Blood Rules Read Free

nervousness, “Why do you want this?”
    Raful smiled, said nothing.
    “Sometimes,” Yigal said, “a man gets funny ideas into his head. Desk men feel bored. ‘Oh, it’s sunny outside,’ they say, ‘I’ll take a turn around the block.’ Which is fine, in its way. Sign this, please, Raful. For me.”
    But Sharett steadfastly ignored the paper.
    “Raful…”
    Sharett stood up. He went across to the bedside table and once more picked up the telephone, transporting it back to their makeshift desk while he prayed that the lead would be long enough not to spoil the effect by bringing him up with a jerk and making him look like one, too.
    “In Jerusalem,” he said, as he resumed his seat, “it’s not so early, not really. Phone him. Phone your father.” He lifted the receiver and handed it to the other man. “Phone Avshalom.”
    “Oh, Raful.” Yigal rolled his eyes ceilingward and heaved a sharp sigh.
    “Call him.”
    “I know how it was when you were all in the Shai—or was it the Haganah; I can’t remember—and you were running around blowing up the King David and getting hanged next day by the British—”
    “Just one call. For my sake.”
    They were talking across each other, not caring, indifferent to what each had to say.
    “But in this world, you know, this is—I mean, Raful, this is 1984 for God’s—”
    “For his sake. For your father’s sake, don’t destroy your career, Yigal. Just one sweet phone call.”
    “These days we have rules: mavericks are out, I mean
out.”
    “And you’ll be telling me next, I know what you’re telling me—”
    They were standing now, their faces hissing and spitting across the inch or so of space that separated them, but making very little noise.
    “Memuneh Hofi has you in his sights, Raful,
squarely
in his—”
    “—telling me that since we’ll be talking to Yasser Arafat eventually we might as well talk to him
now!”
    Raful’s fist came down on the desk, his face contorted in what he hoped his opponent would take as rage, though really it was pain, and there was silence. For a moment longer the two of them continued to gaze at each other. Slowly, slowly, the anger drained out of their faces.
    Yigal said, “Nobody knows you’re here?” Raful shook his head.
    “Which means nobody knows you’re leaving, either.” “That would seem to follow.”
    Yigal nodded, a patient accepting the diagnosis of cancer. “And so nice,” he said, “if you never came back.”
    Raful’s gaze dropped away. In saying that, the young man was demanding too high a price, aware that Sharett had no option but to pay it. The knowledge soured Raful. It flew contrary to his old-fashioned notion of how you bargained.
    “Look,” he said. “Look. Stepmother’s taken out in midair, the plane lands in Malaysia, I disembark and disappear, and I’m back in Tel Aviv before anyone realizes I’m missing.”
    “And if someone does realize?”
    Raful half winked, jerked his right shoulder, but Yigal did not laugh. By “doing a Raful” Sharett meant to convey, Well, that’s tough, I’m getting on now, not much time left and no life plans worth the name; let them cut my pension if they want to be that petty. But Yigal, he knew, didn’t read it that way. Yigal merely thought him irresponsible.
    “I’m going now,” Raful said at last. “Stay well, don’t worry.” And loosen up, he added mentally as he rose; they won’t be sending you to Tripoli for talks with the PLO just yet.
    He collected his overnight bag, cast a final glance around the room, and then paused on the threshold.
    He wanted to say, You’re one of the best of the best, Yigal. Educated. Aware. Tolerant and civilized, you are a better Jew, a better Israeli Jew, than I can ever hope to be. You believe absolutely in the things we hold dear, and your generation will do more to hold the line we drew than we ever could. I salute you, Yigal, and I love you.
    But:
“Kacha, ma laasot?”
he murmured to the