THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) by Shlomo Kalo Page B
Authors: Shlomo Kalo
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interesting specimen coloured khaki.
“This will go perfectly
with the khaki skirt that we bought,” she pointed out.
“A singular khaki
shoulder-bag for the khaki skirt that we bought,” I commented.
She picked up the bag, shouldered
it, paced to right and left in front of the mirror and concluded: “It’s a
perfect match.”
“And what about the bag
you already have?” – my voice wasn’t hoarse, rather it was surprisingly clear.
“It’s falling to bits,”
she declared, moving towards the cash-desk. Halfway there, she stopped, turned,
came to me and urged me in a tone of entreaty, “Please, say ‘yes’ as if you
meant it. Otherwise I won’t feel comfortable buying this wonderful
shoulder-bag, which is really cheap…”
“In francs,” I commented.
“Over here,” she replied,
“francs are worth the same as shekels. If you don’t want it, I’ll do without
it.”
Of course I wanted it,
contrary to all the principles of logic ingrained in my heart. But the day was
fine, and without the bag it was sure to cloud over and something of the
Japanese “wa” would go to waste.
We reached the toilets on
the top floor, laden with socks and the bag, and as it turned out, they didn’t
impede us at all.
We went down from the
toilets, not using the escalator but the lift that happened to be available. By
mistake, we arrived on the basement floor. As we emerged from the belly of the
lift, my wife’s expert eye lighted on a khaki waistcoat, for men. She made a
beeline for the waistcoat, as if all this had been planned a week ago, took it
down from the peg, handed it to me and said:
“Put it on! No obligation
to buy,” she added. The logic worked, the fitting room was close by; I put the
waistcoat on.
“Nice work,” I declared,
glancing in the mirror and feeling quite comfortable in the garment. In the
final analysis it’s as my wife said: francs abroad are the same as shekels at
home. Nevertheless, I tried to raise to the surface the ideologies of former
times, regarding the petty bourgeoisie and the proletariat, the hunger
afflicting the Dark Continent and the man who doesn’t care, thinking only of
wearing elegant waistcoats, and so on and so on. My wife was on her way to the
cash-desk, the waistcoat over her left arm and the credit card in her right
hand. I caught up with her by the cash-desk.
The charming young cashier
was emitting lavish blessings. The credit card was proffered. I turned to my
wife, with a vehement request:
“Tell the cashier they
should be paying you a percentage…”
“How do I say that?”
“In English, of course.”
She did as I asked.
The cashier listened
attentively, and it turned out that unlike thousands of cashiers all over the
world, she did not become a computer. Her unequivocal answer was evidence of a
healthy sense of humour.
“Tell your husband,” she
said to my wife, “that he has a wonderful wife who buys him wonderful
presents!”
Indeed, the charming
cashier was absolutely right. My wife looked at her face and then at mine and
burst into laughter, pure, sincere and captivating. I laughed with her and the
cashier joined in. We left the “Manor”.
Chapter Twelve
The time was exactly 11.00
a.m. when the telephone ripped through our tranquillity with a sharp, dry and
insistent ring.
My wife picked up the
receiver. I stood facing her, watching the drastic changes affecting her face,
which suddenly turned pale, a clear, unnatural pallor, such as I hadn’t seen
before then. Her hand gripping the receiver shook, once and then once more. The
expression on her face was suddenly that of a small animal, closely pursued by
a predator. I waited for the end of the conversation and eventually it came.
The receiver was replaced on the cradle with a weary, ponderous movement, as if
it weighed half a ton.
“What’s up?” I asked, troubled
to the last fibre of my nervous system, still in full working order.
“Someone has been asking
about
“This will go perfectly
with the khaki skirt that we bought,” she pointed out.
“A singular khaki
shoulder-bag for the khaki skirt that we bought,” I commented.
She picked up the bag, shouldered
it, paced to right and left in front of the mirror and concluded: “It’s a
perfect match.”
“And what about the bag
you already have?” – my voice wasn’t hoarse, rather it was surprisingly clear.
“It’s falling to bits,”
she declared, moving towards the cash-desk. Halfway there, she stopped, turned,
came to me and urged me in a tone of entreaty, “Please, say ‘yes’ as if you
meant it. Otherwise I won’t feel comfortable buying this wonderful
shoulder-bag, which is really cheap…”
“In francs,” I commented.
“Over here,” she replied,
“francs are worth the same as shekels. If you don’t want it, I’ll do without
it.”
Of course I wanted it,
contrary to all the principles of logic ingrained in my heart. But the day was
fine, and without the bag it was sure to cloud over and something of the
Japanese “wa” would go to waste.
We reached the toilets on
the top floor, laden with socks and the bag, and as it turned out, they didn’t
impede us at all.
We went down from the
toilets, not using the escalator but the lift that happened to be available. By
mistake, we arrived on the basement floor. As we emerged from the belly of the
lift, my wife’s expert eye lighted on a khaki waistcoat, for men. She made a
beeline for the waistcoat, as if all this had been planned a week ago, took it
down from the peg, handed it to me and said:
“Put it on! No obligation
to buy,” she added. The logic worked, the fitting room was close by; I put the
waistcoat on.
“Nice work,” I declared,
glancing in the mirror and feeling quite comfortable in the garment. In the
final analysis it’s as my wife said: francs abroad are the same as shekels at
home. Nevertheless, I tried to raise to the surface the ideologies of former
times, regarding the petty bourgeoisie and the proletariat, the hunger
afflicting the Dark Continent and the man who doesn’t care, thinking only of
wearing elegant waistcoats, and so on and so on. My wife was on her way to the
cash-desk, the waistcoat over her left arm and the credit card in her right
hand. I caught up with her by the cash-desk.
The charming young cashier
was emitting lavish blessings. The credit card was proffered. I turned to my
wife, with a vehement request:
“Tell the cashier they
should be paying you a percentage…”
“How do I say that?”
“In English, of course.”
She did as I asked.
The cashier listened
attentively, and it turned out that unlike thousands of cashiers all over the
world, she did not become a computer. Her unequivocal answer was evidence of a
healthy sense of humour.
“Tell your husband,” she
said to my wife, “that he has a wonderful wife who buys him wonderful
presents!”
Indeed, the charming
cashier was absolutely right. My wife looked at her face and then at mine and
burst into laughter, pure, sincere and captivating. I laughed with her and the
cashier joined in. We left the “Manor”.
Chapter Twelve
The time was exactly 11.00
a.m. when the telephone ripped through our tranquillity with a sharp, dry and
insistent ring.
My wife picked up the
receiver. I stood facing her, watching the drastic changes affecting her face,
which suddenly turned pale, a clear, unnatural pallor, such as I hadn’t seen
before then. Her hand gripping the receiver shook, once and then once more. The
expression on her face was suddenly that of a small animal, closely pursued by
a predator. I waited for the end of the conversation and eventually it came.
The receiver was replaced on the cradle with a weary, ponderous movement, as if
it weighed half a ton.
“What’s up?” I asked, troubled
to the last fibre of my nervous system, still in full working order.
“Someone has been asking
about
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