voice.
“What?”
“I took a little survey among my clients. What most relaxes them is a crater on Venus, or some other deserted planet, where the force of gravity is greater than on Earth. And to imagine that nobody can see them. In this way they’re forced to blot me out too, and causality, and judgmental attitudes, and I can tell you it relaxesmost of them. Even though I’m married to a wonderful woman, before I go to sleep even I imagine that I’m alone on a deserted planet, and that I have no history. History is a load. A burden. Comparative literature is a burden too. A lot of things to remember. And so I decided to devote my life to my peace of mind.”
“Ah, ah,” Gruber groaned enjoyably as the latter smeared more oil on his back.
The masseur smiled to himself, sweating and satisfied, and said, “In half an hour tell me if you’re ready to sign the wall behind you, which you can’t see,” and he turned his head to indicate it. “A wall of important, satisfied clients. Abba Eban signed it too. I liked the late Abba Eban a lot.”
“If Abba Eban signed, I’ll sign too,” said Gruber without betraying his surprise. Even though he hadn’t yet decided who it would flatter more, him or the former foreign minister.
“The former president of France, Georges Pompidou, signed too. Remember him?”
“How old are you?” Gruber suddenly asked. He himself hardly remembered the late Pompidou, and when he tried to imagine his face he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t confusing him with some other European leader. An Englishman maybe, or the secretary general of the United Nations.
“Fifty-nine,” said the masseur.
“You should come and give massages in Israel,” said Gruber.
For ten seconds, the masseur dragged out his chuckle at Gruber’s joke—leave Ithaca to go and massage Israelis’ backs!
“That’s how it is with you people in the Middle East,” he spoke again, after an interval, while massaging Gruber’s scalp. “You kill them, they kill you. You have no choice, you have to kill one another,” and he permitted himself to press down lightly on a few meridians.
“That’s all,” he said in his gentle voice, and went to the end of the room to wash his hands in the sink. Gruber noticed that he exaggerated his ablutions. While soaping and scrubbing his armsup to the elbows, Hamlet called out to him, “Get up very slowly without straining your neck. You have a problem with the first vertebra, which holds up the head. When you get back home, go and have an x-ray. I didn’t work on it much, only around it, on the muscles.”
He dried his arms on a towel that matched the other colors in the room: pale peach and magnolia.
“Get dressed behind the screen, you’ll have time to think about signing the wall while you do it.”
Irad got up slowly. The pain in his back was gone.
From behind the screen he heard Hamlet say, “The effect of the massage lasts for a few hours. You may feel tired.”
“I’m tired anyway,” said Gruber.
When he looked at the signature wall, he saw that they were all in Latin letters, except for Abba Eban’s, who had signed in Hebrew. A. Eban . He signed in Hebrew next to him: I. Gruber .
IN THE BRIGHTLY LIT reception room, lacking any aroma of medicinal herbs, the Israeli scientist was about to pay for the enjoyable massage himself, but he was informed that Bahat had paid in advance.
Hamlet emerged from the treatment room with a pair of tongs holding a hot towel, which he wrapped round Gruber’s neck, and said, “Run to Mrs. McPhee’s car, the cold is bad for you. I’ve already called her.”
The woman who was going to get his TESU project off the ground, and bestow eternal significance on his signature emblazoned next to that of Abba Eban, stepped out of her warm car with the engine still running to meet him, and quickly opened the door of the passenger seat. She smiled at him. Her teeth were as white as a toothpaste commercial.
“Thank you very
“What?”
“I took a little survey among my clients. What most relaxes them is a crater on Venus, or some other deserted planet, where the force of gravity is greater than on Earth. And to imagine that nobody can see them. In this way they’re forced to blot me out too, and causality, and judgmental attitudes, and I can tell you it relaxesmost of them. Even though I’m married to a wonderful woman, before I go to sleep even I imagine that I’m alone on a deserted planet, and that I have no history. History is a load. A burden. Comparative literature is a burden too. A lot of things to remember. And so I decided to devote my life to my peace of mind.”
“Ah, ah,” Gruber groaned enjoyably as the latter smeared more oil on his back.
The masseur smiled to himself, sweating and satisfied, and said, “In half an hour tell me if you’re ready to sign the wall behind you, which you can’t see,” and he turned his head to indicate it. “A wall of important, satisfied clients. Abba Eban signed it too. I liked the late Abba Eban a lot.”
“If Abba Eban signed, I’ll sign too,” said Gruber without betraying his surprise. Even though he hadn’t yet decided who it would flatter more, him or the former foreign minister.
“The former president of France, Georges Pompidou, signed too. Remember him?”
“How old are you?” Gruber suddenly asked. He himself hardly remembered the late Pompidou, and when he tried to imagine his face he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t confusing him with some other European leader. An Englishman maybe, or the secretary general of the United Nations.
“Fifty-nine,” said the masseur.
“You should come and give massages in Israel,” said Gruber.
For ten seconds, the masseur dragged out his chuckle at Gruber’s joke—leave Ithaca to go and massage Israelis’ backs!
“That’s how it is with you people in the Middle East,” he spoke again, after an interval, while massaging Gruber’s scalp. “You kill them, they kill you. You have no choice, you have to kill one another,” and he permitted himself to press down lightly on a few meridians.
“That’s all,” he said in his gentle voice, and went to the end of the room to wash his hands in the sink. Gruber noticed that he exaggerated his ablutions. While soaping and scrubbing his armsup to the elbows, Hamlet called out to him, “Get up very slowly without straining your neck. You have a problem with the first vertebra, which holds up the head. When you get back home, go and have an x-ray. I didn’t work on it much, only around it, on the muscles.”
He dried his arms on a towel that matched the other colors in the room: pale peach and magnolia.
“Get dressed behind the screen, you’ll have time to think about signing the wall while you do it.”
Irad got up slowly. The pain in his back was gone.
From behind the screen he heard Hamlet say, “The effect of the massage lasts for a few hours. You may feel tired.”
“I’m tired anyway,” said Gruber.
When he looked at the signature wall, he saw that they were all in Latin letters, except for Abba Eban’s, who had signed in Hebrew. A. Eban . He signed in Hebrew next to him: I. Gruber .
IN THE BRIGHTLY LIT reception room, lacking any aroma of medicinal herbs, the Israeli scientist was about to pay for the enjoyable massage himself, but he was informed that Bahat had paid in advance.
Hamlet emerged from the treatment room with a pair of tongs holding a hot towel, which he wrapped round Gruber’s neck, and said, “Run to Mrs. McPhee’s car, the cold is bad for you. I’ve already called her.”
The woman who was going to get his TESU project off the ground, and bestow eternal significance on his signature emblazoned next to that of Abba Eban, stepped out of her warm car with the engine still running to meet him, and quickly opened the door of the passenger seat. She smiled at him. Her teeth were as white as a toothpaste commercial.
“Thank you very
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