Chameleon

Master of Arabic, French, Spanish, English and Hebrew, Bebert, talky Judaeo-Berber adventurer, came to New York.

"I am an excellent salesman," he told Drexson of Drexson's Ltd., a fancy haberdashery in the Bronx; and Drexson, because he identified accent with culture and associated culture with class, and class with better business, and liked the way Bebert barreled out his chest to make claims for himself, put him on. Also, Bebert had said that he was an Israeli, which was true--but only lately--and that his parents were dead, which was not--since they remained in Fès--and that he was here to study physics, which was ridiculous, because the only atomic weights he knew anything at all about had no relation to elements but to kilos of hash.

Bebert did well at Drexson's (continued on page 122)Chameleon(continued from page 95) by adapting the bazaar in his background to the boutique. He said, "Welcome, welcome," smiled openly, broadly, and cradled backs in his arms. He said, "This item--because I like you very much, because you are my friend--I can sell to you cheaply." He looked around cautiously for Drexson, though the "cheaply" was, of course, Drexson's original price; he spoke with a strong accent that people thought was Israeli, and was, though it was unnatural for him to do so, since Arabic or Spanish or even French was more natural to him. "But what do Americans know about accents?" He looked downcast, homeless, exilic when customers would not buy. "You know, sir, this kind of shirt--a shirt of madras material--is impossible to purchase in Israel, where I am from, because India does not trade with our country. It is a rarity. It is highly valued. Can you imagine what we would give to have the opportunity to wear clothes like these?" Bebert had dark curly hair and skin the color of walnuts and large black eyes; he had the kind of looks that often make privilege guilty.

Once a man said, "But India trades with Israel." The man was wearing an expensive suit and he carried a briefcase, so Bebert did not debate.

"Oh, yes, a recent development," he answered instead. "But it does not matter very much, because few people in our nation, with the problems that you know we have with our neighbors, can afford what is imported, especially from countries like India that make luxuries. Of course, if you are talking about the leaders, our leaders, like Golda and Eban--who are, you know, really Westerners--or even Moshe Dayan, well, then, of course, they can afford cottons and silks. They come to America for dinners ... and speeches ... and applause. I come here to work, because there is none at home."

The man said, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. You know, the picture we get from here is ... ah, this looks nice...." He took out his credit card, blushed for owning it, purchased, said, "I hope that conditions over there...." Bebert looked him in the eye. "Well, you know ... I just hope...." He turned, saying "hope," and left.

Drexson bragged about Bebert. He talked about "my Israeli assistant, my crack sabra salesman, my warrior of the menswear campaign." And this publicity, combined with the actual attraction, shot business up 100 percent. Old men and women--especially people who had been born in Europe--came to Drexson's Ltd. to hear a young man, a beautiful dark curly-haired young man (living in Israel must give you a healthy tan), speak Hebrew naturally; speak Hebrew understanding every word, kina hora! Like second nature, they realized it was first nature, though of course it wasn't; somehow, second nature sounded even better.

A good many other people who were not so old, people who had jobs and families and other responsibilities, came to discuss topics like prospective vacations in Israel, the danger, the water, the food, the sights and selective helpful words to know. They also came to see just what an Israeli looked like and to ask, "Just what is a kibbutz like?" and, "Ha, ha, have enough trees been planted yet?" To the last two questions Bebert had no answers, since, one, he had never been on a kibbutz--"That is for those white socialists who think so much of themselves" (this went unsaid)--and two, what is so funny about trees?

Bebert would say Bocher tov, and they would whisper among themselves, "That's good morning. He said good morning." And they would answer, "Bocher tov, Bebert," or "Shalom, Bebert." Since they did not speak Hebrew, Bebert became very popular saying Bocher tov, Shalom, Erev tov (which is Good evening), Mah shlom cha? and Mah shlom mea? (which are How are you?, masculine, and How are you?, feminine). He described the Wailing Wall, the praying there, the Sabbath, when the entire nation closes down to observe it, the reunions of families separated during the war, of which he knew nothing but made up a lot: "You see them on the streets coming together; it is very beautiful," the victories--of course the victories: "We beat them good!"--over the latest enemy, and said, "No, nowhere is as dangerous as Central Park."

Many people left Drexson's Ltd. with valuable feelings--satisfaction, gratification, warmth, sadness, happiness, pride, thankfulness and a measure of religion. And, being considerate, they also came away with tie tacks, cuff links, belts, ties, something; and frequently large-money items, too. "Bebert gets commission," they said. It added up.

• • •

Bebert found himself a nice apartment on the Upper East Side and dressed in the colorful, expensive cottons and silks that Drexson allowed him to have--not at employees' discount but (keep this under your hat) free. He paraded along First, Second, Third, Madison, Lexington, Park, Fifth in a straight line, bumping shoulders--the Mediterranean sensationalist proof of not just existence but manhood--with men who would not yield and who were not too stocky or tall. Bebert cursed those whose shoulders clobbered his; in Arabic he conjured rocks that would descend from heaven to crush the tombs of the mothers of these men; he prayed that camels might perform the necessary biological functions on the graves of their fathers. He hung out, loitered, ogled smart women Jaffa-Casablanca-Fès fashion, which meant touching, leering, communicating secret evil that was supposed to be sex, which might have worked if it had stopped there, but continued always to blow the approach by offering to sell something--anything, which he did not have, anyway--and which showed, as one pretty girl put it, "that his scene was in his pockets" and basically, therefore, noninteractive and dirty. This happened around all the above-mentioned smart locations.

Bebert attempted to pick up girls in Happy's, a swinging singles bar, but was hopeless.

"Excuse me, beautiful girl," he said with a grin so broad it was difficult for his face to handle, a grin that was hungry and toothy and monstrous. "Excuse me, but would you be interested in buying some shit?"

"Huh? ... Oh, flake off."

"Perhaps you do not understand. Shit is not ... uh ... shit is hashish."

"Shit is you. Flake off!"

"You are very beautiful, incredibly beautiful." Bebert, never daunted by nos, went on. "Your skin is like the soft sands that coat my native Holy Land."

"Oh, God," said the girl, which, for some reason, to Bebert, was sufficient invitation to tickle her neck.

"Watch the hands, Muhammad."

"Oh ... not Muhammad. Bebert! I am Jew, not Arab. I am going to study physics." He pronounced physics like it was a password.

"Watch the hands, Beeper."

"Be bert." That monstrous grin again. "I hate Arabs."

"Wonderful. Now will you leave?"

"The Arabs--ah, I can tell you about Arabs--they are not to be trusted," Bebert said. "You cannot befriend an Arab. I know! You can feed them, give them shelter, take them to your family, and still, one day, one day, like vermin of the desert, they will turn on you. Would you like to see the scar a man named Muhammad left on me? I will have to open my shirt. We could go into that corner."

"Flake off, Beeper. My name's Fatima."

Bebert's laugh was louder than the cool jazz music being played, and he received at least a dozen stares. He laughed again, found the cozy atmosphere speared by eyes evil toward him, backed off the bar stool, made muscles in his forearms, biceps, pecs--for some unexplainable reason, since beneath his Drexson sports coat they were not (continued on page 178)Chameleon(continued from page 122) visible--blasted, "You, ha, are no Fatima! And you are lucky for that! If you were, I would fuck you here! Right here!"

As the bouncer, bigger than any Arab or Jew, by any criteria--pecs, biceps, forearms, body--came close, Bebert jumped out the door.

That woman, like many Europeans, is unfair to darker people, he declared violently to himself, and flaked off. It was only at selling items that Bebert was sophisticated.

• • •

Bebert was strongly anti-Arab for good reasons. He had been beaten and reviled many times in Morocco. In Fès, his father had owned a small restaurant in which he served very good couscous, couscous that was splattered on the walls when the local jokesters wanted cruel fun. They would come into the restaurant, order, eat half, yell, "Poison! Poison! The Jew has poisoned us!," grab at their throats, dance, twist their faces into strange shapes--like only Arabs can do--then fan the walls--just-cleaned walls, always just-cleaned walls--with rice, meat and vegetables. "We do not pay for poison," they declared, and left. Bebert's father and mother remained in Fès, and so had to continue to deal with this torture.

In the old city of Jerusalem, where Bebert was now respected (first, because he was a conqueror, or at least a dark cousin of conquerors; and second, because he could speak the language and being, in a way, a cousin, too, of the conquered, he knew the habits and therefore would know if he were being cursed or anything else), the Arabs said, "Salaam, Bebert, salaam," friendly, respectfully. But once, when he tossed hummus and tahina and shashlik and baba ghanoush all over the walls of a highly esteemed Arab restaurant, he was whipped as soundly as he had ever been whipped in Fès. And the hashish that he had carried in his shirt pocket to sell to Americans, French, English and other European kids was missing after the beating. So they had taken his livelihood--for the hashish would have brought him at least $300--and had spread the word of brutal unwelcome. And since the old city was where one (he was not an educated Jew and was not even like those educated Jews even in simple matters--such as how you walk down the street--that did not seem to have much to do with education, and therefore he would not be like them even if he were educated and were able to be a lawyer or a doctor or a civil servant) made contact for hashish and gambled at cards and pocket billiards, Bebert was denied his good living, equivalent almost to that of many Israeli lawyers, a large amount of which he had sent home to his oppressed parents and another large amount of which he was used to spending on women. His working capital--his English, French, Spanish, Arabic and Hebrew--was going to waste. And that's why he left the Holy Land for opportunities in America.

• • •

Bebert bought a used 1964 Cadillac, wrote Fès he'd bought a new one, answered Drexson's "You don't need a car, much less a Cadillac, in New York. You got the subways. You got good legs. I thought Israelis were tough," with "A car, a beautiful car, a Cadillac is good for women, no?" and drove to the haberdashery every day honking, waving, calling, "Heybaybeee," and keeping an eye out for girl hitchhikers. Parking, servicing, vandalizing (hubcaps, antenna, wipers, Dagmar bumpers) and gas cost him a fortune. So did his color-TV console, which he ended up in front of by ten o'clock every night.

"I have a niece ..."; "My daughter ..."; "A friend of the family's ..."; "I know this nice young girl, very refined ...," said the older people.

"I don't know," said Bebert, winking. "I have more than I can handle now."

"Some ladies' man," the older people said, believing he really was. How could a nice young man they admired so not be?

"Speaks five languages."

"Fought the Arabs in Sixty-seven."

"Decorated."

"A go-getter as a salesman."

"Have you seen that car?"

"No monkey business like with kids today."

"Studying to be a physicist."

"Some ladies' man."

"Bebert knows where he's going."

• • •

Sandy Drexson, 21, skinny, history major, prodded by her father, had a party and invited Bebert. "He's greasy," she warned friends, "but he is from the Middle East and could be interesting."

She's skinny, thought Bebert, but she has girlfriends.

Bebert showed up wearing a madras shirt that had a high, wide collar, a paisley tie broad as Arab bread and a white suit cut at the hips, pockets, buttons and lapels in the newest fashion (the same outfit he had put on not long before to have his photograph taken artistically in front of a darkly shadowed, somber background that made him, in the white suit, look like a sheik dressed to meet the American President. The photograph was for sending to his parents in Morocco. And that--the sheik--was what they said he looked like.).

Bebert walked up the Drexsons' driveway, leading with his chest, like when he had first applied for his job and had claimed excellent salesmanship.

He was escorted inside by Sandy, whose flat rear was drowned in the saggy plaid-patched seat of her jeans. Up top, she wore a T-shirt and no bra. Bebert saw jiggling, discounted the inadequacy of her rear and was momentarily glad he had come.

Everybody else wore clothes like Sandy's.

"Freaky," somebody said upon seeing Bebert.

"I guess he wants a Schweppes ... Schweppes?"

Somebody called him Commander and he said, "Huh?"

Sandy said, "This is Bebert. Bebert is from Israel."

"Tel Aviv?"

"Haifa?"

"Jerusalem?"

"Eilat!" said a girl who said she'd been there. "All the hippies live in Eilat."

"I am not a hippie," said Bebert.

"Really!"

"Jaffa. My home is Jaffa."

"Right. The Jaffa orange."

"Right. The Jaffa orange."

"Big export, right?"

"Excuse?" said Bebert.

"Export, as in international exchange? Like diamonds, man."

"Yes," said Bebert, clueless. He grabbed for familiar ground. "Hippies are a luxury. We do not need them in Israel." This worked well at the haberdashery. "They keep us from building up...."

"Right. Like with exports ... international exchange."

"But that's about it, isn't it, Bebert? I mean, citrus and diamonds. Right? The kibbutz is certainly not self-supporting.... I mean, compared with the Histadrut."

"I am preparing to study physics." A sidetrack, a declaration, an excuse for ignorance.

A silence.

"When will the Palestinians be allowed back, given rights, citizenship?"

"The Arabs! I can tell you...." Bebert, looking like a sheik, thought better, blushed, ate pretzels and crossed his legs and uncrossed them and went to the bathroom for breathers while sharp shards of conversation sliced at him that had sounds like "upward mobility," "diminishing marginal returns," "revolution of rising expectations," "repatriation," "expatriation," "superstructure" and "infrastructure."

Finally, the dreaded question landed. "Bebert, what do you think?"

As he had in the bar, Bebert saw only eyes--Arab eyes. He flexed muscles and, though his stomach did not want him to, smiled broadly, saying, "I have an almost-new Cadillac. I like jazz music. Who wants to ride?"

Laughs, smiles and subsequent obscurity drove Bebert into the wall with the force of a giant's shove.

Words like Palestinians, liberation, legitimate and self-determination beat with the sound of drums, cracked into Bebert's skull, hurt, did not penetrate but blocked the exit from the tomb.

Words like pigs, stink, filthy and cunt burst out from between his dark lips, his smile, his white teeth, with a force too explosive to await translation from the Arabic, as if they had traveled 7000 miles to tear through Sandy Drexson's party. They called there, to the West, to challenge humiliation.

After Bebert had fled--like Arabs in '67 (Sandy made a point of observing)--they all smoked good Moroccan hashish and got very, very stoned.

• • •

Driving home in his apricot Cadillac, Bebert imagined smoking hashish cooled by a water pipe; he imagined smoking in a cool, damp room, bubbles echoing off stone, lost irretrievably behind the maze of corridors, the pageant of filth and shredded rags, the vault of crumbled steps and roofs, the safety of custom and habit and time that were the old city of Jerusalem, that were Jaffa, that were Fès.

On the corner of 81st and First, a black woman, unlike black women--in blonde wig, skirt snapped tight to skin--presented loaves of thigh and breast to a dark curly-haired man driving an apricot Cadillac.

He wheeled to the curb, leaned over, opened the door for her to slide in, said, "I am Arab. Palestinian! Our people have much in common. Would you like some shit? I have a nice apartment around the corner."

When he touched her, he said his name was Muhammad.