What to Do About the Solomons Read online

  WHAT

  TO DO

  ABOUT

  THE

  SOLOMONS

  WHAT

  TO DO

  ABOUT

  THE

  SOLOMONS

  BETHANY BALL

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2017 by Bethany Ball

  Jacket design by Gretchen Mergenthaler

  Cover photograph: wood paneling © Madredus/Bigstock; twigs © studio306/Bigstock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: April 2017

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2457-9

  eISBN 978-0-8021-9072-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  For EL and CL

  WHAT

  TO DO

  ABOUT

  THE

  SOLOMONS

  Chapter 1

  Guy Gever Stands

  in the Field

  Now it is just a question of what to do with Guy Gever. For extra money he works in the evenings to frighten the birds that eat the crops in the fields around the kibbutz. At night, he hunts the porcupines, the dorban, and sometimes the tiny kipod, the hedgehogs, with his brothers. But now people think he has gone mad.

  Before harvesting season begins, Guy Gever drives his pickup truck into the middle of the wheat. In the center of the field, he arranges the sticks and branches he pulls from the back of the pickup. He arranges and rearranges them until the sun comes up. He spreads birdseed all around. The birds come from the Kinneret to the north and the Dead Sea to the south. They fly over Americans and Africans in white robes baptizing themselves in the Jordan. They come from Syria and Lebanon, but not the West Bank or Gaza, where there are no birds.

  Guy Gever stands in the middle of the field and counts and names each bird as they come. A helicopter flies overhead and bathes them in a shower of pesticide. Someone calls the police. He can see them coming over the highway. He hops into his truck and drives off. For a few days no one knows where he’s gone.

  Later that week, a group of kibbutzniks sees him stacking cypress branches off the side of the highway, on their way to Hamat Gader, the hot springs. Come on, Guy! Come with us, they shout. Leave the bush in the ground and the sticks on the trees and take a rest.

  I have had enough leisure, Guy Gever says. He climbs into the back of the pickup truck and salutes them. Now I must work.

  Guy Gever’s father-in-law, Yakov Solomon, runs his hands through his still black hair and nods. He strokes his sideburns. The parliament of old men, the sabras, sit around a barbecue pit with a bottle of whiskey and discuss Guy Gever. They pass the bottle and pour drabs into dusty tea glasses. Yakov sets his glass on the ground, wedging it into the dirt. He crosses his arms high across his narrow chest. Yes, Yakov says. This is true. Guy Gever has had enough leisure time. I should know. I bought his cars, financed renovations on houses I paid for, and covered all medical costs for Guy Gever’s son. When my children want money, they come to me. When their children need money, they come to me. The men nod. They defer to him, to Yakov Solomon, the most powerful man in the Jordan River Valley. I paid for their bar mitzvahs, their educations, and their therapists. I’ve paid for six weddings, five divorces, the funeral of one daughter-in-law’s father, and countless birthday celebrations. Now I must pay for Guy Gever’s madness?

  The men nod and grunt and drink to Yakov Solomon.

  Guy Gever hears about the parliament from his younger brother, Itai, who heard it from Elon, who is the son of Yakov’s middle brother Ishke. Guy Gever squats down to the ground and spits. He draws a woman in the dirt with his finger. He stands up and shouts, That man! For ten years I’ve been Yakov Solomon’s slave. Why doesn’t he die already?

  And leave everything to you, says Itai, who is lo gamur, not finished, funny in the head. That would be something.

  Yakov Solomon and his wife, Vivienne, drive from the kibbutz to Jerusalem to meet their children. Vivienne tells her husband, We must keep this very quiet, for Keren’s sake, and for the children. We mustn’t tell anyone. Guy will never find a job again. Who does he think he is? An artist? Phoot! He has gone mad! We must hire a private doctor. Send him to America, perhaps. Aliza tells me in America they have more mental hospitals than regular ones!

  Yakov listens to his wife with increasing irritation. He presses his foot hard on the accelerator. He goes too fast, but he is nearly seventy-five years old, and anyway, he is going to die eventually. Better to do so in a blaze of concrete, steel, and light. I’m done with Guy Gever and all the rest of them! I should have cut them off years ago. The jobs! The connections! The money! Offer them a finger and they want the whole hand!

  Yakov, Vivienne says. You were the one who said, “Keep the seeds in your pocket and give it to the birds one by one.”

  Yes! Keep the birds close so they don’t fly away. Spit flies from his mouth. But now, they can go fuck themselves!

  Maya, on an airplane flying back from Amsterdam, is unaware of Guy Gever and his troubles. If someone mentioned his name to her, she would hardly be able to summon a face. If she thought hard enough, she might remember a tall, slight boy with light, straight hair parted across his forehead, strategically arranged to draw attention away from his long, thin nose. Then again, she might get him confused with someone else. Soft, slow Kobi Benjamin, for instance. She may or may not remember that Guy Gever married the sister of her first love: Marc Solomon.

  Even if she knew, Maya no longer cares about who has gone crazy on the kibbutz. But she doesn’t know. Her mother stopped telling her anything years ago.

  I am on my way home, Maya thinks, and she feels dread in her chest.

  At dinner in a newly opened Jerusalem restaurant with his son Dror and daughter Shira, Yakov Solomon rails against Guy Gever: I always knew he was trouble! What will I do now? What can be done? I can’t even grow old and die in peace!

  Dror asks, What do you mean what will you do? It’s not for you to do anything! Let them sort it out on their own.

  It will all fall on me! I will have to support Keren and the children and God knows who else!

  Dror says, Why? They are grown-ups! Guy Gever is a grown man!

  Ach! cries Yakov. He yanks on a bit of hair. You don’t know what I’ve done for that man.

  What are you saying? Dror shouts. I know what you’ve done for him!

  Dror’s sister Shira puts her head in her hands.

  Dror says, I come to the
kibbutz once every month and you only ever sit with Guy Gever. You completely ignored us all these years. You elevated Guy to a god. You could never see his faults. We saw them. Only you and Keren were blind to Guy Gever. He’s been crazy for years!

  Yakov grows cold. He sits with his arms crossed high over his chest and pulls on his moustache. Children play in the courtyard around the restaurant. A dog barks and another distant dog answers. Dror’s wife leans toward Dror and murmurs words no one at the table can hear. I cannot imagine, Yakov says, at your age, to be so jealous. Such a childish emotion is jealousy.

  They sit in silence.

  Dror smiles at his father. You are an irascible old son of a bitch.

  But Yakov is no longer listening. He nods and stares out at the street lamps. One blinks on and off. Yakov strokes the whiskers on his chin. The coarse hairs soothe his fingers. Yes, it’s true, he thinks. Of all my three sons, it was Guy I loved the best. The one who was not my son. The only one I could talk to. Now, it has all gone to shit.

  The next day, Yakov and Vivienne share a late breakfast with Shira. She is the fourth child. The baby until Marc came along. At Café Mitzrachi near the shuk, Yakov and Shira eat their omelets and salad and hatch a plan.

  Watching Shira, Vivienne chortles to herself. They are made for each other, Shira and Yakov. He’s sired the perfect mate for himself. Vivienne sits silently. If she spoke, it wouldn’t make any difference. As the Solomon matriarch, almost no one talks to her anymore. Only Guy Gever ever thanked her for the Friday meals she makes. What a joke it is: The two least stable in her family, Yakov and Shira, deciding the fate of a man who has lost all reason. If only Ziv were here, the oldest. Or Marc, the youngest.

  Of all her children, Ziv is the most rational, and the kindest.

  Let us not talk of Ziv, Vivienne thinks to herself. Living with another man in Singapore.

  Vivienne prays daily. She once prayed for sanity and peace but now she prays that Guy Gever will give up his ridiculous artistic pretensions and go back to work. Vivienne prays that everyone will grow to be as wise as she is. She touches her hair and thinks of having it hennaed.

  Guy Gever drives his truck all the way to Sfat in the north to see a specialist. Keren sits beside him. The hospital is modern cement and crumbling. It is my family that is crazy, Professor, he says, very quietly, very controlled, to the inscrutable doctor with the stone face. The doctor nods and scribbles his notes.

  When they return to the kibbutz, Keren tells her mother what the doctor had said: He is enjoying himself. He enjoys doing whatever he likes.

  Later, on the telephone, Vivienne tells Shira, Guy Gever has always enjoyed doing whatever he likes! Who has been raising the children? Who cooked every Friday dinner? Who did Keren come crying to when Guy was out gallivanting with that Russian’s wife? Who supported him through school?

  Yes, Dror says, three days later, sitting in a restaurant outside Tiberias with his parents and Shira. And who paid all the bills!

  And yours too, Vivienne says.

  Dror opens his mouth and then shuts it again. Vivienne and Yakov say nothing. Everyone sits very still on the patio outside the restaurant. The Kinneret is quiet. Seagulls fight over a container of fries someone has left on the small stones of the beach. The lights of Tiberias glow in the distance behind them. The Kinneret—the biblical Sea of Galilee—is gentle on the shore. In years of drought, the sea recedes and leaves a vast beach. This is a year of drought.

  Vivienne squares her shoulders and sits up tall. Her hair is a beacon of the brightest red. None of you children have ever really supported yourselves. We are always here. We are your safety net.

  Except for Marc, she thinks. Her favorite son. In New York. And Ziv.

  Vivienne thinks of Ziv, and winces. Ziv was the most beautiful and intelligent of the children. The firstborn son. The perfect combination of Yakov and Vivienne and then—

  What is it, Ima? Shira asks.

  Rien, Vivienne says. Nothing of any matter.

  The fields are shorn. They burn in the terrible late spring sun. Guy Gever has spent a week laying pulled-up shrubs along the median in the center of the road that leads to Beit She’an.

  Yakov calls Marc in America. He says, Come back to the kibbutz. Go sit with Guy. Talk to him.

  Abba, says Marc, Guy never liked me. We don’t know each other that well. By the time Keren married him, I was already in the army. Have Ziv come from Singapore. He is the oldest. He was always the peacekeeper. Marc says, I am busy with the move to Los Angeles.

  Never mind! Yakov says.

  Marc hangs up the phone. Guy is of another type altogether, Marc thinks sitting in his New York office. Guy and his brothers, running around the fields all summer long shooting wild porcupine—a Gever speciality—skinning them and then roasting them on spits. During Shavuot, the harvesting festival, when the children would go at night into the wheat fields alone, Guy Gever and his friends would impale the heads of slaughtered cows on stakes. Marc stumbled over one when he was ten and the image of it with its filmed-over eyes, and terrible mouth hanging open, still greets him in the night. Those menacing fields of the Shavuot holidays! Those Gevers! They are the joke of the kibbutzniks. In the army, Marc was a commando and Guy Gever, a what? A thug in Gaza!

  Guy Gever drives up to his house in his pickup. He has just returned from the Valley where he has been digging up the small ancient trees.

  No, doctor, Guy says to himself, the bushes don’t talk to me. I don’t hear voices. I am not Moses! I am not Yeshua! There is no burning bush! The soil and roots and trees guide me where to place them. They vibrate in a particular way. The art of placement is divine. Like the Kotel is divine. Like Stonehenge. Like Petra.

  He stacks the branches around the house he shares with Keren. He piles the cypress as high as the windows.

  Keren lies in bed with a migraine. She hears the rumble of the truck, and the joy she felt for the last twelve years of marriage is replaced with dread. The sleeping medicine she took gives her strange dreams. Bondormin, it’s called. She imagines that Guy has walled her in. She hears sounds outside. She sits up in bed and reaches over to push aside the curtain but sees only her reflection in the dark glass. Her eyes refocus and she sees cut cypress branches pressed against the other side of the window. Keren gasps and claws at the glass. Keren, she hears. She turns from the window to the door of her bedroom and Guy’s face, his strange feral face, hovers over her. Keren screams.

  Guy gently takes hold of Keren’s hands and pulls her up to sitting. Oh, Keren, he says. Don’t you love me anymore? She melts a little, and relents to his hands. He hasn’t spoken to her so gently since her thirtieth birthday, when they’d gone to the tzimmer with the hot tubs and king-size beds and decided that they would try for another baby. Their youngest child is already seven years old. Wouldn’t she like another? He holds her hands and leads her past their living room to the outside patio. She starts to speak but he puts two fingers over her lips and kisses her.

  The moon is so high it looks electric. It illuminates the cypress trees that stand guard in the kibbutz and in the fields beyond.

  Keren in her nightgown. It billows around her ankles. The hammock swings on the porch. They stand together on the front patio. It is a perfect, dry Jordan Valley night.

  Keren’s sister, Shira, takes a bus back to Jerusalem. Avi Strauss, the handsome, fat producer of the comedy news program Hamesh, waits for her outside the bus station. He leans back against his black chauffeured SUV. He’s left his cane inside the car. He wants to appear virile. Shira is touched.

  They drive into the heart of Jerusalem into the Old City and the restaurants in the Christian Quarter. The driver parks beside an old establishment restaurant. Inside, there are sheikhs and wizened ex–prime ministers. Shira has gone there many times with her father. The last time she was there with Avi, they saw Ariel Sharon there, that old w
alrus, and Avi had hissed at him. Sharon had laughed and sent over cognac.

  Now, seated at the table, Avi Strauss looks at her, cups her face in his hands. He is almost seventy years old. Shira is twenty-five. Shira is in love. She feels like a very young girl, like a teenager before the army. Young women, Avi says, get the best of old men. We are our most charming trying to impress them.

  In his apartment in the Russian Compound neighborhood he is very full, and farting. He looks at her apologetically. She would like to have a child. She will try and get pregnant. He would marry her if not for his wife and their four children.

  Alas, he cannot perform. Tonight is not the night she will conceive. Flooded with sympathy, she pats his hand as they lie beside one another in his bed. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night I will make up for it, he says. She knows he will. His large bloated belly is like a third person in the bed. He goes down on her. He tells her, I won’t inflict Viagra on you.

  Two years earlier, at a film premiere at the Ambassadors’ Club, he had seduced her by saying he would make a television show for her to star in. He knows people in America. She fell for him, though she knows now the show will never be made. A year from now, he will finish a movie that will win at Cannes. Shira will have a small role for which she will be paid ­handsomely—more even than the lead actress. He will break up with her, take his wife and nearly grown children across the world, and die in the bed of an underage stripper somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.

  Guy Gever and Keren make love in the hammock. They hunker down low into one another, putting all their weight into the fabric at the center of the hammock so it doesn’t pitch them out. The frequently beaten eight-year-old who lives next door and is up all hours of the night watches from his window. Guy wonders if the eight-year-old is his son. Did he ever fuck his mother? No, but he wanted to. Guy would like to adopt the child and take him to Petra, in Jordan, where the red rocks are. He had been to Jordan once, on a secret military mission for which he’d been the driver. A relief after all those months in the territories, and the red cliffs have haunted him ever since.