Bound by Debt Page 2

  Eager to complete the act, he says, “I want to see you naked.”

  Aware of the time ticking away, I pull off my top and unhook my bra.

  “The G-string, too.” He gropes for my breasts.

  His annoying sticky fingers pinch my nipples while he closes his eyes in ecstatic torture. I fake a smile and listen to my inner voice: Turn off, disappear, vanish. Crawl into the cave. Now, Iris; hide now. As my true self retreats, I feel him reaching out for me. Being elsewhere, my attitude softens.

  While fondling my breasts, he moans bitterly, “You are still too fully dressed.” Examining me with a half smile, he moves his hands to my shoulders then slides them down along my arms, stroking them. I know we’re getting closer to the end.

  Following a quick check for condom tears, I gradually submit. I take off my G-string, move myself underneath his heavy body, spread my legs, and let his crooked penis push into my vagina. I close my eyes and disappear. I’m miles away, floating in a magical world. Popsicle on Tel Aviv beach. Gulls flying sunward above the sea. Blossoming poppies near the water tower behind our house. Grandma is in the kitchen cooking delicious majadra. Chickens peck in our vegetable patch, and the old cypress above is swaying in the wind.

  Two minutes, and the huge lump above me climaxes. Pathetically satisfied, he calls for a cease-fire, murmurs a few obscure words, and offers me fifty dollars. A tip as wretched as his ugly, sweaty, repulsive face.

  Over the next few hours I am the queen of the night, not a single moment for myself. My next customer, middle-aged of Indian origin, undresses. His unbuttoned shirt exposes a hairless chest. The mixed aromas of soap and curry waft from his skin as he gently crouches over me. His fingers, unexpectedly graceful, flutter over my shoulders touching then not touching my skin. He is careful not to hurt, worshipping the texture of my skin as he searches for my mouth. I clamp my lips. His fingertips stroke my face.

  “My little one. You have a baby’s skin, sweet breath, and your hair is like silk.” His lips shape the words slowly. “You are the only one who knows her work here…the only wild mare who never tires, just the way I like.” He presents his uncircumcised dark dick then leans close to my ear. “I cannot wait any longer. Touch me. Go ahead, feel. Feel how hard I am.”

  I place my palm over his crotch. “You are like a rock. I charge two hundred fifty for sucking, four hundred for penetration. What suits you?” I whisper sweetly, clutching his dick.

  “And for both?” The Indian sounds practical.

  “Four hundred includes everything.”

  The Indian does not waste a second thinking it over. He takes a quick glance at his watch then bends down to grab his pants from the floor. He pulls out his wallet, draws out four hundred-dollar bills, and places them on the table. I thank him, collect the bills, and hide them in my handbag. He follows me with his eyes, impatient as I pull the small foil package from my purse. I grasp it with two hands and tear it open with my teeth, revealing a moist condom. I slowly unroll it over his erect penis. Right away the Indian positions himself in front of me. Only his erect cock sheathed in rubber between us.

  “Now, take it in your mouth and suck.”

  I obediently get down on my knees, grab his dick and start sucking. The rubber burns my tongue. A taste of gasoline spreads in my mouth while strong sense of pulsing all over my already scratched palate is ticking like heart beats. Keep it up, Iris. Go on. Suck and rest. Again. Two, three, four. Suck up and down…I encourage myself.

  “Oh, my little one. It’s so good.” The Indian pulls my hair, moaning. “Please. More powerful. Stronger. Don’t stop.” I feel his hard shaft between my lips. My fingers and mouth stroke his penis. Just before the release, he retreats and moves my head aside. “I’m going to finish, but first I want to hear you moan. “Stand up and part your legs for me.”

  I straighten up. He grabs my body and pushes himself into me, slowly and deeply. He pulls out a little, then again and again and again. I clutch his arms and his back, yearning for the ordeal to be over. “I want to hear you beg,” he requests, panting heavily.

  “Come. Come to me,” I moan and thrust my pelvis against his.

  “Tell me how good it feels.”

  “It’s so good,” I cry aloud, unaffected.

  “Yes! Moan for me. Tell me it’s good.”

  “So, come for me,” I whine, yearning for relief thinking that for such a long fuck, I should have asked for five hundred. While waiting for his climax I feel his hot breath on my neck, before he suddenly pulls out and bends down to suck my nipples.

  Between licks, he asks, “Do you feel me between your thighs? I’m entering your pussy. You feel how delicately I’m rubbing you?”

  “Yes.”

  He rubs harder and penetrates me again in a storm, persistently banging his dark body against mine indifferent to the squeaking of the rubber. Panting breath. Convulsions. Tremor. A groan. He’s done.

  I move aside and whisper, “For additional massage, it is six hundred.”

  My following customer, George, the horny asthmatic, leans against the doorpost in the central lounge, throwing my way a stare full of passion. His eyes roam up and down my body. Allergy-stricken during season changes, he can hardly breathe. With mixed feelings, I flash him an indulgent smile. His shoulder blades poke through his thin shirt like chicken wings as he turns to pay. When he reaches me, he leans in close, hissing like a snake in the grass, “I’ve already paid at the counter.”

  A brief glance at Jacqueline’s face confirms he’s all set.

  Room 7 is vacant. The asthmatic follows me inside and sprawls on the bed. Thin and hunchbacked, staring at me with hungry eyes, his disease stricken look indicates sex hunger. I lie down beside him. My heart fills with mercy as a clear memory ignites of the last time we shared a bed. He paid hundreds of dollars for my services, but his prick would not respond. Only pure compassion for the sick motivated me then, and now that very same feeling of tenderness grows in me. The poor soul is so vulnerable, so pathetic, struggling for air, my heart goes out to him.

  “What would you like, George?” I switch into my professional mode.

  “Would you work on him?” he asks sheepishly, pushing my hand down to the bulge in his pants.

  “Of course,” I instantly answer while contemplating how much should I charge this helpless creature. Cupping his bulge, I remember his fear of exposing his naked body. “One hundred for five minutes rubbing without undressing. One fifty for ten.”

  George smiles and pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. I tuck it into my bra and begin to rub. I rub, and press, and cup, and knead, and grip, diligently massaging the lump in his pants. Five minutes seems to last forever. The fabric of his jeans chaps my skin.

  Suddenly, he sits up in bed. “Too bad,” he squeaks short of breath. “It’s a shame a pretty girl like you has to work in a place like this.”

  “Shame? Shame on thieves and crap human beings that cause suffering to good people,” I answer impatiently as Dorfman’s image desperate and confused, flashes before my eyes. “Give me a break,” I mutter, not interested in pursuing this worn-out conversation often initiated by my self-righteous clients.

  “You can catch a disease here,” the asthmatic mumbles breathlessly then pulls out a Ventolin inhaler from his pocket and places it in his mouth. A smell of drug dissipates in the room. His droopy shoulder wings flutter as he inhales struggling for air.

  “What disease?” My voice sounds astonished even to me. “Do you know of somebody around here who might spread a contagious disease?”

  “All kinds of people come in here. I’m sure some,” he takes a deep breath from the inhaler, which lets him finish the sentence calmly “spread viruses.”

  “It is true that we provide services to anyone who will pay, and you are right, all kinds of men enter the Palace. But all our customers abide by the rules. No matter how much money the client is ready to offer, the rules are very explicit: no fucking without a condom and no kissing on the mouth. We know how to keep ourselves safe. What do you think could happen? Flu? flying viruses?” Feeling compelled to make my point, I take a deep breath and continue. “Catching the flu can happen anywhere. Think of the crowded trains with people coughing and sneezing, spraying their mucus in all directions without covering their mouths.” My eyes follow him as he reaches for his wallet.

  “Please, take this.” He hands me another hundred-dollar bill. “Forgive me, it is not going to work tonight. Something about this room makes my friend down there shy to respond. You know it’s not always like this.”

  “It’s okay.” I bury the bill in my bra. “Come back tomorrow. We can ask Jacqueline to give us the bigger room so we can open a window and turn off the air conditioner.”

  “Right on, I promise to come back and visit the Palace soon.” His face flushes with embarrassment.

  “I’ll be waiting for you.” I smile as he offers me a damp hand.

  Before he turns to leave, he adds a phrase that will echo in my mind for a long time, “Some people want more from life than life can offer.”

  At five in the morning, awake in a sleepy town with a wallet bursting with cash, I climb into a yellow cab. Raphi, the Israeli taxi driver who always drives me home, is not available. I know he has already finished his shift.

  “Second Avenue and Tenth Street,” I tell the Hispanic driver through the sliding window as I settle into the back seat. Foul cigarette smell fills the cabin. On my right, the ashtray is full of butts. I open the window, savoring the pleasant early morning chill. A river of light flows into the cab pouring down from the midmonth moon. The driver converses nonstop on his Bluetooth in rolling Spanish. He drives carefully, slows and stops at flashing reds, keeping his distance, and obeying the traffic laws. We drive down the avenue, my long hair flapping in the wind. I collect it and tie it into a ponytail. A sense of calm flows over me, and the bills in my wallet infuse me with confidence. Overwhelmed with satisfaction and in a snap of curiosity, I reach for my purse and grope for the switch on the ceiling light. One thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars exactly. An amazing total for one night’s work. I lean back in the seat with a smile.

  When I step into my apartment, I hear only silence. All are asleep. Yuval rests quietly in my bed, while the babysitter naps on the sofa in the living room. Isabelle, our Angora cat, is cuddled next to her. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. “Thank heavens, they are all right.”

  On my tip toes I silently glide towards the dresser in my bedroom. I bend down to the lowest drawer, trying hard to avoid any noise, and slowly pull it out. Shuffling through my undergarments, I carefully pull out the brown envelope and stash my earnings inside, then place it back in the drawer next to the small envelope of white powder, the present I found at the bottom of the bag apparently a farewell offering from Dorfman which he inserted into my hand bag without my notice the evening he was murdered - a gift to be saved for a suitable occasion.

  I pay the babysitter and gratefully send her on her way.

  Finally in my soft bed, I cradle Yuval in my arms and kiss her hair. A delicate fresh scent of shampoo curls up my nose. Under the meager desk light, her pink face is relaxed in complete tranquility. Her lips softly whisper dream words. Our heads touch. Her deep untroubled sleep fills my heart with endless bliss coated with colossal love. I cover her with the blanket which had fallen off the bed. I hear her breath settle into a rhythm that welcomes me into a sweet early morning’s sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Early the next evening I am back at the Love Palace. The lounge is quiet, most of the hostesses are busy. Only Fanny and I are available, waiting for clients. As I lean back into the couch I let my mind drift away, and involuntarily the thought of Dorfman’s death pierces me like a sharp piece of glass. I vacillate between sadness and fright as I recall the face of the only client who really loved me. His soft voice attempting to convince me to study cooking or sewing, perhaps design, open a store, or a day care, “something that has a future,” wreaks havoc in my brain. “Even modeling,” he suggested. “A beauty like you is a steal for modeling agents.” I can hear Dorfman’s whispers caressing my ear as he uttered encouragement while his eyes flicked over to the X-rated movie on the TV in front of the bed.

  He was the one customer who cared about me. The only customer with the precision of a Swiss watch, who showed up at the Love Palace three times a week. The only customer who was always satisfied, who generously padded my wallet with stacks of green bills decorated with Franklin’s portrait, bills that he liked to count out in front of me with his furrowed brow before pressing them into my hand. He was a gentleman who raised questions about the essence of life, was knowledgeable about the Torah, and could quote from the Bible…

  Rooted in my seat, my thoughts continue to roam until the sudden distraction by the familiar sound of my cellphone ringtone.

  “Mommy, Anat won’t let me watch TV.” The velvety sound of my five-year-old’s voice breaks me out of my disturbing thoughts. I lean in and pay attention. “Anat says I can only turn it on after I finish the omelet, and I’m full. Mommy, will you tell her?” my child whines.

  Following a few short instructions to Anat, the Israeli babysitter who has been watching over Yuval for four years now, I hang up and return to the purpose of my presence in this whorehouse. I lift up my skirt, reveal the fishnets clinging to my thighs, and sink back into thought.

  A monkey-like client with a pronounced forehead and jet-black hair slicked back like a Wall Street tycoon pulls me out of my burdensome thoughts. From under a pair of thick eyebrows, dark eyes settle on me. Though he doesn’t wear a skullcap, I know he is Jewish. His dark features and prominent nose hovering over meaty lips are conclusive evidence. He walks over to me, and in a surprisingly polite way asks if he may join me. The high priestess’s wink signals that the customer has already paid, indicating that I may oblige. We converse quietly as we walk through the back corridor.

  After some brief small talk, as we enter the room my customer introduces himself. “David Schwartz. I’m a friend of Yeruham Dorfman, may his soul rest in peace.” His intense expression is disconcerting.

  I extend a poised hand for shaking. “Iris Maor.”

  “Did you hear what happened to Dorfman?” the Jew asks in a low, nicotine-burned voice.

  I nod. “There is a death notice on the gate of the synagogue.”

  “Do you know how he died?” My client’s penetrating gaze is examining me from head to toe.

  “Something sudden, probably a stroke,” I answer instantly, choosing the most reasonable cause of death I would like to believe killed my amiable customer.

  “He was murdered,” Schwartz proclaims without batting an eye.

  “Murdered? Who would murder such a good-hearted man?” I cry.

  “Dorfman was one of your regulars, I know. He mentioned you many times.” Schwartz stares at me viciously, turns off the X-rated movie, and moves his bulky body to stand before me. “Iris, I didn’t come here to request your services, and I despise massages. I came here to warn you. I came to prevent more bloodshed. Dorfman would never want to be associated with breaking the First Commandment.”

  I look at him without comprehension.

  “This place is not good for you; it’s dangerous,” Schwartz warns. “I want you to understand that if I know about your connection to Dorfman, it is obvious that all our friends know.”

  “And who might ‘all our friends’ be?” I ask, suddenly inclined to believe that Tony knows something and wasn’t just making stuff up.

  “The Jewish business people Dorfman stole from. They work with the Israeli and Italian mafias, the kind of people who are not afraid to get their hands dirty. These people would not hesitate to blackmail you in ways you can’t even imagine.”

  “Blackmail me?” I scream. “Why? Why would anyone want to blackmail me? What do I have to do with them?”

  “Someone spread a rumor that you were Dorfman’s sweetheart and the love of his life. Dorfman told his friends you were his lucky charm, that you helped him succeed in his business. Since it is clear that Dorfman didn’t deposit the stolen money in a bank, our friends think that you received the money. Even if you claim otherwise, the alternative our friends deem likely is that other Jews received it, and that you, as one of their own, should lead them to whoever is sitting on it.”

  “Listen, Mr. Schwartz. I don’t know what you are talking about, but there is one thing I can assure you. Should anybody come by and ask questions about Dorfman’s integrity, I will tell him the truth,” I burst out. “I have never received a cent from him apart from the fees he paid for my services. Dorfi wouldn’t steal! Dorfi was a noble man, one who loved me honestly. Not like the rest of the shits who come here. He was a gentleman. The sweetest, and most tender customer I have ever known. He always respected me, always spoiled me, bringing gifts, we would talk for hours…”

  Schwartz continues staring at me with his icy eyes and says, “You don’t seem to be getting what’s going on here. I came here to warn you, Iris. I’m a friend of Dorfman’s, I know that this is what he would want me to do. As you said, he really loved you and would not want to see you hurt. So, in his name, and because of my own personal pain over my friend being whacked, I am compelled to warn you: someone isn’t going to let go.”

  Planted before him, pinned by his penetrating stare, I realize for the first time that from now on I’m included in this mess. Tony was probably right. Dorfman’s friends from the Forty-seventh Street mafia murdered him. I take a good look at Schwartz’s vulture eyes, and ice worms start chewing my vertebrae, my left foot begins to quaver, and all my alarms are going off. David Schwartz, Dorfi’s friend? He calls him “Dorfman” in an official way, how come Dorfi never mentioned him?