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PARTISAN REVIEW
David according to Dita
How the day has faded. When were we talking about King David,
how did we get to talking about him? Do you remember, Dita? One
Friday
night at Giggy Ben-Gal's in Melchett Street. You dragged me out of the
party
onto the balcony and at the window opposite a beefy man wearing nothing
but an undershirt and his loneliness was polishing his glasses
against the light, he put them on, saw us watching and shut
his shutters. And then because of him you told me what it is
about a man that attracts you: the Charles Aznavour type, or Yevgeny
Yevtushenko. From them you went on to King David.
It
attracts
you when there is a needy side, a rascally side and a side
that plays the fool. And you also showed me from the balcony that night
what a ragged sexy city this Tel Aviv is.
You don't see a sunset or a star, you see how the plaster
peels from an excess of adrenaline smells of sweat and diesel fuel, a tired
city that doesn't want to sleep at the end of the day it wants to go out
wants it
to happen wants it to end and then wants more. But David, you said,
reigned for thirty years in Jerusalem the ultra-Orthodox City of David
which he could not stand and which could not stand him
with his leaping and dancing and his one-night stands.
It
would have been more fitting for him to reign in Tel Aviv,
to roam the city like a General (Retd.) who is both a grieving parent
and a well-known philanderer, a loaded high-liver and a king
who composes music and writes poetry and sometimes gives a recital,
"The Sweet Psalmist," in a trendy venue then goes
off to the pub to drink with young fans and groupies.
She comes to him but he is busy
She has made him some tea and brought him some crackers and olives
and goat cheese on a tray and now here she is barefoot in the doorway
of his room, feeling partly like a daughter and partly like a waitress,
waiting for him to turn his tired head. But he has not noticed. He
