The Glory (73 page)

They sat smiling at each other. “I can’t stay now for long,” he said. “Some angry army officers, including me, are meeting
at headquarters to discuss what to do about the Agranat Report.”

“What’s it all about, Amos? The whole country seems to be up in arms, mostly against Moshe Dayan, and now Golda is resigning!
Why? And Armand’s board is meeting with her today. That’ll be embarrassing, won’t it?”

The smile faded from Amos Pasternak’s round full face. He looked grimly businesslike, as he had in the Beirut limousine and
on the boat. “The country’s in a very bad mood, Irene, if I may call you that.”

“That’s my name, Amos.”

“Okay. We’re still mourning the dead. Israel’s a small place, everyone knows a family that had someone killed or wounded,
and —”

With a pleasant cheery noise, children came trooping through the lobby, rattling in French. “There are my kids,” she interrupted
him. “They’re going to Masada.” She waved and beckoned. “Anatole! Rachel!
Venez-ici! Voici un wed héros de la guerre, mes enfants,
Lieutenant Colonel Pasternak.”

They were tidy, well-groomed youngsters, dressed for hiking. The boy solemnly saluted.
“Un vrai héros! Formidable.”
Amos returned the gesture just as solemnly, and they scampered away to rejoin their group.

“You know, seeing you again is disorienting,” Irene Fleg said. “That Beirut business seems like a dream, almost. I’ve done
scuba-diving and rock-climbing, but that was different. Maybe it was the only worthwhile thing I’ve ever done. To you, I suppose,
it was routine.”

“On the contrary, just as scary for us as for someone like you. Maybe more so. Such operations are intensely rehearsed, and
we’re extremely aware of all the things that can go wrong. Whoever recruited you probably glossed over those.”

“No, I was fairly warned. Why I made such a scatterbrained commitment I’m still not sure. How is your father? We saw in
Time
magazine his picture at Kilometer 101.”

“He’s back in business, all the excitement over.”

“I saw him in Paris during the war.”

“Oh? He didn’t mention that.”

“Well, it was just for a minute. He did say you got my little thank-you note, after a delay.”

“Yes, just when the war was breaking out. I still have it.”

Brief silence. “So! Will you be coming to the wedding alone?”

“I’m not bringing a girlfriend, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, of course that’s not what I mean. I mean we have a car and driver, and you can ride with us to Jerusalem, if you like.
There’s room.”

“Great, I accept.”

“But don’t tell me you have no girlfriends.”

“Did I say that?”

A dozen men were coming from the elevator, speaking French with Gallic gestures. “
Bien
, there’s Armand.” Her husband saw her and approached, a thin man with curly gray-blond hair, in a perfectly cut pin-striped
suit. “My dear, this is Sam Pasternak’s son.”

“Ah yes, Amos.” Brief handshake with a slim small manicured hand. “I sit on the board of Kivshan, Colonel, so I know your
father. One hears you’re to receive a medal for heroism.”

“Unthinkable, sir. I did nothing to warrant it.”

“I’ve invited Amos to ride with us to the wedding,” said Madame Fleg. “He’s a friend of Julie’s groom.”

“Merveilleux!”
Fleg nodded at Amos. “We leave from here at noon. Perhaps on the way you can explain about Golda’s fall. It’s all very perplexing,
you know, very damaging to Israel’s image.”

“I can try.” Across the lobby he could see Eva Sonshine returning to her desk, a sheaf of air tickets in hand. “I’ll be back
well before noon, sir, and very glad to ride with you.”

Behind the receptionist’s desk, the arcade shops that Amos could see were all shut and dark, except for the El Al office.
“Eva, ma nishma? My father said you were quitting your job.”

“I’m finishing out the month. You finally found your French friends, I see. She’s pretty.”

“Yes, for a lady with three kids, not bad.”

“Lucky lady.”

He caught the wistful note. His father had told him that Eva wanted children. Amos was still unused to the notion that Eva
Sonshine, the longtime girlfriend of Benny Luria, might become his stepmother. Eva’s good name was reasonably intact, for
in the tight terrain of Israel, by general courtesy, such discreet liaisons were known but overlooked. If his father wanted
a marriage instead of his customary casual romances — or in addition to them — that was his business. He said, “You’re coming
to the wedding?”

“Sam won’t hear of skipping it, so I’ll go.” It was Eva’s way of saying that she could do without encountering the Lurias,
who were bound to be there.

T
he only silver Lincoln in Israel pulled up to the Barkowe home on Mount Carmel. “There he is,” Dzecki said to Daphna at the
window, “right on the dot. Say what you will about Guli, he’s punctual. Let’s go, Mom, Dad.”

Guli was no relative to bride or groom, and Noah, who knew what went on in Haifa, utterly despised him, yet he was coming
to Noah’s wedding. Guli had worked this through Dzecki. He was fond of these American associates of his, though he was well
along in a complicated scheme to plunder them. Guli had a special regard for the bright young Dzecki, was honestly saddened
by his mutilation, and had often visited him in the hospital and at home. So it was that he had heard about Noah’s nuptials,
and about the Alliance executives who would be there. This intelligence alerted Guli as the scent of a banana, or more accurately
of a female, would a true gorilla. Guli was on a perpetual hunt for real estate investors, on the prudent rule that only an
amateur or a fool, and he was neither, would invest his own money in such a chancy business.

“Dzecki, by my life, there are no richer Jews than those Frenchies,” he had exclaimed on hearing of the wedding, “especially
the ones from Iraq and Syria. And from Egypt, Egypt! By my life, those Egyptian Jews, the ones who got out before Nasser,
have money. And they’re very Zionistic, very idealistic, all these rich Frenchies. What we have to do, Dzecki, is bring some
of them into our waterfront project.” Thus Guli, wangling the invitation. Guli particularly loved Zionistic investors, because
they risked great sums in Israel, and lost them with reasonable good cheer as a sort of involuntary UJA contribution.

Dzecki was resolutely blocking out the depression of his maiming by a plunge into business, and Guli kept him distracted by
bringing projects to him and discussing them quite seriously. He thought Dzecki had a pretty good head for business, though
not good enough to escape being fleeced in due course. For his part Dzecki had a fair idea of what Noah thought of Guli, so
he called Julie Levinson, and Julie, feeling sorry for Dzecki as everyone did, said of course he could bring his friend. When
Noah found out that Dzecki Barkowe was bringing Guli Gulinkoff, his first reaction was, “Let’s call it off and get married
in Cyprus.” But he simmered down, sharing his bride’s sympathy for poor Dzecki.

The Lincoln snaked down the Mount Carmel hairpin turns, and soon was zooming south on Haifa Way. An ordinary Israeli driver
had to figure two hours between Haifa and Jerusalem. Guli’s best time was one hour and thirty-eight minutes, and he kept trying
to beat it. Speed limits and solid dividing lines were not for Guli. The Barkowes in the back seat had driven often with him
and had learned to relax, as a wise rider will on a runaway horse. But Daphna was wincing so visibly, as Guli whipped around
trailer trucks into the other lane where like as not a car was coming, that he had to pat her silk-clad knee now and then
with a hairy gold-ringed hand.

The kablan was astonished at how elegant and beautiful Dzecki’s girlfriend looked. When he had last encountered her, on the
stairs to Shayna’s apartment, he had seen a tired female soldier in wrinkled uniform and no makeup. This was a different creature,
fresh out of a beauty parlor, dressed to kill in a beige suede outfit made for export and bought cheap after much wear by
models. Daphna’s idea in attending the wedding was to tear Noah Barak’s heart with vain regret. She had no notion of captivating
the gorilla, but seemed to be doing so, as the Lincoln careered through dense traffic as though travelling at midnight on
an empty road. Guli’s hand was now resting steadily on her knee, with an occasional squeeze by way of calming her nerves.

“Guli, don’t you ever get arrested?” she asked.

From the back seat Dzecki said, “Arrest Guli? All the cops in Israel know this car. It’s worth their job to pull him over.”

“Foolishness,” said Guli. “Don’t believe him. I respect the police. I’m a trustee of the national policemen’s benevolent association.”

As he spoke, he was overtaking a roaring convoy of army trucks, and heading straight for a hay wagon drawn by a mule team.
Darting between two trucks to the derisive yells of the soldiers in them, Guli said, “Those wagons are a hazard. There ought
to be a law to make them stay on back roads.” He passed the entire convoy and was bowling along at his usual 150 kilometers
an hour when a patrol car drew up behind him, red light revolving and siren wailing.

“Oo-ah,” said Daphna.

“No problem,” said Guli. “He must be new.”

The patrolman was very dark and very young. As the Sephardim, the “second Israel” from the Arab countries, were gaining political
clout, their employment in the lower government jobs was increasing.

“I’m Guli,” said the kablan genially, opening a wallet that displayed various cards and badges.

“I recognized your car, sir,” said the patrolman. “License and registration, please.”

“Certainly. What’s the problem, officer?”

“You almost covered the highway with mule meat, sir.”

Guli did not argue, and the ticket was soon issued. He said, as he drove on, “He’ll learn. He’s a nice kid.” After going a
mile or so he tore up the ticket and scattered it out the window.

Dzecki’s mother was scandalized. “Guli, for heaven’s sake! Don’t they have those tickets on computers in Israel?”

“Of course, but someone has to read the computer, and do something about it. No problem. Now, Dzecki, where do we pick up
that Porsche of yours?”

“It’s far out of the way, Guli, in a body shop in Netanya. Let me off at the Netanya exit, and I’ll catch a hitch or a bus
—”

“Let you off? Foolishness. Five minutes, no problem.”

T
he Zion Gardens restaurant in Jerusalem offered modest weddings on a trellis-bordered lawn. Julie’s parents had wanted to
stage a big affair at the Hilton, but had yielded to the Baraks’ advice that the somber mood in the country called for austerity.
In the bride’s retiring room Daphna came upon a grand to-do around Julie Levinson, who sat on an elevated thronelike chair
radiating joy. Galia, Nakhama, Ruti, Shayna, and a portly woman who had to be Julie’s mother were all giggling wildly as they
fussed at her gown. “Hi, Daphna.” Julie guffawed. “Delighted you could come.”

The others all turned to Daphna, still laughing, and she felt like the butt of a joke she hadn’t heard. The radiance of bridal
white haloed the French girl. There was no outshining her today, alas. “Julie, you won’t believe the present Avram Gulinkoff
has brought,” Daphna blurted. “A Mondrian! Not a big one, but it’s real. Everyone out there is admiring it.”

“Mon Dieu, un Mondrian, Julie,”
exclaimed the mother.
“Quel bon ami!”

Galia said, going out, “Oo-ah, I want to see that Mondrian. You look marvellous, Daphna.”

“So do you, dear.” For a fact Galia was not withdrawn and sad today, and her frock was a cheerful flowered yellow.

The little painting was propped on a round table. Galia edged herself into the crowd around it, naval officers, army officers,
older couples chattering in French, and many young people she didn’t know. She found herself beside Dzecki Barkowe, whom she
had not seen since the war. “Hello, Galia,” he said. “My God, I’m sorry about Dov.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry about —” she clumsily indicated the pinned-up sleeve in his blue blazer jacket.

He shrugged, and gestured at the painting. “What do you make of that? To me it’s like a square of kitchen linoleum. Guli says
it’s worth a lot of money.”

She slipped her fingers into the fingers of his left hand. “Listen, Dzecki, will you tell me all about that bridge sometime?
What I’ve heard and read is unbelievable.”

Dzecki grinned. “How about right now? Let’s find something to drink.”

Daphna came back to the group around the Mondrian as Guli was introducing Dzecki’s father to the Alliance guests as “my American
partner, the prominent Long Island lawyer and developer, Mr. Barkowe,” by way of extolling the golden opportunities in Haifa
real estate. His French was fluent. The Mondrian gave him instant credibility. Clever guy, she thought. Guli’s background
was murky. Unfriendly word had it that he was a camp survivor with a dubious record. He lived part-time in Paris, and he owned
a home in Geneva which he rented out. So much she had learned from Dzecki. Now she perceived that the wily gorilla could put
on smooth manners and even a certain jolly charm. As for Dzecki, he was off at the bar talking with Galia Barak, which Daphna
did not mind at all.

“Shayna, Shayna!” At the door of the bride’s room, Don Kishote appeared and beckoned. She came out exclaiming anxiously, “Well?
What did Dado say about your resigning?”

“He calls it a futile gesture that would make no difference. Your opinion almost word for word.”

“And Zev Barak? Did you talk to him?”

“Just now. I told him I honestly couldn’t go on now in the army, I’m sick to my gut at what’s happened to Dado. Zev says I
shouldn’t quit, I might be sorry. If I ask for a year’s leave or even longer, it’ll probably be granted.”

“That makes a lot more sense than resigning. But —”

He interrupted. “Shayna, there’s Dayan.”

The Minister of Defense was hesitating at the flower-decked archway into the lawn. He had a wan look and his shirt collar
seemed a size too big. Zev Barak brought the bride’s father to him for an introduction. They shook hands, and Levinson proudly
led the Minister to meet his Alliance friends.