Loyal to None but Himself

The party was a dazzling success—against Saul's every expectation. Most of his friends and loved ones showed up, clearly risking a dent in their public images. Came more out of a dirt-dishing curiosity, they did, than from any overflowing love for him. Came to see the outcast, the infamous, to get a glimpse of Public Enemy Number One. But who cares? They showed up, and that's all that mattered. Saul gazed at his guests and felt for a moment that he was hanging to each and every one of them for dear life. If he were them, he wouldn't have come.

His guests huddled around the garden heaters, sipped from their drinks and indulged in inane party banter. To be perfectly honest, there were two or three people he wouldn't have invited, but even they couldn't dampen his content. It was his birthday, and he was being celebrated, his life was being celebrated—even in these dire times. True, here and there he had to fake a smile, but he liked most of the people he saw. Sigri, in her typical wisdom, had picked and chosen well; at least ninety percent of his guests were welcomed. Maybe eighty, to be accurate. Okay, seventy-five percent, but no less. Or maybe just a little less. He liked at least half.

The booze was too good and Saul resented his wife for going to such expense in these times of uncertainty. Two crates of Castel wine that cost almost 2,000 shekels (said a quick search on his phone); three bottles of Macallan 18 years (another 3,000 shekels); three bottles of Ed Hardy Vodka (a little over a grand); four crates of a local craft beer (96 bottles, ten shekels a pop, another grand)—An outrageous fortune making its way to the bladders of his guests—only half of whom, as previously mentioned, he actually liked. At this unpleasant instant Saul lost track of his calculation, because Sigri was asking him why he was glued to his phone in the middle of his birthday party.

He decided to enjoy himself. It cost what it cost, he thought reproachfully, you only celebrate your 50^th birthday once. A silly notion, needless to say, as you only celebrate any birthday once. As silly as deciding to enjoy a party, really.

He had yearned for a party like this and didn't realize it up until then. He noted to himself: we think we yearn for the global and noble, like wealth and health, love and happiness, world peace and justice for all; in fact, most of our hopes are for the trivial and mundane: finding exact change, getting a long enough green at the traffic-light, having the perfect surprise 50^th birthday party. As a young man, Saul had fantasized about a grand festival in his honor, a ball held in some long-curtained palace, a stage packed with ass-kissing VIPs, a sword raising honor guard, some sash-decorated-South-American-style president pinning a medal to his chest, the unveiling of his very own oil painted portrait. Esteemed and charismatic, he would mesmerize the crowd with a swaying sermon—mainly a vindictive bitter indictment against his archenemies from high school—culminating in ecstatic applause.

Years went by and Saul met quite a few VIPs and realized he would rather not be even in the same town as them. But now he resented their nonattendance. True, the Secretary of Communication had come, but Gill was a friend from the IDF radio days, he didn't count. Deep in his heart, Saul wondered whether he had any influence left at all. He guessed Sigri had invited the Prime Minister, and some of the other ministers and Knesset members, but they, more than anyone, probably preferred not to be seen in his company nowadays. A month earlier, they would have stood in line to kiss his behind.

His eyes measured the small crowd, seeking out celebrities. He mocked his own groupie provinciality. Why would he need famous people there for? What if he's no longer an "influencer" or a "public opinion generator"? What if he is a has-been? There must be some kind of a silver lining in it.

He found no silver lining.

Guests shook his hand, kissed him on the cheek, offered well-crafted puns. That Ben-Attar guy from the union secured him in a greasy hug and whispered in his ear: "We won't let them win, don't worry!" without explaining who "they" were, what the war was about, and how exactly the union was preparing to emerge victorious. Over Ben-Attar's shoulder, Saul spotted Ohad Rosen leaning against the wall, beer in hand. He almost felt sorry for the poor bastard, who obviously felt compelled to come and clearly would have rather been anywhere else in the world at that particular moment. Tally stood in the middle of the backyard with her girlfriend, whose name escaped Saul, holding a glass of wine. Grovelers pranced in front of her sphynx-like face. They still kissed her ass.

"A has-been," Saul sneered quietly. He who once was and is no longer. We couch the harshest ills of our lives in catchy, heroic soundbites, devoid of all pain: Disabled Veterans. Bereaved Mothers. Rape Victims. Terminal Patients. Has-Beens. If he had a mic, he would let it rip.

The station hadn't announced his official termination yet. They probably didn't want to pay full severance, or were trying to avoid another scandal. Currently, they referred to it as a "vacation," not even "suspension," parroting most of the papers. Yet everyone knew the truth, everyone had heard it on the radio. If they missed the live show, they got the WhatsApp version. Elias told him it was on the "What's-Hots," and all over Facebook and Twitter.

"You've gone viral," smirked his tactless friend, "they're doing impressions of you on TikTok."

The food was first rate: sushi from Komoshida, his favorite restaurant, a kebab stall manned by Samir, who always did their BBQ on Independence Day; crudité platters; mixed-nut bowls; and for dessert: handcrafted chocolate pralines by Tania, Sigri's idol, and a Golda ice-cream stand. Needless to say, his wife didn't forget the sensational birthday cake by Miki Shemo, over which a pair of 5 and 0 candles held court. As he blew them out, Saul thought of his children and wondered where they were. Probably at Sigri's parents, at least Tamir. Most likely, Hagit was staying over at Gallia's, her friend.

People never really mastered the art of waiting quietly for the “Surprise!” moment. He could hear his guests from the street, where he had parked, but still played along, walked in as though oblivious, flipped the lights on as scripted. Everyone yelled "surprise!" and he squinted into the burst of noise and affection, dazing a smile—just the right mix of awe and corny delight to satisfy the gathered crowd. The room was packed with faces pulled from every torn scrap of his life, and suddenly he realized just how many scraps there were.

Sigri had tipped him off in advance, of course— “so you don’t keel over with a heart attack, like people always do in these things,” she’d said.

“Always?” he teased. “I seem to remember one or two parties that didn’t end in casualties.”
“Don’t get clever with me,” she shot back. “And moreover, don’t do me any favors by widowing me ahead of schedule—I’ve got it all planned.”

“A man can’t even make a thoughtful gesture these days,” he muttered. Then, lying through his teeth: “I don't like this whole thing, not one bit.”

"Nobody cares what you like, Sauli. There's a party, period."

“And I don’t get a say? I thought it was my surprise party.”

“Your surprise, my party," his wife concluded. He laughed.

Laughter had been in short supply since the incident, any unguarded joy had become a rare and skittish guest. Every so often, his wife tried to console him one way or another, but for his part, Saul claimed there was nothing to be mended. “I spoke freely and in full possession of my faculties,” he insisted in those first days, though everyone, including himself, knew it wasn’t true. It had been a colossal mistake, top to bottom. But slowly, doubt began chipping away at his armor of pride. Once he heard that people were referring to it as The Blooper, he latched onto the term with unexpected relief. A blooper. That's all it was. And it happens. It happens to everyone.

Now Sigri and the guests ushered him from the living room to the backyard, where an improvised DJ stand had been set up. Behind it stood the smiling Noam, bundled in a light coat, a broadcasting headset mounted on his tilted head. Naturally, the musical editor of Saul's show began with Steely Dan, Saul’s favorite duo. After Reeling in the Years, he played Bodhisattva, Your Gold Teeth II, and Fire in the Hole. Towards the end of the evening, he put on Bad Sneakers—perhaps Saul’s favorite song of all time. Impressively drunk, Saul mumbled along with the chorus: Yes, I'm going insane / And I'm laughing at the frozen rain / And I'm so alone / Honey, when they gonna' send me home?

The speeches were few and awkward. Noam went first, introducing himself as “the show’s musical editor and much more: Saul’s close friend, I dare say, for the last… twenty-five years, is it?”

“You’re wronging my complexion,” Saul replied in his deep baritone, and everyone laughed politely. Noam spoke about Saul’s “unique and meticulous” working methods and his “vital role in the dying radio scene of our country, especially in this age of cheap entertainment and the voices that threaten to silence us…” And so on and so forth—praiseful platitudes as far as the ear could hear. Deep in his heart, Saul thanked his lifelong colleague for limiting his speech to vague slogans and avoiding the facts. The facts were all against him.

“I hope we go back to business-as-usual very soon,” the baffled DJ concluded, even though everyone assumed Saul’s radio days were over. It wasn’t for nothing that Noam had been the one to speak on behalf of the station, rather than someone with real authority like Tally or Bar-Menashe. Not that anyone wanted to hear that snake hissing.

After Noam, Ze’ev offered “a word from the boys,” and as usual told the tattered tale of the spacecraft Saul imagined one night while guarding the basic training gatepost in Beit-Horon, and how it turned out to be a satellite that had combusted into cosmic dust, crashing somewhere in the Sinai desert. From that moment until his discharge, everyone called him “Han Sauli” (once even on air).

Last to speak was Sigri. Her voice aflutter, she recited a sweet and well-rhymed poem that touched Saul deeply. As the guests applauded, he rushed up to hug and kiss her, feeling he had no other true friend in the world. She handed him the microphone. His time had come.

The microphone. His friend. His sword. His life. A double-edged sword, as it turned out.

Anticipation settled over the garland-lit backyard, and Saul wondered how many times, over the three decades since he had started broadcasting, a silence like this had descended. In cars and houses, clandestine offices and military bases, smothering cabs; he never thought silence could be visible, but there it was: a visible silence. He cherished the noiselessness, letting it sink in, consolidate, then thin out. Who could tell if he would ever speak to a crowd again, if he would get another chance to sculpt with the clay of their attention.

He cracked a “thank you” and cleared his throat. His opening words were dedicated to Noam and the rest of the crew, to the listeners “who did not forget me with all the… blooper business—I hear that’s what they call it,” and at that looked up and saw what he expected to see: eyes lowered in embarrassment. Donny and Lilac swapped whispers, Bar-Menashe said something, leading to a collective faux laugh—after all, he was the boss. Saul was afraid they would think he had missed the joke—everyone was already talking about his fucked-up ears behind his back anyway—and so he waved his hand dismissively in a gesture that could be construed as either taking the punch or requesting quiet. A bolt of lightning zagged in the distant sky.

He should have had his ears examined when it started. How many times had he closed the mic mid-interview and asked Tally in alarm, “What did he say?! I didn’t hear!” Or yelled, “The line isn’t clean, clean up the line!”—only to realize that the line was perfect, the interviewee was speaking clearly, that the problem was him.

Vanity, vanity, accursed vanity.

He went on to thank the friends who had gathered—requisite dramatic pause— “and more than anyone I would like to thank my Sigri. My precious Sigal, Sigal, I am but a slave to you,[1]” he sang, pointing to her like a two-bit Aris San, and everyone mesmerized, though the words snapped in his mouth like dried twigs, and his voice shattered. Sigri, tearing up, gathered him in her arms. Everyone clapped.

Next came hugs from Noam, Ze’ev and Elias, followed by all the others. Saul ran out of hugs before he ran out of huggers, and so let them wrap their arms around him while wondering if it wasn’t, when all was said and done, a farewell party.

*

In the morning, he didn’t even have a hangover—objectively a “dazzling success” in and of itself. He made an espresso and marveled at the tidiness of their home. Such well-behaved people, he thought to himself, and snickered at the pompous choice of words. Sheesh, you’re getting old. With a reluctant finger, he turned on the radio, preparing himself for the pain that came with listening to his “temporary” replacement, Ohad Rosen. The permanent temp. But it wasn’t Rosen he heard—it was Ofra Hausner, and he remembered it was Shabbat, and there was no show today. He was relieved.

The guest bathroom was squeaky clean; even dull nostrils like his could pick up the scent of bleach. He recalled that late at night Maggie and Nava had banished Sigri and him to their bedroom, not letting them empty so much as an ashtray. Now all the dishes were stacked in the caterer’s crates by the front door, next to a neat row of folding chairs Sigri had rented. Saul imagined Ze’ev and Elias slaving away and bitching about it, and smiled as if not everything was a complete disaster. These guys had gone all out—not a speck of dust to be seen.

These are real friends, he noted contentedly. But what are friends? A man is no friend even to himself.

Snug in a TV blanket, he went out to the backyard and sat on the garden sofa. Then he remembered his regular day-after-birthday tradition and played Have a Good Time by Paul Simon on his phone, listening to the lyrics in silence. Yesterday was his birthday. Did he have a good time?

“That’s one way to put it,” he murmured.

He listened to Paul Simon’s soft voice and clever words until the song ended. Then he tuned in to other sounds: a gutter dripping. A dove cooing on the ledge. The complaint of a vacuum cleaner from a nearby flat—or maybe a faraway leaf blower? A truck’s backup beeper. A kid shouting some unintelligible rant.

“A radio broadcaster going deaf,” he snorted. “No greater irony.”

He refused to succumb to melancholy. His party was a dazzling success, no doubt about it, and this whole affair would blow over, eventually. People were quick to forget, always hungry for the next scandal, everyone deserved a second chance. He’d likely have to put up with an off-the-air exile for a few months, but the love of the crowd would bring him back. He was only fifty, and this profession had an eternal shelf life. Look at Alex. Look at Aryeh. Look at Razi[2].

He knew he was deluding himself. Alex, Aryeh and Razi were one thing—he was another. A hard-core current-events crusher, weekdays prime time. He didn’t have Razi’s compassion, didn’t broadcast a soft wake-me-up like Alex, and was definitely not as empathetic as Aryeh. Moreover: none of his competitors were as stupid as he was. They didn’t get themselves in such a tangle.

You can’t give in, Sigri’s voice echoed in his head. He recalled the action plan she’d laid out the very day of the incident: “You’re going to get yourself a hearing aid, go to another station, and strike that snake where it hurts him the most—in his ratings.”

“You don’t just leave a home,” he replied.

Flooded with fear, he lowered his tear-filled eyes to the ground. That’s when he saw the shells.

Not a big mound, but not a small or random one either. Someone had stacked them deliberately. Whoever it was had sat where Saul was sitting now, conveniently cracking those pistachios and placing the shells in a single spot—in the heart of the herb garden Sigri so painstakingly tended. Saul leaned over to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him, but no, there they were, piled up on the moist earth. Revolting.

“What kind of person would do such a thing?” he grunted. Probably Bar-Menashe, that baboon. Or perhaps Donny—he was always chewing something.

He tried to suppress his rage for another minute, then rose and furiously stomped to the kitchen, where he snatched up a broom and a used plastic bag. He went back to the herb garden and was about to sweep up the shells, but decided to wait for Sigri. She had to witness this display of vulgarity by those who called themselves their friends!

“Well-behaved people,” he grumbled. "As if!"