South Tel Aviv
by Albert Russo
When Mr Ravioli - the
landlord’s real name was Ravi - gave us the
keys after we had visited the place - it was ok,
just ok, not fabulous -, red with rage, I croaked:
“How many old ladies
get raped and killed every week here? Is there a
police station nearby?”
Ravioli gave me a puzzled
look and then smiled:
“Oh, ma petite,
this is not France,” he said, “we haven’t
had a murder in years here. There is nothing to
worry, you’ll see for yourself. Even at
night you can stroll peacefully along the avenue,
with your dear uncle by your side.”
Aha, so I couldn’t be
on my own at night! He only half reassured me,
coz when we got out, I watched the people walking
in the street or entering stores, and saw no eyes
that looked like they belonged to killers - some
already had their faces covered with masks, like
it was carnival time. They were just attending to
their every day business, like all and sundry,
hoping that they would be as aloof and woof woof
on Sundays too.
As everywhere in Tel Aviv, young guys and gals
were walking their dooogs, which was comforting,
especially since the dooogs here are very
friendly and often come and lick your hands.
Still I could have twisted
my uncle’s neck and something else too,
which is unladylike to describe here, I was so
disgusted by his stinginess.
As soon a s we settled in
our airbagoon - no, it wasn’t a
bungalow or a rondavel (that’s what they are
called in South Africa) - my uncle said he was
tired and if we could have a rest, giving me his
beaten-up look with eyes that were swimming like
frying oysters in their orbits. Before resting
his head on the pillow of his bed, he managed to udder
in a squeaky voice:
“Admit it Zupetta,
this is a nice studio, it is clean and we have a
well equipped kitchenette where we’ll both
be able to cook the things you like. I’ve
already spotted a grocery store 50 meters from
here. Did you see the ice cream parlor too, and
the Burger place just opposite? We won’t be
lacking. And on top of it all, our windows at the
back give onto a lemon tree and shrubs of
bougainvillea. What better could we ask for?”
I umphed like a puffed-up
frog, like in Jean de La Fontaine’s tale in
which the froggess (me) wants to become
as fat as the ox (Bonka) and then explodes. In my
revised story, Bonka gets barbecued in lekker
braavleis (South African beef cooked over an
open log fire) and his tougher pieces are biltonged
- the jerky you eat down under in Africa that is
so hard you can keep it a whole day in your mouth,
with the taste lingering at the back of your
tongue, giving you the impreshun that you have
gorged yourself.
Excerpt
7 from CORONA ZAPINETTE by Albert Russo
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