Berger. With all due respect, Oren Berger might be a triathlon champion, but this guy was the champ of champs. The Yankee, who looked to be about Gruber’s age, was so outstanding that the scientist soon stopped feeling the wound gaping in his heart ever since the collapse of his T-suit experiment. At last he let go of his personal Titanic and saw things in a general, cosmic, calming light.
“Lavender or sage?” asked the masseur.
“Excuse me?”
“Aroma in the room. Lavender or sage?”
“Sage,” said Gruber to the annoyance of the masseur, who hoped he would go for lavender. Obediently he lit candles and dripped sage oil on the burner.
The American masseur, whose nickname was Hamlet, had majored in comparative literature at Cornell and graduated withhonors. His diploma hung on the wall within sight of the treatment bed.
On the opposite wall the visitor from Tel Baruch North made out certificates for the completion of courses in massage and further studies in the field. Three of the diplomas were in Chinese or Japanese.
A third wall was full of hand-shaped hamsa amulets. Gruber estimated their number at about fifty, and he asked Hamlet if he believed in the Evil Eye. Hamlet replied that things often happened in his life which could be attributed to the Evil Eye that someone had given him. Gruber wanted to know if there was a connection between the number of amulets and the amount of bad energy sent him by envious people, and Hamlet said yes, but that was not the reason he kept dozens of amulets on the wall. He was simply keeping them for a very high up person.
“Who?” asked Gruber, and Hamlet ignored the impertinent prying and replied: “The president.”
“The incumbent?” asked Gruber.
“Yes,” said Hamlet without hesitation. “Every time he gets a hamsa from someone in your part of the world, he entrusts it to me. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll have to leave the White House and return to Texas, and then he can take these amulets as a souvenir, and what’s the harm if they incidentally also ward off evil eyes?”
They both fell silent. Hamlet kneaded Gruber’s upper back and said: “Jesus, this isn’t a back, it’s concrete. Don’t you have masseurs in the Middle East?” he asked, completely serious.
“Of course we do,” said Irad Gruber in an insulted tone, “I simply had crazy flights that destroyed my back, and I’m under stress. The stress is killing me,” he added, even though he was beginning to relax.
“Okay,” said Hamlet and poured almond oil into his palms. “You’ll walk out of here soft as a ripe tomato. Do you like tomatoes?”
“Very much,” said Gruber.
“Which kind do you like better? The big ones or the small ones? Do you have the small ones?”
“Yes.”
“Small round ones or small long ones?”
“Both kinds, I guess,” he didn’t like talking in English, and fell silent, apart from grunts of pleasurable and important pain.
And then came the really painful moment. Suddenly, something in his back! He screamed uninhibitedly. Hamlet recoiled.
“GOOD,” said Hamlet regretfully. “They say that over here the taste is less natural, but I don’t know the natural taste, so what do I care.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Gruber, his whole back still hurting.
“The small round tomatoes.”
Gruber couldn’t stand the peace of mind that masseurs tried to convey. It annoyed him to be spoken to as if he was in a monastery.
“One of the times the president was here he brought me a divine basket of fruit.”
He went back to work, concentrating on another area of the back, massaging and oiling, massaging and oiling, he too grunting.
“The president’s got a lot on his mind now and I respect him. He has the elections to worry about. Otherwise he would get to Cornell more often. He really likes visiting his friends. A great guy. He’ll win the elections.
“And now relax as if you’re in a crater on Venus,” he said slowly, in a low
“Lavender or sage?” asked the masseur.
“Excuse me?”
“Aroma in the room. Lavender or sage?”
“Sage,” said Gruber to the annoyance of the masseur, who hoped he would go for lavender. Obediently he lit candles and dripped sage oil on the burner.
The American masseur, whose nickname was Hamlet, had majored in comparative literature at Cornell and graduated withhonors. His diploma hung on the wall within sight of the treatment bed.
On the opposite wall the visitor from Tel Baruch North made out certificates for the completion of courses in massage and further studies in the field. Three of the diplomas were in Chinese or Japanese.
A third wall was full of hand-shaped hamsa amulets. Gruber estimated their number at about fifty, and he asked Hamlet if he believed in the Evil Eye. Hamlet replied that things often happened in his life which could be attributed to the Evil Eye that someone had given him. Gruber wanted to know if there was a connection between the number of amulets and the amount of bad energy sent him by envious people, and Hamlet said yes, but that was not the reason he kept dozens of amulets on the wall. He was simply keeping them for a very high up person.
“Who?” asked Gruber, and Hamlet ignored the impertinent prying and replied: “The president.”
“The incumbent?” asked Gruber.
“Yes,” said Hamlet without hesitation. “Every time he gets a hamsa from someone in your part of the world, he entrusts it to me. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll have to leave the White House and return to Texas, and then he can take these amulets as a souvenir, and what’s the harm if they incidentally also ward off evil eyes?”
They both fell silent. Hamlet kneaded Gruber’s upper back and said: “Jesus, this isn’t a back, it’s concrete. Don’t you have masseurs in the Middle East?” he asked, completely serious.
“Of course we do,” said Irad Gruber in an insulted tone, “I simply had crazy flights that destroyed my back, and I’m under stress. The stress is killing me,” he added, even though he was beginning to relax.
“Okay,” said Hamlet and poured almond oil into his palms. “You’ll walk out of here soft as a ripe tomato. Do you like tomatoes?”
“Very much,” said Gruber.
“Which kind do you like better? The big ones or the small ones? Do you have the small ones?”
“Yes.”
“Small round ones or small long ones?”
“Both kinds, I guess,” he didn’t like talking in English, and fell silent, apart from grunts of pleasurable and important pain.
And then came the really painful moment. Suddenly, something in his back! He screamed uninhibitedly. Hamlet recoiled.
“GOOD,” said Hamlet regretfully. “They say that over here the taste is less natural, but I don’t know the natural taste, so what do I care.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Gruber, his whole back still hurting.
“The small round tomatoes.”
Gruber couldn’t stand the peace of mind that masseurs tried to convey. It annoyed him to be spoken to as if he was in a monastery.
“One of the times the president was here he brought me a divine basket of fruit.”
He went back to work, concentrating on another area of the back, massaging and oiling, massaging and oiling, he too grunting.
“The president’s got a lot on his mind now and I respect him. He has the elections to worry about. Otherwise he would get to Cornell more often. He really likes visiting his friends. A great guy. He’ll win the elections.
“And now relax as if you’re in a crater on Venus,” he said slowly, in a low
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