Let’s see? Henry met his wife Lucia in 1982 when he was publishing The Gringo Times in Havana. 4 years earlier on November 17, 1978, the Camp David Accord was reached.
At the time of the accord, Henry was living in Queens, writing for the Big Apple publication HEADBANGER Magazine and working nights at John Chow’s Noodle House in Chinatown.
28 years old, a widely read underground columnist with tonsurephobia, working scrubbing pots and pans in Chinatown dive.
It’s 9 AM, November 19, 1978. Inspired by the peace deal between Israel and Egypt, thinking he has nothing to lose, he throws a few things in a duffel bag, which folds in the middle when you pick it up because it’s nearly empty.
Henry locks the door of his Queen’s flat behind him, then walking to Steinway Street station, where he catches Subway E to JFK Airport.
In the International Terminal, he goes to the El Al ticket counter and buys a 1-way ticket to Tel Aviv for 236 dollars, paying cash.
He makes his way to Gate 27, his empty duffle bag hanging around his neck like a canvas stole. Noticing a Dunkin Donuts food stall, he stops and buys a large coffee and a couple pumpernickel bagels.
Boarding time for EL Al Flight 357 is 1127 PM. Sitting in the waiting area he munches bagels and drinks coffee, eyeballing the hectic activity on the tarmac around the 747.
Turning his head owl-like he notices a dark mass approaching the waiting area looking like a Sinai dust devil. It's a group of Hasidic Jews on their way to the Holy Land led by their Rabbi, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, who looks like Walt Whitman wearing a board rimmed Fedora.
In the boarding area, the Hassidic women sit separately from the men as the orthodox microcosm revolves around Rabbi Schneerson, like planets revolving around the sun.
It'd be Henry's 1st trip to Israel, but he knew a few things about the country— Jesus was born there, the Israelis have been at war with the Arabs forever, and Hebrew beat out Yiddish as the national language in 1948.
The ticket agent announces,
El Al Flight 357 to Tel Aviv is now boarding.
The Hassidim flock stands, boarding the 747, they've booked seats together to shield themselves from exposure to the dangers of secularism.
Henry's in coach class, sitting behind the flock of Hassidim. The take-off goes well and 40 minutes into the flight the lights dim and the movie Love Story is laser projected to a screen hung in the front of the cabin.
A minute into the screening, during the credits, a Rabbi Schneerson follower walks to the screen and covers it with a blanket. His actions are applauded by his ultra-Orthodox chums.
In Israel, secular Jews view the Hassidim as religious chauvinists who endanger their liberal way of life and threaten secular existence
Covering the movie screen on Flight 357 was proof that for the Hassidim it's their way or the highway.
The flight attendants didn't want to create a scene so they shut Love Story down. Henry wonders what the Hassid had against romance?
As the meals are served, he watches the ultra-orthodox lot quickly pray over their trays, 40 or so heads daubing sporadically.
They had a different blessing for each item on the menu, one for wine, bread, fruit, and so on.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.
His meal, certified by New York City Kosher Enforcement Agents consisted of— gefilte fish, Kneidlach, brisket, kugel, and tzimmes. It was so edible that he would order Kosher on future flights.
8 hours to Tel Aviv—dead time. Henry, who's 6 feet tall, is dismayed trying to fit into the Lilliputian space in coach class.
Wanting to stretch his aching knees he makes a b-line to the water closet in the front of the 747. An enchanting female flight attendant is standing in the galley sipping a 7 Up. He asks her,
I’m going to take a couple of knock out pills, I’m sitting in seat 23 C, please wake me when we land. She smiles and says,
anything for a handsome man.
On the way out of the head he pics up a mini bottle of Hennessy Cognac asking the sensuous El Al stewy,
I don’t have shekels, are dollars Ok?
no problem,
he hands her a 10 dollar bill and says keep the change, she tells him,
we can’t accept tips but I need a drink.
She reaches into the galley cupboard taking out a mini bottle of Arak, the national drink of Israel made from Anise, pouring it into a 1/2 empty bottle of water, the mix turns foggy.
Henry downs more than a few Ambien tablets with the cognac, a minute later falling asleep.
At 11PM he’s wakened by the Israeli stewy, Efrat. She says,
wake up dear, I'm lonely, come with me to Tel Aviv, we’ll cruise the cafes. I’ll pick you up in the departure area, gate 23.
Efrat shows at the departure area, waving at Henry from inside a Porsche Boxster with the top down. He gets in with his crumpled boy scout duffle bag, tossing it in the back, and asks,
how can you afford a Porsche on a flight attendant’s salary?
My family founded Bank Hapoalim in the 1920s.
So, why work?
My abba has laid down the law for the family, everybody works— so it's either work in a bank or somewhere, I choose somewhere.
Efrat exits Highway 20 at Kaplan Street and drives east towards Gordon Beach, Henry sees the Mediterranean Sea for the first time.
After driving a few blocks Efrat wheels her Porsche into the basement of a high-rise condominium, a sand-colored modern structure, with large glass balconies facing the sea.
She parks and they take the elevator to the 15th floor, walking to room 1509 and going inside. The room’s decorated simply, with no pictures on the walls, just a sofa, a love seat, and a dining room table with chairs. Henry asks Efrat if he can take a nap and she says,
we'll nap for a few hours and go out later.
She leads him to the bedroom.
5 hours later at 11 PM Henry wakes, Efrat's drinking Arak and water with fresh mint on the condo's terrace, looking at the Mediterranean Sea. He walks to the terrace and asks,
is it too late to go out? She smiles saying,
no darling, Tel Aviv never sleeps, get dressed.
Efrat puts on long black gauze pants, a white tank top, and low heels. She’s tall and shapely with model good looks. Henry wears cut off jeans, low top Converse gym shoes, and a T-Shirt that reads,
KISS MY GRITS
They take the elevator to the ground floor, walking through the lobby going outside, going north on Samuel Street and enjoying the sea breeze, then turning west at Frishman— a picturesque street lined with old gated townhouses.
Soon they're on Dizengoff— a road built in the 1930s named after Tel Aviv's first mayor, Meir Dizengoff. The boulevard's jacketed with 4 story buildings constructed in the Bauhaus International-style.
Henry and Efrat sit at a sidewalk table in front of Cafe Kassit, whose owner Moshe Kassit is a well known junky and bit-part actor in Israeli Films such as— Dead End Street, and Alex is Love Sick. Moshe Kassit is rotund and tall, wearing Big Mac overalls with a blue T-shirt, sitting with his head down, asleep at a table in the rear of the cafe.
An older Arab waiter dressed in a white shirt and black pants, gay perhaps, moves elegantly, coming to their table, Efrat says warmly,
massalam Faheed, this is my friend Henry from America, what’s fresh tonight? Faheed replies,
let me order for you habibi, I recommend you begin with a decanter Slivovitz Brandy,
As the new friends sip Israeli brandy they people watch, all sorts of people pass— Israeli soldiers in uniform with Uzis strapped on their shoulders, both men and women, beautiful people, people adrift, shoppers carrying large bags, folks walking their dogs, beatniks.
Faheed brings a tray, placing the plates of Jewish soul food adroitly on Henry and Efrat’s table 1 by 1— beef goulash, potato bourekas, stuffed grape leaves, Israeli salad, and a sliced baguette in a basket.
After the meal Henry says to Efrat,
sweetie, I have jet lag and feel knackered.
They retrace the route back to Efrat's condo, taking the elevator up 15 floors and going in.
The 2 sit on a red sofa in the living room, the balcony sliding doors are open, the sea breeze blows the curtains. Efrat rolls a joint, hash mixed with Drum tobacco. They smoke and make out, without forethought, falling to the floor and fucking. Efrat screams wildly as she cums, letting loose with a thick stream of pee.
In the bedroom after sex, they lay in bed and she says to Henry,
I'm going to the airport at noon, off to Buenos Aires for 5 days, will you be here for me when I come back? Henry obliging says,
Sure, I'll be back, you can count on me, hack, ahem, uck, uck, tobacco and kef, strep throat. Excuse me, I heading to Jerusalem in the morning.
The cough had nothing to do with smoking, after assuring Efrat she could count on him, his conscience collided with his superego, the collision birthing a cough of subconscious guilt.
Henry's up at 8 30, Efrat's sound asleep, he writes I LOVE YOU with a tube of her lipstick on the bedroom mirror. Something he saw in a film, Love Story maybe. He has second thoughts, wondering if the lipstick would be difficult to clean off the mirror, then thinking it's romantic, she'll like it.
He leaves his boy scout duffle bag behind, figuring he’ll pick up what he needs along the way. Walking out of the elegant condo he fantasizes about buying a thaub and Palestinian headdress in Bethlehem, dressing like Jesus or Lawrence of Arabia.
Henry, on the loose, heading into the underbelly of the Holy Land, resembling Jesus with beard and long hair, messianic like most poets, mad about saving the world, wanting to cut it to bits with his typewriter.
Holding onto the earth with everything he has, feeling like he's being swallowed whole like Noah, consumed by Jesus, touched like Lawrence of Arab.
After walking in circles for blocks, he wises up, hailing a sherut, the driver pulls over, rolling the taxi window down saying,
can habibi?
Take me to the Central Bus Station, the driver says waving his hands about creating the impression that he couldn't talk without them.
Ahh, I’d love to, but it’s, ahh, 4 blocks down the kaveesh habibi.
As Henry walks closer to the bus station he notices red and white Mercedes buses coming and going, mixing with traffic on the main road which t-bones the station entrance. The flow’s directed by a lady traffic cop dressed in Navy blue pants and a light blue shirt with a yellow fluorescent vest over it.
Walking into the busy terminal he eyeballs the scene, realizing a terrorist could plant a bomb masked as a crate of eggs or olives under a bench, or, get on a bus wearing a suicide vest, pull the fuse, and blow the bus and everyone on it apart— leaving strips of tangled metal mingled with bits of broken and bleeding humanity for the ZAKA rabbis to scrap up, pray over and return to families.
The ideal of a terrorist bomb blowing in the bus station intoxicated him— akin to the thrill a person gets parachuting out of a plane, or the exhilarated feeling of freedom soldiers feel during battle.
At the ticket counter, he pays 18 dollars or 60 shekels for a round trip ticket. A bus leaves every 10 to 20 minutes to Jerusalem. His bus, number 61 leaves in 10 minutes from gate 4.
Before shoving off he buys a pint of brandy and a thick round loaf of Arab Saj bread, asking the vendor for a large paper bag he'll use as a suitcase, traveling light without a change of clothes or even a toothbrush, like Bukowski traveled in his early days.
As he boards the bus, a security guard pats him down— checking for a suicide vest, then taking a look in his paper bag.
He sits alone at a window seat in the back of the bus, eyeballing passengers as they get on, full of prejudice, thinking every Arab boarding the bus is wearing a suicide vest.
An Israeli soldier girl sits next to him, she has an Uzi machine gun strapped over her soldier— should a terrorist go ballistic with a kitchen knife on the bus, she’d pick him off 1…2…3… with the skill of an Olympic clay pigeon shooter.
He looks her over, she’s wearing a short OD green skirt, a khaki shirt with epelits, and leather sandals. Her frosted hair drops over her shoulders in ringlets and her eyes glow blue.
Looking at the soldier girl Henry understands why the Israel Defense Force is called the beatnik army— because soldiers could wear long hair or beards if they pleased.
The bus driver skillfully wheels the large Mercedes bus through the small city streets, turning the rig onto Highway 2 and shifting to high gear.
Henry pulls the pint of brandy out of the paper bag, holding the bottle up and taking a healthy swig. The soldier girl laughs saying,
I’m Yael, what’s your name?
I’m Henry Lucowski, I’m with The Village Voice, here to write a piece on my impressions of the Holy Land,
This, a big lie. Yael smiles saying,
you're an artist?
Yes, a true bohemian,
she goes on,
my parents are Bohemian Jews, they migrated here in 1936 to escape the Nazis. Praise God, they got out in time. I’m going to visit them, they’re kibbutzniks at Kiriyat Anivem, outside of Jerusalem. He clarifies what he said,
I'm an All America beatnik, a freedom-loving freak.
The driver shifts into low gear as the bus circles and climbs the tree-lined hills of Natef. Yael gazes out the window, Henry notices her short skirt is hiked up exposing her panties. He feels his cock swell. Yael looks away from the window eyeballing the bulge in his cutoffs, laughing and saying,
chas v'chalila, your zubby is going to poke it’s head out of your shorts Henry, let me help you.
She lifts her backpack out from under her seat, taking a black and white checked Palestinian headscarf from the bag, placing it over Henry’s lap. Then unzipping his pants with her right hand under the scarf, grabbing his cock, holding it tightly, rubbing it, and saying,
baby don’t shoot a load, save it for me, I want to swallow it later. We can fuck all we want but I can’t marry you because you’re a goy.
How do you know I'm a goy? What does a Jew look like?
He has been in Israel a day and a 1/2 and had sexual encounters with 2 different women— it dawns on him that the country is X rated compared to the rest of the Middle East. And, that Jewesses are highly sexed and go for what they want.
The bus pulls into Jerusalem’s Central Station. Henry and Yael get off together. She says,
come with me to my Kibbutz, you can stay at my family's house, we’ll hitchhike there.
What'll your parents think?
Their freewheeling, open-minded kibbutzniks, Bohemian, bohemians. The 2 laugh and he says,
I have to be back in Tel Aviv in 5 days to meet a friend,
He had promised Efrat the well-heeled stewy he’d be in Tel Aviv waiting for her when she returned from her flight to Buenos Aires. Then Yael says,
we'll go together,
OK.
The short-timers leave the bus station, Henry’s paper bag is under 1 arm, and Yael’s Uzi is strapped on her shoulder as she carries her backpack.
They walk a few blocks from the bus station to Highway 404 that runs to Yael’s kibbutz, standing with a group of soldiers under a cement shelter, waiting 10 minutes until a kibbutznik driving a Peugeot pickup stops and says,
Yael habibi, mosh lom ka?
She gets in the cab of the Peugeot, chatting with her friend in Hebrew and Henry jumps into the bed of the French pickup.
In 20 minutes the Peugeot arrives at Kiryat Anivem and parks. They get out, walking a brick path to a small 2-story cement house with red shutters.
Yael opens the door and they walk in, her parents are sitting in the living room on a sofa, looking cozy, listening to Mozart on Israeli radio.
They stand and greet the new lovers, Yael’s father's wearing blue shorts, a light blue T-shirt, and a trembal cap. He asks Yael in Yiddish,
vemens di idyot? He needs a haircut.
Abba be nice, he’s my friend Henry from America.
Henry meet my parents, Abe and Lotka,
nice to meet you Abe and Lotka.
Abe says,
Are you Jewish? Henry answers,
I could be, my ancestors fucked around a lot.
Lotka, whos wearing a simple patterned dress says,
sit down, sit down, I’ll make coffee.
The couple sits at the diner table in the living room. In no time, Lotka brings out plates of dates, tea biscuits, marble halva, and a pot of Turkish coffee boiled with sugar, which she pours into small cups.
After noshing Yael takes Henry to her bedroom, where she changes in front of him, exposing her rounded natural breast, then putting on jeans and a sweatshirt saying,
Let's go to the Old City darling, you need clothes. After shopping we'll visit religious sites, later in the evening we'll go to my favorite cafe, Saint George’s, you'll love it.
They leave the kibbutz walking downhill on the tree-lined road to Highway 404. A Mercedes sherut stops at 404, Yael asks the Arab driver,
how much to the Jaffe Gate?
10 Shekels,
OK,
they get inside.
The road to the City of Holiness is winding and hilly. The driver lets them off at the main entrance to the Old City and they walk through the 400-year-old castle-like Jaffa Gate.
Then reaching a maze of yellow stone walkways, not wide enough for vehicle traffic, unchanged since Jesus walked the Via Dolorosa carrying the Roman wooden cross of pain, the universal symbol of Christianity.
They see an Arab barbershop that doubles as a tattoo parlor, the only one in Israel because tattoos are verboten by the Jewish Orthodoxy.
Razzouk Tattoo has been in the same location for 500 years, tattooing mostly Arab patrons, but, Jews are welcome because the Razzouk family are Coptic Christians.
The Coptics have lived in the Old City since ancient times and believe it’s their duty to watch over The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, built on the site where Jesus was believed to be crucified.
For the hell of it, Henry and Yael go inside Razzouks and look over the tattoo flash that's in frames on a black stone wall. The tattoos are primitive, awful by modern standards— green, ragged, one-dimensional images of birds, swords, guns, hearts with arrows, cupids, angels, cats, and so on.
Leaving without getting a tattoo, the soon to be lovers go to an Arab shop where Henry buys 3 pairs of chinos, some white T-shirts, a grey sweater, a Palestinian scarf, and a pair of shoes, Wingtip style but made of 100% rubber.
Then walking down a cobbled path to the Western Wall, where Henry puts on black paper Kippur which keeps falling off because his hair's so long. He walks to the 4 story wall made of large rectangular chunks of limestone that was built by King Herod in 37 BC.
Placing his head on the wall he feels a buzzing sensation run through his body, he writes a note on a small piece of paper, wedging it in a crack. It reads,
G-d, take Toto and I home to Kansas.
The blasphemer meets up with Yael who's been praying
with women worshipers in a nearby gated area— separated, because men's prayers are more propitious in G-d's eyes.
The soon to be lovers trek the Via Doloroso— an ascending walkway made of yellow stone, the path Christ walked with his heavy wooden cross.
Henry imagines Christ getting the holy shit whooped out of him by sadistic Roman soldiers, tended to and followed by his wailing lover Mary Magdalen, a converted hooker who fell for His easy-going manner and rugged good looks.
At Jaffa gate they head into downtown Jerusalem, trekking uphill on Bezel Street to Saint George’s Cafe, going inside and sitting at a small table. Henry says,
After the religious experience in the Old City, I need a drink,
me too baby.
A young Arab waiter in black slacks with a blue shirt on, wearing a white bow tie comes to their table, saying,
Mosh lom ka, Sultani Yael? Would u like the usual times 2?
Can, Abbad, and bring us a bottle of Askalon Brandy with ice and soda.
Abbad returns with the bottle of brandy, placing it on the table with a bucket of ice and some soda.
Henry unscrews the top off the brandy and pours a couple of stiff ones.
Soon, Abbad brings dishes of hummus, Israeli salad, barbecued turkey, meatball kababs, and a basket of freshly baked pitas.
They stay at the cafe for hours, then after eating, talking about their dreams and aspirations, stuff new lovers talk about, then finishing off the bottle of brandy, shikor— drunk in Hebrew.
Leaving the cafe, they walk in circles awhile, so loaded they find it difficult to navigate. Henry feels like he's in Emerald City, OZ.
Eventually, they reach the cement shelter where IDF soldiers gather for rides. They queue until an Israeli Arab stops, offering them a ride.
He's on his way home to Ar Ram after a night of hookah smoking and chez paz. As he drives he says,
I'm Abdul, let's get high,
they pass a joint of tobacco with kef, smoking as Muwashuh music blares through the beefed-up speakers in Abudul's International Ford.
He lets them off at the road entrance to Kiriyat Anivem, they walk the steep tree-lined road to the kibbutz, then going to Yael's family house, the door's unlocked—no one locks their doors on kibbutzim, because everyone knows each other, and if terrorists want to get in they'll blow the door down.
In Yael's room, they get naked, lying in bed on their backs looking up. So loaded they feel the room spinning, holding on to each other tight. Yael says,
Henry, I have 2 weeks' leave that I’ve saved. I can call my CO at Tele Shamir and tell him I want to take it, can you put off your friend in Tel Aviv?
Yes, why not?
Henry’s falling for Yael— He’d blow off the El Al stewy for her.
Up at 10, they roll 2 sleeping bags, strapping them onto 2 IDF backpacks. Filling the packs with things they'll need— swimsuits, toothbrushes, and the like. Then walking to the kibbutz kitchen.
Israeli breakfast is legendary, fuel for hardworking kibbutzniks— eating cafeteria-style in the communal dining room the new lovers enjoy, humous, eggs, pickled Herring, freshly baked rolls, yogurt, and olives, washing the fare down with hot tea mixed with fresh milk donated by the kibbutz cows.
The couple hitchhikes to the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. Besides backpacks, Yael has brought her Uzi— a must for IDF soldiers on holiday in the Sinai who at times are hassled or kidnapped by nomadic Beduin gangs who carry on like Hells Angels on camels.
In 20 minutes the love birds are at Jerusalems’ Central bus station, It’s noon.
They buy 2 round-trip tickets to Naama Bay, near Sharm El Sheikh.
Henry the lush, buys a bottle of Israeli brandy, placing it in his backpack. They board the bus, there are no assigned seats so they sit in the back near the waste closet. The bus fills with hippy travelers, IDF soldiers on leave, and Beduins.
An hour out of Jerusalem the Mercedes bus stops at Kibbutz Ein Gedi on the Dead Sea— the kibbutz is 1 of the miracles of the Israeli exodus, a paradise built on the sand near the Dead Sea, aptly named because nothing can live in the salty water.
Henry passes the bottle of brandy to Yael, who’s hungover from last night's romp in Jerusalem. She carefully sips the booze like it’s castor oil. In contrast, Henry takes his usual Keith Richard's swig. The alcohol does his hangover in, and he’s loaded again, saying to Yael after the hefty gulp,
and away we go.
Henry, I love you, wild boy.
They fall asleep in each other's arms, 2 hours later waking when the bus stops in Eilat, Israel’s premier resort at the northern tip of the Bay of Aqaba. An area historically known for the 1917 nighttime raid by TE Lawrence and a ragtag band of Arab irregulars across the Wadi Ram desert— crossing on camelback catching the sleeping Turks unaware and cutting the throat of the Ottoman Empire.
Later, in 1962 the film Lawrence of Arabia, starring Peter O’Toole, put TE Lawrence and his daring attack on Aqaba on the map.
The bus continues on Highway 103 south— a 2 lane road running through the desolate and unpopulated Sinai Desert. As the kilometers pass the panorama begins to look like the surface of Mars, hills covered with red dust.
After sunset, the bus stops in Dahab where the lovers get off to sleep on the beach for the night.
The hippy stopover looks like the set of Spaghetti Western with a host of loosely built freak businesses run by Israeli dropouts with dreadlocks and local Arabs.
It’s 8 PM, dark on the beach except for the campfires and colored lights on the ragtag bars and restaurants serving freshly caught grilled fish and drinks.
You can hear the sounds of Pink Floyd and smell hashish mixed with the sea air coming off the bay of Aqaba.
Henry and Yael are hungry, they schlep their IDF packs down the beach to a colorful shack made of driftwood with a cheap lit sign on it that reads The End. Then, sitting on chairs around a wooden cable spool in front of the bar.
An attractive Israeli girl with shoulder-length black hair wearing shorts with a bikini top and flip flops comes to their table saying without much hoop-la in Hebrew,
shalom, we're grilling Parrot Fish, Greasy Grouper and Butterfly Fish. You have a choice of rice or french fries, and we have Israeli Salad, Yael orders in Hebrew,
baseda, habibi, we’d like the Parrot Fish, fries, salad, 2 bottles of Maccabee, and a pint of Carmel 777 with ice and soda.
Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon is grinding unhurriedly out of a large black speaker in front of The End as a group of Dutch hippies drink and pass a chillum filled with Lebanese hash around at the table next to the love couple.
The voluptuous waitress bends deeply as she places the newbie couple's beer and brandy on the cable spool, one of her breasts flops out of her top. She smiles and walks away.
Henry cracks the top off the bottle of Carmel 777, mixing a couple drinks in plastic cups with ice and soda.
The lovers' toast as Bob Marley’s No Woman, No Cry reaches for the night sky. Henry pensively reflects,
Baby, I feel like we’re lounging at the end of the world.
The waitress returns with diner, topless, her bikini top had malfunctioned. Nobody at the beachside bar bats an eye— nudity’s commonplace on the exotic, freak free beaches of the Sinai.
The grilled Parrot Fish is delicate and doesn’t taste fishy, tasting more like lobster. Parrot Fish is often cooked on a tray set in the sun during the day.
Music by the Israeli musician Lazar Lloyd, The Bomb Shelter Blues shuffles out of the large black speaker. Yael laughs saying,
yesh, I think we Israelis spend half our lives in bomb shelters.
Around midnight, the love couple has belted down a dozen beers and finished the brandy. They’re drunk, but not sloppy drunk.
Henry pays the bill tipping the waitress mightily, a tip for her large pear-shaped chest, not the service.
The couple walks to a dark and isolated area of the beach, laying their sleeping bags side by side on the sand, then sitting on them as they look out at the bay dotted with the lights of wooden Arab skiffs fishing for tomorrow's meal.
Then like a bang, they turn to each other, scrambling, taking off their clothes, their bodies embracing, electrified, finding a pleasing rhythm, grinding, moaning, screaming, my GOD! Oh, and I love you as their Hindu long souls rise and fall minutes later as they cum.
Laying on the sleeping bags, feeling at peace, arm, and arm, Henry says,
awesome, Yael says,
I love you so much, never leave me.
In the morning they wake at 10, rolling the sleeping bags and strapping them on the backpacks, then walking to The End for coffee, yogurt with honey, and fried eggs, waiting for the bus to Sharm el Sheikh.
In 20 minutes the bus comes, they hustle to get on, the seats are full so they stand, laughing and digging the groove they're in, touching the heady elixir of love,
Surrounding the bus the powdered red Sinai floats by like a Saturday afternoon matinee— easy on the eye, lazy, vacant.
The bus stops on the 2 lane highway, 5 Beduins get off, fading into nowhere like desert ghosts.
Henry and Yael, who're are standing, walk the aisle, sitting in 2 vacated seats. They fall asleep on one another.
Nudging the couple gently the bus driver wakes them at the bus stop in Naama Bay, saying in Hebrew,
last stop moteqim, you’re entering the Twilight Zone.
For Israelis and world travelers, the Sinai was a place where conventional behavior ended, a place to let your hair down and embrace things weird.
The couple eyeball the Naama Bay Inn, the only hotel on the bay consisting of a series of metal module units, rusting because of exposure to the salty Red Sea air.
The circular setting of the gunmetal grey module units on the north side of the bay and the red dust covered hills in the foreground resembles an outer space settlement
The front desk of the Naama Bay Inn is manned by a bulky Druze Arab with dyed black hair and a pencil mustache who doubled as a cook.
The Druzes are Israeli citizens, whose religion is a puzzling mix of isms that’s shrouded in secrecy.
The clerk, whose name is Boaz, is friendly, refreshingly unprofessional, sitting on a stool behind the desk with a cigarette in his mouth and a class of Arak on the counter saying,
welcome to Mars, do you want a drink or a room, or how bout a steak? Henry digs the otherness of the scene, laughing as he says,
a room, then a drink, then a steak, well done with sides of hash browns and green beans. I’ll pay a week upfront with my Visa card, Boaz says,
our credit card terminal’s on the fritz habibi, barter’s OK, goats, camels, hand grenades, kef. Come to the kitchen and I’ll fry up some Golani steaks.
Yael nudges Henry as they follow Boaz to the kitchen saying,
moteq, Naama's mashugana, I love it.
Inside the cinder block kitchen there’s a plastic table surrounded by stools, Boaz says reaching into a rusted refrigerator,
how bout a beer? I got ahh, Nesher, Nesher or Nesher, Henry says,
we’ll have a Nesher.
As Boaz pops the caps off the bottles of cold beer, Henry jumps from his stool yelling,
fuck, something bit me.
Yael reaches under the plastic table, picking up a dead scorpion and placing it in an empty plastic cup, Boaz seeing the dead scorpion in the cup says,
Habibi, you were supposed to die, not the scorpion.
Boaz hands Yael the room key to module unit 8, then reaching into the fridge he grabs a couple of 6-packs of Nesher and a finger of hashish placing the goods in a grocery bag saying,
go lay down Henry, the Nesher and kef will help, meet me around 8 at The Last Exit, it's a shack lit with Christmas lights— 100 meters south on the beach, we’ll settle later for the room and party goods.
The newbie lovers walk to their module unit carrying their backpacks, the beer, and Yael’s Uzi. The unit is Spartan, just the essentials. Henry covers the lamps with Arab headscarves and closes the curtains.
At 8 they take a shower and dress, then walking out of the Naama Bay Inn onto the beach where they can see The Last Exit in the distance.
As they walk on the shore they slip off their rubber flip flops, enjoying the feeling of the sand between their toes.
Reaching The Last Exit, they see Boaz is in the center of things, holding court with a group of Israeli intellectuals, Marxists, and poets at a long table.
Boaz stands when he sees the couple, opening and raising his arms like Moses parting the Red Sea, saying to the misfits in Hebrew,
shut it for a minute people, I want to introduce my friends, Henry, a writer from America, and Yael, a kibbutznik soldier.
The 2 squeeze onto a bench at the long table, Henry whispers into Yiels ear,
the Marxists are the ones scowling intensely.
Then, a bald Israeli wearing shorts and a tank top and a witchy looking woman serve the 15 or so malcontents plates of fresh grilled Butterflyfish with rice and Israeli salad.
Jacques Brel's Les Vieux floats lazily through an outdoor speaker as a wild-eyed revolutionary yells,
The question of whether objective truth can be attributed to human thinking is not a question of theory but is a practical question.
Henry and Yael look at each other and roll their eyes, mouthing the word,
what?
They pay for their unfinished dinner and walk further down the beach where a Beduin camel is standing, Henry who loves animals says,
I want to pet him, Yael says,
be careful darling, they’re mean.
He walks closer to the camel who looks him in the eyes, then letting loose with a nasty mixture of grassy vomit and saliva that splatters all over Henry, then Yael says,
that’s a warning, he’s angry, we need to leave.
So far, Henry has been bitten by a scorpion and spewed on by a testy camel.
As they walk back to the Naama Bay Inn, he steps on a broken Coca Cola bottle in the sand, quickly hopping on 1 leg into the Red Sea, sitting in the water, rinsing what’s left of the camel gook off as blood flows from his wounded foot.
Yael goes to him, lifting his arm around her shoulder, pulling him out of the water to the beach, and helping him walk, saying,
the Red Sea’s noxious with bacteria from the coral, we need to clean your wound, but I think it's already infected.
Henry hobbles back to the hotel with his arm around Yael, supported by her.
In the small lobby, a teenage Beduin girl is behind the desk. She brings a first aid box and a towel to Henry who’s sitting in a chair with his bleeding foot up on a console table. She pours a bottle of saline on the wound, then, using a tweezer to pull out shards of broken glass, closing the wound with butterfly bandages and wrapping it in gauze. The angelic Beduin girl says in English with an Arabic accent,
Go to Gardenia Hospital in Sharm el Shiekh in the morning.
They thank her and make their way back to the module room, Henry lays in bed with his foot elevated on a pillow and the couple makes out, drinks beer, and smokes hashish.
Then the landline phone in their room rings, it’s the adjutant at Yael’s base in Tel Aviv who says,
Corporal Feldman, report to base tomorrow, there’s a big move on.
The next day the couple take the bus back to Tel Aviv, an 9 hour trip with stops. Yael reports for duty at Tele Shamir and Henry rents an efficiency apartment in Tel Aviv.
He's broke so he pushes hash out of the Kassit Cafe on Dizengoff to make ends meet.
The big move the quartermaster was referring to is Operation Litani, a company-sized invasion into Southern Lebanon to take out Hezbollah soldiers who were firing Katyusha rockets into Northern Israel and breaching the borders attacking kibbutzim.
2 weeks later Henry's worried because he hasn’t heard from Yael. He calls her family at the kibbutz from a payphone, her mother answers.
Shalom,
Mrs. Feldman Henry here, I haven’t heard from Yael and I'm concerned,
Mrs. Feldman’s voice cracks, bleeding sadness as she says,
Yael’s with G-d in Shamayim, she died a hero in a helicopter crash over Lebanon.
Henry wants to console Mrs. Feldman but he can't. He has cotton mouth and his knees buckle. Then the payphone headset falls from his hand, moving to and fro like a metronome.