Badulina - Return of the Queen

A mi g i tana de fuego, agua, aire y t ierra.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves - who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,

talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. And as we let our own light

shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our

presence automatically liberates others.”

Marianne Williamson

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chapter one

squirrel

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“Somehow, I didn’t think you were the type to throw stones at a squirrel.”

My blood turned to ice water in my veins: Damn it,

that’s the Queen. She finally showed up. Just in time

to see me acting like a junior White Knight in the Ku

Klux Klan. But no, actually it wasn’t really the Queen.

A hell of a lot of things have to happen to make me

throw a stone at a squirrel. Statistically speaking,

there’s a better chance of catching a squirrel throwing

stones at me. But the truth is that up until that

moment, I’d been feeling great about taking potshots

at the bushy-tailed rat. The little shit was begging for it.

I was going through a rough time. I still didn’t

understand exactly what was going on, but I already

knew for sure that it was rough. For instance, that

business with the squirrel happened after three days

of relentless cold. I didn’t want to come to New York

at the end of October in the first place, but I had a very

good reason to do so. I was sitting in a remote corner

of Central Park, dragging my ass from one patch of wet

grass to another, following the movement of the sun

through the clouds. My motions were getting heavy,

apathetic. In a minute, I’d stop moving altogether and

give up. I’d just turn to stone. Ferns would cover me,

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birds would build their nests on me, and I’d have to

keep sitting there forever, listening to that horrible

saxophone player in the background. My God, is this

what you learned to play saxophone for?

Now he’s playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I

can’t see him from here, but I don’t need more than

one sensory faculty for him to rattle my nerves. Judging

by the voices I can tell that he’s surrounded by a group

of kids on a school trip or something. At the end of

every number they applaud overenthusiastically,

too automatically. I feel like running over there

brandishing a hoe like a crazy old man and making

them scatter every which way with my gibberish. I’d

then walk up to the android with the saxophone and

quietly utter, “Shame on you.”

I wonder what the King would say if he could see

me now. I assume he would just laugh. And at first,

I would be insulted. But then I’d see that he was laughing

just because it really was funny. And in the end, I’d

be left with no choice but to laugh too. But the King

isn’t here and I’m not laughing. I’m all alone here in

Central Park and that squirrel shows up out of the

blue, a cute little bundle of nose wrinkling and tail

thumping. Scram.

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It stood up on its hind legs and rubbed its cheeks

with both hands. All it needed to complete the picture

was a pink pompom on its tail.

I knew it was there to melt me – to make me realize

that the world is still a lovey-dovey, kissy-cuddly place.

But there was only one thought in my mind: If the

guy running this park called our life thinks he can

balance out all the cold inside our souls with an ass-

kissing lump of fur, then I’m offended in the name of

all humankind.

Go stick yourself up the scarecrow’s saxophone.

The squirrel was neither insulted nor scared. It kept

standing on two legs, looking me in the eye and then I

heard it say, “I know why you’re so mad at the saxophone

player” – obviously it didn’t speak in a human voice, as

that would ruin its sweetie-pie image. The little idiot

stood there shamelessly, half a meter away from me,

looked me in the eye and said, “You’re mad because

that saxophone player is actually you.”

“Somehow, I didn’t think you were the type to throw

stones at squirrels.”

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She was still standing there with her hands folded

over her chest, so much not the Queen of Badulina it

was criminal.

It’s not what it looks like, I said. He was spreading

nasty rumors about my sister.

I knew that I knew her, knew her well even, but I

couldn’t pull the relevant file out of my memory. She

gave me a quick, non-committal half smile. That

expression on her face reminded me – it was Gypsy.

We were once pretty good friends, in a strange kind

of way. Back when I had the restaurant in India, more

than ten years ago. One drunken night we’d even tried

to find out whether the fact that we were a man and

a woman had a place in our relationship. And suffice

it to say that if we turned out to be, God forbid, the last

man and woman on earth, it would spell the end of the

human race. As far as I could remember our split-up

was a loud and nasty one. Most of the details had become

blurred over the years, but I’m pretty sure that the last

time I saw her she was yelling that I’m an arrogant pig

and pouring some boiling chai on top of me.

“You look awful. Got time for coffee?”

Thanks, but my clothes are drenched already.

“Come on, don’t be a baby. Too much time has passed.”

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She was wearing a shapeless pair of jeans, a long

black T-shirt, a sand-colored fleece jacket and high

work boots. I could spot some Chinese lettering tattooed

under her sleeve. A small diamond earring was stuck

above her left eyebrow.

I was better off with the squirrel.

Sorry, I’m on my way to a meeting.

“Yeah, right. Come on, my treat.”

The coffee here depresses me, I said, they don’t

know how to make a simple cup of coffee.

“Come, I know a place that makes great coffee.”

The coffee was terrible. We were sitting in one of those

all night joints that served so-so food and employed

an aging nicotine-soaked waitress who looked as if

your pondering whether to order black bread or white

might set her off on a killing spree on the streets of

Manhattan.

Shitty coffee, I said.

“I know,” she smiled, “but you came along.” The

waitress approached and filled my half-empty cup

without asking. You realize, I said to Gypsy and pushed

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the cup away, that only a nation totally drugged out

on tranquilizers is capable of destroying the perfect

balance between sugar and milk over and over again.

“Wow,” she said, “what happened to you?”

The reason Gypsy and I had once been good friends,

even though there wasn’t the slightest bit of romantic

or sexual attraction between us, was that we could

always be completely open with one another. In fact,

there was never any other option for us. From the first

moment she set eyes on me, Gypsy saw all of me,

all the light and all the darkness; and I could see a

few centimeters deeper into her extreme-girl, up-for-

anything facade. That kind of relationship could have

probably only worked then, and only in India; and

even then and there, only barely.

But now I was tired, and she was the first familiar

face I’d encountered in those three days. I shrugged

and told her everything: how after she’d left I’d met

the King and Queen of Badulina, I’d left India with

them and we’d gone to Israel together and how I’d

turned the story of our journey into a book. I told her

that the book was a huge best seller, and I also told

her how the journey, the story, the Queen and the way

the book was received kept me riding that Badulina

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wave for a few years. Until one day, I suddenly

realized that I’d actually fallen off the wave ages ago

and I didn’t remember anymore exactly how, why

and when. Instead of riding a wave I was thrashing

around in a whirlpool, trying to ignore all the water I

was swallowing.

“Okay,” she said, “so what are you doing in New York?”

A professional conference. Six weeks ago I cracked

and took a grown-up job in a real company for a

regular salary. But I have no intention of ever showing

up at the conference. I have a totally different reason

for being here.

“To render squirrels extinct from the face of the Earth?”

To find the Queen of Badulina.

“You mean she’s here?”

I think so. She doesn’t have her own email address.

She says it takes up too much memory space. About

twice a year I get a short email from her, sent from the

address of a different friend somewhere else in the

world. From her last email I understood that she was

supposed to be here at the end of October. That’s all

I know. I’ve spent a lot of time wandering around the

park because I know she loves trees and flowers.

“You can’t be serious.”

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I nibbled at my toast. Processed bread, processed

cheese.

“Okay, let’s see: At the moment there are about

twenty million people in New York. You only have to

make sure you bump into two million different people

every day, then you’re bound to find her.”

You don’t understand, it doesn’t work like that. Not

with the Queen of Badulina. I just have to get on her

wavelength. And even if there were a hundred million

people here, I would be sure to find her. I know I’ll

find her.

“You’re in love with this woman, right?”

Duh.

“And what about her?”

She loves everyone. She was with the King, but

they’re taking a break for a year, which is what people

do in Badulina. When I met her, I of course thought

that she was out of my league and that my love for her

was like a high school kid’s fantasy about Angelina

Jolie. But the more time that passed, the more I

realized that I couldn’t live with any other woman. I’d

always be comparing her to the Queen. And there are

no leagues here, right? I mean, she’s only a person,

isn’t she?

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“You’re such a cutie,” Gypsy giggled, “like a wet

squirrel.”

And what are you doing here anyway? My tone, we

both noticed, made the words sound like an accusation.

“I don’t know, I was in Jamaica for a month and a

half, things got complicated and I found a ticket to

New York.” She shook some salt from the shaker onto

her hand, then with a swift, lizard-like movement

of the tongue licked up all the crystals. Gypsy, I

remembered now, was known not only for having the

tact of a buffalo but also for her impressive repertoire

of weird habits.

So what were you doing in Jamaica? Where have

you been all these years?

“Never mind that. You’re not really glad to see me,

are you?”

Not especially. I’m not really glad in general.

“And if I tell you that I can find the Queen for you?”

I won’t believe you.

“I’ll make a deal with you, even though you don’t

deserve it.”

What?

“You have the book here?”

What book?

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“Gimme a break. The book that made you famous

and turned your life upside down. What did you say

it was called?”

Badulina.

“Do you have it here?”

Yes.

“Pathetic.”

Don’t be a moron. I haven’t read it in eight years.

I carry a copy around with me so I can give it to the

Queen.

“Of course you do. So I’ll tell you what. You read me

the book and I’ll help you find her.”

How exactly will you help me?

“Connections, my love. I might not own houses,

cars, or fancy clothes, but what I do have a lot of is

connections. If your Queen is here, I’ll find her. And

in return, I have to get the whole story.”

But it’s in Hebrew.

“So translate it.”

She picked up a teaspoon and started dripping

Tabasco sauce into it. I had nothing to lose. I took

my copy of Badulina out of my bag. Gypsy emptied

the teaspoon into her mouth and grinned. I shifted

my gaze quickly to the book and started translating

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the quote at the beginning, the very same quote that

opened this book:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our

deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It

is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us…”

“Lovely,” Gypsy said, “who wrote that?”

That’s the thing, I said, clearing my throat, I found

that text in some book under Nelson Mandela’s name.

I thought it captured perfectly the essence of how the

Badulinian view the world, and I was happy to start

the book with it. It wasn’t ‘till after the book came out

that someone told me it was a common mistake and

the quote actually belonged to Marianne Williamson,

who wrote The Age of Miracles.

“Ah, so it isn’t Nelson Mandela?”

No. But you have to admit it’s a beautiful quote.

“Lovely. But it’s not Nelson Mandela.”

No.

“So even before writing a single line of your own in

that highly acclaimed book, you proved yourself as an

idiot.”

Yes.

“I get the feeling I’m going to enjoy this. You may

continue.”

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I continued:

THE CONTRACT

It was on a sun-drenched day towards the end of monsoon season that the King and Queen

of Badulina came into my restaurant in a small village in the Himalayas. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a purple T-shirt, and the Queen was wrapped in a white dress made of thin fabric. I’d seen them walk into restaurants many times since, and without the slightest hesitation they always headed straight for the best spot, taking for granted that the choicest seats are reserved for them. The best spot in the Blue Heaven restaurant is the table the waiters call table Number Five, even though there’s no table there, just rugs and pillows. The restaurant was full when the royal couple breezed in, but no one was sitting at Number Five. Everybody smiled at them as they made their way there. They responded with an aristocratic nod, gathered all the pillows and sat down.

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The King wanted pasta with spicy eggplant sauce. The Queen couldn’t decide between pumpkin soup and mint potatoes.

“We’ll take both,” the King said to me. Later, with dessert, I asked whether I could

sit with them. She smiled, looking like a doe in a raspberry field. He made a tiny gesture of approval with his head.

We talked a little about the food, the village, India. There were two questions I’d stopped asking people in India:

Question number 1: Where are you from? Question number 2: What do you do? Many people came to the sub-continent to

experience a change, not perpetuate the same old self-definition. So I’d stopped asking, but I can’t say I’d stopped being curious. Like in this case, for example.

The King said, “Where I come from, we usually make jam out of eggplants.”

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I said I’d never heard of any place in the world that made eggplant jam.

“As a restaurateur,” he laughed, “you really should taste the eggplant jam made in Badulina. It’s one of our main exports.”

Badulina? That’s a country?“A kingdom. 16,204 inhabitants, as of last

Friday.” An independent kingdom? Like Monaco and

Lichtenstein?“Yes, but smaller. An enclave in Portugal.”

Journalistic accuracy, a principle I am totally committed to, compels me to interrupt the flow of conversation in order to set the record straight: He didn’t really say Portugal. But part of our contract, which I shall describe in greater detail when there’s less of a flow to interrupt, states that I cannot reveal the exact location of Badulina. It turns out that there are other small kingdoms like Badulina in Europe, and all of them have survived primarily thanks to their low-profile policy.

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Once, hundreds of years ago, all of Europe was divided into tiny kingdoms. Almost every village or town could pride itself on a castle, a king and a queen, and even if the nearest kingdom was an hour’s ride away by horse, it contained a castle as well as a royal family. Then came popes and armies, and kingdoms annexed more and more villages, established states, made alliances and all that. But throughout all that time, a few tiny kingdoms were able to stay out of the game and keep their independence. Anyone travelling near Badulina today would think it was just another farmhouse village on the Portuguese coast. With so many old castles scattered around Europe, no one would suspect that a real king and queen actually lived in that particular, bougainvillea-covered one. The inhabitants of Badulina don’t vote in the Portuguese elections and can’t enlist in the Portuguese army (and again, one last time: every word here is solid truth, except for the word ‘Portuguese’. Okay?) But they do hold Portuguese passports.

And are you active in the jam industry in Badulina?

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He looked pleased with the idea. “My only activity involving eggplant jam is when I have it on toast in the morning.”

Hard work.“I’m not allowed to work.”Come again?Two illegally-deep blue eyes peeked at me

fondly from over the cover of the Dalai Lama’s autobiography which, until that moment, served as screen between her and me. “He’s not allowed to work,” she explained, “he’s the King.”

Excuse me?“And I’m the Queen.”

You find all kinds of people wandering around India. I’ve already hosted two different people in my restaurant who were the current reincarnations of Buddha; a French guitarist who spoke six languages but avoided the letter ‘s’ on principle; a family that travelled from one mountaintop to another around the world, in order to save themselves from the great flood that was going to annihilate

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ninety percent of us and this one weirdo, formerly a well-known Israeli journalist, who left the profession out of a mutual failure to thrill, landed in India and currently runs this little restaurant in the Himalayas. I never challenge those people, but neither am I in a hurry to swallow their stories.

But there was something different about these two. They didn’t pause to make sure I was impressed, they weren’t anxious to convince me of anything.

And they were – what’s the word? – regal. The young woman who claimed she was a queen

went back to her book, the king ordered more chocolate cake. I came back with the cake and with that same gesture of his head, he invited me to sit down again.

You’re a king? Are we in the world of metaphors here, or do you really mean that you have a castle and a crown and all that stuff?

“A castle, yes. A crown, no. They’re heavy and uncomfortable. On national holidays I stick some flowers in my hair.”

Flowers?“Or feathers.”

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But you’re the king of that whole place? You run things?

The Queen almost looked up from her book. I could feel her missing a line.

He stared right at me, wild green eyes, a relentless smile, and responded in surprising seriousness, “You don’t understand. I’m not an administrator, I don’t ‘do’ anything. I’m not allowed to work. I’m a king.”

So who does run things over there?“In Badulina? No one. The lion is king of the

animals, but do you see him counting the coconuts on the trees or making sure no donkeys shit in the river?”

So we are in the world of metaphors and you’re talking anarchy here.

“We’re in the world your feet step on, and I’m talking about nature. If you don’t confuse people with laws, everything works beautifully. Nobody tells the donkeys that the lion passed a law against shitting in the river. If the lion starts getting involved in all that, there’s bound to always be animals shitting in the river. Laws are not a natural thing and they arouse natural objection.”

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So Badulina is a kingdom without laws?“The word ‘law’ doesn’t exist in the Badulinian

language. There are accepted truths, updated as of last Friday.”

So your title is merely symbolic?“Symbolic, yes. Merely, no. Symbols are all

there is: If you own more pieces of paper with numbers on them, you feel richer, right? And if you have a convincing-looking flag, you’re likely to kill and die for it, aren’t you? And you need different costumes in order to make it through the door of the most expensive restaurant or the cheapest trucker bar. And if anyone asks you who you are, you always answer with the same string of letters in the same order. Everything is a symbol, your whole life is based on symbols. The job my Queen and I have is very important, the most important one in Badulina. My job is to live like a king, to set an example and remind every Badulinian citizen that they too have the right to be a king or a queen.”

But not all of them can be kings or queens.“Of course they can. Our kingdom has a

population of 16,204. All of us have royal blood,

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and any child can be the next king.”So what did you do before you became king?“Until two years ago I was a trumpeter in what

you would call a wedding band.” But you don’t call it that?“’Wedding’ is another word that doesn’t exist in

our language. I played in a love-celebration band. A love-celebration is a bit like a wedding, but takes place with much greater frequency, making for an excellent living.”

I tried to recall what the thread of our conversation was.

No weddings? The King and Queen of Badulina aren’t married to one another?

A delicate feminine giggle was almost completely swallowed up behind the bespectacled portrait of the Dalai Lama. I found myself returning a smile to the kindly old monk. The King knew perfectly well who I was smiling at. Everybody loves Her Majesty.

I rediscovered the thread all of a sudden: So how does a king act?

“I expect to be totally satisfied with everything. I do only what I feel like doing. I am never afraid

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and never lack confidence, not even for a second, and as far as I’m concerned the entire world is a birthday present given to me to enrich and enhance my life until the day I die.”

He tore another piece of cake with his fingers. Like before, he only nibbled at the frosting. He offered one brown finger to the Queen, and she – this time without missing a single comma – licked it clean with a kiss. The King looked as content as a bear scratching his back against a tree.

A difficult job, Your Majesty?He fiddled with the clean spoon for a second as

if it were a royal scepter. He then handed it to me.“Not a difficult job, but very few people in the

world are qualified to do it. You think you could be a king?”

You mean could I eat only the frosting off the cake, do only what I feel like, live in a castle and serve as role model?

I played with the spoon and it looked like a spoon. “Yes. But without a moment’s hesitation, without

feeling guilty, without thinking it’s immoral, without being ashamed. Believing with all your heart in your full right to enjoy whatever pleasure

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or treasure catches your fancy.”No hesitation? No guilt? Not a second of

indecision, even if, say, you bump into an Indian leper begging for a banana?

“I might give him one and I might not. But it’s not my job to hand out bananas. The King of Badulina can cash all his treasures into bananas and nothing in the world would change. No. I have to always be a lion. And remind everyone, even a leper in India, that they can be a king too.”

An Indian leper can be the King of Badulina, right.“Of course an Indian leper can’t be the King of

Badulina. Why would an Indian leper want to be the King of Badulina? What is Badulina anyway? No. My job is to remind the Indian leper, and you, that you can be kings, period. Kings in your world, whatever it is that you call it.”

But in Badulina, if there is such a place, anyone can be king. In India, a leper has two options: be a beggar or die.

“You probably don’t know too many lepers. I have a friend here who’s a leper and he’s no less a king than I am. He’s king of the leper colony in his city, surrounded by love and admiration, and

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there’s nothing else in the world he would rather be. On the other hand, the world has always been full of wealthy men who lived and suffered like victims. Anyone can be a king, anyone can be a victim. The easy choice is to be a victim.”

You should realize, of course, that only in fly-by-night places such as a certain restaurant in India, can you talk that way without being carted off to the loony bin.

He took back his sceptre from out of my hand. “That’s why the difficult choice is to be a king.”

A leap in time, three weeks forward. A leap in space, seven kilometers north as the crow flies.

I wake up in a cave on top of a high mountain. I can’t see the King anywhere. I stretch and look around. In front of me, sky. Under me, sky. Far, far below, beneath the sky, beneath the clouds, at a direct angle to my feet - the rest of the earth. Tiny houses, green and yellow fields, wooly skeins of forest. Two days earlier, when I asked him a question he found especially stupid, I saw the King

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knit his brows and sigh for the first time. Then he said, “I have a proposition for you. The day after tomorrow we’ll meet for a business breakfast.”

We set off two days later in the morning. Halfway to our destination we stopped at a tea stand. My back was sticky with sweat. The King ordered us cold soda served in nearly frozen bottles they kept in an adjacent spring. The King of Badulina never checks out a menu or asks. He tells people what he wants and gets it. After we drank he said, “Can you order us some chocolate pancakes?” After a year in India, I knew enough to assess that a stand that looks like that, in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t specialize in chocolate pancakes. But I’d already seen the King being served hot apple pie with whipped cream in a Tibetan soup restaurant, so I went ahead to order. I came back bursting with pride: I ordered us pancakes with honey, a hell of a lot more than I expected to get. The King got up as if what I had said was that I had forgotten to order. Two minutes later, the richest

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chocolate pancakes I’d ever seen on Indian soil arrived. I have no idea how he did it.

We’d already climbed a lot and the air was starting to thin. A few other hikers passed us. You know, I said, there’s only one small place on the top of the mountain where we can spend the night.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “even in the most fully-booked hotel, there’s always a vacant royal suite.”

On the way up we met a few hikers on their way down. “Don’t bother going up,” they warned, “half the Tibetan school is up there. By tomorrow it’ll be swarming with a hundred teenage boys and girls.”

The King just smiled and wished them a good day. When we reached the top, the Tibetan adolescents

were busy putting up tents. The small inn was packed with Tibetan girls, and six Western travelers were sitting at the entrance waiting for a miracle to happen. I was almost glad. His Royal Highness didn’t look worried. He went up to the guy who owned the mountain peak tea stand. They had met three days earlier, in town. They were friends. The man was wearing a jacket the King had given him as a gift that day. He served us some chai, followed half an hour later by an excellent Indian meal. The

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sun was going down. “Come,” said the King, “let’s see if you can take

us to our suite.” I looked around. The grassy plain of the high

mountain peak was strewn with tents and people. I shrugged. “How do you expect to reach the top,” the King asked, “if you don’t look up?” I followed his eyes: Well, yes, to our west was a steep mound of huge rocks. No buildings, no path.

“Thousands of people climb all the way up here every year because they want to reach the top. But they stop where the public path ends. For them, that’s the top. They have an official government sign saying that the spot is 4020 meters high, with a chai stand and a place to sleep. They can plant their flag. Come with me.”

On the way to the rocks we came across a herd of goats and a few shepherds around a fire. The King smiled at them, pointed to the fire, carried out a brief conversation with them in sign language and a minute later a young shepherd, loaded with firewood, climbed with us to the very top. Awaiting us there, on the true peak, was a shepherd’s cave lined with soft grasses. We lit a fire, opened

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sleeping bags and talked about everything but his business proposition. A few minutes after the full moon had rolled gently from the left hand side of the cave’s opening to the far right hand side, I fell asleep.

I woke up at sunrise and went out to greet the orange sky. I found the King sitting among some silvery rocks next to a golden water pool, of course. He made us breakfast. The shepherd from the day before brought fresh goat’s milk.

“Sit down,” he said. The milk was still as warm as mama-goat’s body. The King licked his chin and announced, “My Queen and I will soon be leaving India on our way to Israel. I want to offer you exclusive coverage rights.”

Why in the world do you want to go to Israel?“Remember what the two choices are in life?”According to you: to be a king or a victim.“I’d be happy to be proven wrong, but I think

that your region is full of victims, and rather short in the king department. My Queen and I are going there to remind people of their right and obligation to live like kings and queens.”

You’re heading to the wrong country. In India

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you’ll always have people around who are crazier than you. In Israel you won’t be able to finish a sentence. Forget it, don’t waste your time.

“I won’t have to finish a sentence with anyone but you. That’s the idea: You will bring my words to the people. In the newspaper, in a book.”

He handed me another slice of bread with olive oil and cheese. Listen, I said, don’t get me wrong. I really think highly of you, even when I don’t believe a word you’re saying. But I was never a court-journalist, and I’m offended that you even brought up the idea.

“You’re offended by what you think I proposed. We don’t need a court-journalist. You can write whatever you want about me. You can criticize me, turn me into a comical figure, hide behind me to write things you wouldn’t dare to say under your own name. All I’m offering you are exclusive coverage rights. Do whatever you want.”

What are the terms?“You don’t print a picture of me or the Queen. In

fact, you don’t cover the Queen at all – she’s not part of the deal. You don’t give away any details that might point to Badulina’s location. And you

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quote me exactly, even if you think I’ve lost my mind.” (I was actually enquiring about payment terms, but journalists have never been very good at negotiating for that.)

Why me?“Because you’re from Israel and you were a

journalist and you have a personal interest.”Says who?“Says you. You told me you wanted to live like

this, to eat only the frosting on the cake, do only what you feel like, be loved by everyone. You started out on this path even before we met. Here, in your Blue Heaven you’re like a king. Are you ready to expand your kingdom now? To be a king in all places and all things?”

Not ready and not interested, thank you. I like things the way they are.

“Okay, forget the personal thing. I’m assuming you’re not willing to admit it because people are reading everything we’re saying now. You can admit to it privately, just between us, then edit it out.”

We sat quietly for a while. That was the first time the King had got on my nerves. I got up to pee. The sun was already out, the Himalayas surrounded

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us like thick whipped cream and eagles glided in the air far below us. The King pointed at them. “Do you know anyone – however cynical and jaded – who’s never envied them, never wanted to feel like them?” I didn’t see why I should answer. He went on as if we were engaged in actual conversation: “You know many people who dared to try? In Israel?” I looked at him blankly. I’m not going anywhere. Let him talk. He chewed on a dry stalk after removing a red silkworm from it. “Israel,” he said pensively, “and don’t be insulted, is a country of crawlers. Everyone is a certified victim: on the Jewish side - victims of the Holocaust, pogroms, anti-Semitism. On the Palestinian side - victims of oppression, persecution, racism. Second generation, third generation.”

You make it sound like the symptoms of a common cold. Holocaust, oppression, racism.

“You see, you’re already blowing me off. What generation are you? I’m not saying anything about the past, I’m talking about the present. Everyone has a list of guilty parties, everyone’s looking for compensation, everyone has a boatload of excuses for being miserable and angry, and very

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