Light Years Page 12

  I forced myself to focus on my breath, lungs filling in and emptying, oxygen-rich blood reaching all the nooks and crannies of my body. Call it Zen walking. Zen avoidance. Meditative denial.

  In this state of false Eastern calm, I ran into Justin and Brook, the two people I knew who seemed to absolutely fit together, like yachts and Kennebunkport. I didn’t want to be seen and I didn’t want to chat. I was seriously eyeing the giant SUV on my right as an excellent hiding place, but I was spotted before I could dive behind its monster fenders. As always, I hesitated on my instincts and waited too long.

  “Hey, Maya. What are you up to?” Justin sounded happy to see me, oblivious to the fact that Brook and I had our hackles raised. I couldn’t really articulate what it was between her and me. Maybe it was that she seemed perfect and all-American and still wasn’t happy. I couldn’t stand to see someone so spoiled that she could be unhappy with an easy, beautiful life. I wasn’t sure why she didn’t like me either. I don’t know if she thought I was a rival or if she was naturally hostile to other women. But it was clear that neither one of us was happy to see the other.

  “Hey, Justin,” I said. “Hi, Brook.”

  She gave me a closed smile and a slight inclination of the head. I debated between curtsying or giving her the finger, but restrained myself.

  “We’re off for a cup of coffee on the Corner, want to join us?” Justin asked.

  I considered accepting for the joy of tormenting Brook, but then was tempted to say no to spare myself an hour of hostilities. And then I remembered what Yael said and decided, evilly, to put it to the test.

  “Are you sure there’s room for me?” I asked. “I’d hate to intrude.”

  “Not at all,” Justin said, and Brook, who maybe hesitated on her instincts too, missed her chance. “We’d love for you to come.”

  So we went, the three of us, and I had my fourth cup of coffee of the day.

  Playing with the brown packets of natural sugar, regretting the impulse that landed me here, I listened to Justin explain their mission on Rugby Road.

  “The houses on Rugby Road are, architecturally, some of the most interesting homes in Charlottesville,” he began. “That big sunken field across from the Bayly Art Museum was where the slaves and laborers dug the red clay to make the bricks that built the university.”

  I sipped my cappuccino and listened to him ramble. It was actually interesting at times, since I jogged along Rugby Road and knew the buildings he was talking about. I would never have guessed the history that had occurred behind those staid Colonial walls.

  Brook laid a possessive hand on Justin’s arm as he talked, but he kept gesturing with his arms and her hand would get knocked off. It was kind of entertaining to watch this keep happening. I wondered if they even noticed. It seemed very appropriate. Maybe I should study psychology instead of astronomy, I thought.

  I finished my coffee. I could feel it twanging through my system, and it was hard to keep my hands still.

  Justin finished describing his latest interview with a former resident who had lived on Rugby during the twenties.

  “You found her coherent?” I asked. “She must be past ninety.”

  “Next spring, yeah. She invited me to her birthday party.”

  “Isn’t that sweet,” I said. “She likes you.”

  “Women of all ages have a hard time resisting my charms,” he said. He nudged Brook with his shoulder and she managed a smile.

  “See?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Really charming.”

  “Speaking of charming,” he said, rising from his seat. “Excuse me, ladies, the coffee runneth through me.”

  “Even more charming,” I said. Justin seemed to bring out my old sarcasm.

  He gave a small bow and headed to the back of the café, leaving Brook and me to stare at each other across the small table.

  Neither of us had anything left in our cups, so we couldn’t pretend to be busy with those. I rested my elbows on the table and tried to think about what I needed to do that afternoon. I tried not to think of Yael and her theories. I tried not to think about Hen back home, working hard, living it up. About Chris and his girlfriend, about Justin and what I may or may not have been feeling for him.

  Brook shifted in her seat. I wanted to smile. I wasn’t bothered by silence at the table, but I guess in her book this was an uncomfortable thing.

  She huffed, shifted again, and looked over her shoulder at the back of the café to see if Justin was coming. He wasn’t.

  “Justin and I have known each other since high school.”

  “That’s nice.”

  She glared at me. “We grew up in the same neighborhood.”

  “How interesting,” I drawled.

  “I just thought you should know. Since you seemed,” she paused, “interested in him.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Look, it’s obvious you have some kind of crush on your TA,” she said, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. “Everyone goes through that, but you need to know that Justin is a big flirt and he can be careless of people’s feelings.”

  “Like yours?”

  She stiffened. Her nostrils flared as if she’d just smelled something foul.

  “I know you’re from Israel and that things are different there.” I noted a shift in her tone of voice. “But here in America, you don’t just take what you want when you want it. Helpless Palestinian refugees might let you get away with that, but not here.”

  Okay. That just made things easy. Instead of telling her I had no interest in her ex-boyfriend, instead of reassuring her that he was all hers to stalk as she pleased, I lost it.

  “You don’t have a bloody clue.” My wired tongue tripped and fell over the words. I was sick with doubts and suppressed anger, with all that caffeine racing through my system, and my heart was beating too fast. I stood and my chair scraped back loudly. People turned to look. Brook had a smug look on her face. She wanted this. But I didn’t care.

  “I was wondering if you could possibly be as stupid as you look,” I said, and to my ears, my voice was low and harsh. The American pronunciations I’d worked on were gone. “You’re perfectly stupid. I wasn’t your enemy and I don’t have a crush on your idiotic former boyfriend. Who, by the way, wants nothing to do with you. But now that you’ve insulted me and my country, I’ll take him away from you just for spite. And you’ll be able to do nothing about it, you fucking anti-Semite.” I held on to my bag with both hands. I was shaking. So was she.

  The few people sitting nearby were staring at me with their mouths literally hanging open. I saw Justin coming out of the bathroom, heading back to our table. He saw me and looked surprised that I was standing, that I was leaving. I hurried out of the café before he could reach me. Let that little bitch tell him whatever she wanted. I hardly cared.

  I walked, head down, watching my feet, still hugging my schoolbag to my chest.

  I wanted to laugh or scream or slam my fist into a wall. Fuck ’em, I thought, picking up the pace. Yael living half a life like a bird in love with a fish. Stupid Brook playing out of her league trying to protect her worthless ex-boyfriend from his wandering eye. And brainless, beautiful Justin who spends his time researching the life of buildings and the youth of old women, too blind to see what’s right in front of him, deluding himself about friendships. I kicked a stone and watched with satisfaction as it hurled away, slamming into a tree and pinging off at a crazy angle. They weren’t worth my time. Let Brook lose sleep dreaming up images of me seducing Justin. I wanted nothing more to do with them. Maybe finding my place would be easy. This country was populated entirely by aliens.

  Chapter Eight

  ISRAEL

  I drove with Hen to the airport to pick up François Levieux, a consultant from Paris looking to inspect Israeli companies for future investments. Hen’s firm had picked her as the welcoming committee because she was fluent in English. And I, speaking a little French and decent English, was convince
d and bribed by Hen (bribed quite well this time) to come along. Levieux would spend a week in Israel, touring various facilities and meeting vice presidents and the CEOs, but for today it was only Hen and me.

  “Looks better to have two beautiful women meet him at the airport than just one. The French admire beauty and aesthetics,” she said. As far as I knew, Hen had been to France only once, on a four-day trip to Paris, so I didn’t know where this intimate knowledge of the French psyche was coming from. But who was I to argue? It got me out of work for the day. It was frightening sometimes the strings that Hen could pull.

  We got all dressed up. Hen wore a periwinkle silk suit with a thigh-high slit that showed the lace top of her hose as she walked. I wore trophies of my increased skill as an extortionist: a black pantsuit with round lapels, like a dress from the fifties, and no shirt underneath. Sometimes I suspected Hen dressed me as an accessory to her outfits. There was no denying that we turned a lot of heads on our way from the car to the terminal. I wondered if part of the plan was for Hen to seduce unsuspecting, aesthetics-loving François.

  Hen held a discreet sign with his name, and we stood slightly apart from the families crowding the fence around International Arrivals.

  People were already pouring out, pushing carts piled high with suitcases and bags. I carefully looked at each man coming out, trying to guess which one was our French consultant. Several handsome men in smooth suits eyed our sign, but they kept going.

  A slim woman with greasy hair and ice-blue eyes like an Alaskan husky walked up to us.

  Hen eyed her with distaste.

  “Bonjour,” she said to us. “I spell my name with an e on the end.”

  We both gaped at her.

  “Françoise,” she said, opening her mouth wide.

  “Oh,” Hen said faintly. “Françoise,” she repeated. “Of course.” I saw her visibly square her shoulders. “Bienvenu à, Israël,” she said. I was impressed with her accent. “I hope your flight went smoothly.”

  “It was not good. Too crowded and the food was terrible.”

  “Hopefully things will go better for you now. I am Hen Canaan, this is my niece, Maya Laor.” She gave me a nudge.

  “Bonjour,” I said. “J’ai étudié français en école.”

  “You speak French?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her I just did. Instead, I did my best imitation of Hen’s gracious, friendly smile.

  “Un peu,” I said. “When I was ten, my best friend was French so I learned a little and I studied it in school. But it’s been a long time since I spoke it.”

  “Perhaps you will get to practice now with me.”

  I smiled, showing very little of my teeth. “I hope so.”

  We led the way back to the car. I eyed her shoes. Black and rubber-soled, with severe square toes, as if the ends of her feet had been cut off. I was willing to forgive the poor choice of clothes—unflattering loose pants and a boxy shirt that hung to her thighs. Everyone liked to wear comfortable clothes on a plane. But there was no excuse for the shoes. I had a feeling this business trip wouldn’t go well for Hen, in her stilettos and her sexy suit.

  I smiled genuinely at Françoise. I had never seen Hen not get her way. I loved my aunt, but it was going to be a lot of fun seeing her handle this.

  As we settled into Hen’s sedan and starting driving to downtown Tel Aviv, a smell, faint at first but growing steadily stronger, began to fill the car. It smelled like a cross between moldy leather and crap.

  Oh no, I thought. Someone stepped in dog poo. I tried to look discreetly at the bottoms of my shoes. Hen shot me a look of death in the rearview mirror, but I shook my head. It wasn’t me.

  After ten minutes, Hen was nearly gagging from the smell and there was actually a faint red tint to the back of her neck. The air conditioning was on full blast.

  I nearly laughed out loud. The more I fought to control it, the more it wanted to bubble out.

  “I think we’d better pull over,” Hen said, fighting for calm. “Fill up with some petrol, maybe get you something to drink. How does that sound?”

  “Oui, that would be fine.”

  Once at the station, I saw Hen check her shoes. She glared at me.

  “You can check them yourself,” I said, showing her the bottoms of my shoes. “It’s not me.”

  “It’s coming from her,” Hen hissed. “I could smell it in the car. Do you think she doesn’t wipe her ass?”

  “Are you sure it’s not something in the car?”

  “Yes,” Hen said. “That stench is not coming from my car.”

  Françoise came shuffling toward us, holding a cola.

  “Hold this, s’il vous plaît.” She handed me her drink. Then she lifted her shirt, pulled out a money belt, and dropped the change inside. A powerful wave of that smell rolled over Hen and me like a tsunami.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Hen blurted out.

  Françoise smiled proudly. “Pecorino,” she said.

  Hen blinked. “The cheese?”

  “It’s Italian. It is so very wonderful. I never travel anywhere without it.”

  Hen stood there for a moment, speechless, shaking her head like a horse plagued by flies. “What?”

  “I put some pecorino in my money belt.” She patted it like a pet. “Keeps my money safe. No thief will steal it with a smell like that.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Hen looked like she was going to cry.

  “I read a lot before coming here. It is so very dangerous. I did not want anything to happen to me. A good friend told me about this little idea.”

  With Hen seeming to have lost the ability to speak, I felt I had to step in.

  “A lot of what you hear in the news about Israel is exaggerated,” I said. “We are a very modern country. You’ll see, everything is online, our tech companies are at the forefront of the world. There is crime here, but that’s like every place. We aren’t going to take you anywhere dangerous. It’s more dangerous to drive on the highway. Statistically there are more robberies in Paris than in Tel Aviv, more shootings in Washington, D.C., than in Jerusalem.”

  She sniffed at the mention of the States, as if to say, “What could you expect from that barbaric nation?”

  “A woman can’t be too careful. The bombings, the shootings,” she waved a hand to encompass all sorts of bloodshed. “I wanted to take some steps to protect myself.”

  I wanted to ask her if pecorino had been known to stop shrapnel, but I didn’t. I knew that people in other countries thought of us as a war-torn land, but it hurt to hear it firsthand. Israel had free speech, and journalists knew that Israel wouldn’t throw them in jail, no matter what they said. But if they broadcast an anti-Arab segment, the Arab countries would never let them return. We got villainized, the bombers got victimized, and everyone else was too scared to visit. I wanted to shake Françoise until her greasy hair actually moved.

  “But do not be concerned,” she continued, completely oblivious. “I will not bring the pecorino to the meetings themselves.”

  Hen sagged with relief.

  “Only when we are out on the streets.”

  We took Françoise to lunch at Shtut, my favorite outdoor café. It was only a block away from Hen’s office. I was sure that if Hen had not sunk so deeply into black despair, she would have insisted on going to a fancier, five-star restaurant. But since I was (by default) in command, Shtut it was.

  Shtut had bright-red strawberries painted throughout the café, on tables, chairs, the menu. Even the sun umbrellas were striped white and red. There were huge pots of flowering strawberry plants—the only plant, the menu explained, that could have leaves, flowers, and fruit at the same time. There was always some music playing, and the whole setup was so sweet and friendly that I loved coming here with friends. Even the name was charming, a play on words between silly, shtoot, and strawberry, tut. We all needed to relax just a bit. Sitting in the shade, a coolish breeze blowing, you couldn’t pictu
re anything wrong with the world.

  I ordered a large salad with roasted peppers and eggplant. I assured Françoise this was very typical Israeli cuisine, and so she ordered it as well. Hen still hadn’t said much since the gas station. I’d glance over at her from time to time, but she seemed to have sunk into a coma. She smiled and nodded, but claimed she’d forgotten all her English. I wondered if I should enter the diplomatic corps. It seemed I had an undiscovered talent for bullshit and biting my tongue.

  Françoise and I chatted away as our waiter brought out our drinks. Ice water for me, white wine for Françoise and Hen. I hoped Hen wouldn’t drink too much. She still had to drive. Unless she was so depressed she’d let me drive her gorgeous new Volvo? This would bear close watching.

  A busboy came with a carafe of water. He set it on the table and looked at me for a moment.

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching for the water. He took it before I could reach it and poured the water for me.

  He looked at me like I should know who he was, but I had never seen him before. He was young-looking, with a wispy little mustache, and he wore a white shirt and black pants like everyone else who worked at the restaurant. He set down the water and walked away without saying anything.

  “He didn’t pour any for me,” Françoise said.

  “Let me,” I said, and poured for her.

  After Hen had finished her first glass of wine and was nursing her second, she revived enough to remember some English, and I felt it was safe for me to slip away to the restroom.

  On my way there, I saw the boy clearing a table. I felt his eyes on me. I tried to figure out why he looked vaguely familiar. Was he an old schoolmate? A neighbor’s cousin?

  On my way back from the bathroom, I nearly collided with him. He almost dropped a tray full of dirty dishes.

  “Careful,” I said. “Steady.” He steadied the tray, shot me a look, and sidled past me.