A Jew in Tunisia

I think it is about time I put an excerpt from my novel here; after all that's what the blog is called.
This is chapter 32 as you will see; It's about half way through the novel and my anti-hero, the storyteller himself, Alfredo, is philosophising to the unknown narrator - there are no chapter titles but you could call this A Jew in Tunisia; there are no paragraph indents by the way; in the novel I indented each speaker when they were telling stories but the system won't let me so hang in there.
32
I came home very late one night – in the morning really at about one-o-clock and Alfredo was standing in the kitchen. He was waiting for me and had a look of anticipation on his face.
“I’ve been on the bus again,” he said.
“I got a taxi – pity you didn’t tell me.”
“No” he said ‘I went out to see what it was like this time of night.”
“And?”
“It was fantastic” he said “I’m going again. Tonight there was a big black man sitting in front of me and he turned around and said “You got the time man?”
“Another story? I said.
He nodded; “Hang on!” I said “Let me get a drink.”
There was a pot of coffee on the stove and I poured a cup.
“You ready?” he said and I sat down at the table and nodded my head.
“The black turned man around and said ‘You got the time?’
‘It’s eleven-o-five.’ I said to him.
‘Hey’ the black guy said ‘you from London?’
‘No’ I said ‘Dublin.’
‘You been to London?”
When Alfredo said this he was looking passed me as if he was looking at the fella on the bus.
“Yes’ I said ‘I lived there for a while.’
‘How’s that Mister Fish? You know Mister Fish?’
‘Does he make shirts?’
‘That’s the guy’ he said ‘he had some wonderful designs.’
‘Have you been to London?’
‘No I used to hang out with him in New York. Hey! You an actor?”
Alfredo liked this question. He carried on.
“No’ I said.”
When he said that he winked at me!
“You should be.’ he said ‘You sound like that guy that played Hannibal Lecter.’
‘Anthony Hopkins?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, I know:’ I said ‘Brian Cox?’
‘That’s right’ he said ‘that’s him.’
The woman next to me got off the bus.
‘Hey! Shall I come and sit around with you – will I?’
‘Yes come around’ I said.
‘You would do well if you were an actor. You would do well. You look like a movie star. You may be as good as Brian Cox.”
Maybe Alfredo exaggerated this bit as the only actor he resembled was Charles Laughton – but I didn’t say anything.
“This man was in a bad shape” he said “and it surprised me that he was fairly fluent about personalities.
‘I was hit by …’ The fella went off for a bit and looked in the air."
As he said this Alfredo looked way passed me again and looked as if he was in a trance. He loved to act; he should have been an actor. As he spoke he used his emotions and gestures.
His voice cracked as he said:
“I was hit by Kathleen, - what was her name? She a movie star named Kathleen. I was hit by her a couple of years ago. Ran right into me sh’ did!
I’m trying man – you know what the statute of limitations..?’
‘Yes’ I said ‘it means you must file your claim within a certain amount of time.’
‘The lawyer said you just got in the door he said.’
The man looked out the window passed me then turned again:
‘Are you sure you ain’t no actor?’
‘I’m sure.”
That’s what Alfredo said to him but he should have said yes. He went on:
‘Hey man. Keep in touch. I try to be good. I try to keep quiet and mind my business. I went up to Chicago, man – I robbed the bank. My mother was dying and I robbed the bank. I went right in there and cos I was so big they gave me the money. I had to do three years, man. I try to keep quiet now.”
As Alfredo said this he really acted the role.
‘Times are hard’ I said.
‘You want some money, man? Here I give you some. Here!’
He reached into his pocket.
‘No no no no’ I said.
‘I’m staying at the Panama Hotel: room one-one-eight. You come and see me. We go and get sumpen t’eat; we can talk.’
‘Yes we must.’
The bus travelled a while and we were in silence.
‘Shall I go see my lawyer?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt to remind him about you.’
‘Might sort my life out if I get some money from Kathleen. She a bitch - she dint even check to see if I got to the hospital. I had to teach myself to walk again.’
‘Did she break your leg?’ I said.
‘Yeh, my tibia – you know the tibia?’
I looked down and his knee reached the seat in front. I pointed ‘Yes! That bone there!’
‘You’re right man. You know.’
I could see that the bus was nearing my stop here.
‘Got to get off” I told him.
‘Okay then, man.’
We shook hands as we got up and I moved passed him.
‘Panama Hotel, room one-one-eight’ he said.
‘Okay.’
I knew there wouldn’t be much of a chance of meeting up with him. It was just impracticable. In any case I already had a shiralee at home with you.
I walked to the bus door. He called out ‘Hey man: room one-one-eight. My name’s Mitchell!’
I shouted back Alfredo Hunter.
‘Okay Alfredo Hunter’ he said.
‘Room one-one-eight.’ I repeated and I got off the bus.
I walked to the traffic light ready to cross Sunset Boulevard and waited for the lights to change. As I
waited the bus came passed and Mitchell waved. I waved back and walked up the hill to the house
and here I am now.”
“I never see any of this on any bus” I said.
“You never look!”
He went to the fridge, grabbed his ice cream and spoon and walked into the garden.
I poured another cup of coffee lit a cigarette and joined him in his usual place: standing on the deck
at the guesthouse looking at the stars and eating ice cream from a gallon carton. There was a slight
chill in the air, as October had arrived and it got that way then, so I was surprised that he was just
wearing a tee shirt.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” he said “maybe inspiration. When I look up there I see nothing but the moon and the stars
in the heavens. I can still hear, of course, and I can imagine what’s going on around me but it doesn’t
take too much to cut it all out. Then I see the stars and I am alone; alone with thoughts of what I am
going to do next; maybe a little plot line or a piece of dialogue; maybe to forget it all and top myself.
I can stare at the wall inside my room but the décor would drive me mad even with the light out, but
out here I can feel the stars. I can feel them …

Did somebody ever say that they could feel the stars ‘shitting the light down on them?’ That’s a grand
expression even if nobody said it. Sometimes when I look at the stars, like on the night of the
Bloomsday Blackout, I think of what I had been doing previously: the girl showing us her drawers on the stage whilst she read her lines popped straight into my head and I knew I could write a story about
her.”
Then suddenly he said “Your boy friend was here today.”
“Who?”
“Patrick! He asked about you.”
There was a certain innuendo in his voice.
“He’s not that way inclined” I said “he has grandchildren.”
“Doesn’t matter a God dam; people have turned gay at all ages and marital status. I had a fella after
me once.”
I laughed.
“Don’t laugh. I was adored once, you know.”
He hadn’t shaved again and looked filthy and slovenly.
“Bit of Shakespeare that.”
He had his hands in his pockets and he turned around to face me.
“I’m going into a hole” he said, “and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going into a bout of depression. Did you know depression is a potentially fatal disease? Most of
us who have it commit suicide. Without knowing about it you have stopped me a few times; I don’t
know why!”
“Maybe because I’m stupid.”
“Could be,” he said in all seriousness. “You’re just a thick Mick, really and life is simple and Catholic
and straightforward. It must be wonderful to be ignorant.”
He had a good nature so I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me.
“Maybe I just love you.” he said.
“Now who’s on the turn?” I joked.
“Not that way; you’re like a brother.”
He took two spoonfuls of ice cream.
“What did Patrick want?”
“What do you think?” he chuckled.
“Money?”
“Yes,” he said, “or your arse.”
We both laughed at that. I knew that it wouldn’t make any difference what I said. He would go into his
hole. He would spend vast amounts of time alone in his room looking at his lap top computer, as if
he was waiting for a message from it, and listening to the Jewish music he was so fond of; if he turned
the music off he would have the company of the ticking and the squeaking of the floorboards. His long
walks with the dog in Dog Shit Canyon might take him out of his depression temporarily or give him
ideas as to how he could kill himself but as he had a great affection for the dog he wouldn’t kill
himself and abandon the dog in the park. So he would go back to his room and be a slob and watch the
worst programmes on television whilst stuffing himself with ice cream to wait for the other side of the
hole.
“When did I stop you?”
“I suppose I was all set to do it and I thought about you; thought about how hopeless you are and how
lost you always look in this foreign land: dressed as if you are taking the DART across Dublin on a
cold winter’s day. Look at you! Do you know if you travelled the United States and arrived at some
small town dressed like that someone would come along and beat you up?”
“Someone would come along?” I said.
“That’s what I said. Someone would come up to you in a bar or a restaurant and just beat the shite out
of you. You should get yourself some jeans.”
“Maybe I should dress like you? Like a hippy!”
We both laughed.
“Are you still off the medicine?”
“Yes, he said, I’m going to start taking St Johns Wort.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“I read a lot,” he said “if I get out the other side of this hole, IF - - I’ll start taking it. Or I may go back
on the medication.”
“Might be a good idea to go on the medicine.”
“Thank you doctor.” he said.
“Fuck you.” I said.
“I was sitting in the cantina the other night” he said “the night you came back with Christine and I
didn’t mean to spy. I was sitting in the dark just smelling history in there and I couldn’t help hear you.
If I had moved about, I would have disturbed you. If I had let you know I was there by coughing or
something like that I would have disturbed you that way too. I was trapped in there. I’m sorry.”
“Why did you ask for the jam?”
“I don’t know. I just fancied some jam.”
I wasn’t sure whether to buy that one. I changed the subject:
“So when were you adored?”
“I’ve been adored all my life.” he said “I was better looking than you. It was in Tunisia.”
“Tunisia?”
“Yes: a Jew in Tunisia; could be the title of a book.”
“When was this?”
“Only a couple of years ago: January ninety-three. I was living in San Francisco at the time my
mother died in Dublin. She died and I couldn’t make it back in time for the funeral. I had no money.
By the time I got the money together she was buried; we’re quick at burying our own us Jews.”
“Was it sudden?”
“Not really. She was old and it had to happen sometime, I suppose. I was full of guilt when I got
home and nobody made me feel any better so I fucked off.”
“To Tunisia?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come straight back here?”
“I had to hang around for legal reasons in case the will was contested. So I went to a travel agent and
asked for the first flight out of Dublin – first package deal; somewhere not too far.”
“And you got Tunisia?”
“Yes. But I enjoyed it. I liked the idea that I was a Jew and they didn’t know it. My white hair is not
exactly Jewish and I don’t have a particularly Jewish name. Some of them thought I was an Arab, as I
have this sallow kind of complexion, and I’m sure some of them guessed I was Jewish, but I thought it
would have been ironic if I was gay and let an Arab arse bandit fuck me.
The weather was glorious after the few miserable days in Dublin with the fucking rain. I would walk the beaches some days in the sun and the Arab boys would ride their horses down the beach at full pelt. I still have this vision of a horse belting along the beach with an Arab boy on its back holding on for dear life and yet, at the same time, under complete control; as he passed me I had to squeeze my eyes to see through the powerful sun and as the back of his shirt, inflated by the speed of the horse, ballooned out behind him, it looked like a mirage. Maybe I could even see smiles of delight on the faces of both horse and man as they became one. I was sorry at the time that I didn’t have some sort of movie camera to capture it; but I’m not a cameraman, I’m a writer, and I captured it up here forever. One day my pen will manifest it back to life. The fella with the pen has the power of life and death over his characters so if one of my characters is depressed I can put him out of his misery and get him to take his own life. I can make him do it as painlessly as possible so he can slink off into the after life in peace. I don’t have to give a reason: I can make the Arab boy decide that life will never get any better than riding that horse along that beach at that particular moment and I can get him to throw himself off for no better reason than that he wants to choose where and when to die. I wish someone could put me out of my misery.”
He liked telling stories. It gave him vigour and he sat down on the top step of the deck and took a
mouth full of ice cream.
“Were you attracted to him?”
“I was attracted to the horse.”
He laughed.
“I went to a place called Hammamet and one day I was walking down a street and an Arab shopkeeper wanted to swap pens with me. I had asked him where I could get some good couscous and, after we swapped pens, he said ‘take my sister with you’ but I didn’t. I bought some coffee in an out door café instead.”
“The next day I went to the same café and the waiter treated me like a long lost brother. He didn’t hug me, or anything, but patted me on the shoulder a few times. That time I had a couple of cups of coffee and a fruit filled pancake. From there I went for a wander and found a bench to sit on and saw some kind of official government car. It was parked in the street and was blocking traffic. The people stood back and looked on in awe at this wondrous site. Can you imagine it: a big posh car standing there so superior with people looking at it as if it was some kind of coronation coach waiting for a queen? I looked around and saw an Arabic fella looking at me: he was very well dressed with his Gucci watch, French jeans and a very smart pair of cowboy boots with metal toecaps; it was the boots that drew my attention to him but when I looked up to his face he was looking at me: I looked away immediately.
The car was there for some time and I waited on the bench wondering what the government official would look like when he appeared. The fella with the boots didn’t move from the spot. Maybe he was wondering about the government official too or maybe he was going to assassinate him but he kept looking at me and I started to feel uneasy. It crossed my mind that he was an Arab and I was a Jew and maybe he wanted to expose me or maybe he had, in fact, taken a fancy to me. Men tend to stick together in Tunisia till they meet a woman to marry. They hang around in coffee shops drinking coffee till all hours. They sit outside and inside these coffee shops – not like the one I was at eating the pancake – but huge dark places and they talk and play board games and the like.
So I was sitting on this bench waiting to see if I’m going to see a celebrity coming out. I’m waiting with the rest of the people in Hammamet and the poor people are passing in front of me looking towards the big car with the flags on it.
There was a fella walking who had no feet. He had some Wellington boots on and I could see they were folding over making it impossible for feet to be in there. I looked at him as he walked passed and he walked passed the fella with the Gucci watch and the French jeans who was still looking at me.
All this time Gucci had his hands behind his back and, as the fella with no feet went passed him, I noticed he had put the Fedora, he had been holding, onto his head and he posed for a few minutes. I either got bored with waiting for the celebrity or got cold feet so I upped and went to a small market, close by, to buy a bottle of water. When I looked up, after I picked up the bottle from the shelf, I saw the Fedora behind one of the lines. He was buying water too. I could see him closer and he was around twenty-five or so and looked very rich. I let him get served first as I walked off to look for something else.
Now I might have been imagining all this or it might all have been a coincidence. He might have been setting me up to get beaten by his friends or might not have noticed me at all but when I came out of the supermarket I couldn’t see him so I had another wander and found a big place called the Medina which looked like a castle from the outside. Inside it was full of shops: it was like an antique centre but with thousands of trinkets, shoes and leather bags – you name it.
After a few minutes of window-shopping I saw the Fedora again. He was looking at me from across an aisle. Now that wasn’t my imagination.
Then I heard ‘hello!’ I looked around and there were two girls sitting outside one of the shops. It was the ‘pen swapper’s’ sister from the day before and her friend.
‘Hello’ I said.
One of the girls grabbed my arm and gently led me into the shop to look around. I had a look and everything in there had been recently mass-produced. Models of Arabs on camels, little saddles – you know the kind? Actually there was quite a good chess set I thought about but there was nothing in there for me, not really, so I turned to go out. The pen swapper’s sister blocked my path to get out. She was very beautiful, maybe about eighteen years old; you know how beautiful some of the Arab girls can be? She wouldn’t move from the spot and when I tried to go around her she stood closer to me and looked at me with those, those – they must have been almost violet eyes! I’m not joking but I’m sure I felt my sphincter go and I felt so weak. She could have done anything she liked to me and I half expected a hand on my dick any moment but she suddenly let me pass. She must have seen some kind of panic in my eyes. So any doubts about my sexuality I had in the episode earlier had disappeared.”
“Did you have any doubts?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“No. I think I might have been flattered: a man of my age with a younger man following me.”
“What age?”
“Ah ha!” he said.
He wouldn’t tell me his age.
“Might have been after your money?”
“No. He was rich. I was adored once: when I came out of the Medina the Fedora was still waiting but
I got a cab and went back to my hotel.”
So I learned a little bit about Alfredo that night.