Ten Days in August

As tight as a tourniquet, the camera loops his neck. Yutch sticks in two fingers to make room. Then he leans in to hear the guide. Though the man's speaking English, his accent's thick. Yutch knows it's English. Still the words dip and weave like a lullaby. The extra syllables. The ups and downs. In the distance, ringed by clouds and fog, Mount Vesuvius hovers.

"Here in Naples," says the guide, "mermaids lured our fishermen to their deaths."

Behind him, cars honk and tourists chatter. In front of him is the sea. Yutch looks out on the rocky straits. Scratches his balls. Squints. And suddenly he can see it: Odysseus strapped to the mast commanding his men to cover their ears, the men listening, Odysseus straining, the waters lapping.

"You see," says the guide, "in every myth there lies a grain of truth."

The wind whips his hat. Then widening his stance to keep steady, he hears the sirens call.

"Yutch!" says Cookie. "Did you take your afternoon pill? That lunch was a nightmare. Did you bring the Maalox? What? If your head wasn't screwed on, you'd leave that on the ship, too."

But today, like every day, his head is cluttered with more important things. It's time for Yutch to take an inventory. A tax attorney by trade, he's a perfectionist by nature. His pickpocket-proof travel belt. Check. His wife, Cookie. Check. Sy and Selma. Check. Dick and his new girlfriend. Check. Zippy and Zvi, as usual, are nowhere to be found. He scans the crowd, and there they are. Standing by yet another storefront, ogling the freshwater pearls.

Ten days. Four couples. The routine is simple. Every year, the traveling club spins a globe and picks a spot. They are in their sixties now, the time of life when time is growing shorter. Sure, their kids are grown. But instead of dissipating, life's problems have become more complicated. Their parents break down like repossessed cars. Their supposedly independent children face one hurdle after another. And bodies that were once hale and hearty are starting to fail. Tricky knees. Bad tickers. Each morning, they wake up to a smorgasbord of aches and pains that no amount of pitted prunes and muesli can fix.

They live for their vacations. They love the months of planning, compromising, and coercing. The post-excursion photo competitions. But this year is different. Suddenly the world is overrun by crazies, and even the safest cities, cities beloved far and wide, are being targeted by terrorists. Paris. Brussels. Nice. This summer, only four couples braved the trip.

The roads are precarious, the driving worse. When the bus swerves, Yutch leans to the other side.

"Our next stop is Amalfi," says the guide. "You'll love Amalfi."

Whatever follows is muffled by the wind.

"What did he say?" says Cookie. "Did I hear dysentery? Does someone have dysentery?"

They're dropped off a block from the town square. The whole place is bustling. An oompah band, girls in school uniforms, altar boys in their Sunday best. Once again Yutch takes an inventory. He hates to admit it, but his wife's right. The slightest snafu sends laser beams straight through his stomach. While the band marches through the street, the names of the cities march through his brain. Paris. Brussels. Nice. Paris. Brussels. Nice. Though the town is teeming with people, he is shocked that there's no security, no men in uniforms looking for booby-trapped trucks.

The guide quickly leads them to a small chapel. The chapel's quiet, empty, serene—a little haven in the storm. Perched on a gold throne is a statue draped in velvet and lace. Her head is encircled by a nimbus of soft brown curls. On her hip's a cherubic child.

"Once a year," says the guide, "we commemorate the Annunciation, the moment Mary is visited by the angels, the holy moment when she realizes she has been chosen to receive God's gift."

Yutch itches to take a photo, but it all seems too private, too personal. Instead of a tourist, he feels like a voyeur. The guide is wiping his nose, his eyes, his sleeve.

"Soon the Madonna del Rosario will be hoisted on shoulders and carried into the streets. Promises are remembered. Water has been turned to wine. A sea once overflowed with fish."

And sure enough, the crowd soon surges. Supplicants pin offerings to her skirt. A euro. A note. A picture of a child. Tubas blare and elbows touch. Between the heat and the tears, the ground rolls as if Yutch were still on the ship.

"One church after another," says Cookie. "You'd think, maybe, we'd see a synagogue or two."

That night, the group meets as usual in the ship's dining room. Only this time, the seats have been reconfigured. Dick Fefferman divorced his wife over a year ago. And while he's living the good life, Dick's ex-wife is stuck in a two-room apartment with their thirty-year-old son. With Down syndrome no less. Since Yutch is his attorney, he knows the secrets others don't. The bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. The investments overseas. Plastering on a smile, Yutch places himself next to the new girlfriend.

The woman smells like jasmine blooming on the vine. She's supposedly forty but looks years younger. An Asian beauty. Milk-glass skin. Almond eyes. He talks slowly, not sure of her command of English.

"So I hear you have an importing business?" he throws out for openers.

Every movement is measured. Her fork, when it's used, plucks food like a tweezer. A nibble here. A taste there. "Yes," she says in a clipped British accent. "I buy and sell clothes. London. Paris. New York."

On his other side, Cookie is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, a helmet of hair-sprayed hair inches from a burning candelabra. Besides ESP and clairvoyance, one of his wife's many talents is the ability to read lips.

"And where exactly," she purrs, "did the two of you meet?"

Zippy, her cohort in crime, is leaning forward too. While the intruder is dressed like a magazine cover, Zippy is dressed in a shout. A floral dress. Fuchsia nails and lipstick. As usual, she has spackled on more pancake makeup than a mortician. She doesn't hesitate to jump in.

"Was it JDate?" says Zippy. "Did you use the JDate? I hear the JDate works wonders."

Dick places his large hand over Changchang's. She's so petite, his fingers swallow hers whole. "We swiped right, didn't we, honey? And the next thing we knew, magic happened."

Meanwhile, Yutch watches the game unfold. Friends since college, Cookie and Zippy communicate telepathically. An arched eyebrow. A subtle smirk. But if the intruder's voted off the island, they need a unanimous consensus. As usual, they look to Selma for backup. But she and her husband are locked in conversation, their chins touching, their voices low.

Yutch sighs. He folds and unfolds his napkin. Then he rearranges his forks. When he runs out of options, he turns once more to Changchang. Then he spends the rest of the dinner babbling (You say importing? How interesting! And what kind of clothes do you import?), but some empty spaces are impossible to fill.

By the time they make it to their cabin, he's exhausted. Peace and quiet is what he needs and what he wants. But the moment they enter their room, Cookie provides a running commentary on the evening. Yutch cups his ears with his pillow.

"I'll admit," says Cookie, "that Chin Chin is pretty in an anorexic sort of way. At least she's sleeping in her own cabin. And Zippy! The way she's spending! If Italy was having money problems, it's not anymore! Did you take your statin, Yutch? Your arteries aren't getting any younger, you know."

~

They land off the port of Messina where the Ionian Sea meets the Mediterranean. The waters churn like a washing machine. They hold on tight while the tender nearly crashes into the dock.

A new guide meets them. She's all dolled up in heels and a suit.

"Here in Messina, violent crosscurrents, whirlpools, and eddies, have sucked in boats for centuries."

Then once again they're reminded of myths.

"You're looking at the double threats of Scylla and Charybdis. Sometimes nightmares come true. Sometimes monsters are real. No?"

They are getting into the swing of the tour. The old churches. The Roman ruins. The guides like to leave the blockbuster for last. By late afternoon they're at the Tesoro del Duomo.

Dozens of buses have converged in the parking lot. More souvenirs are hawked. But as they are hustled into the church, they see the beggars. On the steps, hiding in corners, wherever there's a pocket of shade. These are not the panhandlers Americans are used to, the ones they pass and think why don't they get a job? The elderly women are swathed in black, as gnarled as ancient trees. Blind children hold out their hands.

"The church," says the guide, "was built by the Greeks, embellished by the Romans, pillaged by the Saracens. What marauders didn't destroy, the earthquakes did."

The four couples tread carefully. There are dead people everywhere. Under their feet. Propped on walls. Yutch walks in zigzags, careful to respect what lies beneath. As soon as Cookie's out of reach, Dick corners him.

"So what'dya think?" says Dick.

"I think the Catholics should sell a few churches," says Yutch. "Maybe feed the homeless. Open up a nursing home or two."

Dick rolls his eyes. "I mean what'dya think about Changchang? She's great, right? She's perfect, right?"

Yutch looks around. The million-dollar question lurks unsaid. Changchang is great. Too great. Whatever is she doing with a sixty-four-year-old guy with balding hair and a pregnant paunch?

"You're thinking we don't match, right?" Then, after making sure no one's within earshot, Dick confesses. "Money's a great equalizer, my friend. I found this service, right? They assess you. Your looks. Your health. How much you're worth. And for a one-time only fee, they set you up on the world's greatest dates. Twelve months of heaven, my friend. With no strings attached! If one gal doesn't work out, there's always another."

"A fee?" says Yutch.

"In my case," says Dick, "since I'm not exactly Brad Pitt, the ballpark was thirty grand."

Yutch digests this information like a bad meal. No matter how much he hates secrets, they're laid at his feet on a regular basis. Meanwhile, the guide has steered them toward an elevator. They're all crammed into one small tight space then head down down down until the door opens. Unlike the upper level of the church, the basement is air-conditioned. Shivering, Yutch realizes it must be sixty degrees.

The guide's heels click click on the floor. "What you're seeing is a treasury of the church."

Yutch looks around. Ceiling cameras follow their every move. Shelves are lined with diamonds and emeralds, rubies and sapphires. An apostle's finger. A saint's tooth. On a lone wall hangs a gilt vestment behind a sheet of glass. Like a pointillistic painting, it looks like a flag or a banner from the distance. In its center is a large M.

Then up close, magic happens. Suddenly, the vestment has dissolved into thousands of pieces of jewelry. Rings, watches, bracelets. What looked from afar like ribbons are on closer inspection layers and layers of gold chains. Some of the watches have contemporary brand names on their dials. One locket bears initials.

"It's a present from a local village," says the guide. "An offering to the Virgin from people who hope to be healed."

The group is mesmerized. In other cities, they have appraised the crown jewels and ogled royal rings. But now they're staring at the belongings of an entire community, a collective gift. Each person sacrificed. A drawer was opened. A clasp undone.

Alone in a crowd, Selma weeps. While the guide heads to the gift shop, she lingers. Meanwhile, her friends have no idea how to comfort her.

Once again, Yutch sighs. Yet another secret is tucked inside his pocket. A year ago, all the numbers in Selma's blood work were off. They told her it was anemia but Yutch knows different. Selma is suffering from a slow-growing cancer. It's uncertain whether she has three or thirty years left. But when the switch flips, the road goes downhill fast.

Somewhere in Yutch's esophagus an elevator rises and falls. There is no one he can think of who is kinder than Selma. Nicer. More generous. Good. But while some people glide through life effortlessly, others suffer a hailstorm of shit.

In the last few years, Sy and Selma have seen more heartache than Job. The loss of all four parents. Their daughter's messy divorce. They were always thankful for their health. At least we've got our health! But now Selma, eternally blond and slim and cheerleader pretty, is visibly aging every day.

As Yutch and Cookie follow her to the exit, Selma lists from side to side. Then she pauses, wrapping her elbows around theirs. "That vestment. Can you imagine," she says, "a whole town opening their hearts?"

Outside the sun's so bright it hurts. She knows, thinks Yutch. Despite Sy's best intentions, Yutch is sure that Selma knows the truth. And all at once it occurs to him that Selma's the strong one. Life is messy. Bomb-laden cars careen out of nowhere while cancer sneaks in like a thief. There's no doubt in his mind. She knows.

While the days fly by, the nights get longer. Outside his cabin window, the waters lunge and recede. The sky is dark, the horizon endless. And when he finally sleeps, the same dreams haunt him. Yutch is surrounded by ocean—chin up, arms out, flailing—straining for air and bobbing for breath.

~

On their days at sea, the four women bond over shopping. Cookie fills the cabin with so many shopping bags that there's barely room to walk. The duty-free stores provide more than a little enticement.

"You notice how they put them right next to the casino?" says Cookie. "Zvi must have won a boatload the other night. Went right from the blackjack table to the Bvlgari store. Bought Zippy diamond earrings, a matching necklace, the whole shebang."

Yutch gulps a few pills for his reflux. Yet another secret has been gnawing. Last February, Zvi showed up at his office. It was like getting a visit from the Pope.

"Yutch, Yutch, Yutch," he started.

As usual, Zvi was dressed in his version of a Colombian drug lord: a too-loud tie, oversized jacket, snakeskin shoes.

"You know it's Zippy's birthday next month."

The story, when it started, had all the trappings of a soap opera. Everything was big.

"She's had her eye on a Maserati. A Maserati Ghibli. Twin turbo-charged with a V-6 engine. She's just dying for a Maserati."

To Yutch's recollection, Zippy always drove a Lexus. He knew she loved clothes and jewelry. But cars? One mode of transportation seemed no different from another.

Zvi was pacing now, throwing hand gestures into the act. "But you know Zippy. It's like being married to the IRS. Every bill and check passes through her fingers. And we need this to be a surprise."

Yutch listened. And even though his very smart brain screamed no, his wife's voice was even louder. Zippy was her best friend. To doubt Zvi's integrity was out of the question.

No problem, he told Zvi. Then without taking so much as an IOU, he wrote Zvi a check for a hundred grand. The guy owned shopping centers, for Christ's sake! An entire fleet of cars! As soon as Zippy's birthday passed, he was sure to get his money back plus interest.

But six months later, Yutch still hasn't seen a penny. Nor has there been any mention of a new car. Yutch has the sneaking suspicion that there have been other loans and other generous friends. Zippy was born to wealth. He's sure that she's good for the cash. But this was the stuff divorces were made of. Pressing the issue would mean nothing but trouble.

~

Sarande, Albania is their next port. The bus curves through narrow streets. Laundry hangs from open windows. Tables filled with made-in-China gadgets line the sidewalks. While other cities boast town squares or breathtaking cathedrals, Sarande looks like a garage sale. A garage sale that's been picked over decades ago.

Half of the buildings are frozen in various stages of construction. A bottom floor is finished while piles of cement blocks stand to the side. Towers of rebar. A lone door. A solitary window. They ride from one block to another and see stairways to nowhere, modern-day ruins.

"Our country had many rulers," says the guide. "Greek. Roman. Turk. Then the Pashas and the Communists." She waves her hand and shrugs her shoulders. "All the unfinished construction that you see is illegal. Two thousand buildings," she says, "were slated for demolition . . . five years ago."

The bus heads toward a UNESCO Protected Heritage Site. They bump over potholes the size of craters. There are no people on the streets. The city is so depressing even its inhabitants have fled.

A half hour later, they arrive at their destination: Butrint. Knee-high walls of ancient rock surround them. The large boulders, they are told, were laid by Greeks. The smaller bricks by Romans. There's a sunken room with cisterns for hot baths and an adjacent room for cooling off.

In a Slavic accent, her hands gesturing wildly to compensate for words she doesn't know, a new guide speaks. "You are walking," she says, "in the temple of Asclepius." She shows them the inscriptions, the barely visible drawing of a snake coiling up a staff. "You're looking at a holy site. This is where people eased their pain."

They slide their hands along the stone walls reading them like Brail. But the niches are empty and the frescos have been long ago looted.

"Can you see anything?" says Cookie. "You know. Besides a jumble of rocks?"

The group has splintered. Dick and Changchang have wandered over to the vending machines while Zvi and Zippy are eavesdropping on a nearby wedding party. Walking is tenuous. The floor is paved with ancient stones and broken steps. While her husband shoots pictures, Selma grabs Yutch's arm. The weather is pleasant yet beads of sweat rut her makeup. She grins and grimaces as she makes her way, her lipstick smeared, her face like sad and happy masks.

"I'm disappearing," she whispers. "Bit by bit, a little every day."

~

Like a beautiful woman, cities also cover their wounds. The group knows their Balkan history. The wars. The racism. The fragile peace. But as they travel through the countries, the scars stay hidden. Budva, Montenegro is a Disney version of an ancient city, down to the fake chips in a newly paved street. When Yutch asks the guide the date of Old Town, she replies 1986.

"We are a peaceful, loving people," says the guide. "The Muslims here are not real Muslims. They look like everybody else."

Dubrovnik is bursting with tourists. Only when they take a tram up to the city overlook, do they see signs of battle. Bullet holes pock houses. Walls lay crumbled. This too was an up down city, built and rebuilt through earthquakes and wars.

"We are a peace-loving country," says the guide. "The Greeks let us live in peace. The Romans let us live in peace. Even the Moors let us live in peace. Then in 1992 our neighbors Serbia and Montenegro sent the bombs."

The past is buried, the future uncertain, the present surreal. Out of nowhere there's a medieval castle used in filming Game of Thrones. Pizza stands. Falafel vendors. Popcorn. We accept dollars, read the signs.

When it's time for everyone to meet at the bus, Yutch's head count comes up short. Changchang has gone missing. The women are frantic. Every worst-case scenario runs through their heads. Kidnapping. Ransom. Rape! But Dick is surprisingly nonplussed.

"A lover's quarrel," he tells the women. It's hard to tell if he's winking or has simply developed a tic. But as the group boards the bus, he pulls Yutch aside.

"I was late on my fee installment," he says. Then a blast of fetid breath hits Yutch's face. "All I wanted was a little romance. Is a little fucking romance so hard to find?"

They are down to seven as they head to the last port. Venice is remarkably different from the other cities. The churches here strike a nonreligious chord. A statue of a naval captain stands next to a martyr. The tomb of a doge lies near a cross. Through wit and cunning, the city survived though centuries of maritime war. Allegiances, like the tides, swayed back and forth.

Yet another guide steers them toward a small piazza. Then she points to a plaque. "On this very spot," says the guide, "the Jews were rounded up by Nazis."

Yutch spots a Hasid sprinting across the street. Full beard. Side locks. Russian hat.

"The word ghetto," she says, "was coined here. Jews were herded into small neighborhoods. They couldn't own land, build stores, practice trades."

The group heads in different directions. Dick goes with Zippy and Zvi to shop for Venetian glass. Selma and Sy head back to the ship. Meanwhile Yutch and Cookie linger at a kosher restaurant. The scents are achingly familiar. Trays and trays of cookies sit on open shelves.

Their waiter joins them at their table. They can tell he's jumpy by the way his knees bounce.

"Did you hear about the latest terrorist attack? In Barcelona. Some lunatic plowed his van into a crowd of people." His eyes scan the restaurant. Every bulky sweater and every bulging backpack is suspect.

"In the past, we built our synagogues on second floors. You'd think things would have improved? But no. Only the Orthodox are fearless. The rest of us wear our kippot under our hats."

Tomorrow is their last day on the ship. In the distance, smokestacks plume like halos that have lost their saints. The water beckons then retreats. A horn sounds. A gull caws.

~

After two hours on a train, they debark in Milan. The plan is to catch the first flight home the next morning. They are more than ready to leave.

To commemorate their final evening together, the group has reserved a private dining room in one of Milan's most elegant restaurants. While the main room has windows overlooking the boulevard, they're led to a small space behind it.

The cruise wear has officially been packed. Instead everyone sports their latest purchases. Dick shows off a new leather jacket. Zvi and Zippy are wearing Armani nape to knee. They stuff themselves with five courses of food and wash it down with wine. Then Sy, as is his custom, stands to make a toast.

He taps his knife against a wine glass and clears his throat. Then holding a paper in his hand, he speaks above the din. Each line rhymes. Each port has found a perfect homonym thanks to Sy's computer.

But while the group politely listens, Yutch squirms in his seat. Because Sy—that idiot, that cretin with a clipboard—likes life served simple. One year simply bleeds into the next. Since he works on autopilot, Sy does what he always does. At full throttle, he reads his poem. And when he's finished, he lifts his chin and raises his glass. Then he bellows the same sentiment he has bellowed on all their previous vacations: "Here's to next year and to our next trip!"

A few people clap. But soon the claps are punctuated by silence. Never has Yutch felt so helpless. For while her husband holds court, Selma has grabbed the rim of the table. Her face is pale, her mouth open while invisible sounds struggle through.

The truth, as always, hovers like a mushroom cloud. What remains unspoken is louder than words. Of one thing Yutch is certain. Eventually the news of Selma's condition will surface. Next year, her seat will probably be empty. Next year, a stranger may take her place.

One minute passes, then another. But before a single sigh is uttered, they hear the explosion. Whether it's a firecracker or gunfire, no one knows. Boom! Boom boom!

The panic that follows is contagious.

Yutch runs to the door and peeks outside. People are screaming in the main dining room. Waiters are shoving patrons onto the floor. The chefs are out of the kitchen waving their pots and pans. From the street, sirens wail.

Yutch has no idea what to do or say. Instead of time contracting, instead of his life flashing before his eyes, time expands. He sees everyone and everything. He flips over a side table and barricades the door. Then he orders the rest of the group to sit on the floor and make themselves small. Meanwhile, he's the only upright person in the room. His one and only instinct is to hover over Selma, a life for a life.

Within seconds, Cookie is shrieking. "Omigod we're gonna die!'

"We're just being careful," says Yutch. "It could be nothing. It's probably nothing."

Dick has bunched himself in the corner. "It's like Stockholm. Remember that attack in Stockholm?"

"My babies!" sobs Zippy. "I'll never see my babies again."

Of all the occupants in the room, Sy seems the worst. His face is ashen, his lips white. His chin is moving like a crazed compass that can't seem to find north. All Selma can do is calm him, talking in singsong, rubbing his hands. Meanwhile, Cookie is still screaming.

"For the love of God, Yutch. Stop being a hero and sit down!"

On the other side of the wall, they hear plates breaking and children crying but no gunfire. Yutch looks around. It will become one of those moments which he will forever replay, that awake or asleep will loop in his head. Some kind of a line has been drawn, and he's not quite sure which side he's on. If these are his friends, who are his enemies? One guy owes him a bundle of money, another guy lies to his wife, while a third contracts his girlfriends.

Yutch is about to speak. He wants to speak. He's been waiting to speak his whole life. But it falls to Selma to end the siege.

"Enough is enough. It was probably a motorcycle backfiring. If it were terrorists, we'd all be dead."

Years later, in his memory of the evening, fact and fiction will intertwine. Does he or doesn't he tell his wife to shut up? Does he or doesn't he tell Zvi to pay him back the money? Does he or doesn't he tell Dick that he's an asshole? After all, there's truth in every myth and doubt in every truth. A loud noise becomes a bomb. A crowded room a den of secrets. A dying woman his surest friend.