Bound by Debt, page 4
“Hello, is anybody here?” I call out, my voice husky. I wait. The only thing I hear is the loud throbbing in my temples.
Scanning the living room, I see Yuval’s bicycle with the training wheels lying on its side, Beari-bear is on the carpet looking up at the ceiling, Goldilocks, Yuval’s favorite doll, is seated on the couch. Next to the stuffed bear, Yuval’s toys are scattered in a mess: a cloth rabbit, a plastic telephone, a bottle of juice with a nipple.
Frightened by the silence, I wail again in a broken voice, “Anat!”
“In the bedroom. We are in the bedroom.” The babysitter’s answer rolls muffled down the hallway.
Opening the bedroom door, I lean back against the doorframe, flooded with an overwhelming sweetness that brings me back to life. “Phew……” I release a sigh of relief and smile faintly. Yuval and the babysitter are sprawled on my queen bed. Curled up between them is Isabelle, our long-haired Angora. Anat, in yellow sweatpants, is focused on the TV. Yuval is in her blue kitten pajamas asleep, hugging her smiley stuffed tiger.
“What’s going on?” I call, out of breath.
“Shhh.” I am immediately silenced by Anat’s finger on her lips, while her eyes never leave the screen.
“But…”
“Shhh,” Anat implores. “Yuval only fell asleep about an hour ago. I promised her she could watch a movie in your bed as long as she finished her omelet,” she explains in a whisper.
“Thank God all is fine,” I say.
I thank Anat and pay her, then I wrap Yuval up in my arms and carry her to her room. Her curly head nestled against my shoulder spreads a delightful feeling through my bones. I place my child in her bed, skimming her cheek with a goodnight kiss. How beautiful my child is. How loved she is. In a daze of gratitude and peace, I draw in a long breath. Her sweet baby scent fills me with a quivering warmth.
Finally in my bed, I cannot fall asleep. David Schwartz’s predator eyes are locked on me. His admonitions fuel my blood with adrenaline. A strong trepidation overwhelms the pleasure of falling asleep, and a mess of horror scenarios starts running amok in my head. I toss and turn, reviewing the encounters with Dorfi over and over. David Schwartz’s words keep streaming through my consciousness. Every word, every movement, every expression.
“Sooner or later they will get to you.” His words mesh with Raphi’s so intensely that I can hear Raphi’s voice with his sweet speech impediment. “You are playing with fire; this place is dangerous.” They may be right. My temples pound with terror. I toss between the sheets and bundle myself up trying to find a comfortable position, but my mind is in turmoil. At last I am swept away from exhaustion into a troubled sleep.
Saturday. Fanning rays of light seep through the slats in the blinds. I throw a quick glance at the clock and realize it is almost nine. I break free of the bed in a sleepy daze and open the blinds. A new morning’s breath flutters the curtains sending an unexpected serenity to trickle through me. Bewitched by the morning spell, I inhale the purifying air. Outside, I see the backs of graying buildings. Brown pipes and battered air conditioners hang on layers of peeling stucco. A New York morning drenched in bluish gloom. I step into my slippers thoughtlessly and hasten to Yuval’s room.
My heart surges with love at the sight of my daughter seated on the carpet in the midst of wooden cubes and plastic animals. Yuval, busy in doll play, is feeding Goldilocks with a spoon. “If you don’t finish your omelet, Mom is gonna be mad at you!” She turns to the side. “Goldilocks is eating, and you are bothering her,” she says as she pushes the plastic animals aside. “And you, Tiger, get lost. Go back to your cave,” she commands and shoves the stuffed tiger under the dresser.
The TV plays an animated movie producing a variety of squawking noises. Standing in the doorway, observing my child of golden curls and sweet cherry lips uttering the words in her high-pitched voice, an overwhelming sense of gratitude fills my heart. I am the mother of the most beautiful girl on earth with the most stunning blue eyes, the most sensitive soul, and the smartest mind. A tidal wave of pure joy envelops me as Yuval senses my presence.
She leaps towards me, hangs around my neck, wraps her little legs around my hips and asks, “Mommy, did you sleep well? Me, I fell asleep quickly and woke up early. Anat let me watch a movie in your bed because I finished my omelet with no arguing.”
“I slept great, Yuvali. And you, sweet thing, the light of my life, were so quiet and made sure not to make any noise,” I say as I stroke her body clinging to me, and I cover her with kisses.
The vapor of her breath caresses my ears like a whisper as we proceed to the kitchen, nuzzling each other’s faces like puppies. The bliss is abruptly disturbed when my mind alights on the concept of our fragile existence with a gloomy recollection of last night’s encounter. Schwartz’s alarming words, “Get your daughter, collect your belongings, and get the hell out of here. Leave the city. Vanish,” echo in my mind. They are accompanied by the image of Dorfman’s haunted face, immediately followed by the figures of the two mysterious characters in gray coats waiting for me at the entrance to our building and then disappearing. I tighten my grip on my daughter. Determined to drive away the terrifying images, I ask Yuval if she is ready for pancakes.
In the kitchen, as we do every Saturday morning, Yuval and I perform a ritual that is exclusively ours. Like a precision drill team we leap into action by first gathering the ingredients. That taken care of, I set a tall chair next to the counter so Yuval can help out in the next part. Behind us we position another bar stool, a royal seat for Beari-bear so can watch us with his beady eyes. I help Yuval up on her chair then arrange the flour, sugar, milk, and the rest of the ingredients in front of us. Into a bowl I crack two eggs, add a cup of flour, two tablespoons of oil, some sugar, and a cup of milk. I pass the spoon to Yuval, and she, steady on her chair, grabs it enthusiastically and starts blending the thick mixture.
Watching her, my thoughts wander to Eitan, who hasn’t seen Yuval since she was a baby. Thank God he is not interested; it is better this way. Yuval has grown up in a single-parent reality and knows nothing else. She never asks about him and doesn’t miss him. It is only me who is fixed in anger that bubbles over the man who compelled me to love him. The king of lovers like no other who abandoned me in the face of his need to conquer and fuck everything that moves. Our souls danced a perfect duet until our honeymoon and the crisis that dumped me into the dark hole where mud was thrown in my face. How, how did I not see it, how did I get so unlucky? I was filled with happiness when I finally managed to marry and free myself from my sick family, and the motherfucker goes and screws another woman, leaving me pregnant with Yuval.
My Israeli past is gripping my thoughts with its fierce fingers, guiding them to bring back from oblivion vivid memories. And now here I am, alone in this harsh city, trying to get it together and constantly stumbling. Why am I stuck? Why so unlucky? I wonder, absentmindedly collecting a couple of coffee mugs left on the counter from yesterday.
“Ring around the Rosie, pocket full of posies,” Yuval is babbling and stirring.
“That’s it, it’s ready,” I announce. I put a skillet on the fire and pour two pools of batter into it. After a short sauté, I flip the cakes onto the plates with a spatula.
Yuval pours golden apple syrup on them and spirals it around, drawing snails on the pancakes. “Mommy, when are we going to the park to see Alice and the rabbit with the watch?”
“When we finish eating,” I answer, licking the spoon.
A crystal clear morning graces Manhattan, almost no clouds. Under the porcelain sky, Yuval and I march to Central Park to visit the garden with the statue of Alice in Wonderland for the millionth time. We hold hands on the path and watch as people come and go, cyclists ride by, determined athletes run and jog, moms push baby carriages, and Yuval suddenly says, “Mommy, Anat says we are going back to Israel in one year.”
“I wish,” I reply. “It all depends on how much money we can save. When we have enough, we will go back. And when we go back we will go to my old village in Emek Izrael, we will buy a little plot of land where we will build a little house, and we will have cats and dogs, real animals that make sounds, with real fur, not plastic. And we will clean up the land and plant seeds, and we will have a vegetable garden with cilantro and corn and basil and many more good things.”
“But, Mommy, I don’t know anybody in that village. What if I don’t have any friends?”
“You will, Yuvali. You will have plenty. Lots of friends. Kids from your class and neighbors from the village, Israeli kids like you that you can play with outside and in the open fields. It will be fun there, I promise,” I answer, wishing for my vision to come true soon.
“But, Mommy, I love the friends I have in Netivot Shalom. I love Jessica and want her to always be my best friend. And what if the kids in the village don’t want to play with me?”
“Yuvali, my doll, light of my life, we aren’t going back yet. It’s still early to make plans,” I reply while a tinge of longing flickers in my heart. “And because you are such a wonderful girl, everyone will want to play with you, always.”
In Alice’s garden, I release her tiny hand from my grasp and settle myself on a bench. Yuval runs up to the statue with her small focused steps. A balding, middle-aged runner with gray sideburns gives me an appreciative look over his shoulder as he passes by. In front of me, a blind old lady in a stained dress taps the opposite bench with her cane, feeling her way around. On my left, a hunched man in a shabby jacket is rooting through a garbage can. A religious woman beneath a cumbersome coif is coming towards me from the other end of the park. The woman is pushing a baby carriage, her eyes latch on to mine. Her baby squeals. Indifferent to her baby’s cry, she keeps on glaring at me, sending waves of hate through her eyes, nailing me down with contempt. Behind her, a man with a protruding forehead and slicked-back hair tramps along. He too, from under a bushy set of eyebrows, is directing his stare towards me. He reminds me of Schwartz. Is it him? I send quick glances in all directions, and my body stiffens. Where shall I hide from the ones who plead for my death?
“Mommy,” my child’s delicate voice rattles me from my fright, “did you see that Alice’s bunny is wearing kid’s clothes?” Yuval is jumping around the statue of Alice, waving at me.
“Yes, my sweets, I see. It’s because rabbits like to dress like boys.” I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind and sigh with relief when the evil characters’ procession passes by and continues on its way.
Chapter 5
Back in the main lounge, the nod of the high priestess permits the Haredi Jew to proceed. The man in a dark tie and unbuttoned suit presents himself before me. He takes off his bowler hat in my honor and reveals a hank of hair smeared on a scalp covered by a black skullcap. With his tassels poking out of his belt and his curled sidelocks hidden behind oversized ears, he reminds me of a clown drawing in a Mad magazine. Avoiding looking directly at me, the Jew calls out my name. Shrinking fear grabs at me: He is one of them. He is one of Dorfman’s friends.
“Come.” He extends a sticky hand my way, blinks nervously, and helps me up.
Friend or foe? Surging with dread, I follow his footsteps as he makes his way towards the corridor that goes to the private rooms. His beard leads, and his body follows behind. As we pass Tony at the counter, the Jew in front and me trailing behind, an unexpected obstacle gets between us. An Italian-looking man is blocking my way. His collar popped, his dark eyes shaded by a thick unibrow, he radiates hostility.
“Excuse me,” I say and signal my request to pass.
“Excused,” the man answers in a cheeky Italian accent, gets out of the way, and gestures with a curling index finger that he is next. While he is whispering with Tony, he sends me a triumphant glance with a wink, leans over the counter, and passes Tony a bill.
A pesky realization strikes me: Everyone here is a criminal, all of them crooks. All of them Jews, friends of Dorfman. While me and the Haredi Jew trying to lead our way to the back, Tony pays no attention to me or the proffered bill; he’s busy breaking up the white powder on the glass desktop, using a small blade to measure and spread. He works frantically, his hands shaking on the table, his head sunk deep between his shoulders. The space is narrow. The Italian’s body, pressed against the wall, rubs up against mine as I make my way between the counter and his chest. Suddenly, Tony halts his business. He lifts his face up, squints, and two fingers reach to hold his nose. In a split second, a loud juicy sneeze cracks out of his mouth shattering the atmosphere in the lounge. The white powder sprays in all directions.
The Italian holds his head and swears, “Gesù Cristo, dimmi che non c’è niente.”
A stream of satisfaction passes through me, a delight that vanishes immediately with Tony’s order, “Hurry up Iris. There’s a client waiting for you here.”
“Tell him it’s gonna take a long time.” I gesture at my Haredi, who is peering at me from the corridor’s darkness, to keep walking. At the back wing, my Jew stops next to the condom machine. He slides a few coins into it, collects three blue packages that say “Medium” on the front, and slides them into his pocket.
A small square tallis with its four tassels covering a huge potbelly clutches my body. The client’s hair is greasy and sticking to his forehead, his skullcap is set in an angel to the left. His eyes, little piglet eyes folded into their creases, flutter intermittently. A quiet Jew, not communicative. He doesn’t want information and doesn’t seem to want to make my acquaintance. Silent as the wall. A transient thought crosses my mind as I look at his doughy body quivering with desire, and I begin to think he might be mute or perhaps a stutterer as the fear of him being connected to Dorfman gradually dissipates. Standing in front of me in his boxer briefs and his bristling beard, breathing with his mouth open, he reaches out a hand to touch me. Time to disappear, I command the Iris inside me, and dive into the depths of my hollow.
I close my eyes tightly. I am already gone, gone to float in alternate universes. Thoughts of green fields and sunshine occupy my senses as my body feels the touch of my dilapidated customer standing before me. I order myself not to flinch from the erection pounding inside his briefs. Still standing with my back to the X-rated movie issuing sounds of a woman’s groans, I sway my hips left and right and shove my hand forward to grab his penis. He is ready. We undress and lie down. He slides his member into a condom he had prepared and then turns to reach for my nipples. Still not making a sound, in an efficient motion, he slips inside me, presses his lips on my neck and starts sucking. The warmth of his breath bothers me when he bites my earlobe then comes back for my neck while thrusting his pelvis back and forth.
I am eight years old, back home in the field of my village. I am hiding in the cypress trees, and my big brother, Moshe, is looking for me. My mother calls for me. I can hear her voice but cannot see her face. The silent Jew is quickly gratified, three pelvic moves, and he spasms. The cackling coo that escapes his throat announces the end of ejaculation. He rolls down by my side, docile. His weary organ, robbed of its vigor, is shrunken like a dead worm. With his paunch still swaying, the Jew heaves a sigh of relief. Scanning his profile I notice his face is glowing, and a bashful smile is hiding inside his beard. I am encouraged by his friendly smile and tickled with the idea that my client has no idea, not a clue, that he shares the same God with the hooker he just dove into.
Lying by my side, eyelids droopy and a double chin trembling in sync with his breaths, he strokes my hair and suddenly blathers, “Iris, I want to be your regular.” The words like foam spray out of his small mouth crammed between a mustache and a wild beard that hangs from his lower lip. I am surprised to hear the sound of his clear voice for the first time.
“It would be my honor.”
“You know the work,” he says in a soft voice as he picks his pants up off the carpet, whips out a wallet from the back pocket, and pays me five hundred dollars.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling grateful that the Dorfman ordeal wasn’t mentioned. Then I get up to wrap myself in a white towel and head towards the shower.
The thought of the slimy Italian who was blocking my way by the counter, the repulsive creature who bribed Tony with a handful of cocaine, is terrifying me. Under the fluorescent light in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, I can see the horror in my eyes. My reflection, in tones of gray, is encrypted with dread. My face is pale, my cheeks sunken. My squinting eyes narrow my gaze, disclosing my trembling heart that rises up and stumbles, soars and then plunges.
When I return to the room, the Haredi has already left. Alone in the dim light I count the sum that has accumulated in my wallet this evening. Four customers, fifteen hundred dollars. I shove the bills back in my wallet, guilt and absolution folded between them.
I put my face on and return to the main lounge. The Italian picks me up immediately, his familiarity with the maze of the Palace’s back wing tells me he has been here before. So does his choice of the last room, the most coveted, a room with a Jacuzzi and a waterbed.
“Ricardo Mateotti. Nice to meet you.” He stretches out a rigid hand, his eyes fixed deeply in their black sockets like the opening of two dark caves.
“Nice to meet you,” I respond and shake his hand.
“Ricardo Mateotti, attorney for Yeruham Mendel Dorfman. Family friend and the executor of the estate,” he declares in his conspicuous Italian accent. He takes his beret off in my honor to reveal a pear-shaped skull beneath an uneven crew cut.
“How are they?” I inquire sincerely, recalling the obituary on the synagogue gate with the names of the bereaved: his wife, Faige, and sons Shlomo, Aryeh, and Shmuel.
“It’s hard, very hard, especially for his wife. The boys hired people to help find out who killed their father… But I didn’t come here to speak for them. I came here in the name of the victims, the diamond dealers Dorfman cheated and stole fortunes from. Just as the Dorfman boys will not rest until they find his murderer, so will I not rest until the money goes back to its rightful owners.” The Italian gets comfortable in the recliner and fixes bloodshot eyes over a huge hunk of a nose on me. “And you, Iris, are the lead. You are the clue that will point us in the right direction.”
Scanning the living room, I see Yuval’s bicycle with the training wheels lying on its side, Beari-bear is on the carpet looking up at the ceiling, Goldilocks, Yuval’s favorite doll, is seated on the couch. Next to the stuffed bear, Yuval’s toys are scattered in a mess: a cloth rabbit, a plastic telephone, a bottle of juice with a nipple.
Frightened by the silence, I wail again in a broken voice, “Anat!”
“In the bedroom. We are in the bedroom.” The babysitter’s answer rolls muffled down the hallway.
Opening the bedroom door, I lean back against the doorframe, flooded with an overwhelming sweetness that brings me back to life. “Phew……” I release a sigh of relief and smile faintly. Yuval and the babysitter are sprawled on my queen bed. Curled up between them is Isabelle, our long-haired Angora. Anat, in yellow sweatpants, is focused on the TV. Yuval is in her blue kitten pajamas asleep, hugging her smiley stuffed tiger.
“What’s going on?” I call, out of breath.
“Shhh.” I am immediately silenced by Anat’s finger on her lips, while her eyes never leave the screen.
“But…”
“Shhh,” Anat implores. “Yuval only fell asleep about an hour ago. I promised her she could watch a movie in your bed as long as she finished her omelet,” she explains in a whisper.
“Thank God all is fine,” I say.
I thank Anat and pay her, then I wrap Yuval up in my arms and carry her to her room. Her curly head nestled against my shoulder spreads a delightful feeling through my bones. I place my child in her bed, skimming her cheek with a goodnight kiss. How beautiful my child is. How loved she is. In a daze of gratitude and peace, I draw in a long breath. Her sweet baby scent fills me with a quivering warmth.
Finally in my bed, I cannot fall asleep. David Schwartz’s predator eyes are locked on me. His admonitions fuel my blood with adrenaline. A strong trepidation overwhelms the pleasure of falling asleep, and a mess of horror scenarios starts running amok in my head. I toss and turn, reviewing the encounters with Dorfi over and over. David Schwartz’s words keep streaming through my consciousness. Every word, every movement, every expression.
“Sooner or later they will get to you.” His words mesh with Raphi’s so intensely that I can hear Raphi’s voice with his sweet speech impediment. “You are playing with fire; this place is dangerous.” They may be right. My temples pound with terror. I toss between the sheets and bundle myself up trying to find a comfortable position, but my mind is in turmoil. At last I am swept away from exhaustion into a troubled sleep.
Saturday. Fanning rays of light seep through the slats in the blinds. I throw a quick glance at the clock and realize it is almost nine. I break free of the bed in a sleepy daze and open the blinds. A new morning’s breath flutters the curtains sending an unexpected serenity to trickle through me. Bewitched by the morning spell, I inhale the purifying air. Outside, I see the backs of graying buildings. Brown pipes and battered air conditioners hang on layers of peeling stucco. A New York morning drenched in bluish gloom. I step into my slippers thoughtlessly and hasten to Yuval’s room.
My heart surges with love at the sight of my daughter seated on the carpet in the midst of wooden cubes and plastic animals. Yuval, busy in doll play, is feeding Goldilocks with a spoon. “If you don’t finish your omelet, Mom is gonna be mad at you!” She turns to the side. “Goldilocks is eating, and you are bothering her,” she says as she pushes the plastic animals aside. “And you, Tiger, get lost. Go back to your cave,” she commands and shoves the stuffed tiger under the dresser.
The TV plays an animated movie producing a variety of squawking noises. Standing in the doorway, observing my child of golden curls and sweet cherry lips uttering the words in her high-pitched voice, an overwhelming sense of gratitude fills my heart. I am the mother of the most beautiful girl on earth with the most stunning blue eyes, the most sensitive soul, and the smartest mind. A tidal wave of pure joy envelops me as Yuval senses my presence.
She leaps towards me, hangs around my neck, wraps her little legs around my hips and asks, “Mommy, did you sleep well? Me, I fell asleep quickly and woke up early. Anat let me watch a movie in your bed because I finished my omelet with no arguing.”
“I slept great, Yuvali. And you, sweet thing, the light of my life, were so quiet and made sure not to make any noise,” I say as I stroke her body clinging to me, and I cover her with kisses.
The vapor of her breath caresses my ears like a whisper as we proceed to the kitchen, nuzzling each other’s faces like puppies. The bliss is abruptly disturbed when my mind alights on the concept of our fragile existence with a gloomy recollection of last night’s encounter. Schwartz’s alarming words, “Get your daughter, collect your belongings, and get the hell out of here. Leave the city. Vanish,” echo in my mind. They are accompanied by the image of Dorfman’s haunted face, immediately followed by the figures of the two mysterious characters in gray coats waiting for me at the entrance to our building and then disappearing. I tighten my grip on my daughter. Determined to drive away the terrifying images, I ask Yuval if she is ready for pancakes.
In the kitchen, as we do every Saturday morning, Yuval and I perform a ritual that is exclusively ours. Like a precision drill team we leap into action by first gathering the ingredients. That taken care of, I set a tall chair next to the counter so Yuval can help out in the next part. Behind us we position another bar stool, a royal seat for Beari-bear so can watch us with his beady eyes. I help Yuval up on her chair then arrange the flour, sugar, milk, and the rest of the ingredients in front of us. Into a bowl I crack two eggs, add a cup of flour, two tablespoons of oil, some sugar, and a cup of milk. I pass the spoon to Yuval, and she, steady on her chair, grabs it enthusiastically and starts blending the thick mixture.
Watching her, my thoughts wander to Eitan, who hasn’t seen Yuval since she was a baby. Thank God he is not interested; it is better this way. Yuval has grown up in a single-parent reality and knows nothing else. She never asks about him and doesn’t miss him. It is only me who is fixed in anger that bubbles over the man who compelled me to love him. The king of lovers like no other who abandoned me in the face of his need to conquer and fuck everything that moves. Our souls danced a perfect duet until our honeymoon and the crisis that dumped me into the dark hole where mud was thrown in my face. How, how did I not see it, how did I get so unlucky? I was filled with happiness when I finally managed to marry and free myself from my sick family, and the motherfucker goes and screws another woman, leaving me pregnant with Yuval.
My Israeli past is gripping my thoughts with its fierce fingers, guiding them to bring back from oblivion vivid memories. And now here I am, alone in this harsh city, trying to get it together and constantly stumbling. Why am I stuck? Why so unlucky? I wonder, absentmindedly collecting a couple of coffee mugs left on the counter from yesterday.
“Ring around the Rosie, pocket full of posies,” Yuval is babbling and stirring.
“That’s it, it’s ready,” I announce. I put a skillet on the fire and pour two pools of batter into it. After a short sauté, I flip the cakes onto the plates with a spatula.
Yuval pours golden apple syrup on them and spirals it around, drawing snails on the pancakes. “Mommy, when are we going to the park to see Alice and the rabbit with the watch?”
“When we finish eating,” I answer, licking the spoon.
A crystal clear morning graces Manhattan, almost no clouds. Under the porcelain sky, Yuval and I march to Central Park to visit the garden with the statue of Alice in Wonderland for the millionth time. We hold hands on the path and watch as people come and go, cyclists ride by, determined athletes run and jog, moms push baby carriages, and Yuval suddenly says, “Mommy, Anat says we are going back to Israel in one year.”
“I wish,” I reply. “It all depends on how much money we can save. When we have enough, we will go back. And when we go back we will go to my old village in Emek Izrael, we will buy a little plot of land where we will build a little house, and we will have cats and dogs, real animals that make sounds, with real fur, not plastic. And we will clean up the land and plant seeds, and we will have a vegetable garden with cilantro and corn and basil and many more good things.”
“But, Mommy, I don’t know anybody in that village. What if I don’t have any friends?”
“You will, Yuvali. You will have plenty. Lots of friends. Kids from your class and neighbors from the village, Israeli kids like you that you can play with outside and in the open fields. It will be fun there, I promise,” I answer, wishing for my vision to come true soon.
“But, Mommy, I love the friends I have in Netivot Shalom. I love Jessica and want her to always be my best friend. And what if the kids in the village don’t want to play with me?”
“Yuvali, my doll, light of my life, we aren’t going back yet. It’s still early to make plans,” I reply while a tinge of longing flickers in my heart. “And because you are such a wonderful girl, everyone will want to play with you, always.”
In Alice’s garden, I release her tiny hand from my grasp and settle myself on a bench. Yuval runs up to the statue with her small focused steps. A balding, middle-aged runner with gray sideburns gives me an appreciative look over his shoulder as he passes by. In front of me, a blind old lady in a stained dress taps the opposite bench with her cane, feeling her way around. On my left, a hunched man in a shabby jacket is rooting through a garbage can. A religious woman beneath a cumbersome coif is coming towards me from the other end of the park. The woman is pushing a baby carriage, her eyes latch on to mine. Her baby squeals. Indifferent to her baby’s cry, she keeps on glaring at me, sending waves of hate through her eyes, nailing me down with contempt. Behind her, a man with a protruding forehead and slicked-back hair tramps along. He too, from under a bushy set of eyebrows, is directing his stare towards me. He reminds me of Schwartz. Is it him? I send quick glances in all directions, and my body stiffens. Where shall I hide from the ones who plead for my death?
“Mommy,” my child’s delicate voice rattles me from my fright, “did you see that Alice’s bunny is wearing kid’s clothes?” Yuval is jumping around the statue of Alice, waving at me.
“Yes, my sweets, I see. It’s because rabbits like to dress like boys.” I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind and sigh with relief when the evil characters’ procession passes by and continues on its way.
Chapter 5
Back in the main lounge, the nod of the high priestess permits the Haredi Jew to proceed. The man in a dark tie and unbuttoned suit presents himself before me. He takes off his bowler hat in my honor and reveals a hank of hair smeared on a scalp covered by a black skullcap. With his tassels poking out of his belt and his curled sidelocks hidden behind oversized ears, he reminds me of a clown drawing in a Mad magazine. Avoiding looking directly at me, the Jew calls out my name. Shrinking fear grabs at me: He is one of them. He is one of Dorfman’s friends.
“Come.” He extends a sticky hand my way, blinks nervously, and helps me up.
Friend or foe? Surging with dread, I follow his footsteps as he makes his way towards the corridor that goes to the private rooms. His beard leads, and his body follows behind. As we pass Tony at the counter, the Jew in front and me trailing behind, an unexpected obstacle gets between us. An Italian-looking man is blocking my way. His collar popped, his dark eyes shaded by a thick unibrow, he radiates hostility.
“Excuse me,” I say and signal my request to pass.
“Excused,” the man answers in a cheeky Italian accent, gets out of the way, and gestures with a curling index finger that he is next. While he is whispering with Tony, he sends me a triumphant glance with a wink, leans over the counter, and passes Tony a bill.
A pesky realization strikes me: Everyone here is a criminal, all of them crooks. All of them Jews, friends of Dorfman. While me and the Haredi Jew trying to lead our way to the back, Tony pays no attention to me or the proffered bill; he’s busy breaking up the white powder on the glass desktop, using a small blade to measure and spread. He works frantically, his hands shaking on the table, his head sunk deep between his shoulders. The space is narrow. The Italian’s body, pressed against the wall, rubs up against mine as I make my way between the counter and his chest. Suddenly, Tony halts his business. He lifts his face up, squints, and two fingers reach to hold his nose. In a split second, a loud juicy sneeze cracks out of his mouth shattering the atmosphere in the lounge. The white powder sprays in all directions.
The Italian holds his head and swears, “Gesù Cristo, dimmi che non c’è niente.”
A stream of satisfaction passes through me, a delight that vanishes immediately with Tony’s order, “Hurry up Iris. There’s a client waiting for you here.”
“Tell him it’s gonna take a long time.” I gesture at my Haredi, who is peering at me from the corridor’s darkness, to keep walking. At the back wing, my Jew stops next to the condom machine. He slides a few coins into it, collects three blue packages that say “Medium” on the front, and slides them into his pocket.
A small square tallis with its four tassels covering a huge potbelly clutches my body. The client’s hair is greasy and sticking to his forehead, his skullcap is set in an angel to the left. His eyes, little piglet eyes folded into their creases, flutter intermittently. A quiet Jew, not communicative. He doesn’t want information and doesn’t seem to want to make my acquaintance. Silent as the wall. A transient thought crosses my mind as I look at his doughy body quivering with desire, and I begin to think he might be mute or perhaps a stutterer as the fear of him being connected to Dorfman gradually dissipates. Standing in front of me in his boxer briefs and his bristling beard, breathing with his mouth open, he reaches out a hand to touch me. Time to disappear, I command the Iris inside me, and dive into the depths of my hollow.
I close my eyes tightly. I am already gone, gone to float in alternate universes. Thoughts of green fields and sunshine occupy my senses as my body feels the touch of my dilapidated customer standing before me. I order myself not to flinch from the erection pounding inside his briefs. Still standing with my back to the X-rated movie issuing sounds of a woman’s groans, I sway my hips left and right and shove my hand forward to grab his penis. He is ready. We undress and lie down. He slides his member into a condom he had prepared and then turns to reach for my nipples. Still not making a sound, in an efficient motion, he slips inside me, presses his lips on my neck and starts sucking. The warmth of his breath bothers me when he bites my earlobe then comes back for my neck while thrusting his pelvis back and forth.
I am eight years old, back home in the field of my village. I am hiding in the cypress trees, and my big brother, Moshe, is looking for me. My mother calls for me. I can hear her voice but cannot see her face. The silent Jew is quickly gratified, three pelvic moves, and he spasms. The cackling coo that escapes his throat announces the end of ejaculation. He rolls down by my side, docile. His weary organ, robbed of its vigor, is shrunken like a dead worm. With his paunch still swaying, the Jew heaves a sigh of relief. Scanning his profile I notice his face is glowing, and a bashful smile is hiding inside his beard. I am encouraged by his friendly smile and tickled with the idea that my client has no idea, not a clue, that he shares the same God with the hooker he just dove into.
Lying by my side, eyelids droopy and a double chin trembling in sync with his breaths, he strokes my hair and suddenly blathers, “Iris, I want to be your regular.” The words like foam spray out of his small mouth crammed between a mustache and a wild beard that hangs from his lower lip. I am surprised to hear the sound of his clear voice for the first time.
“It would be my honor.”
“You know the work,” he says in a soft voice as he picks his pants up off the carpet, whips out a wallet from the back pocket, and pays me five hundred dollars.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling grateful that the Dorfman ordeal wasn’t mentioned. Then I get up to wrap myself in a white towel and head towards the shower.
The thought of the slimy Italian who was blocking my way by the counter, the repulsive creature who bribed Tony with a handful of cocaine, is terrifying me. Under the fluorescent light in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, I can see the horror in my eyes. My reflection, in tones of gray, is encrypted with dread. My face is pale, my cheeks sunken. My squinting eyes narrow my gaze, disclosing my trembling heart that rises up and stumbles, soars and then plunges.
When I return to the room, the Haredi has already left. Alone in the dim light I count the sum that has accumulated in my wallet this evening. Four customers, fifteen hundred dollars. I shove the bills back in my wallet, guilt and absolution folded between them.
I put my face on and return to the main lounge. The Italian picks me up immediately, his familiarity with the maze of the Palace’s back wing tells me he has been here before. So does his choice of the last room, the most coveted, a room with a Jacuzzi and a waterbed.
“Ricardo Mateotti. Nice to meet you.” He stretches out a rigid hand, his eyes fixed deeply in their black sockets like the opening of two dark caves.
“Nice to meet you,” I respond and shake his hand.
“Ricardo Mateotti, attorney for Yeruham Mendel Dorfman. Family friend and the executor of the estate,” he declares in his conspicuous Italian accent. He takes his beret off in my honor to reveal a pear-shaped skull beneath an uneven crew cut.
“How are they?” I inquire sincerely, recalling the obituary on the synagogue gate with the names of the bereaved: his wife, Faige, and sons Shlomo, Aryeh, and Shmuel.
“It’s hard, very hard, especially for his wife. The boys hired people to help find out who killed their father… But I didn’t come here to speak for them. I came here in the name of the victims, the diamond dealers Dorfman cheated and stole fortunes from. Just as the Dorfman boys will not rest until they find his murderer, so will I not rest until the money goes back to its rightful owners.” The Italian gets comfortable in the recliner and fixes bloodshot eyes over a huge hunk of a nose on me. “And you, Iris, are the lead. You are the clue that will point us in the right direction.”
