I got off the bus at the hot, dusty town of Be'er Sheva and checked my luggage in a locker. There was one taxi standing outside the bus station. I asked the middle-aged, bald driver:
"Do you speak English and how many years have you been driving taxi?"
"Yes and 25 years. Why is this important?"
"I need someone who knows Be'er Sheva well to help me find someone. Do you know where the Ya'akov family lives and can you take me there now?"
The taxi driver introduced himself as Ronin and offered me a Time cigarette. Taxi drivers are the same all over the world – compulsive talkers. It must be the captive audience. Ronin discussed the state of the shekel, how the
haredim
(ultra-orthodox Jews) were taking away everybody's idea of a fun time and gave me a short history of Be'er Sheva from Avraham to the Likud Party. Ronin had the time to expound on all these topics because the Ya'akovs' home was a large villa on the outskirts of the town. I went up to the gate but nobody answered the intercom. I went back dejectedly to the taxi and told Ronin:
"Nobody's there."
"You didn't ask me if anyone was home. Yishai Ya'akov only lives there when the Knesset isn't sitting or he isn't cooking up some deal in the back rooms. I've only seen him come back to Be'er Sheva at
Pesach
and
Yom Kippur
. Oh, also he throws a great party at
Purim
. So, tell me, what do you want with one of our politicians?"
As if I could have gotten a word in edgewise when Ronin was talking and wagging his finger. Ronin looked like a decent guy, even if he talked too much, so I decided to take him into my confidence. I explained that I was looking for Tamar Ya'akov because I had met her five years ago and had fallen in love with her in three short weeks. I explained that her father had taken her away from me when she dropped me off at the airport. The last place she had been stationed during her army service was here in Be'er Sheva. Ronin just shook his head.
"Do you know that Yishai Ya'akov would turn you over to Shin Bet for another interrogation if he'd been in that house and you came looking for his daughter? You have to carry out your search in a more indirect, Israeli fashion. I suggest that you try some of Tamar's friends who might know where she would be now. Most of her school friends left Be'er Sheva after their army service but Delilah Toledano still lives here. Why don't you find out if Delilah knows anything?"
Ronin began a lecture on another subject, of which he was the greatest expert: how there were no opportunities for young people in Be'er Sheva. We drove to another villa in the same expensive neighbourhood. He let me out and closed the taxi's door.
"I can tell Delilah's at home because the gate is open. I'll leave you here for a couple of hours. It's my lunch break and I take
ha'atzorim
(siesta) after lunch. We'll settle up the fare when I pick you up. Have a nice chat with Delilah."
A woman opened the door in response to my knocking. It wasn't just a woman but a very beautiful woman. I judged that she was, indeed, in her mid-twenties, the same age as Tamar. She had the black hair, brown eyes and olive skin of a
Mizrachi
(Eastern) Jew. Her black hair was expensively coifed, I could tell even though I know nothing about hair styling. Most men don't know their hair styles except they know what they like. Well, maybe Mr. Bruce at the Whitehorse Beauty Salon knows hair styles but I'm clueless.
The woman was petite, slim but well built in the chest, as are most Israeli women. I could make out her protruding tits, even though she was wearing a rather shapeless caftan. Damn, these Israeli women must sport the biggest tits on earth. I stopped ogling the woman and got down to business.
"Do you speak English and are you Delilah Toledano?" I asked.
"Yes and yes. Who are you and how may I help you?"
"My name is Chris. I'm from Canada and I'm a friend of Tamar Ya'akov. I'm told that you went to school with Tamar and that you were still friends when she was posted here in Be'er Sheva. Can you help me find Tamar? I haven't seen her for five years."
"Yes, Chris. Tamar talked a lot about you when she was posted in Be'er Sheva. Please come inside, I'll put on the
finjan
and we'll talk about Tamar over coffee."
I sat down in the living room and surveyed Delilah's house while she performed the coffee ritual in the kitchen. The house was cool from the
masgan
(air conditioning) despite the midday plus 30 degree temperature outside. The Italian marble tile floor was barely visible beneath the oriental carpets scattered around. The walls were decorated with Arab brasswork. I had the distinct impression that I had stumbled into the pasha's harem. What wasn't covered by hammered brass was covered by expensive oil paintings bearing the names of European artists. The TV, sound system and other electronics were likewise imported. Nothing was Israeli-made; it all spoke of money and lots of it.
Delilah finally came in bearing a silver tray with a coffee set and two small ceramic cups. I detected a slight rattle of the coffee set. Were Delilah's hands betraying nervousness? She sat down beside me, making sure that her thigh was jammed hard against mine. She poured a tiny cup for each of us, indicating that there was more sugar if I needed it. I took a sip and braced myself for the onslaught of bitter coffee mixed with enough sugar to make a small cake. The coffee was so sweet that it made my teeth ache and so strong that my ears buzzed. At least I was at full alert for any clues Delilah might give me to Tamar's whereabouts.
"I really can't tell you much that can help you. When Tamar came back to Be'er Sheva, she finished her army service as a lowly guard at Avraham's Well. I only spoke to her a couple of times because her family kept her on a tight leash. Mr. Ya'akov thought that I was a little too unreligious for his little girl. OK, I was kind of wild when I was in high school but that's no reason to hate me. I never put up with my parents interfering in my life the way Tamar's parents did in hers. I suppose that's why she left Be'er Sheva, to get out from under her father's thumb. I wouldn't go to Eilat to help that fat cow, Sarah, run her tour company. I mean, there's no money in the travel business and everyone knows that Sarah is a little bit slow and no fun."
"Excuse me, who is Sarah?"
"Sarah Liebowitz, Chris. I apologize. Be'er Sheva is such a small place that I assume an outsider knows everybody here the same way we do. Sarah Liebowitz is the only Ashkenazi who hung out with us Mizrachis in the
gymnasium
(high school). I never thought Sarah fit in with us, and it wasn't just because her parents were Russian. She was so fat and awkward and my friends were all so good-looking, like Tamar. Tamar seemed to see something in Sarah, although I don't know what. Tamar was the one who always stood up for Sarah and insisted that she be part of our clique. No wonder, when Sarah needed help with her business, Tamar was the only one who responded. I really don't know what happened down in Eilat because I lost touch with them both. I know this hasn't been very helpful to you, Chris."
"It's been more helpful than you can imagine, Delilah. I learned things about Tamar from you that I never knew before. That's just like her, to try and love the unlovable and help the helpless."
"Well, Tamar is really in love with you. She told me all about how you met just by accident. Tamar thinks you are the sweetest, kindest man in the world. She said that what you lacked in intelligence you more than made up with your, how do you say it in English, physical attributes. Now, why don't you tell me about your night in Haifa?"
I had all the information I needed and some that I didn't. Apparently every woman in Israel had the impression I wasn't too bright. I wanted to go because Delilah was getting into an area I didn't want to discuss. On the other hand, I would insult Delilah greatly by leaving. Things move at their own pace in the Middle East and the coffee ceremony had to run its course before I could leave.
So, I tried steering the conversation to some innocuous small talk with my hostess about life in Israel compared to that in Canada, hoping that the opportunity would come for a face-saving opportunity to leave. Delilah always kept returning to how I met Tamar and the details surrounding our short-lived affair. I wasn't any match for this manipulative woman. I told her everything in detail. When I finished with the story about our separation at the airport, Delilah put her manicured hand on mine and said:
"It must have been heartbreaking for you both, to find love and to lose it in such a short space of time."
Well, you know how it is. Her hand on my hand, a word of sympathy and I'm a slave to any woman. We put our arms around each other and Delilah began her process of comforting my broken heart with an open-mouthed kiss. The tips of our tongues played around each other and then I thrust my tongue as deep into her mouth as I could. Delilah thrust back and wouldn't stop until I broke away for air.
We both rested our heads on each other's shoulder. I breathed in a subtle whiff of expensive French perfume. I already knew Delilah had money but I didn't know why she would wear such expensive perfume in the middle of the day. Certainly it wasn't for my benefit, since I hadn't told Delilah that I would be visiting. The milkman on this route must be one lucky guy, I figured.
I didn't have the opportunity to ponder for long the meaning of Delilah's perfume. Delilah was unbuttoning my shirt, which I was wearing Israeli-style with no tie and one button open. She was running her hand admiringly over my chest hairs. I slid my hand up along her outer thigh and past her hips. Delilah didn't wear panties underneath her caftan. I managed to one-hand the brassiere hooks open. The speed with which the ends parted indicated that the brassiere cups were carrying one heavy load. And they were. I brought my hand around to discover what I had just liberated from the bra. The Song of Songs describes an Israeli woman's breasts as
rimonim
