another cup. “You’re my first convert,” he said.
“What’s in it?”
“Cheap instant cof ee, cinnamon, cocoa powder, hot milk, honey.”
“This is a bridge table.”
“Yes, my grandparents were obsessive bridge players, it was their whole life, practical y. They got tired of folding up the table al the time, so they decided to sel their kitchen table and use this for everything. Would you like cookies? Pastries? Pretzels?”
“Don’t even mention food. I’m absolutely stu ed from the wedding. I may never be able to eat again. I like al this fties furniture. It’s touching, you know? Those horse-head lamps! They’re funny,” I said.
“I think in my last nightmare the horses came to life and began reciting passages from Proust.”
“I think they’re nice.”
Suddenly we were both embarrassed. We had no idea what we were doing there, sit ing at Daniel’s grandmother’s bridge table, drinking cafe et lait and discussing furniture.
“I hope you don’t think I’m crazy,” I said. “I just …liked you.”
“Have you changed your mind?” he asked, worried.
“No.”
“Maybe you should cal your base, tel them at least that you’re sick.”
“No, I can’t, they’d never believe me. I’d have to bring a let er from a doctor saying I was in a coma or something before they’d believe me.”
“You’re going to get into huge trouble.”
“It can’t get any worse.”
“It can always get worse. What’s going on there?”
“Oh, I’m not get ing on too wel . I’l tel you about it another time.”
“More mysteries. Another time as in …?”
“As in, after …”
“After you know me bet er?”
“After you know me bet er?”
“Yes.” I rose from the table, opened the door that led to his room. Daniel’s bed took up nearly al the available space in the converted balcony. The upper third of the wal s consisted of sliding glass panels; the sky was visible through the glass and I was reminded of a medieval triptych, except that here the scene changed al the time. Now, against a black background tinged with the yel ow glow of city lights, a single white star or satel ite shone like a jeweled bel y but on. The only decoration in the room was a movie poster for Stranger Than Paradise.
“I loved that movie!” I said. “I saw it a mil ion times. You’re the only person I know who also saw it.”
Daniel made a noncommit al sound, something between “mmm” and “huh.”
“‘I am the winner,’” I said, in English with a Hungarian accent.
“‘He is my main man,’” Daniel said, also in English.
“‘Poor guy, can you imagine working in a factory?’”
I pul ed of my uniform, then my underwear, and lay down on the bed.
Odelia always looked neat and delicate. She was wearing a beige knee-length skirt and she’d tied her hair back with an elastic band. She was the only one who came to these demonstrations wearing a skirt; it was a disguise. “The soldiers have a di erent at itude if they think you’re religious,” she would tel people.
There were no traf ic jams on the highway because it was the weekend. “What’s happening today, do you know?” I asked her.
“I’m not sure. I heard three towns were put under curfew, Mejwan and the two towns next to it.”
“Three towns? Last I heard it was two.”
“I heard three. Some people went down there to stay the night, in case they don’t let us in. Bet er than nothing.”
“I forgot to bring an onion.”
“The organizers are bringing a whole crate. Don’t worry!” She smiled at me. She was a calm person, though her permanently wrinkled brow made her look like a high school student trying to work out a complicated math problem she’d been assigned for homework.
“How are you, Dana?” she asked.
“I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“How’s your father?” When my father comes to visit, he stays with Odelia, in her guest room.
“Happy. He sends his regards, by the way. How are things with you?”
