Free The Nimrod Flipout: Stories by Etgar Keret Page A

like a latter-day Job, or at least a Job lite, he should be grateful for what he had and thank whoever it is nonreligious people thank about such things for not putting him in that Russian guy’s torn old newspaper-stuffed shoes. The Russian’s laughter grew deeper and louder, demolishing Ronel’s ideas about his own relative happiness. “Who says?” Ronel asked, suddenly filled with a great truth diluted by a substantial amount of self-pity. “Who says my fate is better than his? Here I am in the same park where he’s drunk and happy. And I’m neither drunk nor happy. All I have in the world is a dog who left me, a wife I don’t really love, and a business…” It was actually the thought of his business that cheered him up a little. This was, after all, a period of some growth, which hardly held out a promise of boundless joy but, for now, was still preferable to newspaper in his shoes.
    Near the park exit, Ronel noticed a rapid dog-like movement in the bushes. But after observing it briefly, he saw that the object of his shattered hope was the short, bearded shadow of Schneider. Ronel, who frequented the park only during the day, was surprised to see Schneider there so late at night. His first thought was that some sixth sense had told Schneider that Darko was lost and he’d left his house to join the search, but a familiar whistle punctured that heroic interpretation of events. And right after the whistle came Alma, Schneider’s beautiful, limping mistress. Alma, who was about twenty-five, was one of the most beautiful women Ronel knew, and definitely the lamest. She’d been injured in an unusually stupid car accident, and had used the money she received in settlement to buy a fully renovated penthouse on Michal Street. Alma’s extreme encounter with a bad driver and an excellent lawyer (she’d even told Ronel his name once, but since there were no injury suits on his horizon, he quickly forgot it) had undoubtedly shifted the course of her life. People always say they would pass up any amount of money to get their health back, but was that really true? Alma, as far as he could tell from a leash away, always smiled a genuine-looking smile, which Ronel had tried to imitate for business purposes. He had even practiced a few times in front of the mirror before he gave up and opted for one that came more naturally. Hers was a permanent smile that rested on her face, a default smile, not fixed or phony, but always in reaction to whatever was happening around it—broadening, narrowing, turning surprised or cynical when called for, but always there and always relaxed. It was the relaxation of that smile that made Ronel try to mimic it, recognizing its superiority as a negotiating tool over any other expression. Would she have smiled that way if she were poor and had a platinum-free leg? Or would the smile have been different, less serene? More frightened by an uncertain economic future, by the threat of old age looming over her perfect beauty?
    “I didn’t know you and Darko came here at night,” Alma said, hopping into the shaft of light at the entrance to the park. “We don’t,” Ronel groaned desperately. “Darko ran away,” he said, but quickly corrected himself. “I mean he got lost.” Schneider was looking all around Ronel with the annoying friskiness of a stupid and not particularly sensitive schnauzer. “He doesn’t understand,” Alma apologized. “He smells Darko on your clothes and thinks he’s here.” “I know, I know,” Ronel said, nodding, and for no reason, burst into tears. “But he’s not. He’s not here. He could be dead by now. Run over. Or maybe some kids are torturing him in a backyard, putting out cigarettes on him, or maybe the city dogcatchers got him…” Alma put a comforting hand on his arm, and even though her hand was damp with sweat, there was something pleasant about that dampness, something gentle and alive. “Dogcatchers don’t work at night, and Darko’s a