Read Online The Last of the Wise Lovers by Amnon Jackont - Free Book Online

"Someone
hit us in the parking lot of the deli."
       I looked at her in surprise. 
Dad caught something of this.  He narrowed his eyes at her, then at me,
then back at her.
       I felt terrible.  The telephone
saved me.  
      Dad picked up the receiver, said, "One
minute," and went off to whisper into the phone that was in the bedroom.
 Mom and I were left alone.
    "Thanks," I said softly, "but you
didn't have to...”  She didn't answer.  I went to my room and lay
down on the bed.  The telephone intoned electronic beeps as Dad finished
the conversation and immediately began to dial.  I had an overwhelming
urge to listen in. Too many things were happening around me that I didn't
understand. It's amazing, but among all the desires I'd had until that day - to
eat, to drink, to look good, to be successful and loved - I'd never before
included this simple desire: to know.
       For a moment I toyed with the idea of
carefully lifting up the receiver, but Dad is, as you know, a professional.
 That's why I tried something else, less risky.  I disconnected the
telephone, picked up the receiver, and pressed down on the cradle with my
finger.  Then I re-connected the telephone and lifted my finger at the
same time.
       Dad was in the middle of a sentence
about a flight to Los Angeles via Las Vegas.  A female voice answered that
there were only fifteen minutes between landing in Vegas and take-off for Los
Angeles, and that if the plane were late Dad would be forced to wait two hours
for the next plane.
       Dad thought for a moment and asked,
"What choice do I have?"
       The woman suggested Phoenix.
 There was a three-hour wait there before take-off.  `America West'
would of course be glad to provide him with lunch, etc., etc.
       "No good," Dad said.
 "Haven't you got some combination with a twenty minute or half an
hour wait in Vegas?"
       "You can fly from New York to
Boston and from there take a flight to Las Vegas that will get you in half an
hour before take-off for Los Angeles."
       "Good," Dad said gladly,
reserved a place for someone named Jenkins, and put down the receiver.  I
pressed the cradle at the same time.  A moment later, the telephone was
again intoning electronic beeps.  I waited, my finger on the cradle,
wondering why this Jenkins - whoever he was - insisted on waiting no more than
half an hour in Vegas.  Maybe he was a heavy gambler who only needed half
an hour to win a million; or else one of those guys who called at odd hours and
asked - without superfluous niceties - to talk to Dad; or maybe he was one of
those rich Jews that Dad went all over the continent to meet and try to
convince to donate works of art, rare books, heirlooms, or just plain money to
the State of Israel.
       Dad finished dialing.  Ten
numbers - that is, out of state.  I lifted my finger.
      "Yes," someone answered on the
first ring.
       Dad gave the details of the flight he
had just reserved.
       "Ok," the man said,
"what name?"
       "You'll know me."
       "What name?" the man asked
again.  "I don't intend to run around looking for you.  I'll ask
that they page you over the loudspeaker."
       "Jenkins," Dad said, and
immediately hung up.
       The minute I pressed the cradle he
began to dial again.  The other side picked up after quite a while.
      "The Society for Cultural
Exchange."
      "Mr. Shapira," Dad said to the
secretary, and I couldn't decide whether Shapira was the name of the man Dad
wanted to speak to or a new name he'd given himself, like Jenkins.
       There was a brief buzz and someone
said, "Shapira."
       "It's set," Dad said.
       Shapira was silent a moment, then
said, "Vegas?"
       "Vegas."
       "And the lucky number?"
       "Six thousand eight hundred
twenty-seven."
       "Do you think...” Shapira
paused, choosing his words carefully, "you'll succeed in getting to that
number?"
       "I hope so.  If not in one
guess, then in two.  No more."
       "Good luck," said