In Pursuit of Trust

In Pursuit of Trust

Channa Coggan

Copyright 2016 by Channa Coggan

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design: Janis Ben David

Ma’ale Adumim, Israel

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

DEDICATION

In loving memory of:

Eleanor Dorothy Coggan,

A mom as different from Sue’s as day is from night and;

Aharon (Roni) Falik,

My husband, whose latent potential came to life in Yossi.

CHAPTER ONE

INCONGRUITY is the only constant.

That’s what Arlen Diskin claimed. Many people couldn’t stand Arlen’s bombastic blabber. I, on the other, hand, thought it fascinating, especially his knowledge of Jerusalem’s history, which we were discussing just then.

My name is Sue Yamin. Exactly one year ago today, on October 6, 1982, my best friend Tiki Weinstein and I opened a graphic design studio in Jerusalem. Tiki does design, and I handle the copywriting, editing and overall office management. Our business is called TS Graphics; not very original, I know, but Tiki’s husband Chuck, who doubles as our financial guru, said Israelis are ravenous for anything English. He was right; we’d beaten the business odds so far.

It was Tiki’s brilliant idea to invite our clients to share in our first anniversary celebrations; hence, Arlen’s presence.

Take the Kollek municipality for example, he continued, his strong Mancunian accent clashing with his kibbutznik garb. Arlen’s shoulders were set in a perpetual stoop, as though he couldn’t be bothered with something as mundane as good posture.

Yes, I’m listening, I said as I walked over to Chuck’s solid oak desk and selected my favorite Bonnie Raitt cassette from the rack on the wall. I slipped the tape into the slot, pressed PLAY, and yielded for one precious moment to the familiar bass tones of Mighty Tight Woman.

What’s that noise? Arlen asked, the sight of his bushy-black eyebrows behind thick horned rim glasses reminding me yet again of Groucho Marx.

Background music!

Arlen made a face. Your Israeli guests won’t like her.

Their problem, I said, turning up the volume another notch. Bringing American rock music to the uninitiated was a huge mitzvah, or good deed, in my book.

I walked over to the southern wall of the studio, unlatched the window and threw open the rusty steel shutters until they hung flush against the outer walls of the building. One of the side benefits to our third-floor location was the amazing view it offered of the Mekor Baruch neighborhood and Jaffa Road, Jerusalem’s main east-west artery. I looked out across the way. The late afternoon sky was a cloudless blue. We hadn’t had any rain during September and the weathermen were already talking of drought conditions. To my right, the sun set through the spaces between the stone faced buildings on Rashi Street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a matronly woman on the street below turn her head up, searching for the source of the music. She caught sight of me and shook her head in disapproval. I laughed to myself; like many Israelis her age, the fact that I was a complete stranger didn’t stop her from playing Yiddishe Mama.

Just then, the front door opened with a loud squeak of protest.

Sue! It was Tiki.

I rushed over just in time to catch two large plastic shopping baskets before they fell on the floor.

"You’re not going to believe how much stuff Chuck bought," Tiki said, brushing errant curls off her face.

To the casual eye, Tiki looked like a poster-child for Israeli tourism: long and lean with lovely olive-colored skin, full lips, and jet-black hair. Her cheeks were flushed red, now, from the effort of carrying the groceries up the stairs.

Unload these baskets, will you? I’m going back for the others.

"The others?" I repeated in astonishment, but Tiki had already dashed back out the door.

I cleared space on the desk and laid out the fixings, one by one. There were three containers of eggplant salad, each a different kind; a container of Moroccan carrot salad, and another of carrots with pineapple pieces; two containers of shredded cabbage salad, one red and one white; a container of finely-chopped cucumbers and tomatoes; one container each of Turkish salad and techina, a sack of fresh green olives and brine, another of small salt pickles, a small plastic bottle of green zhug (the mild variety, much to my delight), and three nylon bags of fresh pitot.

Jo-Jo prepared all this? I asked, after Tiki had walked back in, holding another basket. Jo-Jo’s Moroccan cafe, in the Mahane Yehuda shouk, was our favorite hangout.

"Chuck emptied Jo-Jo’s salad bar," Tiki said, her voice filled with a mix of pride and gastronomic anticipation.

Poor Jo-Jo, I laughed. I could just imagine the ruckus his Thursday afternoon patrons would raise when they discovered there were no salads left. To Israelis, salad, and lots of it, is the quintessential element of Shabbat meals.

Hey! ‘Poor Jo-Jo’ made good money on the order. Chuck, the speaker, said these words in an uncharacteristically indignant tone, probably due to having carried a full crate of soft drink bottles across the office threshold. He set the crate down with a thud next to the drafting table and stretched out his six-foot frame. He was wearing a button-down shirt tucked into well-pressed chino cloth trousers, and a pair of imported brown loafers on his feet.

In hair coloring, complexion and natural temperament, where Tiki was dark, Chuck was light: His reddish-brown hair, freckles, and Dumbo ears had won him a Howdy-Doody look-a-like contest in his youth. His easy-going personality was reflected in a penchant for practical jokes. However, at the moment he was downright serious:

Did Ami call? he demanded.

I shook my head. Ami was our banker.

Yitzhak?

No.

Nobody from the bank?

"No one period."

He checked his watch and frowned. Not good.

Something wrong, sweetie? Tiki asked, pouring olives into a small bowl.

Her husband’s expression shifted gears imperceptibly. Yeah, I forgot the paper goods in the cab.

Oh, Chuck she said, extending the enunciation of his name like a singer amplifying a sad note. "Our guests are due any minute."

Just kidding! he laughed.

Tiki frowned. Oooof! That must be the ten thousandth prank you’ve pulled on me.

Ten thousand, five hundred and three, to be exact, Chuck answered with a grin, reaching outside the front door for a large shopping bag. "And how ‘bout a ‘poor Chuck’ for shlepping all this stuff up the stairs?"

I caught Tiki’s look of loving exasperation as she walked over to Chuck. "Miskhen sheli," Tiki said, using the Hebrew version of my poor baby. She kissed his cheek.

G-d, I love this woman, Chuck said, setting down the shopping bag and folding Tiki into a warm embrace. She lifted her head. He bent down. She offered her mouth. He kissed her.

_____

The memory of their first kiss flashed in my consciousness. It must have been April or May 1974, at Kibbutz Ma’agen Michael. A handful of us from the six-month Hebrew ulpan program were picking fruit in the grapefruit orchards. It was break-time and we were resting under the trees. Usually Tiki and I worked the crow’s nest, canvas baskets suspended by large cranes in the tops of the tress, but two of the tractors were in the shop so they had moved us to ground detail.

But the proof’s right here, said Chuck, indicating a cluster of square wooden packing crates in the clearing. I’m telling you, Tiki, I did it!

Um hmm, she said indifferently, concentrating on removing the pith from a section of peeled grapefruit.

Breathing hard, Chuck made an exaggerated show of wiping his brow. It was difficult, but I achieved my objective, he said, making himself sound like an Olympic medal winner instead of a skinny 24-year old in torn blue shorts and work boots.

Tiki popped the fruit into her mouth.

Frustrated at not receiving the desired response, Chuck tried again: "Don’t you realize? I out-picked the Israelis."

"Mazal tov," Tiki said, finally, her tone dripping with mockery like the fruit juice dripping down her beautiful chin.

Chuck’s cheeks flushed. It seemed obvious that he had never been mocked before, at least not by a pretty 19-year old.

Tiki laughed at his discomfiture.

Hey!

But Tiki was already on her feet. She threw the rest of her grapefruit at him and took off running in a burst of dust and tree leaves. The chase was on. Being five-foot-five, Tiki had the advantage close in to the tree trunks. However, Chuck had the greater reach. Twice he almost grabbed her. Twice, Tiki eluded his grasp with squeals of delight. The third time was the charm as prey surrendered graciously to pursuer.

Come here, you, said Chuck grabbing Tiki’s arm and turning her to face him. It wasn’t Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, but their kiss brought whistles and catcalls from the assembled work detail.

"Nu? I asked Tiki afterwards, when we were heading off, baskets in hand, towards another row of trees. How was it?"

Wonderful.

So it looked.

Uh huh, she said in a dreamy tone.

_____

I glanced down at Tiki’s feet, now, half-expecting to see sparks shoot up out of her shoes. Despite eight years as husband and wife, immigration to Israel, the birth of one child and the miscarriage of another, Chuck and Tiki Weinstein were still the happiest married couple I’d ever known.

I wish I could say the same about my own marriage. I’d met Yossi nine years ago at an Israel Army convalescent hospital. He had almost died from shrapnel wounds received six months’ earlier in the Yom Kippur War. I’d give him massages and wheel him out to the garden where we’d spend hours conversing about the Israel I never knew; its language and culture. Once, a bedridden pal of his proffered a joke, the punch-line of which I didn’t understand, so Yossi asked his brother to lend me a copy of Dahn Ben-Amotz’ Dictionary of Hebrew Slang. Then there was the time that my aunt fought the Netanya Municipality about fixing a busted pipe and Yossi had read me the satires of Ephraim Kishon. He introduced me to the poetry of Hayim Nahum Bialik and the stories of Leah Goldberg. Before starting on a freelance article I was writing about early 20th Century Jerusalem, Yossi gave me S.Y.Agron’s Tmol Shilshom (for background research, he’d said at the time). It was a wonderful relationship: Yossi was Teacher; I was Student.

So, yes: Yossi was a great guy and a good friend. I was quite fond of him, to be honest, but my marrying him was due to more prosaic reasons than Tiki’s: marriage is the norm in Israel; I wanted to fit in to this couples country.

Tears suddenly filled my eyes. Not only had Yossi and I never, ever, experienced a relationship like Tiki’s and Chuck’s, but I yearned to experience a kiss like the one they’d just shared. Oh, I’d been a promiscuous gal in my younger days, and, for the last three years I have been Yossi’s wife, but Chuck and Tiki’s loving embrace made me realize how badly I wanted sexual desire and physical attraction.

Served me right for marrying someone I didn’t love romantically.

Shalom! Yossi popped his head through the front door, as if on cue.

Yooosssssi! I said, saying his name like a shovel picking up and discarding my inner thoughts. I was just thinking about you.

"Ad 120. May I live a long life," Yossi said, flashing the same child-like grin that had endeared him to me on my first visit to the convalescent hospital.

He planted his metal walking crutch with one hand while pushing himself through the doorframe with the other. Yossi looked like a human Teddy Bear: short, with button eyes, half-moon ears and a pudgy belly good for lying down on.

"Sheesh, that elevator, he said, even I could have climbed the stairs faster."

The elevator in question was one of two slow-as-molasses freight elevators serving the westernmost wing of the Mekor Baruch light-industrial complex. Built in the 1960s for professionals looking to escape the higher rents of central Jerusalem, a mile away, the block-lettered 3 shaped complex had morphed during the interim into a printer’s paradise, with print shops and binderies on the ground floor, and graphic designers and montage studios on the top two floors.

Compared to the 60 square feet of space in the Weinstein’s apartment where we had been located, our new, third floor quarters were positively gigantic. Thanks to Chuck, TS Graphics also sported a small toilet and washroom that already had saved us untold trauma; most other tenants used the shared toilets in the stairwells. Fee for daily use: nerves of steel and an exceptional ability to hold one’s breath.

I keep after the building committee to install a new elevator, but no go, said Chuck, bringing Yossi a chair.

No, no, put it behind here, said Tiki, indicating the receptionist counter where I was busy cutting up carrots and celery. You don’t mind, do you, Yossi?

To sit near my lovely wife? What a question!

A slice of carrot shot off and hit me in the eye. Ouch! I rubbed it, irritated anew at my husband’s fondness for verbal idiocies. Like after his recovery when he told everyone who’d listen that I saved his life. Baloney! What had I done? Sat and talked with him? His doctors deserved the credit, not me.

A moment later, a pretty woman popped her head inside the front door, scanned the studio, and popped her head out again, like a black-haired Jack-in-the-Box.

Yossi, meet Anat, I said, in answer to his quizzical look.

Anat’s the secretary for Tuv-Dfus printers on the ground floor, Tiki explained.

AKA the Bitch from Beit Hakerem, I added presciently, as Anat chose that very moment to prove the moniker’s accuracy with a shrill yell of ‘no one’s there yet’ from directly opposite our open window.

Arlen winced.

‘Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout’, Yossi said in his direction, quoting Proverbs.

Indubitably.

The front door hinge squeaked. Hi everybody!

Maisie! Tiki exclaimed, rushing over to embrace her friend. I wasn’t sure you’d come.

And miss my roomie’s celebration? Not a chance!

Maisie was my height (five-foot seven) with penetrating eyes and straw-blond hair. Years ago, Tiki and Maisie had been dorm roommates at Chicago’s School of Art and Architecture. Now, both of them were in Jerusalem pursuing their passions: Tiki, in graphic design; Maisie in photography.

Maisie was wearing her usual garb: wide drawstring pants, a floral blouse, and a fisherman’s jacket stuffed with film cartridges. Turning to me, she said, And here’s our Meryl Streep look-a-like!

But with shorter hair, I laughed, pinching a one-inch long strand.

And bigger boobs, she whispered.

Hey, Maize, Chuck said, carrying empty salad containers and shopping bags past her into the washroom.

Hi Chuck. I ran into Shag on the way up. I’ve never seen him so normal-looking.

Chuck laughed. Must be his new job at Korehk book bindery.

Good going, finding it for him!

Chuck’s freckles turned a deeper red. So where is Shag-Man? he asked, changing the subject.

Right here, said our lanky friend, walking in the front door. Shag bore a striking resemblance to Norville Shaggy Rogers of Scooby-Do fame. He was a man of perpetual melancholy, like a theater actor chained for life to the role of Hamlet.

Hey, Shag, how was the concert? I asked, resuming the carrot slicing.

What concert? said Arlen, munching a salt pickle.

Simon and Garfunkle.

Really? Maisie said, taking out her new Olympus and adjusting the lens. I thought the Haifa concert was sold out.

Our lucky friend here found a ticket, Tiki said, giving Shag a smile. Simon and Garfunkle was one of her favorite groups.

Just then the tape cassette’s PLAY lever popped up. Seeing it as a divine signal to make Bridge over Troubled Waters the next selection, I ejected Bonnie, dropped in S&G, and pressed PLAY. Tiki gave me a thankful smile upon recognizing the first chords.

"Nu, how was it?" Maisie asked.

It was okay, I guess, said Shag in a wistful tone, dishing up salads onto a plastic plate.

"Simon and Garfunkle play one measly concert in Israel, which you’re lucky enough to attend, and ‘it was okay, I guess’?" Maisie asked, incredulously.

What do you want from me? protested Shag, sitting down in the desk chair. I don’t even like them that much.

Then why did you go? asked Tiki in a hurt tone of voice. I wasn’t sure what bothered her more—that Shag had procured a ticket, or that he didn’t like S&G.

I don’t know, Shag said, it was…

"Something American?" Chuck offered, carrying a chilled soda bottle from the refrigerator to his desk and pouring Shag a cup.

Exactly!

This young fellow makes perfect sense, Arlen said, with a nod to Shag and turning his attention towards Tiki and me added, but what doesn’t make sense is how you ladies can offer refreshments without even a smidgen of hummus.

Tiki gasped. "Chuck!"

I knew I forgot something, her husband said sheepishly. Chuck opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and took out a tin of shoe polish, a brush and a rag.

"Again?" asked Tiki, impatiently.

He’s only trying to look his best, Tiki, said Maisie. She snapped a photo of Chuck standing on his left foot, with his right foot balanced on the top of the rag-covered open drawer.

Thanks, Maize, said Chuck, brushing the thin layer of polish he had just applied.

"But my dear husband shined his shoes not two hours ago," Tiki said, walking over to pat Chuck’s bent-over backside.

Arlen coughed. You needn’t go because of my gluttony, young man. There is plenty here to fill my palate.

That’s okay, Chuck said, changing feet, and repeating the polishing procedure on his left shoe. I need to go to the bank anyway…

"The bank, too? Tiki asked in a tone of surprise. But we were just there!"

Sorry, Tiki. I need to see Ami. Besides, Jo-Jo’s is on the way.

She sighed. Then you’d better hurry. She gave Chuck’s backside a fist-size pinch that was captured by Maisie’s Olympus in full, photographic glory.

Ouch! Chuck stretched his back like a cat. Then, turning towards the pinching culprit he smiled and said, Come here, you. Chuck pulled Tiki into a quick embrace.

Hey, you two lovebirds, how ‘bout a proper photo? asked Maisie. Chuck and Tiki smiled towards Maisie, their arms still wrapped around each other. The camera shutter clicked a few times. Perfect, thanks, Maisie said.

Tiki released herself from Chuck’s arms and smiled.

Chuck closed the shoe wax tin and dropped it into the bottom desk drawer, along with the brush and rag. Be back soon, he said, grabbing his sports coat and kicking the desk drawer closed with the bottom of his shoe.

I miss you already, said Tiki.

Chuck laughed. I know. Call my beeper service if you need me. He planted a kiss on his wife and disappeared.

That is one cool camera, Maisie said Shag, stretching for a closer look.

Isn’t it? My sister brought it for me.

"Oh, is she visiting you?

"No, she made aliya," she said, using the incongruent expression with which we Western olim refer to the act of immigration. To the uninitiated, the immigration process sounded as easy as making a cake: Take one wife, add one husband, throw in a handful of kids, put the mixture in an absorption center, and turn up the heat.

It’s strange, Maisie continued. At the airport, after getting her Israeli identity card and health fund membership, my sister went to the foreign exchange window to exchange US dollars. The bank teller almost begged her to exchange her money to Israeli bank shares instead of Israeli currency.

What did she do? asked Arlen, furrowing his bushy eyebrows.

Kept a majority in US dollars, of course.

Good girl.

Shag frowned. That’s so weird. Yesterday, my bank manager wouldn’t let me exchange bank shares. I’m like, ‘Hey, dude, I need cash to pay rent.’ He said ‘Fine’, and doubled my overdraft on the spot.

"What?" I said.

I know. It’s awesome having a huge overdraft, but why couldn’t I sell my bank shares?

Why, indeed, said Arlen, a know-it-all look on his face.

Just then, the front door burst open.

"Eema! It was Moshe, the Weinstein’s seven-year old son. Eema! Look what Saba and Safta bought me!" he said, gripping a bottle of bubbles. Wide-eyed and long-legged, Moshe’s cheeks reddened as his eyes took in the crowd of people and the party fixings.

Cool! Tiki said, setting down the knife and wiping her hands on a paper towel. She joined her son by the front door. How’d your grandparents know you love bubbles?

Moshe shrugged his shoulders. "Abba must have told them," he said, matter-of-factly. Tiki kneeled next to Moshe, unzipped his jacket, and held the cuffs while Moshe slipped free.

Hungry, sweetie? Tiki asked, hanging up Moshe’s jacket on a hook on the wall.

Yeah, a little. But no tomatoes, okay?

Tiki laughed. Okay, no tomatoes. Wash your hands and I’ll make you a plate.

Moshe walked off in the direction of the washroom.

Hello, anyone home? An elderly gentleman opened the front door. He was tall and handsome with the distinctive Weinstein coloring.

Hi Dad, come on in, said Tiki, spooning salads onto a plate for Moshe. She set the plate on the edge of Chuck’s desk, along with a pita, a napkin and utensils.

The elder Mr. Weinstein scanned the room. Where’s Chuck? he asked, holding the door open for his wife.

He’ll be right back. He’s on an errand.

"You see, dear? That was him." said Mrs. Weinstein, who had stepped into the studio and was removing her overcoat. She wore a button-down cashmere sweater on top of a turtleneck blouse, an A-line skirt, and sensible shoes.

Who was, Mom? Tiki asked, greeting her in-laws with polite kisses.

"The man we saw running towards the shouk when we pulled off Yaffo Road. Dad wasn’t sure because of the crowds of people milling about, but I knew it was Chuck."

Tiki took their coats and hung them up on wall hooks. Shall I introduce you to our guests in the meantime?

We’d be delighted, said Mrs. Weinstein.

One by one, Tiki introduced everyone to Chuck’s parents, saving me for the end. You remember Sue, don’t you?

Yes, of course, said Mrs. Weinstein, smiling. Such a special occasion! Your family must be very proud of you.

How to answer: Blunt truth? A lie? It was no contest: They’re not, I said bluntly.

Oh?

My parents disapprove of me living in Israel and, other than my sister and a terrific aunt in Netanya, the rest of my so-called family is dead.

I’m so sorry, she said, reacting to the latter news.

Don’t be. I’m not, I said, smiling as big a smile as I could muster. Mrs. Weinstein’s face drained of color, like a washing machine at the start of a rinse cycle. I excused myself, swiped a pita in techina and made my way over to the desk, but not before I saw Mrs. Weinstein’s questioning look in Tiki’s direction, and Tiki’s shrug in return.

Feeling a sudden urge to hear Zushe Ben Avraham, the most amazing Jewish songwriter of all time, I put the plate on the desk, reached into the cassette box, and pulled out Blood on the Tracks. Thank the dear Lord I hadn’t burned my copy of Bob Dylan’s song lyrics when he became a Jew for Jesus a few years back!

Just as I pressed the PLAY button, Anat from Tuv-Dfus printers burst through the front door, accompanied by her boss Yoni Shaltiel. Yoni was five-foot-ten, with curly black hair and dreamy eyes. He walked over and shook Tiki’s hand.

Mazal tov on your first year anniversary.

"Toda raba."

My hat’s off to you both, he said, with a glance in my direction. Most new businesses never make it this far. By the way, the brochures are at Korekh. I’ve asked Shlomi to bring some samples.

Tiki smiled. Excellent. Thanks, Yoni.

Only 29 years old, Yoni was the epitomy of a Rosh Gadol—those wonderful people who deliver more than they promise, point out cost-saving alternatives, shave a day off your printing schedule, or all of the above. Tiki was always saying, ‘If Yoni didn’t exist, we would have to conjure him up.’ Yet, how someone like him could tolerate a secretary like Anat was a question for the Mashiach.

I studied her. Anat had removed a piece of chewing gum with two glossy red-tipped fingernails from behind glossy red lips and was flicking it into the trash can. She made a face at Dylan’s nasal twang and high-heeled her way over to Maisie. Greeting her as a long-lost friend, I guessed Anat assumed Maisie to be a newspaper gossip columnist, the camera and all.

I caught Tiki’s eye and stuck my finger in my mouth.

Laughing, Tiki walked over, placed her hand lightly on Anat’s shoulder and said, Anat, this is our friend Maisie.

Nice to meet you, Anat said, shaking Maisie’s hand vigorously.

She’s a portrait photographer.

"Mah? Anat said, drawing back her hand. You’re not from the newspaper?"

Sorry to disappoint you, Maisie said, bemused.

To Anat’s evident relief, Maya, from the film montage studio next door picked that very moment to enter the studio.

"Save me from these Amerikaiot!" Anat said loudly while affecting a quick getaway.

The three of us laughed.

Tiki, dear? Mrs. Weinstein walked up behind her daughter-in-law. Chuck’s been gone a long time.

Tiki glanced down at her watch. Oh, he’s just teasing me, Mom. You know him. He’s probably outside the front door as we speak.

Mrs. Weinstein’s concerned look didn’t budge.

Tiki changed tactics: Do you want me to call his service?

Oh, would you, dear? Thank you.

Tiki picked up the reception desk telephone from the wall-mounted cradle and punched in some numbers.

Shalom, Sima? she said. I thought I recognized your voice…Fine so far…Listen, Sima. Has Chuck called in? She listened a moment then put her hand over the mouthpiece and to her mother-in-law whispered, He’s on the way to the bank.

Mrs. Weinstein smiled.

Do me a favor, Tiki said, returning to her phone conversation. If you hear from him, tell him to call me from a pay phone…yes, that’s right. Thanks, Sima! Bye.

Tiki hung up the phone and turned towards Arlen and Shag. Well, Chuck’s got the hummus. He has to make a quick stop at the bank, first, but he’s on his way back here. Okey dokie, boys?

Hunky dorry, fine and groovy, answered Shag.

Ditto, I think, Arlen said, an amused expression on his face.

Just then I heard three distinct thumps coming from the front door, as though someone was knocking on the door with his feet. "Hallo! Open the door!" It was Shlomi’s voice, deep and husky.

Mr.Weinstein rushed to his aid.

Careful! This is heavy, Shlomi gripped two twine-tied brown paper packages, one in each hand.

Yoni helped Shlomi set the packages, one on top of the other, on the floor. The girls asked for samples, you dumb Iraqi, not the whole order!

"Mah yesh? What happened? A sum total of two packages? The rest of the order’s being saddle-stitched. Now, move your French butt and get me a knife to cut these strings."

I laughed. It didn’t matter if Shlomi’s family had been living in Israel since the early Yishuv days, or if Yoni’s family was fourth generation Yerushalmi; Shlomi would always be the Iraqi and Yoni would always be the Frenchman.

Shlomi cut the strings on the top package, unwrapped the brown paper and lifted out two full-color brochures. These he presented to Tiki and me.

"Whoa. I like how this turned out," my partner said, flipping through all 48 pages.

Your cover design looks great, Teeks.

"I told you spot varnish was the right choice. Just look at the sharpness of the photo montage."

You’re the best.

I know, Tiki said, grinning. But Yoni’s second best! Good job!

Yoni nodded, acknowledging the compliment.

"Hmmm. Lessons from the Yom Kippur War: An Academic Study. Mr Weinstein had picked up a brochure and was reading the title aloud. It started October 6th, you know. That’s…"

…exactly 10 years ago today, Yossi said with a sigh.

Tiki, meanwhile, checked her watch again and frowned.

Maya picked up a brochure. I can’t believe it’s been 10 years already. Maya was a single-mom in her early thirties, with curly hair and a kind heart.

I can, said Yossi, lifting his paralyzed leg onto an empty chair.

That’s when you were wounded, right?

Right.

What unit were you in? asked Yoni, sitting down next to him.

The 7th Armoured Brigade.

Ah, Kahalani’s tank crew, on the Golan Heights. I was with the paratroopers, in the Sinai.

At the Battle of the Chinese Farm?

Yoni nodded.

I took the liberty of leaving these two IDF veterans to their war-story swap meet. I picked up the knife Shlomi had used to open the package and washed it in the basin.

Hey, Tiki, where’s Chuck? I heard someone ask, rather loudly.

Oh, he’ll be here any second, Tiki answered with a slight shake in her voice. She approached me. Glancing apprehensively first at her watch and then out the washroom window, Tiki began to drum on the counter.

Relax, Teeks, you’re making me nervous.

"Chuck’s been gone almost an hour!"

"Az mah?"

"So it’s only a seven-minute walk to Jo-Jo’s. And if Chuck had been running, as my mother-in-law reported, then he’d be there in four minutes…"

I exhaled, letting her words sunk in. …and the bank’s three minutes away from Jo-Jo’s.

"Exactly! This is so unlike him. He always calls me if he’s held up."

I dried my hands on a towel. Call Chuck’s service again.

Tiki looked doubtful.

I know you called them, but that was 20 minutes ago. Maybe they forgot to give Chuck your message…it wouldn’t be the first time.

I don’t know.

Maybe Chuck couldn’t find a working pay-phone and left a message for you with his service, instead.

Tiki stared at me. Then she opened the second drawer on Chuck’s desk, took out the phone handset and started dialing. You’re a genius.

I laughed. "A total genius."

"Yes, totally…hello, Sima? No, no, I was talking with someone else. Yes, this is she…What? Chuck left me a message?"

I gave Tiki a thumbs-up.

Sticking a finger in her non-listening ear, Tiki turned away from me. "That’s the message? she said after a moment. No, no…Thanks a lot…Good night." Tiki hung up the phone and