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Fiction: All Because of Baudelaire

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Menachem Talmi is widely considered the Damon Runyon of Israel. Like Runyon, Talmi’s short, humorous, and sentimental sketches of hustlers are stylized gems in an imaginary vernacular. True, the gruff poetry of his characters’ Hebrew reflects Talmi’s acquaintance with Jaffa’s underworld, but the language of gamblers, thieves, and conmen is equally Talmi’s invention. His stories of criminals-with-hearts-of-gold have achieved cult status in Israel. Today they are nostalgic reminders of a time before “authentic” Jaffa gave way to luxury condos. This story appeared in his collection When a Man Was a Man [KsheGever Haya Gever (Masada: 1970)], the first in a series of volumes dedicated to “pictures of Jaffa.” Anat Schultz provides a wonderful translation for Talmi’s work in this, his first English publication. – Adam Rovner, translations editor

All Because of Baudelaire

Did they ever nail Short-Lou! Man, the way they locked him up in the jail house at Abu Kabir! For a year and a half he drove ‘em up a wall, till they finally nabbed him. You don’t know Short-Lou? Never heard of “Two Wheels” Short-Lou? Never saw him down at Hatikva joyriding stolen cars? Man, you surprise me. You really do. Who doesn’t know Short-Lou? Little guy, but man, king of the wiseguys. The guy’s so little you see a car driving itself, you don’t even know it’s got a driver. And believe me, you see a car doing ninety with no driver, your nuts’ll start shaking. But then everybody got used to it. People see a car with no driver, they know Short-Lou’s behind the wheel, king of the wiseguys. Why’s the guy so little? Nobody knows. His old man’s normal sized. And his mom is sorta king-sized. But all their kids are like mice. People say their family’s got crappy blood.

For a year and a half Short-Lou drove around in hot cars till he got picked up. And all because some chick with glasses wanted to read poems with him in French. She was a good girl really, except she had the brains of a sick fly.

#

Yeah, Short-Lou. Sitting in the jail house, missing the fresh air. Good guy, really. But little as that guy is, that’s how crazy he is for big cars. Wouldn’t lay half a finger on a Fiat or a Contessa. Less than a Valiant won’t cut it for him. A Lark’s okay. But his favorite are American cars, true originals.

Each car he has a name for. Want an example? Okay. The Chevy Impala he calls Brigitte Bardot. Ask him why, he’ll tell you: ‘Cause she’s good and smooth and hot like that French chick. He calls the Ford Falcon Juliette Gréco. Ask him why, he’ll tell you: ‘Cause the Falcon’s small, but she’s strong and spunky. Any car that’s locked up tight, or that you can’t start up and drive off in, he calls Marilyn Monroe. Ask him why, he’ll tell you: Man, she’s fine, but she’s dead!

#

With cars he had it going real good. He could open ‘em all up and just move. With the ladies it didn’t go so smooth. Maybe on account of his shortness. He couldn’t find any chick small enough for his size. Yeah, why not? Anyway, he sees an ad in the paper for this place that does matchmaking by mail, so he puts two lira in an envelope and sends it off. Some people laughed, saying, Man oh man, did Short-Lou ever put his lira on the tail of Satan himself!

After a month maybe, one day he gets a note. Blue writing paper. Each letter written real pretty like it’s done with a chisel. Who wrote him? A number from Givatayim, Katzenelson Street.

So Short-Lou goes to Yochanan, the counselor at the club in our neighborhood, and says to him: Yochanan, you gotta do this for me, bang out a letter that’s super-elegant-like. Yochanan says to him, Why don’t you do it yourself? So he says to him: Man. I can’t write to chicks! See for yourself what she wrote me. She just finished reading a poetry book. Some Baudelaire guy. Ever hear of Baudelaire? I didn’t. So what am I gonna write, that a month ago I read Stalag 17? And now Tuito’s brother gave me Jeanette from the Damascene Harem? What’ll she think? C’mon Yochanan, you’re a nice guy, write something for me. Tell her I also got the hots for Baudelaire, or something like that.

So Yochanan laughs and writes this great letter. Inside are names that make Baudelaire look like a puppy. So that’s how the letters start flying this way and that.

#

Till one day they decide to go out. Short-Lou goes to get a haircut at Jacques Hasson’s place, the guy who heats his razors over a fire. Puts on his Spanish shoes, the ones with the two-inch heels. Puts on his jacket with the gold buttons, some French scent on his face, and goes out to pick up a car for the night. His buddy Yosef Ashriki takes him on his moped to Ramat Chen where there’s a car that belongs to a contractor, a real beauty – dark blue Ford Galaxy, automatic, windows roll up and down on air pressure, air conditioning, a nice little bar and even an automatic record player inside. Short-Lou had his eye on this baby for a long time, but he kept it for a special event.

So Yosef Ashriki sees the car, says to Short-Lou, Man, your chick sees a car like this, she’ll faint right on the spot!

Short-Lou approaches the car like a doctor does his patient. Sticks a finger here, a screwdriver there, a push, a pull, some gas – and the door opens. How does he do it? That’s his specialty.

#

He comes to his chick’s house, honks a couple times, and out she comes, all ready and waiting. Looks her over: kinda skinny, but okay. Wears glasses, but they’re not too bad. They look kinda nice on her, even. Takes a look upstairs, sees two people watching from the window. Says to her: Who are they? She says to him: That’s my mother and father. They want to see who the young man is. You know, these days people say girls should only go out with someone from a good home.

A good home, says Short-Lou, Sure, we got a good home. Only two rooms, but real strong construction and hot water, solar and electric at the same time.

They get in the car, she looks at the whole luxe-deluxe set-up he’s got in there and her eyes start popping beneath her glasses. She says to him: Whose car is this? He says to her: My old man’s. She says to him: What’s your father do? He says to her: Export-Import. Sees she’s dragging a book with her. Says to her: What’s that? She says to him: Baudelaire. Says to her: You don’t say. She says to him: In French. Says to her: No kidding. Bravo. She says to him: You said in your letters you’re crazy for Baudelaire, so I got you one. We can read some together. Short-Lou hears this and gets a Baudelaire stuck in his throat. But he keeps cool and says to her: What do you say we go dancing some place, and leave Baudelaire for act two? She says to him: Okay. So they go to “Club Fifty-Three” and dance and have a fine time.

#

Well, just as they finish living it up and come outside, Short-Lou’s sharp eye catches a cruiser on the side of the road and a cop with a cigarette standing behind the Galaxy. Without a second thought he clears the hell out. But the chick with the glasses is clueless, she goes over to the Galaxy and stands there waiting. Thinks maybe Short-Lou forgot something inside and will come right back. Stands there waiting and waiting, but nobody comes. Until the cop with the cigarette comes over to her, asks her if maybe she knows whose car the Galaxy is. She says: Sure. Asks her if maybe she knows where the guy lives. She says: Where exactly, I don’t know. But I know the address, from all the letters I sent him…

#

Five o’clock in the morning, Short-Lou gets back to his house slinking through the backyards. Sees it’s quiet, nobody around, jumps up, goes inside and off to sleep. Seven o’clock in the morning, two cruisers come ‘round and pick him up. They take his fingerprints and look at that album they got and say: Well, well, well! So you’re the one who’s been driving us up a wall all this time? You’re the guy who picked up the Comet in Ramat Aviv, the Valiant on HaHashmonaim Street, the Dodge in Savion, the Impala on HaYarkon Street, and the… and the… and the…

In the cruiser on the way to the jail house at Abu Kabir, Short-Lou says to them: Think you guys are smart ‘cause you nailed me? If I’m sitting here with you, it’s only because of that goddamn Baudelaire!

So the sergeant asks him: Who’s Baudelaire? Where does he live?

Short-Lou laughs and says: You guys, you ain’t got no education at all, what am I doing even talking to you?…

#

Author Menachem Talmi was born in 1926 in Ramat Gan. He served in the Haganah and later in the Palmach, and fought to break the siege of Jerusalem in The War of Independence. Talmi contributed popular columns to Ma’ariv for many years, and remains well-known for his journalism, adventure novels for young readers, travel books about Israel, and his six collections of stories and sketches about Jaffa. A volume of these stories has recently been translated into Russian. Menachem Talmi lives in Tel Aviv.

Anat Schultz is a translator and editor living in Jerusalem. She holds an M.A. in Comparative Literature from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her previous translations appearing in Zeek include Boaz Izraeli’s “A Present from Dad” (March 2008), and Michal Govrin’s “Selichot in Krakow—Migrations of a Melody” (September 2008 online / Summer 2009 print).

Zeek’s Hebrew translations are made possible by a grant from the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses, supported by public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.