We've gathered at the King David Hotel for a final glass of wine, and since a wedding reception is going on in the main dining room and people are dancing a hora in the lounge, the waiter brings our drinks to the lobby.
The stucco on the walls is riotous, and the velvet cushions and crystal chandeliers are nearly smothering. Every copper vase on every side table is crammed with fresh lilies, newly budded white roses and orchids, or lavish displays of bird-of-paradise plants.
"Here Arafat and his henchmen come to drink and plot," Sol says as he leans back on a too-deep, too-bolstered couch. "Here is going all the aid money he receives from the Americans."
"I thought Arabs weren't supposed to drink or smoke," Megan says.
Sol shrugs and finishes his glass of wine. After a few seconds he gets up to leave. "I see you tomorrow. Ten o'clock."
Elizabeth looks after him and says, "The guide book says we're supposed to give him a good tip."
Megan nods. "I heard that. I saved some of the shekels I changed yesterday to give to the cheeky bastard. What do you say we combine our tips so it looks like more?"
We all nod. "Good idea."
Then Elizabeth says to me, "Why don't you give it to him? He seems to like you better than any of us."
"I get the impression that he doesn't like any of us very much."
James swallows the last of his glass and signals the waiter for another round. "Why did he just tell us that leaving a group of tourists after ten days makes him sad?"
"Why did he say it would be like losing a piece of his heart for us go?" Rory seconds.
I accept the new glass of wine from the waiter. "Tradition," I say.
