Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

The new arrival introduced himself by brandishing a gold-rimmed calling card and announcing, "Arthur I. Seewald. United Enterprises. Which one of you gentlemen is Mr. Lifshitz?"

"Right here," said Yolek hoarsely, banging his brandy glass on the table. Arthur I. Seewald ignored this unmistakable sign of displeasure, handed Yolek his card, and sat down without being asked.

He was, he explained, the Tel Aviv representative of a number of foreign business firms and the local agent of Mr. Benjamin Bernard Trotsky of Miami, Florida. In a telex received from Mr. Trotsky last night Mr. Seewald had been instructed to visit our kibbutz as soon as possible. A transatlantic phone call from his client this morning had given additional instructions. He wished to apologize for not having called to make an appointment. It was difficult, if not impossible, to get through to the kibbutz on the telephone. Unfortunately, therefore, he had been forced to come without advance notice, though he sought to assure us that this was not his regular custom. In any case, considering the urgency of the matter at hand—

"What matter?" asked Yolek, cutting him short. His bristling unshaven cheeks, his heavy frame wrapped in a blue robe over red pajamas gave him the aspect of an Oriental despot. Indeed, such was his glowering imperiousness and contempt, he seemed about to lift a finger and order the newcomer beheaded. "Perhaps you'll be kind enough to skip the rest of your introduction and come to the point?"

The point was a message from the secretary of Kibbutz Granot that arrived on Mr. Trotsky's desk three days ago. Was the young man in question still missing?

"My son," said Yolek, choking back his anger, "would appear to have gone off to join your Mr. Trotsky. Psia krew. Is he there? Yes or no?"

Mr. Seewald smiled pleasantly. According to the latest information at hand, Mr. Trotsky was still expecting to hear from the young man and, indeed, was rather concerned about him. He had even planned to fly to Israel yesterday morning, but a business matter and, above all, the possible arrival of young Mr. Lifshitz had forced him to cancel the trip. The fact that he was now in the Bahamas was the reason why he had sent a telex fully authorizing Mr. Seewald to negotiate in his name. Mr. Seewald himself, by the way, was a lawyer by profession.

"Negotiate what?"

"Yoni's alive!" gasped Hava. "He's with them! I'm telling you, Yolek, he's already there. 1 want you to give them whatever they ask for, just as long as he comes back. Do you hear me?"

Mr. Seewald seemed momentarily at a loss. Could he possibly have a few minutes with Mr. Lifshitz in private?

"Now you listen to me, mister. This is my wife. And that's my daughter-in-law sitting opposite you. And that young man at the end of the couch is a close family friend. And the person standing at the window has just replaced me as secretary of the kibbutz. There are no secrets here. It's all in the family. You say you came to negotiate? Then let's hear what your position is. Does Trotsky have the family jewel? Yes or no?"

The visitor regarded each of us skeptically, as if still trying to make us out. His glance finally lingered on Hava.

"Mrs. Lifshitz, I presume?"

"Hava."

" Madame. I beg your pardon, but I have unequivocal instructions first to talk in private with your husband and then in private with you. The matter, as you all know, is a rather delicate one. I really am most sorry."

"Will you stop talking like a goddamn popinjay!" thundered Yolek, rising to his feet like a wounded old bear and drawing up his body to its full height, his head and shoulders hunched sharply forward. He slammed his fist on the table and roared, "Where is that success story of mine? Is he or is he not with that degenerate nebbish of yours?"

"I was saying that so far—"

"Eh?"

"So far, sir, I'm afraid not. But—"

"So far, eh? You're afraid not, eh? This whole business is beginning to smell to high heaven! What's going on here, a conspiracy? Blackmail? Gesheften? What's that rotten clown of yours up to?" With his full weight behind him, he spun around to face Hava, turning purple, a twisted vein pulsing in his forehead. "Exactly how much, Mrs. Lifshitz, do you already know about all this? What the hell have you and that redneck of yours already conspired to do with Yonatan behind my back? Rimona. Srulik. Azariah. Out. All of you. No. Wait. Srulik stays here."

I stayed.

On his way out, Azariah unsuccessfully tried to conceal a snicker. Rimona said, "Hava and Yolek, please don't fight. It makes Yoni sad."

Yolek sat down in his chair, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow with a bare hand. As soon as he'd caught his breath, he bellowed at the visitor, "Will you sit down, mister?"

Mr. Seewald, in point of fact, had never got up.

"Hava! A glass of water. And my medicine. I don't feel well. And give this lawyer fellow something to drink too. It's time he stopped making cultivated faces and talked business."

"Thank you ever so much," said Mr. Seewald, a genially puzzled look on his neat-bearded face, "but I'm not a bit thirsty. With your permission then, we'll get down to the matter at hand. This isn't a social call."

"Oh, it's not, is it?" growled Yolek. "And here I was thinking that you'd come for a dancing party! All right, sir. I'm listening. You can begin. And by the way, I've nothing against talking to you in private. Hava, to the bedroom. Srulik, you stay. I need you as a witness. This whole thing stinks. Hava, I said out!"

"Certainly not," exploded Hava. "I don't care if you burst a gut. This is my house. It's my son he's talking about. No one is kicking me out. Here's your glass of water. And take these pills."

Yolek roughly pushed away her hand, sloshing water. He pulled out a cigarette from the pocket of his robe, fingered it, tapped it on the arm of his chair, tapped the other end, and studied it at some length in his usual fashion. Finally, his broad nostrils twitching, he decided not to light it and turned to me.

"Srulik, perhaps I can enlist your good services. Do you think your charms might prevail on this lady to kindly leave us alone for a while?"

"It will be my pleasure to talk to you in private afterwards, Mrs. Lifshitz," Mr. Seewald offered amiably.

Hava looked at me. "Shall I, Srulik?" Her tone was downright docile.

"I think you should. But stay in the next room," I said.

" Ty zboju! " she snarled at Yolek and slammed the door so hard the glasses tinkled on the table.

From his pocket, the visitor produced a long white envelope and a carefully folded piece of paper.

"This is the power of attorney telexed to me by Mr. Trotsky. In the envelope is an open ticket I was instructed to purchase."

"An open ticket? Who for?"

"For the lady. Tel Aviv — New York-Miami. Round trip, of course. Tomorrow she'll have her passport and visa. Mr. Trotsky's name is a great simplifier of procedures in any number of countries."

Yolek removed his glasses from his pocket, settled them on the slope of his profligate nose, gave Mr. Seewald a crafty sideways glance, and said, without looking at the papers that had been put before him, " Na. Mazel tov. And what has the lady done to deserve this great honor?"

"If the young man is truly on his way to America, as Mr. Trotsky sincerely hopes, it would be desirable for Mrs. Lifshitz to be present there as well. Mr. Trotsky wishes any meeting to take place in his private residence."

"Meeting, mister?"

The visitor unbuckled his leather briefcase and took out a sheet of paper, from which he asked permission to read a few sentences. In this way, he stated, any potential misunderstanding or unnecessary debate might be avoided.

I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible by turning my head to the window and staring out of it. A blue sky. One or two wisps of light cloud. A leafless branch. A butterfly. Spring. Where was Yonatan at this moment? What was he thinking of? I would have given almost anything to shut out that smug, nasal voice as it read from the sheet of paper: