Tel Aviv, 1980
I used to go to Norman's every Sunday and
Wednesday night, after dance class, around nine. It was still relatively quiet
at that hour, and the three of us – Judy, Ellen, and I – used to burst in
flushed, exhilarated, perspiring, and always laughing at Ellen's latest racy
anecdote. We'd head straight for the bar and make ourselves comfortable.
Natalie was behind the bar, and she was always so generous – her gin and tonics had more gin than tonic.
Considering its somber exterior, uninviting and
uninformative, it was amazing that the place was so popular – amongst a certain
clientele, that of expatriates in Tel Aviv of the late seventies and early
eighties. If you weren't in the know, you'd never find it. From the street, all
you'd see were three small, totally opaque windows set in a featureless stucco
wall, and a heavy black door subliminally suggestive of stairs leading to a
forbidding, dark, dungeon. It didn't even have a proper handle on the outside –
just a large, round metal knocker. To get in, you had to push hard with your
shoulder. No sense in knocking – no one
would hear you.
Inside, the light was yellow and warm, the décor dark wood and shabby, burgundy-colored plush upholstery, and the music was
country-pop speckled with romantic mush.
Though we habitually sat with our backs to the door, we kept track of
everyone who came in. When the heavy door creaked, signaling a new arrival, how
could you not turn round and look?
Ellen, long-legged, enterprising and quick of
tongue, was our dance teacher and pub scout. Born and bred in Brighton, England,
she was on an indefinite stay in Israel that had begun as a trip in the
footsteps of a man now nearly forgotten. She seemed the sort of person who
always lands on her feet, an impression that intensified the longer I knew her.
It was Ellen who'd discovered Norman's, and the rest of us followed her like
kittens following Mother Cat. Judy was an uneasy new immigrant from Texas, who
hadn't yet found her place in Israeli society and probably wouldn't as long as
she clung to Ellen. As for me – a bit of a misfit in this Isle of Publand -- I
had seen Ellen's hand-crafted ad in local shop windows, thumb-tacked on to tree
trunks in the boulevard, taped to the walls of bus-stop shelters – announcing
the opening of a new dance class at the studio around the corner, and thought
it might be fun; which it certainly was. Besides, Ellen's dance class offered
several perks, such as going out to party after each dance class, and getting
to meet cute, foreign men – American, Brits, Aussies – who gravitated to
Norman's in search of a familiar type of atmosphere.
Starsky – one of the Americans – used to walk
in about half an hour after us. Only he came to Norman's every night,
Natalie assured me. He used to sit at the left-hand table nearest the bar,
under one of the loudspeakers which poured waves of country music into the cool
air. He sat alone, drinking draft beer, humming along with the music, gazing in
the general direction of the bar through his metal-rimmed glasses. I thought he
was staring at Natalie, but she said rubbish, he was just looking at her 'cause
he knew her and was too shy to look at us.
I wasn't used to shyness in men; most of the
ones I knew were either coolly supercilious or annoyingly over-familiar and
pushy. Starsky
intrigued me. I had
gathered that he worked as a consulting engineer for Israel Aerospace
Industries, probably on the Lavi fighter aircraft project, and never
discussed his work. Perhaps his semi-secret work gave him an aura of
mysteriousness. I stole glances at his rounded chin, plump cheeks, soft-looking
lips and general air of cuddliness, and found the ensemble somehow appealing,
though I wouldn’t admit it. He was pudgy, for Heavens' sake! I liked my
guys sinewy and muscular, lean and hungry – more easily identifiable as
"security" types. I couldn't be attracted to that plump, bespectacled
teddy-bear, could I?
The only person Teddy Bear seemed to talk to
was Natalie, the Australian barmaid. She was well over thirty, "an older
woman" to my twenty-something year-old eyes. A husky-voiced brunette with
knowing eyes and a warm, outgoing attitude, and extremely efficient, she seemed
to me a kind of sophisticated big sister who could show me the safe way to
exotic adventures and secret pleasures.
"My, don't you look fetching tonight!"
Natalie greeted me one Wednesday night, as we settled on our bar-stools as
usual. Glowing and rosy-cheeked from the dance class and the brisk walk to the
pub, I was safe from the embarrassment of being caught blushing. But she was
right. I had made an effort, new leotard and all, to look – well – fetching, as
Natalie put it. Or sexy, as I would put it. Would he notice?
I'll never know, since he didn't show up that night.
That I am certain of, because I stayed there till the last call.
When he wasn't there again on Thursday, I broke
down.
"Natalie," I said, as nonchalantly as
I could, which wasn't very non, "you wouldn't by any chance know where
Starsky is, would you?"
Natalie grinned. "I wondered when you'd ask!
… And when I saw you coming in on a Thursday, after having been here until – “
"Oh Natalie," I interrupted quickly,
"do spare me your keen observations…"
"Keep your knickers on, Luv," she
said, not unkindly. "If he ain't here he must be on one of his business
trips. Though you could call him and find out for yourself – what do I
know!"
I hesitated. Calling a guy was a bit forward,
but not unheard of. Besides, if Natalie suggested it, it must be okay… and I
put out my hand, giving her a challenging look.
She handed me a business card. It said Gabe
Starsky, Engineering Consultant, in no-nonsense black lettering. And the
coveted phone number. A Tel Aviv number, its first two digits indicating that
it belonged to that neighborhood; he must live pretty near; all I had to do was
call. There was a phone at Norman's, of course, but I wouldn't dream of phoning
Teddy Bear within Natalie's hearing.
"Hold my drink, will you," I said to
Natalie and headed
for the phone-booth just
around the corner, feeling for the token in my pocket. I took a deep breath and
dialed quickly, before I lost my nerve. No reply. I tried again. And again.
Damn! For all I knew he may be away for weeks! What am I going to do? Haunt
Norman's or try that number night after night? …
Deflated but not defeated, I returned to the
bar and my drink, fidgeting unhappily.
"There was no reply", I blurted
without preamble when Natalie took my glass to refill it.
"Told you, Honey," she said brightly.
"He's probably away on one of his business trips."
"How do you know so much?" I asked,
catching myself barely in time to make the question sound amused rather than
suspicious.
"I don't know so much. But when his Fuego
isn't parked over there near the Pizza place, it usually means he's away on
business."
"You mean that beautiful, slinky, sexy,
silver Renault Fuego is his?" I said, rather impressed. "I thought it
belonged to the owner of the pizza place. Don't you think a man would want to
show off a car like that?" For me, carless and with no hope of a car in
the foreseeable future, having the latest, most coveted model of a European car
was something worth showing off.
"Not
him. I'm sure he parks it there on purpose. I know he adores his car – seen him
talk to it and stroke it… but he wouldn't flaunt it. Uh-uh, not him."
"Thanks all the same, Natalie," I
said, and then she got busy with some other regulars. I was left with the
feeling that she knew a lot more. Not surprising. Bartenders usually do, don't
they? Over time, they could probably learn quite a bit even about guys who just
sit there, minding their own business and not being very communicative, just by
observing them. But Natalie was a professional, she had her ethics; one didn't
blab to the other customers. She'd done more than enough by giving me a clue, I
could take it from there; I could easily walk by the Pizza place every day…
Several Fuego-less days went by. But on the
following Wednesday, on my way to dance class, taking a somewhat roundabout
route, there it was, a bit dusty, standing in its usual spot. While my legs plié-ed
and relevé-ed as usual, my mind was hugging a bespectacled teddy-bear.
Once again into the cool, dimly-lit cave that
was Norman's. Once again, Natalie's refreshing tall drinks. But no Starsky.
Will he or won't he? Should I or shouldn't I?
"Natalie, keep an eye on my drink
please…" I mumbled, and dashed out.
Please God let the phone be in working order…
Please God make him be home… The line was busy. Busy busy busy. I backed out of
the booth and let an impatient man make a phone call which he promised would be
brief but seemed to me to take forever. Then I snatched the still-warm receiver
and dialed again. No reply. Hell! Must've just missed him. Better go back to
Norman's and see if he'd beamed himself over or something. I'd at least get to
finish my drink.
I pushed open the squeaky door. Starsky was
there, at the bar, on the stool next to the one I had occupied, grinning at me,
as if welcoming me back.
"Hi," I addressed him directly for the
first time "I could have sworn you weren't there a moment ago. Where did
you pop up from?"
His puffy cheeks creased in a contented little
smile. "Oh, I just had this phone-call saying that there was a young lady
asking about me… so I thought I'd oblige and come downstairs… pleased to make
your acquaintance, Miss." And with that quaint speech he held out his paw.
As I shook the warm, firm hand I glanced at
Natalie, who winked at me and turned down the volume on the tape deck. My hand
was still in his when I looked back into Starsky's eyes. He had removed his
metal-rimmed specs in a slow motion which I identified as a lowering of
defenses; I used to be bespectacled myself in the pre-contacts era. Bears don't
have bright-gray eyes, I thought to myself. But teddy bears can.
Suddenly I was shy. I wanted to know all about
him but didn't dare ask. It was impolite to pry, my mother had taught me; you
don't ask a total stranger personal questions. Oh yes you do, Ellen had tried
in vain to teach me; otherwise, how on earth are you ever going to find
out? But it seemed as if Starsky had
been brought up by someone like my American-born mom; he didn't ask me any of
the usual questions: what did I "do", where was I from, where and
with whom did I live… I found it a relief, not having to give routine answers
and not having to refuse to answer what I thought was nobody's business but my
own. So, actually, we didn't talk much. We drank leisurely. Gazed into each
other's eyes. Smiled a lot. And made some disjointed comments about Natalie's
predilection for Country music; he said he preferred Blues, I said I had a
pretty good Rock collection. We touched on the shabby yet homey upholstery at
Norman's; agreed on the delicious onion-dip on Friday afternoons' Happy Hour,
and wondered whether Nick stood a chance of beating Graham at the darts board.
It wasn't even midnight when he got off his
perch and stretched.
"Gotta go," he said matter-of-factly.
I was off my own perch and standing beside him
expectantly before I knew what I was doing.
"Going home?" I asked, and hated
myself instantly.
"No. You hungry? I'm going to grab a pizza
first."
I hesitated. It didn't sound like much of an
invitation.
"C'mon," he urged good-naturedly,
"I'll buy you a pizza."
We ate the pizza standing in the warm night
air, leaning on the Fuego. He washed it down with a Coke.
"Helps keep me awake," he explained.
"Need a ride home?" he added as an afterthought, his hand already on
the car-door handle.
"No thanks," I forced myself to say,
"I'd rather walk. It isn't far. Thanks for the pizza. Good night."
"Good night."
He just stood there, looking at me with a faint
smile. Guess it's my move, I said to myself, stepped towards him, put my hand
on his shoulder, and kissed him slowly on the mouth. His right hand was on the
car-door handle, but his left hand drew me close to him. I shut my eyes and
inhaled deeply. Dove soap. Eau Sauvage. The intoxicating scent of a
man's sweat. My nose was just under his collar bone. I heard his heartbeat.
Then he let go of me gently, still smiling. We said "good night"
again, and I turned around and floated home, not looking back.
Thursday was a blur. I didn't dare show up at
Norman's. Now it was definitely his move. Would he bother to ask Natalie for my
phone number? Would he make an effort to contact me, or would he just wait for
me to re-appear? Would he expect to pick up where we left off? I doubted it.
Something about him suggested that he expected nothing; he merely accepted.
But on Friday I couldn't very well not go. For
months I'd been showing up for Friday Happy Hour; it was fun; it was truly the
happiest, jolliest, busiest hour at Norman's, and I had promised Natalie to
help out.
I made sure to arrive with my friends – Ellen,
Judy, and a couple of guys. I needn't have worried; Starsky wasn't there. My
disappointment was not unalloyed with relief: If I came in and he was there, I
couldn't very well ignore him; but if I arrived first, and he later, it would
be up to him to acknowledge my presence. But when Happy Hour was almost over
and sheer disappointment set in, Natalie came through:
"He's gone down to Eilat, " she
volunteered, à propos of nothing, unless it was my continuous wild glances
towards the door each time it creaked open. "Be back next Friday,"
she continued. "If you come in same time next week he should be here. Said
I could tell you so, in fact."
"He did?!"
"Don't be fooled by those innocent-looking
eyes. He's a sharp one. And a real doll. Looks to me like he's taken a shine to
you."
"Bless you, Natalie," I said as I
absorbed this fascinating bit of information. "I'll be here! With my hair
tied up in a bow! No, better not. Makes me look twelve."
During the week that followed I gave Starsky
all the unoccupied space in my heart and mind. There was plenty of space. My
clerical, pay-the-rent job at the PR department of a bank in the center of town
was not very taxing; dance was a hobby, a way to have fun and keep limber.
Dating foreign men I met at Norman's was far more fascinating than trying to
strike up an acquaintance with the stuffed shirts at the bank.
So I spent my time conjuring up Starsky's
image, going over every detail of his physique which had been visible to me. I
replayed every sentence I ever heard him say, be it "Fill it up please,
Natalie" or "Tum-tum, da-di-da, tum-tum". I wanted to see more,
hear more. On the Sunday and Wednesday, after dance class, I shamelessly pumped
Natalie for information, repeating whatever I learnt as if cramming for an
exam. His parents lived in New York City. His work for the IAI was on a special
contract basis. He lived alone in a spacious flat on the top floor of the old
building where the pub was located. He was around 35 years old. He had had a
relationship with a woman in the States, but they broke up before he came to Israel.
There had been rumors of an Asian wife or sweetheart during his Vietnam days
who had been killed, but Natalie said no-one knew the true story, since Starsky
wouldn't talk about it. In the short time that Natalie had known him, he hadn't
dated anyone, as far as she knew. But, best of all – listen to this! – he said he liked me.
Unobtrusively keeping his eye on us –
me, Ellen, and Judy – from his corner table, he preferred little me to
any of the others. Said he never heard me say anything vulgar or bitchy even
after three of Natalie's notorious gin-and-tonics, and that that was more than
he could say for many a girl.
I could have kissed Natalie. I didn't, though.
Instead, I made a silent vow to cut down to two gin-and-tonics and not take a
chance of my luck running out and my tongue betraying me.
I'd be terrific for him, I reflected. I'd make
him forget the love he left in Vietnam, or New York, or wherever. I'd make him
fall madly in love with me. He'd want to see me every day, spend all his free
time with me. We'd go for long pleasure drives in his Fuego. It would be my second
home. I'd leave a few personal things in the glove compartment. Soon he'd let
me drive it. Would I go to bed with him the next time we met? Should I play
hard to get, or throw away games and pretenses and just do what comes
naturally? Would we go to his place or mine? If we went to his place – yes, I
think that's better -- I'd probably spill something on my shirt accidentally,
and borrow one of his in the morning. I'd rinse out my shirt and leave it there
to dry. Perhaps my panties, too. We'd become an item at Norman's; they'd say
our names in one breath, as if we were one. He'd write to his parents about me…
Naturally, they'd want to meet me. So he'd take me home, to New York, for
Christmas… Even his parents would see that I was right for him. They'd see the
intimacy and understanding between us; the way we finished each other's
sentences, the way we complemented each other…
Friday came. The morning at the bank crept
painfully until closing time, at one. At home, I was too excited to take a nap,
though I did want to look fresh and relaxed. I chose my clothes thoughtfully.
Now that I knew he cared, I didn't want to be blatantly provocative. The white
trousers and flimsy peach tunic would do very nicely. A touch of peach blusher,
brown mascara, and a fine mist of Chanel 19, a fresh yet sophisticated
fragrance, a current favorite with airline hostesses. I checked the contents of
my handbag one last time, making sure I was prepared for anything, and
walked along Dizengoff street to meet my love, heart pounding. The silver
Fuego, still dusty from its trip to Eilat and back, stood in its usual place. I
smiled at it.
There I was in front of the familiar black
door. I wiped my clammy hands on the seat of my trousers, then took the plunge.
The place was hopping. Elton John and his piano
made merry. The smell of fresh, hot popcorn hit my nostrils, combined with
cigarette smoke, frothy beer, and an assortment of colognes, after-shaves and
deodorants, carried on the streams of cold, synthetic air-conditioner air. My searching
gaze bobbed from head to head. Blond ones and brown ones, curly tops and bald
ones. Some of the heads swiveled, some faces smiled. They meant nothing to me.
I squeezed through the happy bodies and made my way to the bar. Starsky's place
in the left-hand corner table was occupied by someone else. I felt a momentary
resentment and annoyance, then inwardly laughed at myself. Starsky didn't need
his corner perch anymore. By all means let somebody else try it! But where was
he, anyway? Darts board? Toilet? Kitchen? I tried to catch Natalie's eye. Her
hands were full, she was laughing with one of the regulars, but managed to
greet me with a nod and raised eyebrows.
I had almost finished my first drink, given to
me by Natalie's helper, before Natalie extricated herself from a crowd of
guffawing men and made her way to me.
"Well?" I said, like a teacher
demanding an explanation from a recalcitrant student.
"Well, I'm sorry, honeybunch, but he ain't
coming today. He's left for the States. Had an urgent call from Head
Office."
I think I just gaped. I can't be sure. Then I
mumbled something about his car.
"Yes, I know. I'm supposed to take care of
that. He came back from Eilat early this morning. Must've driven half the
night. Called me while he was packing. Asked if I'd take care of a few things
for him…"
"When is he coming back?" I asked,
trying to be practical.
"He isn't, honey. His contract was almost
over anyway, didn't you know that? They just called him back a bit early,
that's all."
"But his car?… His things?…" I
repeated, probably sounding as dumb as I felt.
"I just told you, I'm taking care of his
things. He's left some terrific cassettes! Would you be interested in any? I'll
sell them to you cheap. Oh, by the way, he brought you something from Eilat
– said you mentioned you had a collection – “
And with that she went behind the bar and handed me two of the most nondescript
pieces of rock I have ever seen.
I don't go into Norman's anymore. Besides, the
place has changed hands and it just isn't the same; no heavy black door – all
glass and chrome. I don't know what became of Natalie. I still turn to look at
every silver-colored Fuego. Luckily, there aren't many of them around. And I
buried those two featureless rocks deep down at the bottom of my collection.
* * *
