita Shagrir was around.

Who had spread it? Perhaps one of the merchants, and perhaps Albert Ben Arroya, who tended to promote such news out of his own motives. Though she waved the rumor off with batted eyelashes and a sigh of denouncement, Tzippi Zinman spied for signs of the presence of the regal figure—the waving train of a caftan, a thick-thighed silhouette, or a flash of blue eyes adorned with doll-like lashes. On the one hand, her heart fluttered; on the other hand, she thought, go ahead, let her come, let her deign to descend from her Bavli penthouse and see for herself where I used to be and where I am now, how I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and single-handedly took over the water park. And Tzippi’s takeover was indeed fabulous: no less than four top models receiving three hundred shekels per show—three former beauty queens, the fourth involved in some sex scandal—had been booked to walk on stage for the final day of the season. She looked over the stalls. Bina and Dvora waved at her from the family stall. The merchants—not all of them were there yet—each toiled in their corner. The Frumkins had already finished arranging the plastic watches on their stands and sat down to eat their omelet sandwiches. A kind couple, actually; she had not given them much thought before, and now she asked herself how they got to the water park each morning and whether they schlepped over on a bus with all of their goods. She had already given the order to add more stalls; they were expecting twelve merchants today. Two of them, new ones, had just recently been added, after they had begged for more than two weeks. Moreover, representatives were sent to see her from one of the Herzliya hotels. They mentioned biweekly luxurious dinner parties, a lecture by a graphologist and, of course, a fashion show. Readers would surely be glad to learn that, by her assessment, Zinman made approximately 25,000 shekels that summer—the aerodynamic contours of a new Mitsubishi in antique rose were already forming in her imagination. Let Anita Shagrir come then, by all means, and see for herself how they celebrated the last day of the season at the water park.

Tzippi had tossed and turned the whole night through, until she finally opened her eyes at five-thirty in the morning, realizing she would not be able to stay in bed any longer. After she bathed and put on her makeup, she wrote a note for Tuvia—“I took Dad’s car, meet me at Shfayim”—and went down to Judah the Maccabee Street. She felt like having her first coffee of the day with Yosef. The streets were still empty; only old Kuttner, who had risen early, was serenely tending to the flower bed at the front of his house. At the Zinman Grocery Store, moist islands glistened on the floor that had just been washed. Armies of white cheese and yogurt containers stood at attention in the fridge, and the loaves of fresh bread perfumed the air with the scent of hope. No hour was finer than this: even in the worst days of summer, the grocery store was chilly, like a fairy-tale cave whose walls were laden with oil and delicacies. Peretz was sitting in the back of the store, as usual, listening to the soft chatter of morning radio announcers. Tzippi’s heart was suddenly filled with compassion, and she waved to him with jingling bracelets. The kettle whistled, and Yosef Zinman—who had been somewhat surprised by her visit—made black coffee in chipped mugs. They shared a cinnamon bun, dipping it in the steaming coffee. The grocer told her he had slept wonderfully and that he had had a fantastic bowel movement that morning. Then he sent Peretz to the warehouse on an unnecessary errand and felt his giggling Tzippi up a little. The street—the bench, an Indian rosewood tree, the sidewalk across the street—began swarming with life. Sleepy dog owners, retirees in plastic flip-flops returning from the pool, mothers fetching hot rolls for breakfast. Buses ejected maids traveling from southern neighborhoods; business owners swept the sidewalk in front of their stores. At seven o’clock, as happens each day, Yunger the butcher walked in, bought a container of sour cream and a pretzel, and told a story about a veteran customer who had died, though she had believed her entire life in the healing power of soup stock made from turkey necks. Then they smoked a cigarette and discussed the crisis in Beirut. Shraga popped over from the other side of the street to say good morning, told a piquant joke, and ordered a delivery of diet orange juice.

Who among them could have foretold then, on this graceful morning, one of many that had been and would be, the fall of the House of Zinman? How could they have guessed that in two years a war would break out in the Persian Gulf—the grocery store would be operated in the famous emergency mode and the profits would be truly unbelievable—after which nothing would ever be as it once was. Gigantic shopping forts would sprout like mushrooms all around the city, customers would desert, one by one, and those who would stick around would buy only milk and cigarettes to fulfil their obligation. The wealthy families, on which the glory of the old establishment depended, would move to trendier neighborhoods; their tabs would be replaced by those of bothersome elderly ladies and degenerates whose place would not be found in the new order. At first deliveries would be reduced to Thursdays and Fridays only, and then those would end, too. Luxury items would gradually disappear from the shelves. The selection would become so meager that sometimes Zinman will be forced to buy from the nearby supermarket, all in order to avoid speaking those shameful words, “we don’t have it,” to his customers, over the phone. Products would be covered in dust that no one would bother to clean, Peretz would be fired and subsist on a small social security allowance. So as not to be idle, he would volunteer at a bourekas bakery that would open on the ruins of the nearby butcher shop, which would also meet its maker. The eternal Nathan Kuttner, the key money owner whose death had been wished for by three generations of Zinmans, would finally, at age ninety-one, depart on the trip from which no one sends any postcards, but his daughters would inherit his assets, accompanied by self-important attorneys who would pester the grocer under all sorts of false pretenses. At the end of eight years of ongoing deterioration, Yosef Zinman would have to give in. One autumn day, contract workers would remove the old SELF-SERVICE, Y. ZINMAN & SONS sign. A local paper would send a reporter, Yosef would have his picture taken, smiling behind the old scales, and that would be the end of it. Thanks to his connections, he would manage to get a job as a head warehouse clerk in one of the grocery chains. There, in the warehouse in back, where employees wallowed morning to night in rotting vegetable and the stench of cheese water, he would reign over three shelvers, who would enthusiastically listen to stories of his glory days.

And Tzippi? Even she could not guess, on that marvelous morning, that the downfall of large employee committees and small fashion merchants was imminent; that the great Anita Shagrir, who would successfully read the warning signs, would retire from the fashion-show business, start the Ambassador Actors Agency, and write an advice column for the weekend papers. Of course, Tzippi could not guess that she herself would also retire from the fashion-show business four years later and find a part-time job at a floral shop on Pinkas Street (there, too, everybody would be sure she was the owner). That morning, all she knew was that now was the time and the time was now, and at the moment, with a large keychain swinging from two of her fingers, she paced the dewy grass toward the service entrance at the edge of the water park; in the distance, she noticed her sister Bina sitting under a sun umbrella, enjoying a cigarette she must have bummed from one of the merchants. For a moment, she thought of approaching her, but gave up the thought immediately: the guests she had invited especially for this big day were already waiting outside and she hurried to greet them.

B.

“Hevenu sholem aleichem!” Avrum Shlossman sang, kissing his sister on both cheeks.

“Hello, Tzippi’le,” Sammy Greenberg purred with a sweet smile.

The third guest made do with a nod of the head.

“Go on, go on, I don’t want anyone to see me letting you in,” Tzippi Zinman said as she rushed them forward.

“Where are Dvora and Tuvia? We stopped at Nordau Café and bought you some yummy croissants.”

“Don’t bother them now, they got here ten minutes ago and still haven’t finished arranging their stall,” Tzippi said. “Bina’s here too.”

“Why did she bring her?” Avrum wondered.

“I’ll explain later.”

“If I had known she was here,” he said, moping, “I’d have gotten something for her, too.”

“No matter. There’s a snack bar here, you can buy her some jelly beans. But right now, do me a favor and disperse—the kibbutzniks don’t like these tricks.”

“Sneaking in!” Sammy purred excitedly. His bean-shaped bald head was covered by a baseball cap printed with the words “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” A small, toned belly was hiding behind a tennis shirt with a high-end logo; hairless legs sprouted from inside white Bermuda shorts, short but surprisingly muscular, ending in white espadrilles. In one hand he carried a picnic cooler; in the other, a striped sun umbrella—in short, this was not a man entering the water park but the embodiment (no taller than 5'3'') of the concept “vacation.” This embodiment was accompanied by another, less desirable guest: the mustachioed thug Tzippi recalled as the head stoner from the winter concert at her brother’s house. Soon, Avrum and his gang mixed with the crowd and took over a piece of land by the fence around the wave pool.

Of all of Shfayim’s pleasure rides—the old slalom slide, the kamikaze slope, or the pink basin known as “Children’s World”—vacationers felt a special affinity for the wave pool—a sort of giant, blue seashell that could hold hundreds of bathers. At its edge was the mosaic-covered watchtower. At the top of the tower, in the shade of a faded shed, were the lifeguards: young, tan men, almost completely nude, as was the custom, looking in all directions, like a band of noble predators. “We want to remind everybody to drink a lot!” one of them announced through a loudspeaker. “I repeat: drink a lot! I repeat . . .” At this point a teasing joke spoken by one of his friends cut him off. The two were pulled into a friendly brawl, at the end of which the announcer was defeated with a neck grip. Tzippi’s three guests, all sworn bachelors, followed the action with interest, exchanging lusty smiles.

Suddenly—a commotion. Excited teenagers stormed in from all directions. More and more vacationers were attracted to the pool, kicking and spraying on their way in, not satisfied until the water covered their entire bodies. The blue seashell turned black with countless heads and shoulders. The bustle grew louder; the crowdedness was inconceivable. In the meantime, lifeguards descended from their shed and surrounded the pool like large cats, assessing the sprawl of their kingdom, their swagger indifferent yet alert. They exchanged silent signals and spread out in equal distances on the edge of the pool. All eyes were turned to the watchtower with tense expectation. The head lifeguard delivered a final warning: all children under the age of so-and-so are ordered to move to the shallow water immediately. One of his assistants pulled out a toddler who snuck into the water with the bigger children, against regulations. Ten o’clock. Ten and one minute. Here we go, here we go.

At first the change is imperceptible—a kind of light wave, no more than a quick shake. But the movement does not abate; recognition quickly sets in: the waves! Cries of joy sound from all directions. Waves rise and fall, pulling with them all bathing heads with a single thrust. Here and there a head disappears and then quickly emerges with a cough and a spit. To an outside observer—for instance, to Avrum Shlossman, leaning on the fence, overjoyed with the general happiness—the sight may be reminiscent of a massive floral blanket shaken by invisible hands. Those listening in might notice a dull groan rising from the depths. In the engine room buried below the pool, in the boiler netherworld, pistons work with all of their power to operate the giant vacuum enraging the water of the pool and making a terrifying ruckus. The air boils. The head mechanic, deafened and sweaty, turns up the intensity. The water is sucked and sprayed alternately, drops spewing wildly, waves storming, one by one, from the top of the shell to its shallow edges, where they finally wane, lapping the feet of the elderly that stand on the shore with longing eyes, their hearts pulled toward the festivities but not allowing them to participate.

“Excuse me sir, where is the smack bar?”

Avrum Shlossman turned his head and was surprised—behind him was a gigantic middle-aged matron, a swollen goiter hanging between her chin and her chest. The top of this human mountain was adorned with thinning yellow hair, pulled diagonally down to her shoulders. A white tent dress, held up by spaghetti straps, gave her the shape of a wide-base triangle. The flesh of her mighty arms swung ceaselessly, as if on its own accord; only her fingers retained a surprising measure of discrete feminine charm.

“Sir, I’m looking for a smack bar,” she said, waving an advertising pamphlet against her face. Shiny pearls of sweat slowly dripped from her chin without her bothering to wipe them off. As she spoke, her crowded, crooked teeth were revealed, growing one on top of the other like stalks in an over-fertilized lawn. Her eyes were heavily made up, her thick painted lips contoured by a dark line. Even those who had never laid eyes on her before could swear they had previously met. In more than one way, Lizika Burko was an absolute being. The former antique salesman, who was never able to withstand the absolute, was captivated immediately.

“It just happens that I’m going there myself,” he answered. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

He tried to make conversation on the way, but Miss Burko was not receptive to his courting. All her attention was devoted to a bottle of fizzy, colorless, frosty lemonade that had settled in her mind following some advertisement, not letting go. Tlak-tlak, tlak-tlak, her orthopedic slippers stuck to her heels and then dropped off. Heat, crowdedness, sweat pouring down temples, burning eyes; she tossed her makeshift fan and wiped her face with her hand. She was filled with rage at the sight of the millions—or so she later described the vision to her sister-in-law—amassed outside of the snack bar; she gathered her strength and made her way through fearlessly, as glorious as a white battleship within a fleet of colorful sailboats. Avrum took advantage of the space she left in her wake and pushed through as well. Moist limbs pressed against him from all directions—arms, thighs, breasts wrapped in tingly Lycra. One stepped on his foot, another breathed on his face, the smell revealing eggplant salad. After a short consideration, he concluded that, since he was destined to be pushed anyway, he would reach the counter as a result of pure physics. He therefore decided to give himself in to stronger powers, and soon discovered—not for the first time—that under certain conditions one could derive pleasure even from the most unpleasant of experiences.

C.

“How’s your handsome guy? Didn’t he feel like having some fun at the pool, too?” the midget travel agent asked. He was still wearing his tennis shirt, but the Bermuda shorts had disappeared, replaced by small buttock cheeks wrapped tightly in a Speedo.

“He’s minding the shop.”

“That’s a shame, I haven’t seen him in a while.” The words were pronounced with an emphasis insinuating meetings that had taken place and a special affinity, though neither of these had ever been the case. Now, Dvora Saltzman found that these insinuations no longer alarmed her. She responded with a pseudo-ironic smile and felt bold, even a little international.

“Your flight tickets are waiting for you in my safe,” he added. “But it’s the end of the month already; you have to pay or you’ll miss out on the special offer price. Send Shraga over, have him come tomorrow. We can’t drag it out any longer.”

“I’d better come by myself. I’ll take the opportunity to buy a proper suitcase next door, and a toiletry kit; I need a good one. I’m embarrassed to tell you what kind of luggage I have now, from pioneer days.”

“I’ll make sure they give you a discount, don’t worry,” said Sammy. “Give me a call before you come over and I’ll go in with you, make sure they don’t try to sell you low-grade stuff. A good valise is a long-term asset—you need strong bones, high-quality sewing. It’s all about the details. Trust me, I know these things—I was pedantic even as a child. I learned how to pack a suitcase from my mother in Argentina, but she had her method and I have mine. For example, a lot of people think you have to fold shirts like at a store, in half, but that’s a big mistake! That’s how they get wrinkled. You have to fold them in quarters, though it might sound absurd—that way, they stay perfectly ironed, even if you fly all the way to Buenos Aires . . .”

“You don’t say!”

“Take my word for it, and you’ll be happy when you land. What can I tell you—it’s unbelievable what a man learns in life, all by himself, no university. Ah, if only I’d written a book! But who would have bought a book like that?”

“What time are we landing?” Tzippi joined them, in high spirits. She had just completed a round of the stalls, and in spite of the early hour, had managed to collect all the commissions from the merchants with no argument.

Tzippi Zinman suffered from chronic constipation—as we may have already alluded to—a delicate matter that would not have been brought up if not for her habit of perusing travel photos as she waited on the toilet. For this purpose, she arranged a small table upon which—next to a bowl of soap flakes and a plaster angel—were always two or three photo albums. As she flipped through the pages, her imagination roamed free: here she would lead Dvora to that charming little square where they would sip coffee on a blooming veranda, and there she would take her shopping, introducing her to the best shops. Here they would take a cable car up to a snowy peak; it would be very cold and they would go into that inn, the one with the stuffed deer heads on the walls, to warm up—after all, Dvora is only human, she deserves Seefeld for once, too! The topic had become a kind of obsession for Tzippi, who could no longer imagine going this year without Dvora. She had made her peace with Fat Tuvia’s choice to stay in Tel Aviv, and would have gone on without Shirley and even without Avrum, but without Dvora—absolutely not. That was the heart of the matter, for which all efforts were being made.

She had set a silent goal: 4,000 shekels, give or take, should make this trip possible for Dvora. She followed the sales at the surfing pants stall with satisfaction. Just in case, she decided to give Dvora a nice gift for the trip—$250 in cash (to spend on herself, and not a word to Shraga). And so, on this morning of August 30, though all of this was still merely a plan, Tzippi already viewed herself as entitled to complete gratitude.

“I got you on an excellent flight,” the agent said. “You’ll arrive in Munich at 10:00 a.m., so you’ll have all day.”

“In that case, maybe before we cross the border to Austria we’ll go to Mad King Ludwig’s palace!” Tzippi exclaimed. “It isn’t a big detour. You’ll love it, Dvoraleh—it’s so beautiful I can’t even describe it, like in the movies, at the top of the mountain, with all that view around, and the road twisting through the forest . . .”

“See, that’s why I love my job,” Sammy said. “I’m always part of people’s fun. What could be more beautiful?”

Bina, the headphones of her new Walkman on her ears, walked over, accompanying the song she was listening to with meaningless, made-up words. She wore a red bathing suit under a large tunic. She had just visited Nachliel Zarfaty’s stall, where she was sent to break a hundred shekel bill. As was her manner, she performed her task dutifully. As she counted the small bills (twice), her face wore a formal expression, an impersonation of an expression she had seen more than once on her brother-in-law Yosef Zinman’s face as he counted cash money. She furrowed her brow, stuck the edge of her tongue out, and moistened her finger every so often. The sight of her exaggerated gravity filled Zarfaty’s heart with love for humanity, and he gave her two shoulder pads as a gift. A smile of pleasure spread upon her face, and she hurried to push them into place under her tunic. Now, with shoulders that were too broad, she looked even stranger than usual.

“Have you told her about the arrangement yet?” Tzippi whispered.

“Not yet.”

“I can’t believe it . . . when are you planning on telling her? When we’re on the plane?”

“Not now,” Dvora said, angry. “Change the subject.”

“I’ve got change!” Bina announced proudly and hung the headphones around her neck. “Nachliel gave me fives and tens.”

“Good,” said Dvora. “Thank you. It’s good that you came with us today—you’re a big, big help.”

“Next time shave her legs before you take her to the pool,” Tzippi muttered.

“Where’s Tuvia?” Bina asked.

“Went to say hi to his girl.”

Though most of those present had already been introduced to Maya, she had not yet earned the right to be called by her name among family, and even Dvora, who truly liked her, did not dare beat her sister to the punch on this matter. She knew Tzippi was mad—perhaps not truly mad, but certainly disappointed—that Tuvia was not joining them on their journey, and since they blamed the matter on that light-haired kibbutznik, they all felt some discomfort any time they had to mention her in conversation.

“Am I allowed to have some of his juice?” Bina asked.

“Of course you can!” Tzippi cried. “Drink as much as you want, don’t be shy. Guys, I have an announcement to make—I’m out of here. I have to get some more fans for the dressing rooms before my princesses arrive. I’ll see you later.”

D.

Ever since our ancestors were banished from the Garden of Eden due to belts crafted out of fig leaves, people have rarely removed their clothing in public. The right to appear unclothed—which, in hospital cafeterias, for instance, is reserved for patients only—is the exclusive right of public pool visitors; in either location, the sight is as magnificent as it is bloodcurdling. At the water park, men and women reveal their defects and distortions for all to see. Here one might come across the breathless sight of a tanned teenager, her young rolls of fat bursting forth from a miniscule bathing suit, her belly button pointing proudly out of her plump belly. Eyes travel against one’s will toward an old man, skinny and smiling, the folds of his stomach scarred from an ancient operation, his testicles swollen like oranges. The gaze wanders from an athletic type covered head to toe in matted black fur to a girl well versed in pain with a hard, rocky hump growing from between her nude shoulder blades. This rabble now congregated by the stalls, indifferent to their nudity, rummaging through the clothes with lusty fervor.

Our acquaintance Sammy Greenberg also delved into the goods, and since he had been ordered not to mention Seefeld around Bina, he chatted in all directions, as if spraying an odor neutralizer. One thing led to another, and he chose a fluorescent green shirt, size small, and announced he was going to wear it to a private dance party, the bold nature of which he alluded to with a meaningful batting of the lashes. As the group discussed the shirt’s many advantages—the color, in Dvora’s opinion, complimented Sammy’s eyes—Avrum Shlossman approached, accompanied by a heavy, terrifying matron. In retrospect, it turned out that the lady with the goiter, Lizika Burko, one and the same, was no less than Sara Consignment’s sister-in-law!

The vacation, the summer, and the abundance of exposed bodies inspired a Latin state of mind in Avrum. When he saw his sister Dvora he broke into a rendition of “Eviva España” and tried to drag her into a round of paso doble.

“Enough of your nonsense, you idiot,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “How are you? I was just saying I can’t believe you came all the way to the water park and haven’t come over to say hello. Shame on you!”

“Avrum!” Bina cheered. “Hi! Fat Tuvia’s around too, you know? But he isn’t here now, he went to kiss his girl.”

“Shh!” Dvora said. “The whole world doesn’t need to hear about this!”

“I brought you fresh croissants,” Avrum said, raising the paper bag with a flourish.

“Oh, wonderful!”

“Susu picked us up at 8:30,” he continued (he never bothered to get a driver’s license; instead he nurtured a circle of friends who gladly drove him everywhere). “You know me—those aren’t exactly my hours, my eyes were still glued shut. So I said, guys, we’re only human, after all. Why don’t we gather some strength before we continue? Long story short, we stopped at Café Nordau. The moment we grabbed a table I saw some dark-haired guy leave the kitchen with a tray of croissants and babka. I said—aha!”

“Exactly,” Sammy-Susu confirmed. “And I said: ahaaa!”

“And what did you bring me?” Bina asked.

“Here, this is for you,” her brother said, handing her a bag of M&Ms, the loot from his trip to the snack bar.

“Open it for me, I can’t do it.”

“There you go.”

Bina sat on one of the chairs behind the stall and immersed herself in the bag. She pulled the chocolate buttons out one by one, examined them carefully and ate them according to an order, the essence of which was to leave an equal number of each color. In the meantime, Dvora poured her guests black coffee from her thermos and tore off half of a croissant.

“How’s it going so far?”

“People are crazy about the phosphorous. We’ve already made about 280 shekels, maybe more, I’m not sure—Tuvia has the money.”

“The shirts are fabulous. Here, I bought one for myself, too,” Sammy said. “In green, to match my eyes. What do you think? It’s for Foofy’s birthday party.”

“You’ll glow like a spotlight—we’ll just have to wait for someone to get electrocuted,” Avrum said with a chuckle. Dvora chuckled, too. The head lifeguard announced the nearing round of fun at the wave pool. A Madonna hit was playing over the loudspeakers, and the travel agent shook his hips and snapped his fingers to the beat. From the nearby stage came the calls of the aerobics instructor as she thanked the audience; the workout crowd gathered around the stalls.

Fat Tuvia returned from his visit with Maya—no doubt, those glorious thirty minutes were sufficient for him to get a taste of the pleasures he had recently grown so fond of, and Maya herself was quite satisfied with certain talents discovered in him. At any rate, he returned to the stall, put on his famous umbrella hat, and began to chant his slogans. Curious parties were drawn to the table and his hands were soon full.

“Can I have a Coke?”

“Binchi, do me a favor—can’t you see we’re working? Remember what you promised at home. Take your chair and go sit on the side.”

“There’s juice in my thermos,” said Fat Tuvia. “Why just one pair, ma’am? Take two, your husband will thank you, I guarantee it!”

“We give—you get!” Albert Ben Arroya screamed from stage. “Three tickets for ten!”

“These colors are the height of fashion,” Sammy recommended. “I bought one for myself.”

“But I don’t want apple juice, I want Coke.”

“Listen up, listen up, at eleven o’clock, light refreshments will be served to Tadiran employees and their families at the main lawn, by the first aid station. Please bring your vouchers!”

“Just wait quietly a little longer, then we’ll go to the snack bar.”

“What’s the problem?” Avrum said. “Why do you have to make everything into a hassle for yourself? She’s a big girl, she can go get it herself.”

“I chose green, to match my eyes, but if you ask me—the orange is hot, too. Besides, what are we even talking about? Fifteen shekels a shirt! It’s practically a joke! I’m a family friend, by the way. I’ve been begging them since the beginning of summer: guys, raise your prices a little, so you’ll get something in your pockets too, but they’re stubborn, what can you do.”

“If I buy four shirts, can I get a discount?”

“Tuvia, do me a personal favor—give this lovely lady a discount.”

“Three tickets for ten, ladies and gentlemen, three for ten! Today the first prize is a twenty-one-inch Grundig color TV!”

“You know what, fine, take them all for fifty-five.”

“Where’s the snack bar?” Bina asked.

“Come with us, we’ll show you,” said her brother.

“You don’t mind?” asked Dvora.

“Ciotka Dvora, can you break this into fives?”

“Why would I mind? We’re headed in that direction anyway.”

“We left Avigdor by the wave pool to watch our things, we have to get back, he’s probably bored to death,” said Sammy Greenberg, referring to our acquaintance, the hash-loving thug, who was now sitting on the lawn, discussing muscle-building dietary supplements with one of the lifeguards.

“Tuvia!” Bina showed off. “I’m going to the snack bar by myself! Should I get something for you, too?”

“Wait a minute.” Dvora rifled through her purse. “What’s the rush, I haven’t even given you money yet. There you go. Get me a Diet Coke, too, but really cold. And count the change, don’t let them rip you off.”

“Come on, you don’t know my husband, he’ll never wear that color. How many times have I begged him—a little, have just a little awareness. Progress is good, you don’t have to dress like some alter kaker all the time. He’s a good-looking man, after all, he’s got a nice body—what’s sixty-two these days? A kid! But I might as well be talking to the wall.”

“Come right back here from the snack bar—there’s going to be a bingo game soon, I’ll buy you some tickets.”

“Buddy, can I have a bag already? This is the third time I’ve asked you.”

“Ciotka!” Fat Tuvia called. “I’m all out of bags—do me a favor, there should be more in that small box.”

“One second.”

“Dear audience, your attention please: the light refreshments at eleven o’clock are for Tadiran employees and their families only, I repeat, Tadiran employees and their families only!”

Dvora Saltzman glanced at her watch: a quarter to eleven, and below the time, in a small window: August 30. She had no idea that this date and time would become forever etched in her memory.

E.

Each morning in the three weeks that had gone by since her secret meeting with Aunt Masha, Dvora woke up determined that today she would finally tell Bina about the comfortable arrangement. Till evening, she found all sorts of excuses to delay the conversation; the next day she swore to herself again and postponed it again. In the meantime, the house filled up with childish posters of Austrian landscapes, cut out of journals and decorated with slogans such as “Beautiful Seefeld” and “Seefeld—Family Town” and signed with the initials B.S. It angered Dvora so much that a week earlier she broke down and yelled at a surprised Bina to stop dirtying up the house. The distress grew worse each day. More than once, she decided to just give up on the entire trip. In spite of the convoluted discussions she held with herself, she knew her plan was nothing less than contemptible. One day, Shraga showed her an ad he found in the paper with imploring eyes: a small airline offered a trip for children—a thirty-minute flight over Israel in a special observation plane. She was excited for a moment, then filled with shame.

Each night she saw Bina’s face on the screen of her closed eyelids, amazed and eaten up with sorrow. No explanation would console her when she told her they were all going to Seefeld and leaving her behind with Aunt Masha. Bina loved her aunt very much—a sort of love on principle, a result of familial loyalty—but Dvora knew that the old sharp-tongued lady terrified her. How could she hope for their aunt to resist for an entire week and not insult her niece? When Dvora found out Fat Tuvia was not coming with them on the trip, she was somewhat relieved. He promised to keep an eye on the events at Joshua Son of Nun Street—but how could she trust him, she thought, with all those things he had on his mind. And perhaps she should take Bina to Austria with her after all? On a secretive phone conversation, her sister declared that, should Dvora end up deciding to bring Bina along, she would help. Help—meaning, she would agree to take her to the Seefeld boardwalk for one or two afternoons, and maybe contribute a little to the expenses. An image formed in her mind: the Zinmans shaking their hips to the sounds of the band at that nightclub they talked so much about, while she sat at the table with Bina, watching to make sure she did not steal a bun. No, she thought. For years, she had sat patiently in her corner, watching Tzippi twirling around—now she wanted to get up and go a little crazy herself.

An anonymous airline clerk put an end to her misgivings, turning a random date into a fateful one: Thursday, August 31, was pointed out in her reminder as the absolute final deadline for payment. The term ticketing, which she had used, was written in bold over the door that separated Bina from Seefeld. The fates had spoken: the matter would be sealed by this weekend. She felt a strong urge to compensate her younger sister immediately, as if atonement for one’s sins was a currency she could use ahead of time. And so, on the morning of August 30—though she had sworn, after the ghastly vision of Bina strutting half-naked on the stage, never to bring her to the water park again—Dvora decided to take her along to the water park to have some fun. And Bina, happy, never guessing the source of such a blessing, promised fervently to behave.

Alas, she did not keep her promise this time, either.

F.

The fashion show went on and on. The sellers and manufacturers, determined to make the very best of the last day of the season and sell as much as possible, sent piles and piles of items to the models backstage. The space trapped between the tin walls and the blue raffia strips steamed with the sour smell of textile. The models stripped and tossed, grabbed and wore, stepped on the tossed garments, making their way onto the stage among ripped cellophane wrappers, stickers, plastic labels, and half-empty water bottles. The ground inside the shack became muddy, fans creaked helplessly, the makeshift mirror was covered with oily fingerprints. Suffocation intensified. Tzippi Zinman, covered in sweat, ran back and forth, lighting cigarettes and putting them out after only one or two puffs. She stretched a shirt here, puffed up a skirt there, shouted, threatened, complimented, tore a zipper in her haste. Sara Consignment, who came by to watch closely over her merchandise, cackled ceaselessly. Somebody burst into tears, who knows why. Albert Ben Arroya’s screams erupted from the sound system as he threatened to burst with good spirits: that day, a children’s clothing merchant appeared at the fair, accompanied by a young model, a little girl of about nine years of age, who strutted flamboyantly on stage, reaping compliments. The audience was beside itself. The congestion around the catwalk became unbearable. Vacationers, smelling of chlorine and sweat and melted ice cream, pushed, cursed, goofed off, stretching sun-scorched torsos, fighting violently for a better viewing spot. The girl finally paused on the edge of the catwalk, placed a flirtatious hand on her hips, and twisted her face in a nightmarish smile. When she decided she had gotten all she could from the audience she turned on her heels and left the stage.

Then, from within the burning inferno, their heads adorned with veils, their chests strapped into silk corsets imbedded with fake pearls, and cascades of lace and white organza pouring from their thin waists, four magnificent brides went up on stage, one after the other. Their arms were covered in pale gloves, their feet were hidden as they floated like four ruffle creampuffs. Cool and fresh, indifferent to the deadening heat, Tzippi Zinman’s girls swirled in a semi-see-through dance, spreading across the catwalk, pure and long-necked like princesses of a northern kingdom, out at a ball. The smiles they sent in all directions graced sun-scorched faces and cooled burning souls. Hearts were filled with wonder and yearning for the beauty. Who does not want to be a bride, who does not want to be a groom? Even the merchants stopped their calculations, their eyes fixed on the epiphany. Blinding light glowed from the catwalk. The audience held its breath . . .

The pretend brides (two days earlier, Zinman had surreptitiously entered one of the oldest bridal salons on Ben Yehuda Street and rented four glamorous dresses) made a final round, waved goodbye, and disappeared behind the curtain. All at once, the magic evaporated, replaced by utter chaos. Human waves crashed everywhere—get, fight, grab something, at any price. The morning sales were nothing compared to what happened at the stalls now. Nachliel Zarfaty of Paloma Bianca grew hoarse from yelling “no touching!” while the Frumkins, whose “Swish” watches had run out, raised the prices of men’s watches by 30 percent without batting an eyelash. But all of these paled in comparison to Sara Consignment. Within fifteen minutes, she sold no less than four suits embroidered with gigantic flowers, seven pairs of wavy cotton pants, and an unknown number of wide belts. Thick-ankled women who, that very morning, had thrown a tasteless tricot tunic over themselves, discovered, with her help, that nothing suited them better than a knee-length Charleston dress. The revered merchant was at the top of her game. There was no time to breathe. The checks piled up so quickly that one flew away and landed at the feet of Zarfaty, whose eyes bugged at the sight of the sum (for a moment, an irreverent thought even passed through his mind).

Even after the initial excitement died down, they kept selling. Now the stalls were visited by customers with time on their hands. They examined, asked, chatted with the merchants. In the meantime, the exhausted models left the water park with full pockets, and Tzippi Zinman had time to tour her kingdom. She was in good spirits—compliments for her gorgeous finale were made all around. On her way to the family rag stall, she stopped at Estee Creations and bought herself a bracelet.

“Is there anything left of Avrum’s croissants? I’m starving. You know how it is—when you’re working you don’t think of food, but the moment the rush ends, your stomach goes like this!” She twisted a fist in front of her stomach.

“I only had half of mine,” Dvora said. “Take what’s left, look in that bag.”

“Where?” Tzippi asked. “I can’t find it.”

“What do you mean? That can’t be—I saved half for later. Look again.”

But the bag was empty. Without a choice, Zinman consoled herself with an apple Dvora had saved for an emergency, and sat down to rest under the sun umbrella. Fat Tuvia was busy with two guys who showed an interest in the glowing shirts. The goods had almost run out, and Dvora pulled the last sack from under the table, took out surfing pants and arranged them by size.

“Where’s Bina?” Tzippi asked.

“Went with Avrum to get something from the snack bar.”

“Did you happen to notice how Sara Consignment did?” Tzippi asked, glancing at the woman through her enormous sunglasses.

“I swearrrr to you, may I have an infection and bad complexion if I sold anything from my collection,” Fat Tuvia said, impersonating the Romanian merchant. “You could get brain damage from all her nonsense. How did she do? Her fingers are worn out, poor woman, from counting all that cash!”

“Who’s that tub of lard next to her?”

“I don’t know,” Dvora said. “Her name is Lizika.”

“They say she’s her sister-in-law,” Tuvia remarked, “I guess she came by to help her.”

“Really?” the stylist said as she rubbed the edge of her nose. “And I think she’s here to pick up some business on the side without asking me. Just you wait and see what those two witches are going to get from me.” She stood up and went over to review the situation.

Indeed, her suspicions had been founded. Lizika Burko, a former secretary at a reflexology clinic, was making her first steps in the diet-pill industry. A man named Doctor Matmon, whom she had met at the clinic, offered her a job as a sales agent for imported products—wondrous pills that, so he promised, reduced appetite and promoted weight loss without the need for any physical activity. The doctor’s pills (a few years later, following a lawsuit, he fled the country, never to be heard of again) were based on a mysterious Swiss formula. Patients slimmed down, but every now and then were attacked by a terrible itch and uncontrollable weeping.

The wise reader may wonder what a woman with such a developed appetite, like Lizika, had to contribute to the global dietary effort; but it was exactly her dimensions that imbued her with authority among her customers. Her methods were no different than those of her sister-in-law, Sara Consignment, but while Sara called her victims customers, the trainee dietician preferred the term patients. She made sure to add the words fat dissolvers to her products, a pair of words usually reserved for descriptions of sink- and toilet bowl–cleansing acids. But the low voice, the foreign accent, the manicured fingers gently uncapping the bottle, and even the soft goiter hanging from her neck—all of these enchanted customers, leading them to believe that life was not worth living without Doctor Matmon’s pills. “With these pills you can put a-ny-thing in your mouth,” Lizika explained to a plump vacationer that had just joined her gaggle of fans, stuffing a medicinal baggie into her hand. “Enjoy.”

“Can I ask what’s going on here?” Tzippi Zinman demanded, adjusting her sunglasses, which had slipped down her nose due to sweat.

After carefully considering all of the data, Sara Consignment had reached the false conclusion that, during the commotion expected on the final day of the season, no one would notice if she snuck her sister-in-law into the water park and allotted her a corner at the edge of her stall, where she could sell her products. Lizika was asked to play down her presence as much as possible—an impossible order to fill, of course, in light of her personality. In her defense it must be pointed out that she did her best to speak softly.

“Sorry? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said I was only an assistant?”

“Really?” Zinman grabbed one of the bottles and raised it. “Then what’s this supposed to be?”

“That’s for my blood pressure,” Lizika explained discretely.

“What are your blood pressure levels, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, Tzippi, come on,” Sara Consignment said, coming to her protégé’s aid. “It’s only my sister-in-law, not some criminal, look how sympathetic she is.” (Here the sister-in-law smiled modestly.) “Here, I’ll introduce you: Tzippi Zinman—Lizika Burko.”

“I want to know what she’s doing here, period, exclamation mark. And don’t you dare try to fool me!”

“Why are you shouting? I swear, first you don’t let people talk and then you jump to conclusions. Here, I’ll explain everything: you should know that Lizika is the number one expert against fat. Her pills are incredible: the pounds fall off even when you don’t want them to, no matter what you put in your mouth. Have you heard of Doctor Matmon? No? It’s the biggest hit right now; all of Tel Aviv is waiting in line. Long story short, last night, maybe around eleven, I was sitting in front of the television, just to relax—they were showing Chopin’s Bolognese with some famous Russian pianist; I was always considered the musical type . . . and suddenly I had an inspiration. I called her and said, ‘Liziku’ (that’s how I call her when we’re alone), ‘excuse me for calling so late, but why don’t you bring your pills to the water park tomorrow morning? It’s an opportunity.’ She said, ‘what, just like that, tomorrow?’ I said, ‘why not? I’ve never heard of a law against being spontaneous. You come, then we’ll work it out with the boss, I mean with you.’ Those were my exact words, may the worms eat me up right now if I’m lying and bon appétit. Don’t worry, Tzippileh, we’ll pay whatever we need. No need to make a big ba-boom about every little thing.”

“When I’m done with you, you’ll need more than a ba-boom, you’ll need an undertaker!” Zinman cried. “Since when do you decide who sells what in my shows? And when exactly were you thinking of letting me know about this? No, I wasn’t born yesterday, lady; I’ve known all about your Romanian tricks for a long time!”

“Anita Shagrir never spoke to me like this,” the merchant said rebelliously.

“Excuse me??? You know what? Why don’t you go back to her, if you’re so unhappy with me? You can crawl to her on all fours for all I care. The whole world knows what she calls you behind your back.”

“You’d think she calls you any better . . .”

“Not interested, thank you!”

“Grocery Girl!” Sara called. “That’s what she calls you: Grocery Girl!!!”

“That moment I felt as if a bomb dropped,” Nachliel Zarfaty would say later.

Tzippi Zinman paled. Her blue eyes burned, her breasts rose, she shook her lion’s mane and landed her palm on the table with full force. “Now!” she screamed. “You’re going to take your shmattes right now and get the hell out of here, or I’ll rip all of your dresses, one by one! Now!”

“Duvia!” Sara Consignment yelled, waving her arms. “Duvia! Help! Your mother wants to murder me!”

G.

“What is she fussing about, your mameniu?” asked Avrum, who had just arrived from the area of the old swimming pool. A large towel covered his torso like a cloak; water droplets shone on his legs.

“The Romanian cheated her again,” said Fat Tuvia, who had been following the events serenely from below his umbrella hat.

“Where did you disappear to?” asked Dvora. “And where’s Bina?”

“How should I know? Isn’t she with you?”

“What do you mean? You took her with you to get a Coke.”

“There was a line, so I left her there—she said she was going right back to the stall because you promised you’d take her to bingo. You let her go alone—you mean to tell me she hasn’t come back yet?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s only been about twenty minutes.”

Dvora glanced at her watch. “Forty,” she said.

Silence fell.

“Say, Avrum, did you happen to eat that half croissant I left in the bag?”

“Are you crazy? I’m on a diet, look at my gut.”

“I don’t like this one bit.” She sighed. “She probably ate that croissant behind my back. Who knows where she is—she might be writhing with pain in some corner. What a mistake, what a mistake—I’m the stupid one, I swear. What did I bring her to the water park again for? After the embarrassment she caused last time? And don’t tell me ‘relax, Dvora’—with all due respect, Avrum, you have no idea! You haven’t seen her having an attack for years.”

“Okay, don’t make this into a tragedy,” Avrum said. “Let’s both go look for her—Tuvia can mind the stall by himself for a few minutes, the rush hour is over anyway.”

“Go, go,” Tuvia urged them. “I’m here, just leave the cashbox.”

The afternoon drew near. The sun blazed, and the vacationers deserted the stalls and searched for respite—some in the cold water; others under the blue raffia sheds. Fat Tuvia, who was now unemployed, set a plastic chair in the shade of one of the trees, took off his umbrella cap, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and began counting the earnings. He wrote down the final number in a dog-eared pad. Since he was bored, he decided to add up the revenue for the entire period, since the beginning of summer, then deduct expenses and divide in two. To his delight, he found that the profits were higher than he had thought—he and his aunt had earned no less than 4,300 shekels each—more than $2,000!—and he assumed by the time they shut down the stall, in two or three hours, they would manage to scrounge up a little more. He looked affectionately at the pile of garments left on the table and decided to donate the items they did not sell by the end of the day to a certain charity he knew in Petah Tikva. He also planned on investing his profits in a trip, like his aunt Dvora, but he replaced the family trip to Seefeld with a vacation in Greece with Maya. In fact, he had already discussed the matter with her—they had determined to go to Santorini or one of the nearby islands at the end of September; newspapers were filled with one-inch ads offering round trips for tempting prices. He pondered the voyage, but mainly the conversation he would soon have to have with his father, in which he would announce his intention to retire from the grocery store.

Ever since he could think for himself, sometime in the early 1970s, Fat Tuvia knew that the addendum and sons on the grocery sign referred only to him. From his early days, he prepared for the moment when he would become an equal partner in the business. In the evening, when his father sat in the kitchen and checked the supply certificates and the accounting books, he would read them over his shoulder and memorize the procedures. As early as fifteen, he would take his father’s place behind the counter from time to time, and soon strummed the keys of the cash register with a skill no less impressive than his sister Shirley’s as she played her saw. When he grew up, he also became an expert in petty scalping, and formed understandings with the De Picciotto Street wholesalers downtown, where he and his father went to buy smoked mackerels and British-made soap. The grocery store was a sort of old-time synagogue—a sleepy institution in which a regular crowd convened each day, and in which he had always had a reserved seat at the gabbai’s bench. But lately, Tuvia had been experiencing heretical thoughts. New horizons had been revealed to him, piquing his interest. New ideas excited his imagination. He even dared to consider higher education. Of all the sciences, his heart was drawn to sociology, but since he had not taken his matriculation exams seriously in high school (they seemed unnecessary at the time), he decided, as a first step, to improve his scores. Then he might enroll in college—now he felt like going as far as Haifa. On the afternoon of August 30, on the plastic chair at the water park, he first envisioned the silver plate that would be attached to the door of his office: “T. Zinman, Youth Probation Officer.”

And then, all at once, the sprawling meadows of his future were replaced with the yellowing ground of the water park. A sort of fizzling he had not sensed until then suddenly called his attention and forced him to look up from the pad. Something had happened. The heat-stroked vacationers who had been lazily lounging around had awoken by some invisible alarm. From the random scattering of people and umbrellas, an inexplicable, yet decisive and insistent motion gradually formed—inside, to the depths of the park, toward the wave pool. One by one, like iron powder pulled toward a magnetic pen, more and more people joined the flow. A medley of indecipherable voices rose—excited calls, yells; broken, distant echoes of loudspeaker announcements. The music, which had been screaming through the sound system all morning, suddenly stopped, leaving behind a bothersome vacuum. Something had happened. A sense of alarm stood in the air, accompanied by a certain festiveness. The merchants, unable to leave their stalls, stood up and stared. Mama Frumkin sent her husband to find out what had happened. Only minutes had gone by when, from among the crowd, a group of young men stood out—some were familiar to Tuvia as staff members—running together in the opposite direction, calling to each other and making ambiguous hand signals. Behind them, like a sort of trail, hopped a row of excited boys. One of them, a lanky black-haired child, suddenly let out a cry and fell down not far from Tuvia’s stall.

“Kid!” Tuvia called, “are you okay?”

The boy sat up, leaned forward and examined his foot worriedly.

Tuvia walked over. “Are you hurt? Let me see.”

The boy turned his head and fixed Tuvia with suspicious eyes. Tuvia examined his ankle gently.

“Ow!”

“It’s nothing,” Tuvia said. “Come on, I have some ice in my cooler, we’ll put some on your ankle to keep it from swelling.”

He gave him a hand and supported him. The boy, who finally gave in, hopped over to the counter and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. Tuvia tore a paper towel, wrapped it around some ice cubes and placed it on the child’s ankle.

“Press down on it. Does it still hurt?”

“Yes.”

Tuvia took a nut wafer he had been saving for himself for later out of the cooler and gave it to the wounded boy.

“Say, kid,” he asked, “what was all that mess earlier? What happened?”

“I didn’t do anything, honest! I’m ten and a half, I’m allowed to go into the pool alone.”

“But what happened?”

“Besides, I wasn’t alone, I was with my older cousins from Jerusalem . . .” The boy quieted down for a moment and bit into the wafer. “One man blocked my view, but Kobi and Ben were there, really close, and they saw everything, they said it was really gross. Then we heard that the lifeguards went to bring a gurney. We ran after them because we wanted to see, but then I stepped on that stone.”

“But why a gurney?” Tuvia asked. “Was somebody hurt?”

“What, you haven’t heard?” the boy asked self-importantly. “They found a dead lady in the wave pool.”

On August 31, the water park was open to the public again. The employee committee season had come to an end; the merchants and their stalls, the models, Albert Ben Arroya and his bingo machine—it was as if none of it had ever happened. At 7:30 in the morning, the ninja boys were already poking their sharp sticks through the final remnants of the combined Tadiran employees and X-ray employee union fun day. Light clouds floated over Shfayim, reflecting in the pools. The meteorologists forecasted a marked relief in the heat wave. The lifeguard on duty arrived as usual, around eight. First he went to the snack bar for a cup of black coffee and to catch up with the shift manager regarding the previous day’s disaster. Then he took the bucket and the net used to collect floating filth from the pools and went to work. While he treated the wave pool, a light, plump stain caught his eye. When he brought up the net he found a sort of tiny, water-absorbed pillow. Throughout the summer, he had grown used to pulling out all sorts of unexpected objects—once he even found a ring with a precious gem, and another time a fork and spoon—but he could not figure out the nature of the object he had just caught. The young lifeguard, a loyal son of the kibbutz, had never been interested in the world beyond the water park’s bougainvillea hedges. His understanding of the fashion world could be summed up with the rule “shorts in summer, pants in winter”; he was unable to guess that the sponge-like object was actually a shoulder pad—one of the pair of shoulder pads that Nachliel Zarfaty had given Bina the previous day. The lifeguard muttered something about the rudeness of vacationers, allowing themselves to pollute the pool water with garbage, and tossed the orphaned pad into the bucket with disgust, where it landed among dead dragonflies and fallen leaves.