The Lover

ASYA

I can’t remember the beginning, the three of us are in another country, somewhere in the East, in Asia, near Afghanistan, I don’t know how I know that it’s near Afghanistan. An afternoon sort of country, the sun strong and low in the sky, but not a desert country, just a dry country, thousands of kilometres from the sea. Fields all around, growing corn, yellow-green, short fat stalks. What we’re doing here I don’t know, we’re not here for a holiday but for a short stay, Adam has work to do here, but he hasn’t actually started working yet, all the time he paces around the house.

We are in trouble. Dafi is pregnant. She was walking in the fields and a seed entered her. She touched nobody, nobody touched her. Not the seed of man but a seed of corn. She sat among the corn stalks and a seed entered her, something like that, vague, frightening … but she is pregnant. We already have the results of the tests, and now she sits before me in a wicker chair, small and pale, and I am filled with despair.

It’s impossible to tell if Dafi knows the condition she’s in. But I stare at her fearfully and I see that her belly is already swelling a little. It’s amazing, she conceived only a short while ago, but they explained to us that this is a childhood pregnancy, very quick, and it isn’t the first time this has happened to foreigners here on a visit.

Adam comes into the room with a doctor. A dark man, swarthy skinned, not black but very dark, with a little wispy beard. He’s come to take Dafi away because she needs urgent treatment, an operation, an abortion, not exactly an abortion, something like that, similar, they are going to take that thing out of her womb, and they will send it to us, a field mouse perhaps, something frightful. A nightmare. Adam has settled the whole business without consulting me.

The man, the doctor, God knows what he is, comes close to Dafi and takes her by the hand, and she obeys him, rising from her seat, so miserable. And I thought I was losing my mind, I could kill Adam for submitting to this doctor, I draw him aside and plead with him, “Let’s go home at once, we can take her to doctors there,” and Adam listens but isn’t convinced, the doctor leads Dafi to the door, stands there waiting. I talk hurriedly to Adam, and the doctor listens as if he understands Hebrew, and Adam refuses, shakes his head — “No, only they know how to do this, they will save the mouse.” I’m streaming with sweat, shaking, frantic — “What mouse?” And suddenly Dafi breaks loose from the doctor, runs to me, howling, clutches at me, starts shaking both of us.

ADAM

Dafi shakes me roughly, climbing onto the bed, switching on the light, tugging wildly at my pyjama jacket. “Mommy, Daddy, Shwartzy’s on the phone.” The light hurts my eyes, Dafi’s hair is in a mess, she’s all excited. “Shwartzy’s on the phone, he’s had an accident.”

It’s one o’clock in the morning.

Asya stirs slowly, sitting up in bed, her eyes closed. The phone rang and I didn’t hear it, when I stopped doing the night towing I put the phone back in the study. Only Dafi heard it. She’s still awake at night. At first she thought it was a wrong number and didn’t answer, but the ringing went on. She lifted the receiver and, unbelievable, she thought she was dreaming, the soft and wheedling voice of the headmaster she hates, her cruel persecutor.

She mimics him –

“Dafna? Is that you? Would you be so good as to call your father, I must speak to him.”

I go to the phone.

His whispering, urgent voice, sometimes a strange laugh, even at such a late hour of the night he uses the same pompous style of speech.

A thousand pardons. A misfortune has befallen him. His car is embracing a tree, ha, ha, the hood is crushed and bent. On the road from Jerusalem, near the airport. He has been hurt too, bruises and scratches on the face. Some wonderful Jews from the moshav Vardim took him in, bandaged him and gave him a drink. But now he wants his car towed to Haifa, to my garage. Is it possible? Will I be prepared to receive the unfortunate car? There is nobody he can trust but me, Adam dear friend, he has no other garage but mine … ha, ha …

Well then –

He has forgotten the address, he has simply forgotten the address, he whispers as if afraid to wake somebody beside him.

I say nothing.

“Adam?”

“Who is going to tow you?”

Nobody at the moment. His rescuers will try to find a towing service.

“Wait, I’ll come and tow you in.”

“Heaven forbid … such a distance … that wasn’t why I rang …” but I detect the relief in his voice.

“Where are you?”

No, he won’t tell me, he’s suddenly obstinate, he was very dubious about calling, he’s full of remorse, he woke the girl …

But I insist. Dafi’s fate is in his hands. Some day soon he must decide whether to expel her from the school or not. I shall tow him in, repair his car, accept no payment, for a few days he will be in my power.

Suddenly he begins to waver. On no account does he wish to be a burden. He already regrets calling me. Besides, a special kind of tow job is required here. His car, to tell the truth, is completely wrecked.

“That’s all right … just tell me exactly where you are, Mr. Shwartz. I won’t let anyone else tow you in … besides, they’ll overcharge you … do you have money to spare?”

He’s taken aback.

“Adam, dear friend, what can I do? Of course I shall have to pay you … I shall never agree to a free job … and anyway, what does money matter … the important thing is that I’m still alive …”

“Pity about the time …”

He tells me where he is, in a devious manner, as if he’s doing me a favour.

I phone Na’im. The old lady answers at once, as if she’s been waiting for the phone to ring. She’s an insomniac too. The wakefulness of this survivor from the last century never ceases to amaze me.

“Has something happened? News of Gabriel?”

“No … please wake Na’im. I shall be coming to pick him up soon, we’re going to tow a car.”

“I thought you’d stopped doing the night work.”

“This time it’s a friend of mine who’s in trouble.”

“Shall I make coffee for you?”

“No, thank you, I’m in a hurry.”

Meanwhile Asya has got out of bed and is making coffee. Dafi is beside her in the kitchen, insisting on knowing all the details, disappointed that he’s got off with just cuts and scratches.

“I wish he’d been killed, the monster …”

And we’re so tired we don’t even tell her to shut up.

“You’re driving to Lod for him? What’s the idea?” Asya is amazed.

“It’s for Dafi … so he’ll think twice before expelling her …”

“It won’t do any good … I know him … he’ll expel her … and she deserves it too.”

Dafi listens in silence, quietly chewing a piece of bread, her hair falling over her face, her face puffed up, lately she’s really gone to pieces.

“Pity he wasn’t killed …” she whispers again.

“That’s enough.”

She’s beginning to get on Asya’s nerves. Asya paces about the kitchen in an old nightdress. Suddenly I remember the dream I had.

“You woke me up in the middle of a dream.”

Asya looks at me.

“What was the dream?”

“I don’t remember.”

But as I’m accelerating down the hill, I remember the dream, I even smell it. I was in a big hall, at a sort of meeting, crowds of people were wandering about there, Gabriel among them, his head shaved, pale. I was angry with him, spoke to him harshly, he turned and went away …

A thin silhouette outside the old lady’s house, a flickering cigarette. Na’im is already waiting. These last months he’s grown a lot taller, grown a great mop of hair, matured. Chain-smoking, buying himself new clothes, and all the time taking money from me. I don’t care. A strange boy. What does he go through in the silence with the old lady, whole days? I’ve ruined him completely. This power that money gives me, I must put my mind to him, return him to his village.

The lights are on in the old lady’s house. She’s looking out of a window, her face white, like the face of a corpse come to life.

“Your sweater, Na’im,” she shouts from above and throws the sweater down to the pavement.

“I don’t need it,” he mutters, embarrassed, angry, but he picks the sweater up from the ground.

I get out of the car, wave to her.

“She’s in love with you.”

He turns around to me quickly.

“Who?”

“The old lady.”

“The old lady,” he says softly, seriously, “is way off her rocker.”

I say nothing. There’s a new tone to his voice, cynical, decisive.

We arrive at the garage, Na’im jumps down to open the gate. The watchman is asleep in his shelter, the little dog in his arms is asleep too, they don’t notice us coming in, changing vehicles, leaving the Dodge and climbing aboard the tow truck. Na’im loads a box of tools. Quietly we close the gate behind us, the dog opens his eyes, looks at us affectionately, wags his tail and lays his head on the watchman’s chest.

A clear summer night. The sea lies calm. A grey colour to the sky. The truck runs slowly. I’m very tired. Na’im is silent beside me. I ought to ask him a little about his life, but I haven’t the energy to talk. Now and then I feel him staring at me. Perhaps he would like to say something to me, but he holds back.

We reach the scene of the accident after two hours. From a distance I see the headmaster, pacing back and forth on the road as if he’s walking the corridors of the school, his head wrapped in a sort of white turban, a tall ghostly figure. He shakes my hand, embraces me, his torn shirt stained with blood. “Adam, dear friend, such a catastrophe, never before have I been in an accident …”

He shakes Na’im’s hand as well, ruffles his hair, gives him a little hug, as if he’s one of his pupils. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s an Arab. We walk together arm in arm, treading on glass splinters and fragments of metal. Where is the car? To my astonishment I find it hanging on a tree, as if he had been trying to climb the tree with it. It’s incredible, I can’t help smiling, it’s actually hanging there caught in the branches.

I see the smile on Na’im’s face.

“The car is hopeless …” He follows my gaze.

“No car is hopeless. Only people are.”

He bursts out laughing.

Meanwhile Na’im goes to the truck and lifts down the box of tools, attends to the winch chains, lays out flashing lights on the road. There’s no need to tell him anything.

Two figures appear on the dust bank at the side of the road, lean white-haired Yemenites with rifles in their hands. The night watchmen of the moshav. The headmaster hastens to introduce them to me.

“These dear Jews, they looked after me until you arrived … we had a wonderful conversation … didn’t we? We talked about the Torah.”

He hugs and caresses them too. The two old men look a little dazed from their time spent with Mr. Shwartz. It seems he’s caused quite a stir in the moshav. Lights are on in some of the houses, other figures appear, watching us from a distance.

“What happened exactly?”

A strange story. He was returning from Jerusalem after a long conference on educational matters. Oh, these damned meetings, the endless chattering, all so depressing. At first he intended to stay in Jerusalem overnight, but in the morning there was to be another meeting in Haifa in the office of the city architect, about the new wing that they’re going to add to the school. He decided to return home. Everything was in order, the road was empty, he was quite wide awake. When he was young he used to drive for long hours at night without any problems. In England, before the war, when he was a student at Oxford. He was so engrossed in his memories of England that apparently without realizing it he began slowly straying towards the left. Suddenly a little old black car appeared in the opposite direction, with lights almost blacked out. At the last moment he recovered himself and swerved towards the right, but evidently he swung the wheels too far, and suddenly this tree, this unnecessary tree …

“What happened to the other car?”

Nothing, a light collision, a few scratches. If he had run into it rather than this damned tree the damage might have been less, for him that is, ha, ha, the other car would have been completely squashed, that little old tin box, to say nothing of the men within. And they turned out to be religious, these men, an old rabbi and a young man with side curls, dressed all in black, Naturei Karta or some sect like that. Like a hallucination. What were they doing driving about near the airport after midnight? They stopped, they both got out, they didn’t come too close. Just checked that he was alive and on his feet.

And the old man said softly, from a distance:

“You are aware, sir, that you are to blame …”

What could he say to that?

“Yes, I am to blame.”

Curse them. Anti-Zionists. They didn’t ask him if he needed help, as if they were afraid of getting involved with him.

Na’im is already playing out the cable. This tow is going to be very complicated. A light breeze passes over us. Better get rid of the headmaster so he won’t get in the way. I persuade him to go home. He’s easily persuaded, he’s quite exhausted. He goes to the two Yemenites, takes leave of them, writes down their names in a little notebook, promises to send them a book, his own book apparently, to continue their conversation. We flag down a car, bundle him into it and send him northwards.

Now Na’im and I start assessing the situation. One of the front wheels is really embedded in the tree, wrapped around it. Na’im crawls between the tree and the crushed hood to free the wheel, I pass him the tools. A good boy. What would I do without him? For a full hour he struggles there until he succeeds in freeing the wheel, comes out covered in sweat, takes the end of the cable, ties it to his belt and gets down on the ground again, crawling right underneath the car. It’s a wonder how the headmaster survived. Dafi wasn’t far wrong, he could easily have been killed. He himself doesn’t realize how lucky he was.

We start to move the car. Pieces fall off it, a headlight, a bumper, a door handle. Na’im explains to me how the truck must be positioned, at what angle, the boy’s already starting to give me instructions. But I don’t care, I just want to get the job done and go home. Na’im operates the winch and starts drawing the car away from the tree, but the tree doesn’t want to be parted from it, branches break off, clinging to the car. A small crowd watches us in silence. The dawn is breaking fast. Birds chirp. On the back of the tow truck hangs a wrecked car wearing a laurel of leaves. A strange sight. Cars passing on the road slow down, people stare curiously through their windows. Somebody stops. “How many killed?” he asks Na’im but he doesn’t answer.

His clothes are torn and dirty, his hands cut, his face oily, but there’s no denying he’s learned a lot in these night trips. Now he secures the car with extra ropes and I move the truck to the side of the road.

It’s already daylight. Na’im goes to collect the tools, switches off the flashing lights on the road and picks up the bits that have fallen off the car. I stand still, exhausted, smoking a cigarette, my clothes wet with dew. Na’im comes to me and shows me a piece of black metal. “Is this a part of it too?” I glance at it. “No, that looks like part of the other car.” He’s about to throw it away in the grass at the roadside but suddenly I stop him. Something in the shape of the metal reminds me of something. I snatch it from his hand. I recognize it at once. A piece of the bumper of a black Morris. The same model. Nobody can compete with me when it comes to an eye for car parts. I feel elated. Rapidly the light grows stronger. The morning mists have gone. A day of hamsin ahead of us. I stand at the roadside, a piece of bumper in my hand. Black, admittedly, but belonging to a 1947 Morris. Clear and living evidence. I examine it closely, turning it over in my hand, there are drops of dew on it. Na’im lies back on the bank beside me, looking at me angrily. He doesn’t understand what the delay is. I examine the paint, the paintwork is crude, an amateur job.

“A small screwdriver …” I whisper.

And the screwdriver is there in my hand. Carefully I scrape off the layer of black paint, blue shows through underneath, the colour of the Morris that I’ve been searching for desperately since the end of the war.

I trembled –

NA’IM

What’s with him? He’s got hold of a bit of metal and has fallen in love with it, doesn’t want to let it go. Has he gone soft in the head? And I used to think of him as a little god.

I’m so tired. He hasn’t done anything here. He doesn’t work now, he doesn’t bend down, doesn’t move, he’s even stopped giving advice. Already he’s sure I can do it all without him. The cables, the hitching up, the winch. Before he has time to tell me anything I already know what he’s thinking and I do it by myself. If he had to do the job by himself the car would still be hanging in the tree. His mind’s somewhere else, you can tell. All the time looking around for something like he’s waiting for something and he hasn’t decided yet what it is.

What is this, is he sick? Fingering that bit of metal like I’ve given him gold. It’s morning already, what does he think he’s doing? How much longer are we going to stand here? I’m nearly asleep on my feet. This is the hardest tow job we’ve had yet. That old man planted his car in the middle of that tree, smashed it up, I still don’t see how he got out of it alive. And I’ve got myself torn and scratched all over, crawling under the car. Who for? What for? If only Dafi was here. God, sometimes I miss her terribly. But she’s not here, she’s finished with me, no point in trying any more.

What does he want now? He’s off his head. What’s he thinking about? He might at least give me some money. He’s got so much money and I’ve done a real professional job for him here. He reckons if he gives me a hundred pounds now and then that’s enough. What’s a hundred pounds these days? I can spend twenty or thirty pounds in just one outing, quite easily. An average sort of meal, the movies, a few nuts and a pack of Kent and I’m on my way home with only coins in my pockets. Lucky I’m not smoking cigars yet or inviting some lady out to dinner. Give me some money at least. Once I used to take it carefully, shyly, now I just grab it off him and stuff it straight in my pocket. So what? I haven’t yet seen him empty his wallet for me.

When will we be finished here? Why doesn’t he take this bit of metal home with him and think about it there? Why waste all this time? The smashed-up car is hanging on the winch all covered with leaves. No wonder they’re all slowing down on the road and staring at it, looking for blood.

“How many killed?” somebody shouts.

That’s all they’re interested in. Corpses. I don’t answer, I’m not getting involved with anyone here. The car’s no loss to anyone. The insurance company will pay, why should anyone worry? And they’ll repair it. I’ve seen cars in the garage in a worse state than this one, seen them cutting them in half like a cake, getting a complete half from another wrecked car and stitching the two halves together and making a new car. It’s like a real ceremony in the garage, everyone standing around and watching them weld the two halves together, slap on a fresh coat of paint and there’s a new car ready to be sent to the dealers in Tel Aviv.

I shall sleep here on this bank. I wish now I hadn’t given him that bit of metal that I asked him about. Now he’s whispering to himself, the man’s gone bananas, he’s asking for a small screwdriver.

What does he want with a screwdriver?

Here take this screwdriver, I hope it makes you happy, just make up your mind and move.

He starts scraping paint off the metal. He’s gone right off his head. I’m going to have to leave him, I’ll have trouble from him yet. Maybe I should go back to the village, persuade Father to send me back to school. I’ve missed only a year.

A twig fell on …

On what?

Sometimes I wish I was dead.

The piece of metal isn’t black anymore but blue. Big deal. But this scraping of his has got him all excited. He jumps into the truck and shouts at me.

“Hey, let’s go, what are you waiting for?”

Go fuck yourself, it’s not me who’s holding things up.

I’m getting out —

DAFI

What’s this? She’s not going straight back to bed. What’s the matter with her? Sitting in the kitchen beside the empty coffee cup and losing her sleep. Mommy’s wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. Incredible. The house is full of light, Daddy’s gone to rescue Shwartzy, poor man, all for my sake. And Mommy’s in no hurry, not tired, giving me an understanding look, studying me as if she hasn’t seen me for a long time. Touching me, trying to start a conversation, smiling.

A wild happiness takes hold of me.

“You woke me in the middle of a dream …”

Strange to think of her having dreams, but, I suppose, why not?

“What was the dream?” I ask politely.

“A real nightmare. I dreamed about you.”

“A nightmare? What was it?”

“A strange dream, awfully confused, we had gone to some far-off country and you were sick there.”

And suddenly she pulls me to her and hugs me. I really like this dream of hers, about me being sick. I hug her in return. Her stale old smell. She’s not turned completely to stone after all.

“A serious illness?” I ask.

“No,” she says hastily, hiding something, “what does it matter … it was just nonsense … were you awake when the headmaster called?”

“Yes.”

She shifts out of the embrace, very slowly.

“Still can’t sleep at night? What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I just can’t sleep.”

“Are you in love with somebody?”

“No. Why do you say that?”

“Nobody?” She smiles at me so sweetly. “That’s impossible …”

“Why’s it impossible?”

“Because there are some very nice boys in your class.” “How do you know?”

“I taught in your class once, didn’t I? I saw some … really charming boys.”

That’s what she thinks –

“Who?”

“I can’t remember … I was just struck by some of the faces.”

“But who?”

She’s still stroking me, absently.

“It doesn’t matter. I just said … I was joking … so what do you do when you can’t sleep, do you read in bed?”

“No. I walk about, eat something, listen to music …”

“Music? In the night? I never hear anything.”

“You and Daddy sleep like a pair of corpses, if somebody blew up the house you wouldn’t notice.”

“That’s odd. In the daytime I don’t notice that you’re particularly tired. It amazes me how you get through the night, all alone like that. I wish I could do with less sleep … but don’t you get bored by yourself in the dark house … time creeping by so slowly …”

“It’s not that bad … sometimes when I go out for a little walk it’s really very nice …”

“What?”

“You heard me …”

“You go out of the house at night? Are you crazy? You know what can happen to a girl walking the streets at midnight …”

“Two o’clock in the morning, not midnight. There’s nobody around then …”

“Dafi, you must stop this …”

“But why all the fuss? What can happen? Everything’s quiet … and there’s the civil patrol … nice old men …”

“Dafi, that’s enough, no arguments …”

“What can happen to me? I don’t go far. Down to the corner where Yigal was killed and back again …”

She goes pale. The hand lying on the table clenches to a fist … she wants to say something but the words don’t come. I shall have to help her.

“But you told me …”

“Who told you?” she snaps.

“Daddy.”

“When did he tell you?” She’s all on fire. “A long time ago.”

She starts biting her nails, in agony, bewildered. I carry on in an innocent, patient tone.

“But what is there to hide … why am I not allowed to know? Daddy said he was killed at once and didn’t suffer.”

She doesn’t answer, looks at her watch, groans, doesn’t want to answer. I’ve ruined everything.

“Do you think he did suffer?” in a soft, distant voice. Sometimes I can be dreadful, unbearable, I know.

“What does it matter now … enough, Dafi.” She won’t be drawn –

Silence. A clock ticking. A clear summer night. The house all lit up. Bread crumbs on the table. Mommy sits there frozen, her eyes hard. Tense as a spring. Now and then she looks at me, her sweet smile has gone. Night crickets. Poor Daddy, driving with Na’im to Lod. He was so tired, he didn’t want to wake up, I really dragged him out of his sleep.

“I wish he’d been killed,” I say quietly, thoughtfully.

“Who?”

“Shwartzy.”

“That’s enough, Dafi …”

“Why not? He isn’t a young man.”

“Enough, Dafi …”

She’s pleading –

“All right then, not killed, just badly hurt, a few months in the hospital.”

“Enough!”

“O.K. then, no blood even, just concussion, paralysis from the neck upwards, so he won’t be able to talk …”

And then I get a hard slap on the cheek. She hits me, the first time she’s hit me in seven years maybe. And I fall silent, it’s easier now. My cheek burns, tears spring to my eyes, but this blow has cracked something inside me, weariness, something dissolves in me. A stupefying sort of blow. I don’t move, don’t jump up, just slowly put a hand to my cheek to feel if the skin’s been torn.

She’s more shocked than I am, she clutches at my hand, as if she’s afraid I’m going to hit her back.

“I said, enough,” she almost whimpers.

“Will he expel me from the school?” I ask quietly, not saying a word about the slap, feeling quiet, relaxed and tired, a sweet tiredness, the tiredness of immediate sleep.

She’s still holding my hand.

“I don’t know.”

“But what do you think?”

She starts thinking.

“Do you deserve it?”

“I deserve it a bit …”

“What do you mean, a bit?”

“I deserve it.”

“Then it looks as if he will expel you. It’s not so bad, we’ll find you another school.”

And I stand up, tired, I’ve never felt so tired before, yawning a big yawn … so drowsy … my other cheek is burning as if it’s been slapped as well, I go stumbling to my room and Mommy comes with me, supporting me. She puts me to bed, covers me up, puts out the light. My room is dark and the rest of the house lit up, as it always used to be, as it should be. She sits on the bed beside me, as she used to years ago, and I say to myself, a pity to sleep now, and with this thought, as I’m still thinking it, I go to sleep.

VEDUCHA

Is this how it will end? For weeks now I’ve seen my body depart from me. There’s no taste in food, it’s like putting plaster or absorbent cotton in my mouth. I cover my food with salt and black pepper and red pepper and it makes no difference. All the taste has gone. And Na’im is a fool, he burns the food. Much too hot. “Are you in love with somebody?” Little swine. And I’m afraid to tell him that I’m going to die because if he thinks this is the end he’ll run away and I can’t be left alone any longer.

He’s so jittery. Impatient. They’ve forgotten him, it’s true. He’s become a real delinquent. His bed in a mess, socks thrown on the floor, chain-smoking the whole time, I run around after him checking the ashtrays. I must sniff them to make sure there’s no hashish there. You never know, anything is possible.

He doesn’t even want to read the newspapers. He just tells me what the headlines are and says it’s all lies, all nonsense, you shouldn’t believe what they say. What is this? We’ve gone back to Turkish rule. He does as he pleases. Once I thought of phoning the police, telling them to keep an eye on him.

Adam has forgotten him, but apparently he’s giving him money, otherwise how could he go out to the movies every evening, two movies in an evening. I say to him, “At least tell me what you’ve seen, tell me the story. I’m so bored here. And I know about films, when I had a good pair of legs I used to go to the movies in the afternoon.” But he refuses — “What is there to tell? Leave me alone, these movies aren’t your kind, all kissing and cuddling and guns, you wouldn’t understand.”

He’s learned how to talk –

Hooligan, bastard –

Fatah –

Sits in the armchair, pretty boy, all sweet and laughing.

What can I do?

I’m completely dependent on him, I can’t move much now, just go from chair to chair. If he wasn’t buying the food and taking out the garbage, things would be very bad here.

I bring out old clothes and give them to him, emptying the wardrobe, and he takes them and says nothing. He’s bought himself an old wardrobe and he’s started filling it. And already I’m forgetting that I have toes on my feet, they’ve disappeared. It’s a sign of the end. I can’t stand up from my seat any longer. He has to pull me to my feet.

In the middle of the night Adam phones to call him out on a tow job. At first I thought it was news of Gabriel but I was wrong. Sometimes I say to myself, Gabriel did not return, not he, and if he did return then he really is dead.

The Arab puts on working clothes, clothes that he hasn’t touched for a long time. I said, “These clothes suit you better than those silly clothes you buy. Now you only need a haircut and you’ll look like a human being again.” But he didn’t answer, he just scowled at me and left, leaving me in the armchair.

And so I’m stuck here all night, unable to stand. My legs are like torn absorbent cotton. And outside it slowly becomes light. They don’t come back. Must be a difficult job. I try to stand and sink back again. All the windows are open, he forgot to close them. Suddenly it’s cold. I’m in a thin nightdress, as if I’ve just got out of bed. The cold enters the dry bones. I bend down, start picking up the newspapers scattered around me, papers that I haven’t read, papers that I so much wanted to read, stories about this unfortunate government, I start covering myself with them, stuffing them behind my head, behind my back, at my sides, no longer knowing which is Yediot Aharonot, which is Ma’ariv, tucking in here and tucking in there, a little comfort and warmth for the grieving body.

And at the window — the sun rising. Hands slowly sinking. No feeling in the fingers, as if the wires inside have burned out.

This time it’s the opposite … the body perishes and only the mind remains.

ADAM

And I’m still standing there, on the road, deep in thought, smoking cigarette after cigarette. The piece of metal has turned blue in my hands. An endless flow of traffic passing on the road, the first planes taking off with a roar from the airport. The tow truck at the side of the road, the headmaster’s car covered with leaves hanging on the back. Na’im sits on the dust-bank, his eyes closed, his head in his hands, waiting for me in silence.

So the Morris exists. It hasn’t been dumped in a wadi, or buried in the sand. They painted it to conceal its identity. Perhaps they stole it. But who? The religious Jews?

At last I make a move, climb into the truck and drive to the first gas station. I phone Erlich, getting him out of bed and telling him to send Hamid to pick up the truck from here. I tell Na’im to wait for him, giving him fifty pounds so he can eat at the diner nearby. I cross the road to the bus stop and take the local bus to Jerusalem. I’ve forgotten what a bus looks like from inside, it’s thirty years perhaps since I’ve travelled by bus. I sit by the window, the torn piece of metal on my knees, convinced now that I’m going to find him.

I’m shown the way to the religious quarter and I begin slowly combing the streets, studying the parked and passing cars. No sign of the little Morris but I have a vivid feeling that I’m close to it, that it’s only a matter of time. I choose a busy intersection in the heart of the religious quarter and stand there watching the passing traffic. Before long a crowd of children with long side locks gather and stand watching me. Suddenly somebody touches me, a religious Jew with a broad felt hat.

“You are waiting for somebody, sir?”

“Yes.”

But I say nothing more. I decide not to ask any questions about the car, if word gets around that I’m looking for it it may vanish again.

At midday I go to a little restaurant at the corner of the street and order lunch. I’m the only non-religious one in the place, and the proprietor discreetly lays a skullcap beside my plate. I put the cap on my head and eat, my eyes straying all the time through the window to the street outside. The proprietor realizes that I’m looking for somebody.

“You are looking for somebody, sir?”

“Yes.”

“May I be of assistance?”

I want to ask him, his face inspires confidence, but I stop myself, they all belong to one sect here.

“No, thank you.”

For some reason I’m absolutely sure I’m going to find him. I have no doubt. I don’t know where this certainty comes from. I pay and leave. Exhausted. I’ve been awake since two in the morning and excitement is sapping my energy. A blazing hot day in Jerusalem and I walk around the dirty little side streets, already feeling dizzy. I start looking for garages, perhaps they’ve left the car to be repaired somewhere. There are several small garages there, or rather shops converted into garages. Workshops really, men repairing ovens, children’s carriages, bicycles, and a car standing there in the middle, beside it a mechanic with long side curls arguing with somebody. I approach and look to see if the Morris is hidden there behind the rusty scrap metal and the junk.

“Looking for something …?”

I don’t answer, take a look and walk on.

My movements become heavy. I’m attracting attention with my persistent patrolling of the religious quarter, with my big tousled beard, my uncovered head and dirty overalls. I decide to leave this area, to search in the streets nearby, finding myself turning towards the Old City, jostled in the crowd. I who have forgotten what walking is, walking on and on, following in the tracks of religious Jews, I never knew there were so many of them, young and old, a black river sweeping me along the streets. Sometimes I have to rest, leaning against a wall, take a break, looking at them full in the eyes, studying them closely, but they don’t seem to mind, staring back at me with a proud and empty look, passing me by hurriedly.

In the end I reach the square in front of the Wall. The place has changed a lot since I last visited it. White all around. The sun burning down ferociously. I go close to the great stones. Somebody stops me and thrusts a black paper skullcap into my hand. I go and stand by the Wall itself. Just standing there. Looking at the crevices. A piece of paper falls at my feet. I pick it up and read it. A prayer for the return of a faithless husband. I pocket it. Dazed by the heat, the commotion of prayers around me. Somebody starts to wail. Somebody shouts. A crazy thought occurs to me. The religious ones killed him and stole the car.

I leave the place, the light skullcap still on my head, forcing my way against a mad stream of people. I reach the New City, find a public phone and call Asya.

“I’m in Jerusalem.”

“Have you found him?”

Straight to the point, without unnecessary questions. My heart misses a beat.

“Not yet. But I think I’m close behind him.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No … not yet.”

I return to the religious quarter, combing the streets in a wide circle. It seems there’s something special in the air, the shops are closing, people walking about in canvas shoes. As if there’s a festival or a fast. Towards evening I find myself outside the little restaurant again. I go in. Nobody there. The tables clean, the chairs upturned on them. The proprietor appears at an inner door. He’s surprised to see me.

“You haven’t found him yet?”

“No.”

He says nothing, embarrassed.

“Could you serve me the same meal … as at lunchtime?”

He hesitates, looks at his watch, then goes to the kitchen and brings me a full plate and a slice of bread. I start to eat, almost falling asleep, my head bowed over the plate. He touches me.

“Sir, you must hurry … before the fast …”

“Fast?”

“Tomorrow is the seventeenth of Tammuz … you must hurry …”

“Seventeenth of Tammuz? What’s that?”

“The day they breached the wall.”

“The wall?”

“The wall of the Temple.”

I touch my head, the skullcap is still there, stuck to my head, I take it off, put it back, carry on eating, but my eyes close again. I’ve never known such a deep weariness.

“Do you wish to sleep, sir …?” I hear him say. It turns out he’s willing to let me sleep at his house. I go up the stairs with him. It’s six o’clock, the day is fading. The house is full of blond-haired children, he clears them out of one of the rooms and leads me in there, goes away to fetch clean sheets but I’m already lying on the bed fully clothed, on a threadbare silk blanket. He tries to rouse me, touches me, but I don’t move.

I sleep in the daylight, a fitful sleep, hearing the sounds of the street, the chatter of children, seeing the light turn to a limpid darkness. Dirges rise from a nearby house of prayer.

At about midnight I wake up. A small light burning in the house. People talking, the voices of children. I go out into the corridor, my clothes crumpled, an attractive young woman sits calmly on the floor, reciting dirges in a low voice. Still murmuring the prayer, she points the way to the bathroom, I turn on the tap and drink water.

Evidently her husband is in the synagogue. I stand in the dark corridor waiting for her to finish, but she doesn’t look up from the book. I take out a hundred pounds from my wallet, go into the room and lay the money on the top of the cupboard, she shakes her head as if to say, there’s no need. “Give it to somebody who needs it,” I whisper, and leave the house.

I resume the search, revived. Religious Jews pass through the streets, passing from one synagogue to another. I’ve noticed that these people are constantly, restlessly in motion. Again I comb the streets thoroughly, examining the cars. Strange, how sure I am that I’ll find it, this stubborn search looks a bit like a sort of madness.

About three in the morning and all is quiet. The houses of prayer are silent, the streets deserted. I start exploring the courtyards of the houses, the inner courtyards of big yeshivas, inspecting car after car. At four o’clock I find it. Parked in a corner. The engine still warm, apparently it has only recently returned from a journey. Part of the front bumper is missing. With my fingernail I scrape some paint off one of the doors. In the clear night light the original blue beneath is soon revealed. Inside is a black hat and some newspapers. I take a small screwdriver from my pocket and pry the window open, looking for clearer signs of him but finding nothing. The kilometre gauge shows thousands more than before. I find a hiding place nearby and sit down to wait.

With the first signs of dawn, once more the religious people begin to emerge from the houses. From the synagogues rises a plaintive, monotonous chant. Church bells ring softly. At five-thirty a party of young boys arrives, chattering excitedly, and stands waiting beside the Morris. A few minutes later he arrives, walking slowly, a religious Jew with long side curls, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and stands beside the car, running his hand over the damaged bumper.

The lover transformed into something unlike a lover –

I leave my hiding place and approach him. He sees me, smiles sadly, as if to apologize. I stare at his changed face, at his black side curls. He’s very fat, a big paunch flops over his belt.

“Hello …”

A faint reek of onions.

I touch him.

“So you didn’t make it to the front.”

GABRIEL

But I did get to the front. Hardly twenty-four hours had passed since you sent me away, and there I was in the middle of the desert. They pushed me out there so fast I couldn’t think straight, and not because they needed me, but because they wanted to kill me. I tell you, they wanted to kill me. Just that. It had nothing to do with the war. And they really did kill me, and this is somebody else.

I thought — it’s nothing more than a formality. Is there anyone to whom I’ll be of any use in this war? I shall present myself at some office and say, “Well, here I am. I belong here too. Include me in the list of volunteers and don’t say I didn’t close ranks in time of trouble.” I had no wish to be a partner in victory, much less in defeat, but if my presence was so important to them, I didn’t mind standing for a day or two beside a roadblock, guarding an office, even carrying equipment. Something symbolic, for the sake of history, as they say…

I didn’t know somebody was going to snatch me up and send me straight into the inferno. I say it again — they simply wanted to kill me.

At first things happened casually. By the time I found the camp it was already midday. I parked the car in the parking lot and looked for the gate, but there wasn’t a gate, just a broken-down fence and a lot of confusion. People running backwards and forwards among the barracks, army vehicles racing about, but behind the mask of feverish activity a new and unfamiliar lethargy prevailed. The system breaking down. Ask a question and nobody listens. Everywhere you’re pursued by the voice of the transistor, but it gives no news. Even the old marching songs have no spirit left in them. Suddenly, folly.

It was obvious, I saw at once, they didn’t know what to do with me. Aside from a passport, I had no document that could have given them something to work on. They sent me from hut to hut, they sent me to the computer building, perhaps the computer would come up with something about me. And the computer did come up with something — not me but an old Jew, about fifty-five years old, living in Dimona, perhaps a relative of mine.

Finally I wandered to a hut at the edge of the camp where all the doubtful cases were assembled, most of them citizens who had just come back from abroad, still with their coloured suitcases, crouching on the withered grass. And a ginger-haired soldier, she was stunted and ugly, was collecting the passports. She took mine as well.

We waited.

Most of those waiting were Israelis who had returned. When they heard that I’d been abroad for ten years it was as if their eyes sparkled. They thought I’d returned especially for the war. I didn’t mind them thinking that, if it was good for their morale to see that even after so much time the Israeli still belongs.

From time to time the ginger-haired girl would come out, call out the name of one of those waiting and lead him into the hut, and after a while he would emerge with a conscription order. At first they were dealing with us as if we were a nuisance, as if they were doing us a favour in drafting us, in taking the trouble to find units for us. As if there was nothing to be gained by all this conscription, as if the war was already over. But as the light faded around us their attitude began to change. The rhythm of recruitment intensified. Suddenly we became important. They needed everyone. The ranks were thinning out. From the transistor there rose a smell of death. Between the lines, among the slogans and the vague reports, it seemed something had gone wrong.

Gradually the crowd around me dwindled. Men who had arrived after me were being called into the office and dispatched to their units and there was no sign of my case becoming any clearer. I was already famished. Aside from that piece of bread that you’d given me in the morning I’d eaten nothing all day. Suddenly I got tired of waiting. I walked into the office and said to the ginger-haired girl, “Well, what about me?”

She said, “You must wait, we have no information about you.”

“Then perhaps I can come back tomorrow?”

“No, you must stay here.”

“Where’s my passport?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“At least let me go and find something to eat.”

“No, you must stay here … don’t start making trouble now.”

And with the first twilight a new party of officers arrived at the camp. I never knew we had officers so old. Some white-haired, some bald, fifty, sixty years old and more, wearing uniforms from different periods, medals on every chest. Some of them lame, leaning on canes. Captains, majors and lieutenant colonels, survivors from another age. Coming to the nation’s rescue, to shore up the tottering, baffled command.

They dispersed among the huts. Now everything was dark. Blankets had been hung over the windows to black out the lights. And on the edge of the camp I suddenly found myself alone, even the sounds of the transistors had died away. A smell of orchards all around. I wanted to call you but the public phone that had been working all day was now dead. Darkness and silence all around. Even the whine of aircraft and helicopters had grown faint. Only a distant siren, perhaps in Jerusalem, passed over like a hushed wail.

At last the little ginger-haired girl came out, it was already nine o’clock, perhaps later. She called me and led me to a room inside the hut. Waiting for me there was a giant major, about fifty years old, completely bald, a red paratrooper’s beret tucked into his epaulette, his uniform newly pressed, he seemed fresh, he even smelled of aftershave lotion.

He stood leaning on a chair, one hand in his pocket and my passport in the other hand, the clerk sat down at the table, already pale with exhaustion. For some reason she seemed confused by the appearance of the major in the office.

“You arrived in Israel four months ago?”

“Yes.”

There was something urgent, intense in his voice. He clipped his words sharply.

“You should have presented yourself within two weeks. Did you know?”

“Yes …”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t expect to be staying … as it happens, I was delayed …”

“As it happens?”

He took a short step towards me and then back. Then I observed a small transistor protruding from his shirt pocket, a thin white flex connecting it to his ear. He was dealing with me and listening to the news at the same time.

“How long have you been abroad?”

“About ten years.”

“And you never came back here?”

“No …”

“Didn’t you care what was happening in this country?”

I smiled. How could I reply to such a question?

“I read newspapers …”

“Newspapers …” he echoed me scornfully and I saw that he was full of anger, a vague, menacing anger.

“What are you? A deserter?”

“No …” I began to mumble, thrown off balance by these savage questions.

“I just wasn’t able to come back …” I paused for a moment and then added, I don’t know why, in a low voice, “I was ill, too.”

“What was wrong with you?” He spat it out harshly, with venom.

“The name of the disease would mean nothing to you.”

He hesitated, looked me over carefully, glanced angrily at the clerk, who was sitting there baffled, not knowing what to write, a blank sheet of paper in front of her. He listened to the transistor plugged into his ear, some important news. His face grew dark.

“Are you all right now?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you present yourself in time?”

“I told you. I didn’t expect to be staying.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes …”

“Something suddenly caught your fancy?”

There was something obscure about these questions. A hidden, relentless provocation.

“No … I mean … nothing like that … I was just waiting for my grandmother to die.”

“What?”

He took a step towards me, as if he didn’t believe his ears. It was then that I noticed an ugly red scar on his neck. And the hand that was hidden in his pocket was motionless, lifeless, or maybe artificial.

“My grandmother became paralyzed … she lost consciousness, that is why I came home.”

Then began a personal, intimate interrogation, as if he wanted to prepare a list of charges against me without knowing of what crime I stood accused, probing, trying from every angle. We stood facing each other, he like a wildcat poised to spring at me, relenting only at the last moment. The ginger-haired girl listened as if hypnotized, scribbling in pencil on an army form the mass of personal, intimate details, details of no relevance at all to the army.

But he, incredibly alert in that stifling, airless room, with old army blankets hung over the windows, shutting off the world outside, carried on the interrogation while listening to the stream of news bulletins that we did not hear, dragging out of me information that only increased his fury, mingling with the news of serious developments. For example, that I was a fourth-generation Israeli. I told him about the years in Paris, about the years before that, about my broken home, my father who disappeared, about the studies that I attempted. A year here, a course there, nothing regular, no degree completed. Then my loneliness, my confused life, were examined in depth. I even said something about the car, unintentionally. But I said nothing about you, I didn’t mention you once. As if you didn’t exist, weren’t important. I had no intention of handing you over as well.

And he listened to it all with supreme, tense attention, dragging the facts out of me with such relish, almost madly, but a different kind of madness, his was, quite different from mine.

At last the interrogation came to an end. I felt strangely relaxed. He gathered up the papers that the ginger-haired girl had completed in round, childish handwriting. He read through them again from the beginning.

“I shall have to make a decision about you, it’s a pity it’s so late. We’ll straighten it out after the war, when we’ve won. Now we must get you into uniform as soon as possible. It’s because of men like you that our army is so understaffed.”

I thought he was joking, but the clerk was hurriedly filling in the documents, a recruitment order and vouchers for the stores and the armoury.

“Who to inform if anything happens?” she asked.

I hesitated, then gave the address of my landlady in Paris.

Now at last I shall get away from him, I thought, but he showed no sign of leaving me alone. He picked up my documents and led me to the stores. It was nearly eleven o’clock, the camp was quiet. We found the stores locked and in darkness. I thought at least we’d postpone this business till tomorrow, but he had no intention of giving up. He set off to look for the quartermaster, going from place to place, I following him. I noticed that with other people too he behaved in a high-handed manner, with a tone of authority. At last he found the quartermaster in the clubhouse, sitting in the dark watching television. He ordered him out of there. A short, swarthy soldier, apparently rather stupid. First of all he made a note of his name and number, to bring him up on charges. The quartermaster was stunned, he tried to say something in his defence but the officer silenced him harshly.

We returned to the stores. The quartermaster, resentful and nervous because of the charge he was threatened with, began tossing out the items of equipment.

“I’ll show you what’s urgent,” hissed the major, still not mollified, making sure I was left short of nothing. Belt, straps, ammunition pouch, three knapsacks, a bivouac tent with posts and pegs, five blankets. I stood there dumbfounded, watching the pile of equipment grow on the dirty floor, things in which I had not the slightest interest. He stood to one side, grave, stiff as a post, the weak lamplight shining on his bald scalp.

Suddenly I felt desperate.

“I don’t need five blankets … two are enough for me. It’s summer now … autumn. It isn’t cold …”

“And what will you do in winter?”

“In winter?” I laughed. “What has winter to do with it? In the winter I shall be far from here.”

“That’s what you think,” he whispered scornfully, without even looking at me, contemptuous, as if the whole time he was collecting evidence against me.

Meanwhile the quartermaster, silent and scowling, was laying out eating utensils, greasy mess tins, a bayonet.

“A bayonet? What’s this bayonet for?” I was laughing almost hysterically. “This is a war of missiles and you’re giving me a bayonet.”

He didn’t answer. He stooped and picked up the bayonet, and gripping it between his thighs he drew it from the scabbard, ran his finger lightly over the blade, took off some black oil, sniffed it with an expression of disgust, then wiped the blade on one of the blankets and without a word put the bayonet back in its scabbard and tossed it onto the pile of equipment.

I signed a long list, running into two or three columns. I had forgotten my army number and I had to look again at the draft form to be reminded of it. But he already knew it by heart and corrected me disdainfully.

Finally I wrapped everything up in one giant bundle. The quartermaster helped me to fold the ends of the blankets while the officer stood over us giving advice. Then the quartermaster loaded the bundle onto my back and we went out into the darkness. It was nearly midnight. I staggered along under the crushing load while he strode in front, bald, thin and erect, the dead hand in his pocket, a small map case slung on his shoulder, the little transistor beaming its broadcasts direct to his ear, dragging behind him his very own soldier, his personal man.

He led me to the armoury. I was already on the verge of collapse, hunger turning to nausea, to the need to vomit up something I hadn’t eaten. A sour, bitter taste in my mouth. The load grew heavier on my back. Suddenly I realized how close I was to tears, real tears. At the door of the armoury I collapsed, my equipment scattering.

The armoury was open, lit up. Men were standing in line, most of them officers drawing revolvers and submachine guns. He by-passed the long line and went straight in, glancing at the rows of rifles and machine guns as if they were his personal property.

Finally he called me to sign for a bazooka and two containers of bombs.

“I’ve never touched a weapon like this,” I whispered, afraid of annoying him.

“I know,” he replied with sudden warmth, smiling to himself, amused at the ingenious idea of saddling me with a bazooka.

Now I was so laden with equipment I couldn’t move. But he had no intention of taking me anywhere.

“Hurry up and sort out your belt and knapsacks. I’m going to find transport to take us down to the front.”

And suddenly, with despair, I understood, in the dark it came to me in a flash what he intended, this ageing officer who still reeked of aftershave lotion.

“You’ve decided to kill me,” I whispered.

He smiled.

“You haven’t heard a single shot and you’re already thinking about death.”

But stubbornly, angrily, I repeated what I’d said:

“You want to kill me.”

But he was no longer smiling. Dryly he said, “Sort out your equipment.”

But I didn’t move. Something was broken inside me. A spirit of rebellion seized me.

“For half a day I’ve eaten nothing. If I don’t get some food I shall collapse. I’m already seeing you double.”

He said nothing, not batting an eyelid. Still that arrogant, empty look in his eyes. Then he put his hand into the map case, took out two hard-boiled eggs and gave them to me.

At one o’clock in the morning I was already in uniform, shod in heavy boots and lying half asleep under the open sky, in the growing chill of the night, my head heavy on the big knapsack that was stuffed with blankets and my old clothes, my feet propped up on the bazooka and the bombs. White egg shells scattered around me. The belt harness, which was spattered with bloodstains, I’d never have managed to put it all on by myself, without the help of the ginger-haired girl who had taken pity on me. She too was being harassed and hounded by the officer, who gave her endless instructions, sending her running from one end of the camp to the other. Now I saw his silhouette flitting about like something from a dream. He was searching in vain for transport to take us south, to the desert.

At two o’clock, when he’d given up hope of getting there, he remembered my car and decided to commandeer it.

I leaped to my feet, suddenly alert.

“But the car isn’t mine.”

“So why should you care?”

And he sent the clerk away to fetch new forms. I watched as he took the documents and without a moment’s hesitation signed each one, easily and with complete self-assurance. He gave me a receipt and took the keys.

“After the war, if you return, you can reclaim what’s left of it.”

And he went to the parking lot to fetch it. Old though it was, he took an immediate liking to it. He treated it as if it was his own, lifting the hood, checking the oil and water, kicking the tyres. He was as awake as the devil. He sent the clerk, who was already collapsing from exhaustion, to find paint and a brush to dim the headlights, and she, efficient as always, brought a large tin of black paint. He began enthusiastically smearing the lights, front and back, then adjusted the driver’s seat, moving it back from the wheel to make room for his long legs. Then he watched as I loaded my equipment into the back. We set off.

He was driving with one hand, but with absolute control. I’d never seen such an enthusiastic driver. It was as if he owned the car, the road and all the transports he was overtaking right and left, manoeuvering adroitly in the dark, in the weak light that filtered from the headlights, accelerating among the long convoys of tank transports and ammunition trucks. The Morris dared much in his hands. And I sat beside him, exhausted, as if I’d already been at war for days, looking at the melonlike head, my own personal major, all the time absorbing his own personal news bulletins, his face contorting from time to time.

“But what’s happening there?”

“They’re fighting,” he replied laconically.

“But how’s it going?”

“It’s hard, very hard.”

“But what’s happening exactly?”

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” He was trying to shake me off.

“Have they fixed us?”

“Now you’re starting to squeal as well. Go to sleep.” And he broke off contact.

I was suddenly alone, on the road to war, resting my head on the windowpane, looking out at the dry, sun-scorched fields, the sweat already dry on my face, breathing in the cool autumn air, gradually falling asleep, dreaming dreams to the hum of the engine, dreams that led me to Paris, home, walking late at night in the bustling streets beside the Seine, little alleyways, brightly lit cafés, chestnut stalls. Going down to the Odéon station. The authentic smell of the Métro, a sweet tang of electricity mingling with the stench of the crowds that have passed through these tunnels during the day. I walk about on the empty platform in the bright neon light, hearing the roar of trains from distant stations, drawing nearer, dying away. The train arrives. Immediately I leap into a red first-class compartment, as if somebody has pushed me there. And at once, among the few passengers, I recognize my grandmother, sitting in the corner, on her knees a basket of crisp, fresh-baked croissants. She eats them delicately, picking up the crumbs that fall on her printed dress, her old best dress. I’m filled with joy, the joy of meeting. So she’s regained consciousness at last. I go and sit beside her. I know she won’t recognize me immediately, and quietly, speaking softly so as not to alarm her, I say with a smile, “Hello, Grandma.” She stops eating, turns to face me, smiling absently. And I realize, suddenly I know it instinctively, she’s already divided the inheritance, she’s run away, travelling incognito in Paris. “Hello, Grandma,” I repeat and she sits there, looking confused, mumbling, “Pardon?” as if she doesn’t understand Hebrew. I decide to speak in French, but suddenly I’ve forgotten the language, even the simplest words. I feel a longing to take one of the golden croissants. I say again, almost in despair, “Hello, Grandma, don’t you remember me? I’m Gabriel.” She stops eating, a little alarmed, it’s obvious she doesn’t understand a single word. The language is quite strange to her. The train slows, approaching a station, I look at the signs. The Odéon again. The station that we started from.

And she stands up quickly, wrapping up the croissants in the basket. The doors open automatically, she steps out onto the platform, trying to slip away from me. But there are only a few people around us, and I walk close behind her, doggedly, patiently waiting for my memory of French to return. Opening the glass doors in front of her, climbing the stairs, pushing aside for her the low iron turnstiles. She’s smiling to herself, a smile of tolerant old age, constantly mumbling, “Merci, merci.” She doesn’t understand what this young stranger wants of her. We come out into the street. Already it’s first light. Paris at dawn, moist, misty. It’s as if we’ve been travelling on the Métro all night.

And there, parked at the roadside, is the blue Morris, just as it is, the headlights dimmed, only the Israeli licence plate has changed to French. Grandma fumbles in her bag for the keys. And I stand beside her, still waiting for my French to return, searching for some first words of communication. I’m desperately hungry, real spittle at the corners of my mouth. She opens the car door, puts the basket of croissants down beside her, sits at the wheel. It’s obvious she’s impatient to break off contact. She’s smiling now like a young girl, enjoying the attention. She says “Merci” again and starts the engine. I catch hold of the car as it moves away, putting my head inside, leaning on the window-pane, saying, “But just a moment … wait a moment …” As if detached, my head starts to move with the car.

My head against the windowpane, leaning out. In the sky the first light of day. No longer were there fields around us but sand dunes, palm trees and white Arab houses. We were standing still, the engine switched off, bogged down in a giant multiple convoy. Trucks, armoured troop carriers, staff cars and civilian vehicles. The noise was deafening. The officer stood outside, wiping the dew from the front windscreen. He didn’t seem tired from the long drive. There was only a hint of red in his eyes. I wanted to get up and out of the car but something held me back. I found that in my sleep he’d tied me to my seat with the seat belt. He came and released me.

“You really go wild in your sleep … falling against the wheel all the time.”

I stepped outside, my clothes crumpled. I stood beside him, shivering in the cold. My stomach was turning over, I was so hungry. The third day of the war and I had no idea what was going on. More than ten hours since I’d last heard a news bulletin. I looked at the earplug still in his ear.

How mean of him, keeping the news from me as well.

“What are they saying now?”

“Nothing. Now it’s music.”

“Where are we?”

“Near Rafah.”

“What’s going on? What’s new?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“We’re going to smash them.”

Short, self-assured answers. That arrogant look in his eyes, glancing over the convoy that stretched from horizon to horizon as if it was he who was leading it. Now that I was already his prisoner, I wanted to know at least a little about him, to try breaking through this blown-up shell.

“Excuse me,” I said with a smile, “I still have no idea what your name is …”

He looked at me angrily.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious …”

“Call me Shahar.”

“Shahar … what’s your job, Shahar? … I mean in civilian life …”

He was annoyed.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just … Just curious …”

“I work in education.”

I was so surprised I nearly fell over.

“Education? What kind of education?”

“Special education. In a home for juvenile delinquents.”

“Really? An interesting profession.”

But he showed no inclination to prolong the conversation. And standing there beside me, as I was still fumbling for words, with one hand he unfastened his trouser buttons, took out his big erect dick and pissed straight ahead of him on the dry ground, standing there stiffly, legs wide apart. Drops fell on my boots.

On the truck in front of us, the soldiers were watching him. He’d attracted their attention too. They laughed and shouted jokes. He, quite unabashed, his dick still hanging out, rose to the challenge, and raised his hand like a priest blessing the congregation.

In the big canteen at Rafah I fainted, quite unexpectedly, without warning. It just happened, as I stood there in the line of soldiers by the counter, waiting my turn to get at the trays of sandwiches and the little containers of chocolate milk, surrounded by the smell of food and the racket of transistors. First I dropped the bazooka, then myself. It seems he was afraid they’d take me from him, he slipped away from the group of officers that he’d been talking to, dragged me outside to a water tap, laid my head in a pool of mud and poured a stream of water over my face. I heard him talking to the soldiers gathered around us. “It’s fear,” he said, and tried to move them aside.

But it was hunger. “I’m so hungry,” I croaked as I woke up, sitting on the ground, pale, with mud in my hair. “Since last night I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Again he took two hard-boiled eggs out of his map case and gave them to me.

And so at midday he brought me to the heart of the Sinai. I didn’t believe we’d make it. The little Morris ran beautifully. You did a fine job, Adam, she was starting up at the first touch. The battered old lady obeyed him, he hypnotized her too, and she made a hundred kilometres per hour.

There were military police roadblocks on the way, trying to stop all kinds of adventurers from entering the war zone. But he outwitted them all, pretending to ignore them, pressing on and passing them by. He wasn’t stopped once. And if they came after us, he’d stop the car some distance farther on, leap out of the little Morris like a long thin flame and stand waiting, wearing his red paratrooper’s beret, on his chest medals of previous wars. When the military police caught up with us, panting and cursing, he’d say calmly:

“Yes? What’s your problem?”

And they’d retreat.

But at Refidim we had to stop. Nobody was allowed to pass beyond that point. From far away came the echoes of explosions. The sounds were muffled as if they came from deep down inside the earth. Shrieking aircraft wheeled in the sky. We were directed to a wide-open space full of civilian cars, like the parking lot of a concert hall or a football stadium. Men were flocking to the war as if to some great spectacle. He told me to unload the equipment and I put on my harness, donned my helmet, picked up the bazooka and started to follow him, searching for a unit that would accept me.

We marched through a cloud of dust, all around us half-tracks and lumbering tanks. And the people in the sand, a nation sinking in the desert. Here it was born, here it shall perish.

And yet in spite of all the noise and confusion we were attracting attention. The one-handed major, tanned crimson by the sun, sweat gleaming on his bald scalp, leading me, his own personal soldier, as if I were a whole squad, marching behind laden with equipment, bound to him with an invisible rope. Men would pause for a moment to look at us.

Eventually he stopped beside a column of half-tracks parked at the roadside, stretching away to the horizon. He asked for the commander and they pointed to a short, lean youth making coffee on a camp stove.

“When are you moving?”

“Soon.”

“Are you short of a bazooka gunner?”

He was astonished. “A bazooka gunner? I don’t think so.”

But the officer was insistent.

“You mean your outfit is complete?”

“What do you mean?” The youth was utterly confused.

“Well then, take him into your unit.” He pointed at me.

“But … who is he?”

“No buts. This is an order,” he snapped, and signalled to me to climb aboard the nearest half-track.

And I began to strip off my equipment and pass it to the young soldiers, who tossed it up inside the vehicle, they were amused by the vast load that I’d dragged along with me. Then they held out their hands and pulled me up onto the steel car, which was all blistering hot from standing in the sun. Meanwhile the major was making a note of the unit commander’s name and the number of the unit. He even took the number of the half-track, making sure that I’d be taken into battle, that all avenues of escape had been blocked. Finally he made the commander sign for me as if he was taking delivery of a load of supplies.

“Make sure he fights properly,” he shouted. “He’s been out of the country ten years … he tried to run away.”

They looked at me.

“You must be crazy,” somebody whispered. “What a time to come back!”

But I didn’t answer, just whispered, “Have you got a piece of bread or something like that?” and somebody passed me a big slice of yeast cake, it was sweet and delicious and I bit into it at once, gobbling it up with great relish. Tears rose to my eyes. Suddenly I felt at ease. Perhaps it was because of that sweet home-baked cake. Perhaps it was because at last I’d got away from him. And so, perched on the half-track, surrounded by soldiers, leaning against the hot fuselage and swallowing cake, I looked down at the bald officer, who was still, standing there cockily, grilling the young commander about the plans for the offensive. The latter was quite baffled, didn’t know how to answer. In the end the major sent him off, disappointed. For a while he hesitated, as if he found it hard to be parted from me, he stood there alone, looking about him with his empty, arrogant glance. Suddenly I was struck by the pathetic nature of his madness and I smiled down at him from my perch on the high vehicle, out of his clutches now.

Suddenly, decisively, he turned to go. I called out, “Hey, Shahar, goodbye.” He turned around. Even as he looked at me for the last time, there was hatred in his eyes, he raised his hand with a weary gesture, a sort of half salute, murmuring, “Yes, goodbye … goodbye …” and he set off towards the headquarters along the crumbling path, the path ground to dust by the endless stream of tanks. For a while I watched him, striding along with slow, measured, provocative gait, the tanks avoiding him carefully, right and left.

And now I was surrounded by young, boyish faces, a close-knit band of regular soldiers. They looked excited, eager to go into battle. Laughing at their private jokes, talking about people that I didn’t know. The young commander called me over to his jeep, he asked me to explain quietly who I was and how I’d come to be in the hands of the major. So in the middle of the desert, amid the crackling of radio sets and the roar of engines, once again I told the whole story, adding some superfluous details, getting entangled in a strange confession, about my grandmother, about the legacy. A man standing before a silent youth, telling the story of his life. I thought perhaps he’d want to get rid of me, send me away. I even told him that I had no idea how to use a bazooka and that war in general wasn’t exactly for me. But I could see he had no intention of getting rid of me. They’d foisted me on him, so he’d find a use for me. He heard me out, not saying a word, just smiling faintly from time to time. Then he called to one of the men from the platoon, a soldier with glasses who looked like an intellectual, and told him to give me a quick lesson on the use of the bazooka.

The soldier made me lie on the ground, put the bazooka in my hands and started lecturing me on sights, trajectories, varieties of bombs, closed electrical circuits. And I was nodding my head but only half listening. Only one thing stuck in my head, the backlash that recoils on the gunner. The bespectacled soldier warned me repeatedly about the dangers of the backlash, apparently he himself had once been burned by it. And in the middle of this strange private lesson they called us to eat. They brought out a stack of tinned foods. I was the only one with an appetite. They were a bit astonished at my ravenous hunger. They opened tin after tin, tasting it and passing it over to me, watching in amusement as, spoon in hand, I polished off one after another, in any order, tins of beans, grapefruit salad, meat, halva, sardines, and pickled cucumber for dessert. I gobbled up everything. And among the empty tin cans the radio crackled constantly, and at last I heard the news that had been kept from me the previous day. Hard news, dark news, dressed up in new words — defensive strategy, battle of attrition, holding operation, regrouping of forces. Jargon designed to soften the truth, the burning reality into which I was now so deeply sunk.

And suddenly alone, very much alone. An empty space in my heart. Imagine me in the middle of all this confusion. Sitting among the soldiers, beside the chain of the half-track, hiding in a scrap of sweltering shade, in the sickening stench of burnt gasoline. My clothes so filthy you’d think I’d gone through two wars already, seeing all the preparations being made for my death. Troops milling around us endlessly, encircling us. Tanks, half-tracks, jeeps and artillery, the crackle of radio sets, the shouts of soldiers hailing their friends. I begin to understand, I won’t leave this place alive. Shut in from every side. A nation ensnaring itself. Suddenly I wanted to write you a postcard, but already urgent orders were arriving, we must prepare to move immediately.

We moved on a kilometre or two, advancing in a broad formation, then they halted us. We waited there, trussed in our belts, helmets on our heads, drivers at the wheel, for four long hours, watching the dim, threatening horizon where the battle was noiselessly in progress. Watching the plumes of dust rising in the distance, the smoke of distant fires, signs that my companions interpreted eagerly. Slowly the desert turned red about us and suddenly, on the dusty skyline, the ball of the sun caught fire, like a flare thrown up from the burning canal, a weapon of war, a part of the battle. And as evening came the sun began to disintegrate, as if it too had been caught in the cross fire, and our faces, our vehicles, the weapons in our hands were painted purple.

And in that same place, still deployed in advance formation, we waited two days, as if frozen where we stood. And personal, linear time, the time that we knew, was blown to bits. And a different, collective time was smeared over us like sticky dough. Eating and sleeping, listening to the radio and pissing, cleaning our weapons and hearing a lecture from an eccentric instructor who came to us with a little tape recorder and played us rock music. Playing backgammon, huddling together in tight circles, leaping onto the half-track at false alarms, watching the aircraft going out and returning. And somewhere else, beyond us, there were sunrises and sunsets, twilight and darkness, burning noons and cool mornings. They cut us off from the world so they could kill us more easily, and I, a stranger twice over, or, as they called me, the runaway who returned, I wandered about among the young men, hearing their foolish jokes, their childish, adolescent fantasies. And they, not knowing how to deal with me, still impressed by my ravenous hunger of the first day, would offer me slices of cake, biscuits and chocolate, which I took absent-mindedly, munching moodily among the armoured half-tracks. Once, in the middle of the night, I thought of trying to escape. I took some toilet paper and started walking towards a distant hill that I thought was deserted. To my surprise I found troops dug in there as well. The whole desert was alive with men.

At last we began to move, slowly, like struggling out of quicksand. Already exhausted, advancing a few hundred metres and stopping, stopping and advancing. Moving south, then north, then east, then turning back to the line of advance. As if some moon-struck general were controlling us from far away. Suddenly, without warning, the first shells fell among us and somebody was killed. And so the battle began for us. Lying flat on the ground, scratching trenches in the sand, then up again onto the transports and moving on. Sometimes opening fire with all weapons at sand-coloured targets. They too were wandering like sleepwalkers on the dusty horizon. I didn’t shoot. The bazooka was slung over my shoulder all the time but the bombs were tucked away under one of the seats. I sat there huddled, the helmet over my face, turning myself into something inert, an object without will, a lifeless creature, only at intervals looking out at the nearby scene, the endless, never-changing desert. Our unit was changing all the time, disbanding and regrouping. The boy-commander had been killed, another, an older officer, had taken over. The half-track broke down, they put us aboard another. Changes all the time, handing us over to somebody new, taking us away from him. Sometimes under bombardment, short or prolonged, hiding our heads in the sand. But advancing, that much was clear. Men trying to whip up enthusiasm. Victory, the breakthrough, at last. But a hard, bitter victory. One evening we arrived at an important field headquarters. We were set to guard a staff officer who was sitting among a dozen radio sets, surrounded by wires and receivers. A tired man, his eyes narrowed by long days without sleep, sitting on the ground, taking up receiver after receiver with endless patience and fearful slowness, in a sleepy voice, sending out orders to faraway units. All night we sat around him. I tried to follow his conversations, to understand the course of the battle, but it seemed that matters were growing always more complicated. In the morning twilight, in a brief lull, I plucked up my courage and approached him, asking when he thought the war would be over. He looked at me with a fatherly smile and in that same sleepy voice, very slowly, he began to speak of a long war, a matter of months, perhaps even of years. Then he picked up a receiver and in a weary voice gave the order for an assault.

Now the young men around me were beginning to look like me. Ageing prematurely. Hair white with dust, beards unkempt, faces wrinkled, eyes sunken through lack of sleep. Here and there, bandages around filthy heads. Already we could see in the distance the sparkling waters of the canal. They ordered us down from the transports and set us digging deep into the ground, each man his own grave.

And then I heard the singing. Chanting, prayer, live voices, not from the transistor. It wasn’t yet light, just the first flutterings of dawn. Shivering with cold, wrapped in our blankets, wet with dew, we woke up to find three men dressed in black with side curls and beards, leaping and dancing, singing and clapping hands, like some well-trained dance troupe. They came closer, touching us with warm, thin hands, rousing us from our sleep. They came to cheer us up, to restore our faith, sent by their yeshiva to circulate among the troops, to give out prayer books, to bind tefillin on the young men.

Already some of our men had joined them, drowsy, bedraggled soldiers, laughing nervously, rolling up their sleeves and repeating the words of the prayer. They were blessing us. “A great victory,” they said. “Another great miracle, by the grace of God.” But it seemed they weren’t sure, their voices lacked conviction. This time we’d disappointed them a little.

The morning came and quickly the air grew warm. Men started to prepare breakfast, smoke rose from campfires. Transistors broadcast the morning news. And they, having finished their mission of awakening, folded up their equipment, the tefillin and the rest, sat down on a hillock, took out little cardboard boxes from their jeep and laid out their morning snack. We invited them to take breakfast with us, but they refused politely, bowing their heads, smiling to themselves. They had their own food. They were even afraid of touching our water bottles for fear of contamination. I went closer to them. From among their sacred objects, among the prayer books and tassels, they took out bread, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes and giant cucumbers. Sprinkling them with salt and eating them complete with the shell. From a big red thermos they were drinking some yellowish liquid, apparently cold tea that they’d brought with them from Israel. I stood and watched them, more and more fascinated. I’d forgotten that Jews like this still existed. The black hats, the beards and the side curls. They took off their jackets and sat in their white shirts, patches of colour not of this world. Two were adults, about forty years old, and between them sat a pretty youth with a sparse beard and very long side curls. He seemed a little shy and ill at ease in the middle of all the bustle, picking with a pale hand at his breakfast, which was laid out on an old religious newspaper.

I didn’t move away from them. They could feel me watching them. They smiled at me kindly. I took the tassel they offered me and put it in my pocket, still standing close beside them. They were eating, swaying backwards and forwards and chattering in Yiddish. I didn’t understand a single word but I could tell they were talking about politics. And I, a dirty, unkempt soldier, with a ten-day growth of beard, staring at them hard. I was beginning to make them uneasy.

Suddenly I said, “May I have a tomato?” They were astonished, they thought I’d gone mad. But the eldest recovered his composure and handed me a tomato. I sprinkled salt on it, sat down beside them and began asking questions. Where had they come from? What were they doing? How did they live? Where were they going from here? And they replied, the two older men, swaying all the while as if their answers too were a kind of prayer. Suddenly a thought struck me. These men are so free. They don’t really belong to us. They come and go at will. They have no obligations. Moving around like black beetles among the soldiers in the desert. Metaphysical creatures. I couldn’t leave them alone.

But the religious-affairs sergeant, who was acting as a sort of impresario for them, came to move them on. A bombardment was expected soon, they’d better leave. Immediately they stood up, buried the remains of their food, tied up their boxes with string and at fantastic speed mumbled the grace after meals, then they climbed into their jeep and disappeared from sight.

And on one of the rocks I found a black jacket that one of them, apparently the youngest, had left behind. I picked it up. It was made of good thick material. The label was of a tailor in Geulah Street, Jerusalem, guaranteed pure wool. It gave off a faint smell of sweat, but a sweat different from that of the men around me, a sweet smell of incense or tobacco, a smell of old books. For a moment I thought of throwing it back, then suddenly, without thinking, I put it on. It fit. “Does it suit me?” I asked a soldier who was passing. He stopped and stared, I could see he didn’t recognize me. Then he grinned and started to run.

And now there fell around us a bombardment unlike anything that we’d known before. We crouched on the ground, curled up like embryos, desperately scratching at the dry earth with our fingernails. The shells groped for us blindly, pounding angrily and accurately a crossroads only a hundred metres from us. Such a tiny miscalculation. For hours on end we lay in the sand, shells exploding all around us, eyes closed, dust in our mouths, beside us a burning halftrack.

Towards evening, silence returned as if nothing had happened. Deep silence. They moved us forwards five kilometres, to the foot of a hill, and once again we spread out our blankets to sleep.

And at first light, as if time were repeating itself, again we woke up to the sound of chanting and prayer and rhythmic hand clapping. The three of them had returned, as if they’d sprung from the ground, and they were trying to rouse us.

“You were here before! You were already here! You gave us prayer books!” They were silenced by the hostile reception. The three of them were frightened, froze where they stood and then retreated in confusion, mumbling among themselves in Yiddish. But one soldier leaped from his blankets and ran towards them, rolling up the sleeve of his left arm with an expression of pain, as if expecting an injection. Encouraged, the three men began binding tefillin on his arm, opening the prayer book in front of him, showing him what to read, tending him as if he were sick. Leading him a few steps forwards, a few steps back, making him sway in unison with them, turning him towards the east, to the rising sun. We lay in our sleeping bags and watched them. From a distance it looked like they were praying to the sun.

They finished, and once again they sat down to eat, as on the previous day, groping in their cardboard boxes and again bringing out eggs, cucumbers, peppers and tomatoes, as if they’d picked them in the desert. But this time they were no longer the centre of attention. The men had lost interest in them, still shaken by the bombardment of yesterday. Slowly I approached them, glanced in the open boxes. These no longer contained sacred objects, they’d given everything away yesterday. The boxes were full of booty they’d picked up, army belts, ammunition pouches, coloured pictures of Sadat, souvenirs for home.

And again, I was amazed at their freedom –

“How are you? Are you well?” I smiled at them, trying to start a conversation.

“The Lord be praised each day,” they replied. I could see they didn’t recognize me.

“Where are you going from here?”

“Home, with God’s help. To tell of the miracles and wonders.”

“What miracles? Don’t you realize what’s going on here?”

They were unmoved.

“By God’s grace, everything is a miracle.”

“Are you married?”

They smiled, surprised at the question.

“Praise the Lord.”

“Praise the Lord yes or no?”

“Praise the Lord … of course …”

Suddenly they recognized me.

“Have we not spoken with you before, sir?”

“Yes. Yesterday morning. Before the bombardment.”

“And how are you, sir?”

“So-so …”

I sat down beside them, in my hand the small knapsack in which the young man’s jacket was hidden. They shifted away slightly.

“Have you lost your jacket?” I asked the young man, who hadn’t spoken yet. He was wearing an Egyptian combat smock that he’d picked up somewhere.

“Yes,” he replied, with a thin, charming smile. “Perhaps you have found it?”

“No …”

“It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, you are forgiven,” the older man reassured him.

And all the while they were eating with such ease, such assurance. I felt a growing attraction to them, it was painful.

The young man with the pretty face was daintily chewing his bread, ignoring me, picking up the crumbs with his thin delicate fingers, still reading that old religious newspaper spread out in front of him. They no longer had tea. They were passing a bottle from hand to hand, manna perhaps, or dew that they’d collected on their way. It was obvious they were content with little. Again I felt an urge to take something from them, a vegetable or a piece of bread. But in the end, without asking permission, I picked up the young man’s hat, which was lying in the sand, and put it on my head. Then, to a rhythm of my own, I started swaying. They smiled, very embarrassed. Their faces went red. I could see they were a little scared of us, a little wary.

“Don’t you find it hot in these hats?”

“Praise the Lord.”

“Does it suit me?” I asked childishly.

“With God’s help … with God’s help.” They forced themselves to smile, bewildered, uncomprehending.

“Maybe we should exchange hats,” I said to the young man. “That way I shall remember you.”

He was utterly dumbfounded. Already he’d lost his jacket. Now somebody wanted to take his hat as well. But the eldest of the group gave me an intelligent, perceptive look, as if he’d grasped my intention even before I’d made up my own mind.

“By all means take it, sir … it will bring you good fortune … you shall return safely to your wife and children …”

“But I’m not married. I’m a lover.” Brazenly I challenged them. “I’m a lover of other men’s wives.”

The man of God didn’t lose his composure, but looked at me as if seeing me now for the first time.

“Then may you find your counterpart … return home safely.”

On the horizon plumes of dust were rising. A moment later, as if unconnected with them, came the boom of artillery. The start of the working day. Men began running. Again the shells came groping for me, trying to destroy me. The religious-affairs sergeant came running to move his party, to get them away from here. The camp was struck in haste, covered over with earth. At the side stood a party of soldiers starting to dig in. I hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.

Now I knew what I must do. I must escape. I could do it. I thought of nothing else all that day, crouched in a corner inside the half-track, keeping quiet, avoiding all unnecessary contact with the other men, trying to efface myself. It was a day of blazing heat, a thick dust cloud shut out the sky. The sun was hidden. Visibility, hopeless. All day the radio sets crackled as units tried desperately to locate one another. And covering everything, the yellow, menacing dust. We were advancing on the canal. They’d broken through to the other side and we were to join forces with the troops who were crossing the strip of water in a continuous column. Towards evening we dipped our hands in the bomb-racked waters. New officers arrived and told us what was planned for tomorrow.

But I was already well advanced in plans of my own. Clearly this was a war without end. What could I do on the west bank of the canal? Even on the east bank I’d found nothing useful to do.

So, stealthily, I made my preparations. I packed into a small knapsack the sacred objects that I’d collected over the last two days. Hat, black jacket, tassel. I prepared meat and cheese sandwiches, filled two water bottles. And in the night, in the last watch, when the time came for me to go on sentry duty, I took my equipment, went to the edge of the camp and slipped away behind a hill. I dug a shallow pit and buried the bazooka. I stripped off my army clothes, tore them to shreds with the bayonet and scattered the shreds in the darkness. I took from the knapsack my white civilian shirt and my black woollen trousers, put on the tassels and the stolen jacket, put the hat down beside me. I had a fortnight’s growth of beard, and from my tousled hair, which had grown wild, I could make rudimentary side curls.

So I sat in a cleft of the rock, not far from the canal, shivering with cold, watching the dim skies, which were lit up from time to time by explosions, waiting for the dawn, hearing them rouse the men of my unit, moving them on. I listened hard to hear if they were searching for me, if they were calling my name. But I heard nothing, only the hum of engines starting up. Nobody had noticed my absence.

For a moment I was astonished at being obliterated –

But I didn’t move from my hiding place. I sat and waited for the first signs of light, greedily finishing off the sandwiches that I’d brought with me for the next day. At last the light came, creeping around me like a mist. A rainy dawn, almost European. I hid the last remnant of my army life, the knapsack itself, shook the dust and sand from my clothes, trying to straighten them, to put some shape into them. Then I put the hat on my head and started walking out of history. Heading east.

Soon I found myself on a road, and before long there was the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind, a bullet-ridden water carrier, water still streaming from the holes. I was still hesitating, wondering whether to flag it down, when the vehicle stopped beside me. I climbed in. The driver, a thin Yemenite, showed no surprise at the figure clad in black who sat down beside him, as if the whole desert were full of religious Jews, springing out from among the hills, just like that.

Oddly enough he didn’t speak to me, not a single word. Perhaps he was running away too, perhaps he’d just now come under fire and was returning the way he came. I don’t think he even noticed what kind of person he’d picked up. The roadblocks gave us no problems. The military police didn’t even glance at us. They were busy with the transport coming from the opposite direction, with men trying to get through to the fighting zone, to the western shore of the canal.

In Refidim I got out, didn’t even have time to thank the driver. The confusion there was even greater than before. Men running, vehicles travelling in all directions. And I, so light I was nearly floating, already feeling the effects of freedom, began wandering about the base, quietly looking for the way north. But I noticed that people were turning their heads to stare at me. I was attracting attention, even in the crowd. Perhaps there was something unreligious in my bearing, or in the way I wore the hat. I grew more and more apprehensive, walking at the side of the road, shrinking, trying to keep out of sight among the storehouses and tank shelters. And suddenly, on one of the paths, there, straight in front of me, like in a nightmare, was the tall, bald-headed officer, erect as ever, thin as ever, still with that arrogant and empty look in his eyes. I nearly collapsed in front of him. But he passed by without recognizing me, continuing on his way with that same slow, provocative walk.

So I must have really changed, a change that I myself had not yet grasped. I stood hiding in the shadow of a wall, trembling with shock, watching him as he crossed to one of the shelters. Something blue caught my eye. Grandma’s car. I’d almost forgotten it.

Suddenly I resolved to liberate the car as well. Why not? I’d wait till it was dark and take the car with me. I made a mental note of my surroundings, so I could find the place again, and went to look for a synagogue in which to hide until evening.

The synagogue was deserted and dirty. It looked as if a squad of soldiers had been billeted there a few days before. Ammunition pouches were scattered on the floor. The ark was locked but there were a few prayer books lying on the shelves and in a little cupboard I found a bottle of wine for Kiddush.

And there I sat all day, alone, sipping the warm, sweet wine, glancing through a prayer book to familiarize myself with the first rudiments of prayer. My brain grew hazy, but I didn’t dare go to sleep, somebody might come in and surprise me. Towards midnight I left the synagogue, carrying a nylon sack full of prayer books. If anyone challenged me I could say I’d been sent to distribute prayer books to the troops. The base was quieter now, people moving about with less animation. I even came upon a soldier and a girl-soldier embracing. As if there were no such thing as a war.

The Morris was parked between two battered tanks. It was covered in dust. The doors were locked, but I remembered that one of the windows had a defective catch. And so I succeeded in getting inside. My hands trembled as I held the wheel, resting my head on it. It was as if an eternity had passed since I’d been parted from the car, not just a few days of war.

I’d already prepared a piece of silver paper taken from an old cigarette packet, and just as in the past, when I was taking the car at night without grandmother knowing, I bent down beneath the wheel and found the point of contact of the ignition wires. And the battery, the new battery that you’d fitted for me just a few weeks before, Adam, it responded at once to the light touch and set the engine in motion.

And so I began to move — north, east, God knows. I had no sense of direction, I was just looking for signposts. I’d stop and ask which was the way back to Israel.

“Which Israel?” the military police would reply with a laugh.

“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, just get me out of the desert.” The bulk of the transport was moving in the opposite direction. Tanks, artillery, giant ammunition trucks. A khaki river roaring along with dimmed lights. And I in the little car running against the tide, moving aside to the edge of the road and even so upsetting the smooth progress of the convoy. I heard the muffled curses — “Holy bastard, chooses this time to tour the Sinai” — but I didn’t respond, just smiled pleasantly, weaving in and out of the traffic, never pausing but pressing on all the time, as if possessed, speeding along the battered roads, away from the desert.

In the morning I reached the big canteen at Rafah, exhausted by the long drive but drunk with freedom. I went in to buy food, and went cavorting from counter to counter, drinking soup, eating sausages, munching chocolate and candies. Then among the crowd I saw a group of religious Jews, men dressed in black like myself, watching me curiously, astonished to see me eating so wildly, so anarchically, prancing from meat counter to dairy counter and back again. I decided it was time to leave. But at the door one of the religious Jews stopped me, clutched my shoulder.

“Wait a moment, we are forming a minyan for the morning prayer …”

“I prayed yesterday …” I broke away from his grasp and ran to the Morris, started the engine and fled, leaving them to their astonishment.

A few kilometres farther on, the desert ended abruptly, there were palm trees at the roadside, white houses, sand dunes ringed by little orchards. Israel. A wonderful smell of the sea. I slowed down, stopped. So — I’d escaped. Now I felt the full weight of my weariness, I felt dizzy, could hardly keep my eyes open. I left the car, breathed in the morning air. The smell of the sea enticed me. But where was the sea? Suddenly I wanted the sea, I needed to touch it. I waved down the speeding car of a tall senior officer who drew up beside me. “Where is the sea?” I asked. He was incensed at the question. But he showed me the way.

And I found a pure, clean beach, silence all around, like another world. No country, no war, nothing. Just the murmur of the waves.

I lay down under a palm tree, facing the sea, and went to sleep at once, it was as if I’d inhaled ether, I could have lain there for days. But the setting sun broke into my sleep and I woke up, stretched out in the sand. A little sand hill moved above me and sheltered me. Such a pure kind of warmth. I dozed again, enjoying the sea breeze, turning over in a bed of sand, and still lying there I stripped off my clothes, the black coat, the tassels, my trousers, underwear, shoes and socks. I lay naked in the sand for a while, then rose and went to bathe in the sea.

How wonderful it was, solitude all around. To be alone again after long days among crowds of people, quite alone. The gentle silence. Even the whine of the aircraft was swallowed up by the murmur of the waves. It seemed the local Arabs were afraid to leave their homes because of the war. I put on my underwear and strolled about the beach as if it were my own private shore. Time came back to me. Sunset approaching. The sun, a Cyclops’ eye on the horizon, watching me calmly.

I went back to the Morris, which was standing faithful and quiet, its face to the sea, and I had a sudden shock. Inside the car was all the officer’s luggage. He’d been using my car as a storage cupboard. Some folded blankets on the back seat, a small bivouac tent, even his mysterious map case was there. I opened it nervously and found that it really did contain maps, a stack of detailed maps of the Middle East, Libya, Sudan, Tunisia. In a little box were the new insignia of a lieutenant colonel. He was expecting promotion. There was also a white linen bag containing two old, cracked, hard-boiled eggs, their shells turning pink. Without thinking twice I peeled them and ate them hungrily, while reading an interesting document that I’d found. It was a sort of will that he’d written, addressed to his wife and two sons, written in elevated tones and a poetic style, something about himself and the people of Israel. It was a strange mixture — destiny, mission, history, fate, endurance. A bloated anthology of righteousness and self-pity. A chill passed through me as I thought of the rage he’d fall into when he discovered that the car had gone. He wouldn’t rest till he’d found me. Perhaps he was already in pursuit, perhaps not far behind. He hadn’t seemed really involved in this war.

I took all his maps and papers, tore them into little pieces and buried them in the sand, threw the empty bag into the sea and cleared the car of all the rest of his property. In the trunk I found a large can of paint and a brush that had been left there after the lights had been blacked out, back in the base camp.

I had a sudden inspiration –

I’d paint the car black, change its colour. I set to work immediately, stirring the paint to thicken it a little, and in the dim afterglow of sunset, with brisk brush strokes, I painted the car jet black. Standing in my underwear as the light faded, turning my car into a hearse. And I was adding the last touches of paint, humming an old French song to myself, when I sensed that I was being watched. I turned around and saw on the little sand hill behind me a number of shadowy figures. A little group of Bedouin in flowing robes, sitting there, watching me at work. I hadn’t heard them approach. How long had they been there? The paint brush fell into the sand. Now I wished I hadn’t discarded the bazooka. I had only my bayonet.

I could see they were fascinated by me. For them I was a real event. Perhaps they were considering my fate. I’d fallen into their hands, such an easy prey.

But they apparently sensed my fear, and with a slow movement they raised their hands high to greet me, a sort of half salute.

I smiled at them, bowing slightly from a distance, then turned to the heap of my clothes and dressed in a hurry. The shirt, the tassels, the trousers, the black jacket, the hat. Suddenly it occurred to me that in these clothes I was sure to be safe from them. And they, following my movements, were astonished indeed. I saw them stand up to watch me more closely. Hurriedly I gathered the rest of the things together and buried them in the sand, in the dark, knowing that anything I hid would be unearthed the moment I left. I leaped into the car and tried to start the engine. But it seems that in my agitation I missed the point of contact and the engine just groaned.

After a few moments of futile attempts I saw them approaching, standing in a circle around the car, a few paces distant. They watched me fumbling under the dashboard. They were certain of one thing at least, that I’d stolen the car. I kept smiling at their dark faces, groping again feverishly for those goddamn wires. At last I succeeded, bringing the engine to life and breaking the silence, switching on the lights, sending out twin beams of light onto the dark sea, starting to move, turning, sinking in the sand, the wheels digging deep.

Meanwhile the crowd of onlookers had grown, like a flock of birds settling at night. Children, youths, old men springing up from the folds of the sand. I bent down to examine the tyres stuck in the sand, returned to the car and tried again. The engine cut out. I started the engine again and sank farther.

Then I turned to the silent shadows and wordlessly appealed for help. They’d been waiting for this sign. Instantly they leaped at the car, dozens of hands sticking in the wet paint. I felt the car moving, hovering in the air, carried up to the road. The wheels touched firm ground. I drove forwards a short distance and stopped. Climbed out and looked back at the group of shadowy figures standing silent on the road, took off my hat and waved it in an elegant gesture of thanks. I heard a mumbled response, something in Arabic, presumably a farewell.

I went back to the car and set off.

To Jerusalem.

Yes, to Jerusalem. Why Jerusalem? But did I have an alternative? Where else could I go? Where could I hide till the storm blew over? The ginger-haired girl had all my personal details recorded in her files. The one-handed major would be searching for the car. Could I have gone back to grandmother’s house, a fugitive from the war, a deserter, a wanted man?

Or perhaps you think I could have returned to you. To live with you, to be more than a lover, to be one of the family. Was that possible?

But why not carry on with the destiny chosen for me. The first step had been taken, I’d escaped from the desert, crossed the border into Israel. I was wearing black clothes, tassels and a hat. I’d grown accustomed to the smell of the sweat of the holy man. My beard was flourishing, I didn’t object to the idea of growing a side curl or two. The Morris had turned black, was well disguised. Why not carry on with the adventure?

Also the money that you’d given me, Adam, was running out. I had somehow to get through a difficult period, until the war was won or died down. Why shouldn’t the religious Jews take me in? They seemed quite good at that sort of thing, at least to judge by their emissaries in the desert. It seemed that somebody looked after them.

Such were my thoughts on the night journey, in the pale light of the waning moon. Passing through the settlements of the south, reaching the coastal plain, driving slowly to conserve fuel. I didn’t even know the date, much less what was going on in the world.

And so, cautiously, in a dark land, at three o’clock in the morning, I began climbing the road to Jerusalem. From time to time I left the main highway and took to the side roads, to throw any pursuers off the scent. Looking out at the dark, rocky landscape, hearing the crickets. Since returning home I hadn’t visited Jerusalem, I’d been so busy with my grandmother, with the legacy, with the lawyers, and with your love. So that when with the first light of dawn I entered the city, dirty and deserted though it was, with sandbags piled up around the houses and shabby civil defence personnel patrolling the streets, I was startled, overwhelmed, by the stark beauty. And in the approaches to the city, like an omen, my last drop of fuel was used up. I left the car in a side street and set out to look for them.

They weren’t hard to find. Their quarter was in the suburbs. They were already out in the streets for their early morning shopping, baskets in their hands. Men and women. A light rain falling and a smell of autumn. Another world. Shops open, business as usual, a smell of fresh-baked bread. Here and there a huddled group, talking excitedly about something. Strange signs on the walls, some of them torn.

I followed them, followed the black drops that became, as I watched, a black stream of pious Jews, hurrying inside, into the heart of the religious quarter. When I saw the big Sabbath hats of tawny fox fur I knew I’d reached the end of my journey, nobody would find me here. There was a group of them standing on a street corner. I went to meet them, to make contact.

They knew immediately that I wasn’t one of them. Perhaps it was the shape of my beard, the style of my hair, perhaps some more intimate sign. There was no deceiving them. At first they were shocked at the idea of somebody appearing among them in time of war, disguised in their clothing and their likeness. Quietly I asked, “Is it possible to be with you for a while?” I didn’t tell them that I’d come from the desert, I said that I’d just arrived from Paris. They looked at the dust and sand on my clothes and at my boots and said nothing. In silence they listened to my confused words. Clearly they thought me a madman or a dreamer. But to their credit they didn’t turn me away, they took me lightly by the arm and led me slowly and tenderly, while I was still talking and explaining myself, through alleyways and courtyards to a big stone house, a yeshiva or a school, teeming like an ant’s nest. They took me into a room and said:

“Now, start from the beginning.”

I began by bending the facts, changing dates, jumping from topic to topic, telling them about my grandmother lying in a coma and about the car that I was willing to hand over to them. My head was spinning from weariness but slowly a story began to take shape, a story from which I was never again to deviate. But, just as in that night interrogation by the officer, I made no reference to you. Again I saw how easily I could wipe you from my past.

They brought in a blond, heavily bearded Jew, with the clear features of a goy hidden beneath beard and side curls. He spoke to me in French, questioned me with a perfect Parisian accent about the French details of my story. He asked me about streets in Paris, about cafés, varieties of cheese and wine, names of newspapers. I gave detailed replies in fluent French. I felt inspired.

When they saw that I really did know Paris, they asked me to undress. For a moment they were in doubt as to whether I was Jewish at all. I could see that they were quite baffled, not knowing why I’d come to them or what I really wanted. They repeated their earlier questions from a different angle, but I kept to my story.

Finally they held a brief, whispered conversation among themselves. They were afraid to come to a decision of their own. They sent a messenger to make some inquiry and he returned, nodding his head. They led me to their rabbi. In a little room I stood before a very old man, wreathed in cigarette smoke, reading a newspaper. They told him the story that I’d told and he listened, all the while his eyes fixed on me, studying me with a kindly, good-natured expression. When he heard about the car that I wanted to make over to them, he turned to face me directly and, in Hebrew, began asking me detailed questions about it. The date of manufacture, the capacity of the engine, the number of seats, its colour, finally he asked where it was parked. He was delighted at the idea that I was bringing the car with me as a kind of dowry. Suddenly he began scolding his men. “He must be given a bed … can’t you see he’s tired? He’s come a long way … from Paris” — he winked at me — “first of all find him a place to sleep … you are hard-hearted Jews.”

And he gave me a playful smile.

At last they were satisfied. They led me through the courtyard, before the curious gaze of hundreds of inquisitive students who felt instinctively that I was putting on an act. They took me to a room that served as the yeshiva guest room. A humble room, with old furniture, but pleasant enough and clean. I was already growing accustomed to the light, religious smell of the objects around me. A blend of old books, fried onions and sewers.

They made up one of the beds and went their way, true to the rabbi’s instructions. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. A faint grey light in the world outside. Through the embroidered lace curtain, a curtain fit for a king, there appeared at my fingertips the Old City, which I’d never seen before.

A startling, breath-taking view of the lovely old wall, the towers of churches and mosques, little stone courtyards, olive groves on the mountain slopes. For a long time I stood beside the window. Then I took off my boots and lay down fully clothed on the bed. There was something in the air of Jerusalem that kept me awake, though I was exhausted and almost feverish.

At first I had difficulty sleeping, I was dirty as well, my hands stained with black paint, my hair and beard full of sand. An eternity had passed since I last slept in a bed. I began to doze. The murmuring voices of the yeshiva students, their intermittent shouts blended with the sighing of the waves, the roar of tank engines, the crackle of radios.

Soon after, while I was still dozing, my roommate came in. A little old man, elegantly dressed, with a red silk skullcap on his head. He stood at my bedside and looked down at me. When he saw I was only dozing, he began chattering at me gaily in Yiddish, trying hard to communicate with me. He couldn’t believe that I didn’t understand Yiddish. He began telling me about himself, things that I couldn’t understand precisely. I only grasped that he’d come here for a matchmaking, that he was going to take some girl abroad with him, and meanwhile he was undergoing a series of tests — physical or spiritual, I wondered.

He went prattling on, pacing about the room, playful, making jokes, as if there were no war, no other reality. For some reason he was convinced that I too had come here to find a match and he tried to give me some cunning advice. As if through a mist I remember my conversation with him, sometimes I think perhaps he was just a part of my dream, because after he’d undressed, paced about the room in his shining white underwear, sprinkled some perfume on himself and put on a dark suit, he disappeared and I didn’t see him again.

Slowly I sank into a bitter, fitful sleep.

When I woke up there was darkness all around. It was nine o’clock in the evening. Through the magnificent curtain, stirring lightly in the evening breeze, the Old City was dark. Utter silence. I was still exhausted, shivering with cold, as if I hadn’t had a moment’s sleep. Suddenly I felt a strange longing for the desert, for the faces of the men of my platoon, now fighting on the other side of the canal. I opened the window. The air of Jerusalem, pure, intoxicating, unfamiliar. Now I know that I really was feverish, running a high temperature, falling sick. But at the time I thought the pain was the result of hunger, my excruciating, maddening hunger. I put on my shoes, too weak to lace them up, and went in search of food. The yeshiva was silent and in total darkness. I wandered from floor to floor, corridor to corridor. Finally I opened a door and found myself in a tiny room, full of cigarette smoke, the blinds closed. Two students in thin shirts, sleeves rolled up, were bent over enormous volumes of the Talmud, disputing in whispers.

They seemed annoyed at the interruption. They told me the way to the dining room and immediately returned to their studies. The dining hall was empty, the benches were stacked on the tables. A young woman in a grey dress, a kerchief around her head, was washing the floor.

She almost cried out when she saw me, as if she were seeing a ghost.

“I’m new here …” I mumbled. “Is there anything left to eat?”

Dishevelled from sleep, my army boots unlaced, clad in a mixture of secular and religious clothing, my head uncovered, I made a startling impression on her, but she recovered her composure and set a place for me at one of the tables. She brought a big spoon, a dish and slices of bread, discreetly and without a word laid a black skullcap beside them, and then she brought in a dish of thick, oily soup, full of vegetables, dumplings and pieces of meat, a hot, spicy mixture. My first proper meal for two whole weeks. The pungent spices brought tears to my eyes. The soup was delicious. At the other end of the room she carried on with her work, stealing furtive glances at me. She came and took the empty dish and refilled it, smiling pleasantly to herself at my effusive thanks. A good-looking woman, so far as it was possible to tell. Only her hands and face were uncovered.

At last I stood up unsteadily, left the table without saying grace and groped my way back to my bed. Entering the room I was surprised to find that the Old City, which had been in darkness when I went out, was now all lit up. And in the yeshiva as well, shutters were opening one after another and lights were appearing.

Excited voices talking about a cease-fire, students appearing from every side, shirts unbuttoned, milling about noisily in the courtyard, as if a battle has just ended. It seems I was hasty in my flight. The war is over.

A sort of inner peace descends on me. I take off my clothes, strip back the bed, gather together all the blankets from the other bed and wrap myself up tightly. I’m ill, a mighty pain hammering in my head.

For two weeks I lay in bed with a strange disease. High temperature, aching head and inflammation of the intestines. Cowpox was the diagnosis of the doctor who treated me. Apparently I’d caught it from some cow shit on the beach. They tended me with great devotion, even though I was a stranger and a puzzle to them. One day they were thinking of transferring me to a hospital, but I asked to be allowed to stay with them. They granted my request, even though I caused them a lot of trouble and considerable expenditure on medical fees. At night, youths studying Torah and reading the psalms kept watch at my bedside.

It was the illness that smoothed the transition from secular life to life with them, that took away the need for superfluous questions. Physical contact with the hands that fed me, that smoothed the bedclothes beneath me, made them all more human for me. And after two weeks, when I rose from my bed, weak but well, my beard thick and matted, I became one of them without too many formalities. They gave me another set of black clothes, old but in good condition, pyjamas and some underwear. They showed me how to use the prayer book, taught me two or three chapters of the Mishna. Meanwhile they had keys cut for the Morris. I observed how efficient they were, how well organized, how disciplined.

And so it was that I became the driver for the yeshiva, in particular the driver for the old rabbi who’d taken me in on the first day. I used to deliver oil for memorial lamps to synagogues, take little orphans with long side curls to pray at the Western Wall, drive a mohel to circumcise the son of a pious family in one of the new suburbs, or join the long, slow-moving funeral cortege of some eminent rabbi whose body had been brought from overseas. Occasionally I’d make the drive to the coast, to the airport, with an emissary going abroad to raise funds. Sometimes, late at night, driving quietly and with dimmed lights, I was chauffeur to zealots sticking up posters and daubing slogans against licentiousness and frivolity.

I got to know all their little ways. They lived a life apart in the land, in their closed order. Sometimes I wondered if they obtained even their electricity and water from private, kosher power stations, reserved for them exclusively.

I settled down well among them. They knew as well as I did that at any moment I might leave and disappear just as suddenly as I’d come. In spite of this they treated me with affection and didn’t question what they didn’t understand. They never gave me money, even petrol I used to buy with coupons that they provided. Otherwise they supplied all my needs. They washed and mended my clothes, they gave me more suitable shoes to replace my army boots. And above all I had plenty of food. The same oily soup that I’d enjoyed so much the first evening was served to me every night without exception, though not always by the same woman. The women took turns serving the yeshiva students.

And gradually my side curls grew. Not that I made any special effort, they just grew of their own accord. The barber who came every month to cut the students’ hair used to cut mine as well, but he didn’t dare touch the curls. At first I used to hide them behind my ears but eventually I abandoned this too. I used to look in the mirror and see to my surprise how much I was beginning to resemble them. They too were aware of this and it was pleasant to see that they were gratified.

But only so far. No farther. They had no success with me in deeper, spiritual matters. I didn’t believe in God, and all their observances seemed pointless to me. The amazing thing was that they were well aware of this, but they put no pressure on me and cherished no false hopes. In the early days I used to ask them questions that shocked them and turned their faces pale. But I didn’t want to upset them and I began keeping my thoughts to myself.

I used to avoid morning prayers somehow or other. But I’d attend evening prayers, the prayer book open in my hands, my lips moving, watching them swaying and groaning, and sometimes as the sun went down they’d beat their breasts as if in pain or yearning for something, the devil knows what, exile perhaps, or the Messiah. And yet they couldn’t be called unhappy, far from it. No, they were free men, exempt from military service and affairs of the state, making their way with dignity through a united Jerusalem, looking down with scorn and strangeness on the secular people, who constituted for them a kind of framework and a means.

The winter was already at its height, and there was a lot of work to be done. The old rabbi was always rushing from place to place, he was lucky to have a car and a chauffeur at his service. I used to drive him from place to place, to deliver sermons, to mourn at funerals, to visit the sick or to meet members of his flock at the airport. Moving around Old and New Jerusalem, from west to east, north to south, I got to know all its nooks and crannies, growing ever more attached to this strange wonderful city, of which I still hadn’t yet had my fill.

When I drove him to some yeshiva to deliver a sermon, I wouldn’t stay to listen to him. I never could understand what he was getting at, he always seemed to me to be caught up in imaginary problems. I’d go back to the car and drive to a place of which I was growing increasingly fond, above Mount Scopus, near the church of Tora-Malka. From there not only was the entire city visible, but also the desert horizon and the Dead Sea. From there I could see all, perfectly.

I’d sit in the little car, still marked by the handprints of the Bedouin from Rafah, rain lashing the roof, flicking idly through Hamodia, a newspaper that was always finding its way into the car, as it was provided free by the yeshiva. And through partisan, religious eyes I learned of outbreaks of fighting, prolonged exchanges of fire, precarious truces, weeping and mourning, anger and arguments, as if the war that was over was still festering and fomenting and from its rotting remains a new war was emerging.

If so, what’s the rush –

At last the rain would stop, the skies would clear. I’d throw down the newspaper and leave the car, strolling by the wall of the church, between the puddles, through a cypress grove, the black hat from the desert tilted back on my head, tassels stirring in the breeze. Watching the scraps of fog drifting across the city, bowing slightly to the Arabs watching me from the dark interiors of their shops. I’d noticed that they showed less hostility towards us, the Jews in black, as if we were more naturally a part of their landscape, or maybe just less dangerous.

Bells ringing, monks hurrying by, nodding their heads in greeting. I too, so they think, am a servant of God, in my own way.

Arab children following in my footsteps, amused at the sight of the figure dressed in black. Silence all around. At my feet the grey, wet city. The black car lying at the roadside like a faithful dog.

So why should I make a move? Where should I go? To the ginger-haired girl, who has the list of equipment for which I signed and which I threw away in the desert? To the officer, still no doubt searching for me furiously? To my grandmother, lying in a coma? (Once I called the hospital to hear of any change in her condition.) Or perhaps to you? To hide in your house, not as a lover but as one of the family, living on your charity, a slave to mounting desires.

Yes, desire has not died. There have been some hard days. I haven’t ignored the stealthy glances of the girls of the community. I know that I have only to give a hint to the old rabbi and he’ll arrange a marriage for me. They’re waiting only for a clear sign on my part that I’ve linked my fate to theirs. But this sign I still withhold.

NA’IM

I’m getting out. I tell you I’ve had enough. I can’t take it any more. I’m splitting. Leaving me the whole morning with a tow truck in a gas station and running off to Jerusalem. What am I, a dog? No work no hours no life. He’s stuck me with an old woman who’s dying and when she dies they’ll say I killed her. It’s no good. I’m only a kid and he’s made a loner out of me. A real loner.

At eleven o’clock Hamid arrives and finds me curled up in the back of the truck. Even the great silent one takes pity on me.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with me?”

“Why are you lying here like this?”

“What else can I do?”

“Where is he?”

“Gone to Jerusalem.”

“Why?”

“Just like that … he’s off his rocker.”

But Hamid won’t hear a word said against his boss.

“Have you started towing again?”

“Don’t know … this is the car of a friend of his … an old man who ran into a tree.”

Hamid looks at the car hanging there, checks the cables.

“Who fixed it like this?”

“I did.”

He doesn’t say anything, just operates the winch and lowers the car to the ground, unties the cables.

“What’s this?” I ask angrily. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It won’t hold like this.”

He works in silence, on his own. Thin and dark, looking for other ways to fix it. I stand and watch him like Adam watched me. Stubborn Arab.

In the end he finishes, we climb aboard and head north.

“What’s new in the village?” I ask.

“Nothing …”

“How’s Father?”

“All right.”

“Tell him I may be coming back to the village.”

“What will you do there?”

“Nothing …”

He doesn’t look at me, driving sort of dryly, easily, changing gears so quietly you’d think it was an automatic. There’s no mechanic like him.

“Is Father angry that I’m not sending him any money?”

“Don’t know …”

By the time I’ve dragged an answer out of him I’ll be dead.

Now and then I see him looking at me suspiciously, like he’s angry.

“What is it?”

Suddenly he says, “Why don’t you get a haircut?”

“This is how they all go around now.”

“All who? Only the Jews …”

“Arabs too …”

“The crazy ones maybe …”

“Why all the fuss?”

But he doesn’t answer. We drive into Haifa, I ask him to drop me off at the old woman’s house.

“You’re still living with her?”

“Yes.”

He smiles a nasty smile to himself, puts me down at the corner of the street and goes on to the garage.

I go up the stairs, ring the bell because she’s never given me a key. Is she asleep? Impossible, she’s always up waiting for me. I knock hard. No answer. Suddenly I get worried and start kicking the door. Silence. The neighbour comes out and looks at me, I want to ask her something but she closes the door straightaway. I start to get really nervous. Going down and seeing the windows open, up again, knocking, going down.

I start walking in the crowded street, beside the stalls in the market, tired and worried. Maybe she really is dead. I look up, maybe she’ll appear at the window. I must get into the house, into my room, sleep in my bed. I cross the street, go into the house opposite. And from the stairs I try to get a glimpse inside the old woman’s apartment. The windows are wide open, the curtains moving slightly in the breeze. There’s my room, the bed all messed up like I left it at night and on the chair in the living room I see her sitting … and from where I’m standing on the other side of the street it looks like she’s smiling to herself, or I’m so tired I’m seeing things.

I’m going nuts, I cross the street in a hurry, run up the stairs and knock, screaming out, “It’s me, Na’im, open up,” but the door doesn’t open.

I’m in the street again, pacing about nervously, and suddenly I decide to climb up the drain pipe, like that night when we broke in the first time. I look at the people around me but nobody’s interested. I get a grip on the stones, on the drain pipe, and start climbing, exactly the same route as before, looking down all the time to see if anybody’s shouting at me, raising the alarm, but people aren’t interested, they don’t care about me breaking into a house in broad daylight, and I’m already at the window, jumping inside. I find her sitting in the chair, very white, she really is smiling a bit, a frozen sort of smile, like she’s been crying. Dead, I think and I tremble. I take a sheet and put it over her like I’ve seen them do in movies. I go to the kitchen, drink some water to steady myself, decide to take another look, pull away the sheet, touch her hand, it’s very cold. But something moves in her eyes, the pupils. She gives a little groan. I talk to her but she doesn’t answer.

She’s lost the consciousness that she found –

I’m getting really desperate, sometimes I forget I’m only fifteen years old. Putting me here to look after a dying old woman a hundred years old. What is this? Where’s the justice in it? Going off to Jerusalem like that. I must get away from all this. I’m getting out. I’ve been thinking about this all day but nobody listens. I go to my room, almost running, start to pack my things, stuffing the suitcase with the clothes she gave me. I go to the kitchen, something’s cooking on the stove, burned to a cinder. I try a bit of it, because it’s burned it tastes good. I scrape it out of the pan and eat the lot, burning my mouth. I go back to the old woman and she really is looking at me, watching me, I try talking to her again, in Arabic this time, she moves her head a bit like she understands but she doesn’t say anything … she’s lost her voice.

I phone the garage and ask about Adam. They don’t know anything. I phone his house, no answer. I go to my room and close the door. I’m afraid. God, I must get out of here but where can I go? I’m so tired, a final nap at least. I close the shutters, get into bed with my clothes on and go right to sleep. I wake up and it’s night already, eleven o’clock. I’ve slept ten hours straight.

I go into the living room. She’s still sitting there, looking just the same. Somebody’s pushed today’s Ma’ariv under the door. I’m off, I’m going. There’s a poem I learned once, I can’t remember how it goes, just the first line — “Son of man, go flee.” I’ve forgotten the poet’s name.

I phone Adam’s house. His wife answers. He isn’t back from Jerusalem yet. She’s expecting a call too. I tell her about the old woman and she says, “Don’t leave her” — she’s handing out orders too — “when Adam arrives we’ll come over right away… we may have found her grandson …”

I go back to the old woman, sit beside her, talk to her, pick up Ma’ariv and read her something about a terrorist attack, maybe that’ll revive her.

This is crazy. All night I stay awake. She’s breathing, alive, even smiling at me, understanding what I’m reading, looking at me, watching me. I go to the kitchen and bring some bread, stuff it into her mouth so she won’t die of hunger. But the bread won’t go into her mouth.

In the end she’ll choke and they’ll say I strangled her … It’s light outside, morning. I must escape from here. I’m leaving, that’s what I’ve been trying to say all day but nobody listens.

DAFI

“Dafi, my dear, it’s you, you’re still awake, be so good as to wake your father. I must speak to him. My car is embracing a tree … ha … ha …” I’m in the school playground, in the morning, with a bunch of children from my class and other classes, standing there imitating the old fox with his soft, oily voice. And they’re all delighted to hear about the accident, they don’t get any free time out of it, because he doesn’t teach anyway, but if he’s out of the way for a while it’ll add to the general freedom, go nicely with the disorder of the school year’s end.

So everybody’s surprised to see him arriving in a taxi during the second break, his head bandaged it’s true, his face scratched, limping a bit but quite lucid, bossy as usual and giving out orders, coming in at the main gate, walking slowly and painfully, collaring children on the way and telling them to pick up shells, paper, chalk, clearing the path in front of him. Sure that the school will collapse if he doesn’t turn up.

But the silly fool was too embarrassed to walk around the corridors during the break or to go pestering the teachers in the staff room, he shut himself up in his room, and because after his adventure during the night all he could think about was me, he sent his secretary to fetch me in the middle of the third class.

It was a literature lesson, one of the last of the year. We were reading Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. We weren’t studying it, or interpreting it, just reading it around the class, each of us taking a part. It was great. I was reading the part of Solveig. Not a very big part but very significant. It was quiet in the classroom, we were really enjoying the reading even though we didn’t understand it all. And suddenly the poor unfortunate secretary came into the room and spoiled it all. I was just in the middle of reading:

Winter shall surely turn and spring shall follow

And summer shall pass away too and autumn in turn

But I know, one day you will return to your home

And I shall wait for you.

And suddenly she came in.

“The headmaster wants to see Dafna.”

The literature teacher was annoyed and asked if it couldn’t wait till after the lesson.

But the secretary said, “I think not …”

She knows her boss –

And I understood — the time of departure has come.

Today of all days, the morning after Daddy went to his rescue in the night, just now when Daddy’s repairing his car. Just a few days before the end of the school year. I closed the book.

The secretary said, “Bring your satchel with you, please.”

The teacher was surprised. “Why?”

He knew nothing.

I felt suddenly desperate, alone. There was a murmur in the class, they realized what was going to happen to me. But nobody moved.

I walk down the empty corridors following the little secretary, knocking at his door, going in, standing at a safe distance from him, the satchel lying at my feet. He’s bent over his papers, his head wrapped in a white turban. A strange man. Why did he have to come to school today?

Silence –

I stand there in front of him but he ignores me, rummaging among his papers, reading something, screwing up a piece of paper into a little ball and throwing it into the basket.

“How are you?” I say almost inaudibly.

After all we were in contact during the night –

He’s startled by the question, looks up at me, his eyes bright, smiling a thin smile, the bastard, nodding his head slowly, somehow he can’t believe I’m really concerned about his health.

“We were sure you wouldn’t be coming to school today,” I add boldly. What do I care?

“Perhaps you hoped I wouldn’t be coming …”

“No … what an idea …”

He lets out a quiet little laugh. It looks like it really amuses him to think how unpopular he is here.

Silence –

Oh hell, what does he want? I notice they’ve sprinkled a sort of disgusting yellowish powder on the cuts on his cheek.

And then quietly, in that soft sickly voice of his, he starts lecturing me about my crime. A public insult to a young teacher who ought to be respected all the more … saying to him “Why weren’t you killed?” A disgrace … in a land where people are being killed all the time … an unnecessary, unprovoked attack … the teaching committee is shocked (what teaching committee?) … quite out of the question for me to remain in this group … especially seeing that my achievements so far have been so poor … no alternative but to transfer me to another school … a technical school … cooking or needlework … there’s no need for everybody to be a professor in this land …

After a sermon lasting a quarter of an hour the old devil comes to the point at last — since there are only a few days left before the end of the school year, and this business has gone on quite long enough … and there’s a suspicion that all this has come about as a result of there being close relatives in the school … and the injured party is seeking damages … therefore an immediate, even a symbolic, expulsion is essential, otherwise the whole business will lose its point … it will look as if I’m simply leaving…

He mumbles towards the end, a bit embarrassed, still not daring to look at me in the face.

Throwing me out just a few days before the end of the year –

“Of course, there will be a report,” he adds.

To hell with the report. Tears rise in my throat but I hold them back … I mustn’t cry, mustn’t cry.

“When must I leave the school?” I ask quietly.

He still doesn’t look at me straight.

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, from this moment.”

An icy chill in my heart. I stare at him with all my strength. Goodbye, Solveig. But no pleading, mustn’t demean myself. I pick up the satchel, walk up to his desk, deciding to change the subject.

“Did my father arrive to rescue you in the end?”

This time he’s taken aback, he blushes, recoiling.

“Yes, your father is a wonderful man … a quiet man … he helped me a lot …”

“And your car was pretty well smashed up?”

“What?”

“Anyone killed?”

“What? What are you saying? Enough!”

He’s almost shouting.

“Then you can have this …”

And I hurl the satchel down on his desk and hurry out of the room, seeing the secretary sitting there, all attention, and in a corner, somehow I didn’t notice him before, little fat Baby Face blushing bright red. I run to the gate and away from the school, the bell ringing behind me. I don’t want to see anybody. I stop a taxi and say to the driver, a fat man with a funny yellow beret on his head, “Drive to the university, or rather, above the university.”

And he’s a bit dumb, a new immigrant from Russia, he doesn’t know the way, I have to explain it to him. We go up and up, to the top of the mountain, driving along little forest tracks. I stop the car, get out, walk among the pines, crying a bit. The driver stares at me. In a moment he’ll start crying too. I go back to him, give him fifty pounds and ask him to return here at four.

“Yes, madam,” he says.

Madam –

I stay in the woods for a long time. Lying down on the dry ground and getting up again, walking about and going back to the little road. My eyes already dry, relaxed, just beginning to feel hungry, forgetting the headmaster, the school, Peer Gynt, Daddy and Mommy, and just thinking about food. At a quarter to four the taxi arrives. Unbelievable. The fat, bald driver stands waiting, quietly cleaning the front windscreen. He sees me running to him through the trees, laughs, smiles at me.

At four-thirty I’m already home. The satchel lies there beside the front door. Mommy’s very tense.

“Where have you been?”

“Just walking about …”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been expelled from school.”

“I know … they told me. Where have you been?”

“Just walking, I cried a bit … but it’s over now … I’ve calmed down.”

“Tali and Osnat were here.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That they should leave you alone today.”

“Good. You did the right thing.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“No … nothing … I’m awfully hungry.”

“Then come and sit down.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“In Jerusalem.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“He went straight there … it seems he’s getting close to him…”

“Close to whom?”

“Him …”

Ah … that’s why she’s so tense. The light in her eyes. An ageing woman. I feel empty and depressed.

I sit down to eat, she cooks french fries and meatballs, these are the things she cooks best. I eat and eat, a sort of lunch and supper combined. She walks about nervously. Every time the phone rings she rushes to it. But it’s always friends of mine, expressing sympathy, and Mommy answers for me, I don’t mind.

“Dafi’s not at home, she’ll be back later, phone tomorrow. I’ll give her the message.” My secretary. And I go on eating and eating, chocolate pudding and fruit cake, with Mommy all the time reporting the phone calls to me, surprised herself at this show of solidarity from the children in the class.

At nine o’clock I run a hot bath, lie down in the bubbly water and sing to myself. Going to bed, finding the satchel already in my bedroom, it’s been following me around all day, without me touching it. I open it, take out Peer Gynt, open the book at the place where I was interrupted and quietly go on reading to myself:

And I put out the light –

Mommy’s still pacing, wandering around the house, after a while she goes to bed, but she can’t sleep, I’m an expert on insomnia, she tosses about in her bed, gets up to go to the bathroom, comes back, the light goes on and off. At eleven o’clock the phone suddenly rings, but it isn’t Daddy. Sounds like it’s Na’im. They’re talking about the old lady, Mommy’s asking him not to leave her, since it’s possible Gabriel’s been found, he should stay put till Daddy gets back from Jerusalem.

I’m already hearing this through a dream. Asleep and not asleep, but I don’t get out of bed. A whole night passes in sleep and short wakings and then sleep again.

Early in the morning the phone rings again … Mommy’s talking, a few minutes later she’s standing by my bed, already dressed, talking to me. She’s going to Jerusalem, I must phone the headmaster and tell him she won’t be coming to school today. I nod my head and go back to sleep. Waking up at eight. The house is empty. I get up, pull down all the blinds, take the phone off the hook. No school, no parents, no nothing … I go back to bed and sleep again. Sleep has come back to me. Good morning.

ADAM

This slow movement. It seems to me I’m hearing soft music. I just begin walking slowly to get him away from there and he trails along behind me, his hat slung back, talking and telling his story, and I’m still afraid he may suddenly pick up his heels and run. I keep close to him, touching his shoulder lightly and leading him away. Full daylight already, in the streets people hurrying to pray. More than anything I’m careful not to scare him. Three children trail along behind us, disappointed, anxious about the morning trip that’s been interrupted, but it’s as if he’s forgotten them, carried away by the current of his words, and already we’re outside the religious quarter, walking through the New City, in old Mamilla Street, beside the ancient Muslim cemetery, and the children are afraid to leave their quarter, they stop and call out to him and he waves his hand to shake them off — “Later, not now” — and he walks on with me.

And now I start telling him about my search for him, about the army authorities who knew nothing about him, still not saying a word about the grandmother who came to life, not mentioning Asya by name. Telling him only about my wanderings at night in search of him. And he listens to these stories with great enjoyment, smiling to himself, his eyes bright, laying a hand on my shoulder as he follows me along.

We pass by the King David Hotel, carry on through the gardens of the YMCA, going down a little side street to the Hotel Moriah, and through the big windows I see the tables being laid for breakfast. A faint smell of coffee and toast. We stand beside the main entrance, by a glass revolving door. I say to him:

“But your grandmother has recovered in the meantime … she has come home …”

He clutches at the wall, almost collapsing, bursts out laughing.

“And I was in such a hurry to get back … that silly legacy…”

Through the door comes the sound of soft music, light morning music. I touch his arm.

“Come inside, let’s have something to drink.”

“They won’t let us in.”

And the doorman really does stop us — two odd-looking creatures, not fit for such a smart hotel, a religious Jew dressed in black with side curls and a beard, wearing sneakers, and a heavily built labourer in dirty overalls. I take out a hundred-pound note and give it to the doorman. “We only want a light breakfast.” He takes the note eagerly, leads us in by a side entrance, calls the head waiter, who comes hurrying towards us, hastily takes another bill that I offer him and without a word leads us to an ornate little room with soft carpets and closes the door on us.

This breakfast costs me three hundred pounds but I stopped thinking about money long ago. He claims that he isn’t hungry and I don’t press him to eat. Sitting beside me, chewing his side curls and watching me gobbling up the fresh little rolls, gulping down cup after cup of coffee. Absently he puts out his hand and starts picking up the crumbs from the table cloth, playing with them.

“What is this fist?” I ask.

“The seventeenth of Tammuz, the destruction of the Wall.”

“But they built it again.” I point through the curtain at the grey wall of the Old City.

He doesn’t even look, just smiles uneasily.

“Not that wall …”

“And is that why you’re not eating?”

He smiles, that weak enchanting smile of his, shrugs his shoulders, mumbles something about not being hungry. And suddenly he starts taking an interest in Asya, at last, I was thinking he’d forgotten her. Asking how she’s been getting on during the time he’s been missing, and cautiously I tell him about her work, about her longings, he listens, his eyes closed.

“But how did you find me?”

I put down on the table the crumpled piece of blue metal, it’s been handled so much it’s going soft. I tell him about the accident.

He remembers the accident. He smiles. That old man nearly killed him –

On the other side of the fence, behind his back, to my surprise I see the three little orthodox children peeping through the bushes, waving their hands, calling out, throwing gravel at the windowpane. I get up quickly, go to the main entrance, find the doorman, give him fifty pounds and tell him about the little nuisances. From the lobby I phone home. It’s six o’clock. The ringing’s hardly begun and Asya picks up the receiver. I tell her what’s happened, she decides to come at once. I go back to the little room and find him munching the half roll that I left. At once I order another breakfast. On the other side of the fence, the doorman collars one of the boys, snatches his hat, takes care of him cruelly.

He gulps down his coffee, eats two soft-boiled eggs.

“And I thought you’d given me up …”

And suddenly I realize, he’s clinging to me just as much as I am to him, he’s afraid I may take him back there. I rush out to the desk, order a room, again handing out money, needlessly, to the waiters and the doorman. I go back to the little room to fetch him. He’s already devoured the lot, as if he’s been fasting for days, he’s licked out the butter dish and the little pots of jam, there are yellow egg stains on his beard. I lead him out, passing through the lobby that’s crowded with American tourists who stare at us curiously, following us with their smiles. The head waiter shows us into a room on the third floor. Gabriel flings himself down in one of the armchairs, sighing with relief.

“I’m escaping again … like before, in the desert …”

Through the window an impressive view of the Old City. The furniture is upholstered in a pleasant shade of grey, the carpets are grey, the curtains grey. He takes off his black frock, removes his shoes, starts walking about in his socks, goes into the bathroom, washes his hands, dries them on a scented paper towel, he turns on the radio and music swamps us.

“What a wonderful room.”

I ask him if I should fetch the possessions that he left behind at the yeshiva. He shrugs his shoulders, there’s nothing of any value.

“But the car …”

Oh, he’d almost forgotten it. He hands me the keys, better not to go himself, he couldn’t stand their disappointment and sorrow.

He strips off his shirt, picks up a magazine and starts leafing through it, looking at the pictures.

I lock the door on him, go downstairs in a hurry and return to the quarter, getting a bit lost on the way but finally arriving in the courtyard of the yeshiva.

The children rush at me.

“Mister, where have you taken him?”

But I don’t answer, I get into the car and try to start the engine. The battery’s very weak, the engine coughs loudly.

The children call to some students who surround the car at once.

“Where are you going, mister? Where do you want to take the car?”

At last I succeed in starting the engine, I must have been a bit flustered. I don’t say anything, but my silence only adds to the anger around me. They take hold of the car and won’t let it move. I’d have thought that as they were fasting they’d have no strength, but the hunger only increases their vigour. The car won’t budge, although I put it into gear and press the pedal hard.

An old man comes out to see what’s happening. They tell him something in Yiddish.

“Where is he?” he asks me.

“He’s a free man,” I reply. “He doesn’t owe anybody anything.”

The old man smiles.

“What is a free man?”

To hell with it, I say nothing.

Meanwhile three students get into the car and sit in the back. A crowd gathers around us. I switch off the engine, get out, to hell with the car, why fight over it, I put the keys away in my pocket, let them tear the bloody thing apart.

The old man still stands there watching me.

“Tell me, sir, what do you mean, a free man?”

I say nothing. Tired and worn out. Almost on the brink of tears. A man of forty-six. What’s happening to me?

“Do you, sir, consider yourself a free man?”

Theological arguments now –

I open the door of the car and find the registration certificate, show him that it’s signed in the old lady’s name, explain that I must take the car back to its owner.

One of the students takes the licence, glances at it, whispers something in the old man’s ear.

“So the gentleman wishes to take the automobile, let him take it, only let him not say that there is one free man in the world.”

I stare at him, nodding my head as if hypnotized, take the licence and get into the car. The students idly leave the back seat, the way is open. I drive away from the quarter, arrive at the hotel, leaving the car in the parking lot. I enter the hotel, standing at the desk I see Asya, distraught, the reception clerk knows nothing.

When she sees me alone she goes pale.

“Where is he?”

I take her by the arm. She trembles, light to my touch. We climb the stairs to the room, she leans on me. I take out the key and open the door, curious to see if he’s still here or if he’s already flown away through the window.

NA’IM — DAFI

I know there’s nobody in the house but I ring the doorbell anyway wait ring again wait ring for the last time and there’s no answer. Ring for the very last time and still no answer, knock a few times, no answer. I put the key in the lock, one last ring and I open the door. The house is dark, all the blinds closed like they’ve all gone out and they’re not coming back for a long time. I’ll write him a note and go. First let’s just go to her room, have a look at it, lie down for a while on the beloved bed, and go …

There’s a ring at the door. Who can it be? Another ring. I don’t feel like getting up. If it’s the postman he can use the letter box. Another ring. He’s persistent. Now he’s knocking. Maybe I ought to get up. Suddenly it sounds like somebody trying to put a key in the lock … A short ring and the door opens. Who is it? Somebody walking into the house. Light footsteps. A thief in the morning? Now he’s coming straight into my room. Oh, help …

But there is somebody here … Dafi lying in bed in a dark room. Her head on the pillow, her blond hair all over the place. She’s alone in the house. Too late to run away.

“It’s only me …” I mumble. “I didn’t think there was anyone at home. Are you sick?”

But it’s only Na’im. So what? Daddy’s given him a key to the house. He’s surprised to find me here. The sweet little Palestinian Problem blushes, says hurriedly, stammering:

“It’s only me … I didn’t think there was anyone at home. Are you sick?”

“No, I’m not sick … just lying down … did Daddy send you to fetch something?”

“Yes … no … not exactly. I’m looking for him … hasn’t he come back from Jerusalem yet?”

“No … why?”

“I wanted to tell him something.”

“Tell me.”

“No, I’m not sick …” She goes all red, wrapping herself up tight in the blanket, maybe she’s naked underneath. “Just lying down … did Daddy send you to fetch something?”

What can I say? They’re sure to find out about the key and then I’m fucked.

“Yes …”

But she’ll find out in the end that it’s a lie.

“No … not exactly… I’m looking for him … hasn’t he come back from Jerusalem yet?”

“No … why?”

“I wanted to tell him something.”

“Tell me.”

She smiles such a sweet smile.

What can I say to her? Lying there in those flowery pyjamas. What can I say to her? I love you. I’ve always loved you …

“The old woman’s dying … and I came here to say I’m resigning …”

“Resigning from what?”

“I’m resigning from the job … I’ve got no strength left …”

“Strength for what?” She smiles with disdain.

All these cursed questions –

“Strength to look after her. She’s really dying.”

“I thought she was looking after you … that’s what Daddy said …”

“What’s that? It isn’t true …”

That really annoys me. And suddenly I feel all weak. My breath stops short. Her feet are peeping out from under the blanket, she sits up a bit … her blouse is open … no bra … I see something soft and white, her feet disappear again … I start to shake inside … I shall kill her …

How serious he is, this boy, you could die. Blushing all the time. Anyway he’s changed an awful lot. That thick mane of curly hair and those clothes. Who bought them for him? Glaring at me so fiercely you’d think he wanted to kill me. Staring at me, studying me, those hot Arab eyes, something a bit foggy about them. I just hope he doesn’t run away suddenly.

“The old woman’s dying … and I came here to say I’m resigning …”

What a crisis. The Prime Minister’s resigning.

“Resigning from what?”

“I’m resigning from the job … I’ve no strength left …”

Strength for what? You’d think he’d been working hard lately. He’s funny, and so serious and grim. I wish he’d give me just a little smile.

“Strength for what?” I smile at him.

It’s obvious these questions are annoying him, but what can I do, otherwise he’ll run away from here.

“Strength to look after her.”

The swine! He’s looking after her? And Daddy said she was looking after him, she was in love with him.

“I thought she was looking after you.”

Now he really gets mad. I’ve offended him.

“What’s that? It isn’t true …”

I sit up in bed. His eyes are blazing. That voice of his, a bit hoarse, that cute accent. He’ll catch fire in a moment. The poor schmuck is in love with me, I know. But he’s worried about his pride, their famous pride. I must hold him, get his rocks off before he goes.

“Why don’t you sit down for a bit, if you’ve got time. You can resign later.”

A smile at last. He looks around for somewhere to sit, but the only chair’s covered in clothes. He comes to the bed and sits on the edge. Something warm and solid in the distance.

Silence. I watch him all the time. He sits there, his head bowed, trying to think of something to say.

“School finished already?” he asks suddenly.

“For me.”

She doesn’t understand anything. She never will understand. What’s hurting me. How lonely I am. With her mother and father in this lovely house. Lying there in bed with no worries. What does she know about anything? And suddenly she smiles at me, a long, nice sort of smile. I love her more and more. Maybe there’s hope after all.

“Why don’t you sit down for a bit, if you’ve got time. You can resign later.”

So sweet –

I look for a place to sit. The chair beside the table is covered in clothes, a blouse, a little bra, underwear, things I don’t know anything about. In the end I decide to sit on the bed, I sit on the edge, feeling her legs move, something warm and soft. I stare at the floor, at her slippers that I wore once, they’ve got a bit tattered since then. She’s looking at me all the time and smiling. What does she want? She’d better stop smiling like that or I’ll kiss her so hard she’ll be sorry. What’s she doing? Her legs move underneath me. It’s quiet. So quiet.

“School finished already?” I ask her, to keep the conversation going.

“For me,” she says, still smiling. “They expelled me!”

“What? They expelled you?”

“You heard me. I insulted one of the teachers and the headmaster expelled me.”

“How did you insult him?”

And she tells me what happened. Very strange. She’s really a bit unbalanced. I’ve noticed it before.

“Why didn’t you say you were sorry?”

“I was crazy.”

The warmth that she gives off. Her flushed face. This smooth skin. Tits, yes, real tits, little ones, peeping out through her sleeve. I must be strong, not give up. The time has come, the main thing is not to lose the conversation. Suppose I just take her and kiss her. What could happen? Anyway I’ve already resigned.

“They expelled me,” I say and he’s astonished, doesn’t believe it.

“What? They expelled you?”

“You heard me. I insulted one of the teachers and the headmaster expelled me.”

And I tell him about it, the whole story from beginning to end, and he listens with such concern, as if I were his daughter, trying to understand and not understanding. But suddenly I myself don’t understand why I was so obstinate. The whole business seems pointless when I describe it now.

“Why didn’t you say you were sorry?”

“I was crazy.”

And really, why not? A simple apology. That would’ve been that.

And he’s very close to me, he’s got a smell like straw. Smooth swarthy skin. All it needs is a bit of strength. Mustn’t give up now. Suppose I take him and kiss him. What could happen? He’s already resigned, hasn’t he? The main thing is not to lose the conversation. A wave of heat within, this is desire. Let him take me, embrace me, let him be strong. Suddenly I need to piss. Need it badly. “Just a moment,” I say and jump up all at once, the blanket flies off, I run to the bathroom half naked, close the door and sit down, burning inside and pissing noisily, like a cow. What a relief. What’s going to happen? Just so he doesn’t escape. I wash my face, brush my teeth and quietly, barefooted, I go back to him, finding him in the same place, sitting on the bed, thinking hard, only his head’s drooping, lying in the hollow that I left in the crumpled sheet. He doesn’t notice me coming in. He jumps up at once, blushing bright red.

“I must go.”

“Why? Wait for Daddy…”

“But he isn’t coming …”

“He’ll come … eat here, I cooked you a meal once before, was it so bad?”

I’m pleading with him.

He agrees. I put on a dressing gown and go to the kitchen, he goes into the bathroom.

I’m just about to touch her but she gets excited, jumps out of bed, scared, the blanket flies off, she runs out of the room, locks herself in the bathroom. That’s it, Arab. Go, go. Son of man go flee. Never. Say goodbye because in a moment she’ll scream. I’m desperate, I want to stand up but I can’t. The warmth of the bed that she’s left behind. This warmth at least. Here on the sheet there’s a little book — PeerGynt.I don’t know it. I’m fed up with these poems. I put it back. I can’t get up. Looking at the hollow that she’s left in the bed, in the crumpled sheet. Putting my hand there, wanting to kiss it. My prick’s burning, hard as stone, in a moment I’ll be all wet. Just get off and get out of here, that at least. I lay my head down. Must get out of here, before I make a fool of myself. But I’ve made a fool of myself already. Here she is, coming in quietly. She’s combed her hair, she looks new and fresh, her face washed. I jump up, to flee.

“I must go.”

“Why? Wait for Daddy…”

“But he isn’t coming.”

“He’ll come … have something to eat, I cooked you a meal once before, was it that bad?”

She’s desperate but she’s hoping too. She’s really pleading. “O.K.,” I agree, proudly, like I’m doing her a favour. She puts on a dressing gown and goes to the kitchen and I take Peer Gynt and go to the bathroom, a long slow piss, wetting my prick with a bit of water and giving it air and waiting for it to get back to its normal size. Meanwhile I read a bit of Peer Gynt but I don’t understand a thing. I’ve gone really dumb. Looking at the dark face in the mirror, washing my face, pressing toothpaste on my finger and brushing my teeth a bit, combing my hair, putting on a bit of scent. And thinking suddenly, maybe she’s a bit in love with me, why not?

A decadent meal. We ate in the dining room, on a white cloth and with the best china. I lit a candle in the middle of the table like I’ve seen them do in movies. And I cooked farmhouse pea soup and made a big tomato and cucumber salad, well seasoned. And I made a sauce too. And I fried four meat cutlets that were already half prepared, and I opened a tin of pineapple and put ice cream on the pineapple and pieces of chocolate on the ice cream. And then he helped me make the coffee and I brought in some nice biscuits. And he ate the lot and really liked it. And he asked me about Peer Gynt and I told him the plot, as far as we’d got in class.

And she gave me pea soup and salad and sauce and cutlets and fried potatoes and pineapple with ice cream and bits of chocolate. And I helped her to make the coffee and there were some really nice cookies. And it was all very tasty. We sat in the dining room at a table laid out like in movies, with a candle burning in the middle of the day because it was a bit dark with the shutters still closed. And I asked her about the play she was reading and she told me all about it. It was marvellous listening to her and eating the food that she’d cooked. I know I’ll never forget her to the day I die. And then there was a ring at the door and I thought — this is the end, but it wasn’t the end.

And suddenly at the end of the meal there’s a ring at the door. I go to open it and nearly drop dead. Shwartzy, large as life, still with the white bandage on his head, a bit dirty now. Smiling pleasantly, the fox, he wants to push his way inside but I hold the door, so he won’t see Na’im and the table.

“Dafi, are you sick?”

Him as well. If so many people think I’m sick maybe I really am sick.

“No … what’s up?”

“Is your mother at home?”

“No.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s gone to Jerusalem.”

“To Jerusalem? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. She went early in the morning. Daddy’s there.”

“Oh, I see. They told me at the garage that he was away yesterday and today too. Has something happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was just worried. Your mother didn’t come to school today and she didn’t send any message, this has never happened with her before. We tried to phone here and there was no answer. When did you come back?”

“I didn’t come back … I’ve been here all the time … I just left the phone off the hook.”

“Oh …” He smiles at me playfully. “Why? If I may ask …”

You may, you may –

“I just did …”

I’m out of your jurisdiction, mister, out of your power. You insisted on expelling me before the end of the school year. Now you shall pay.

But he’s still trying to get inside, pressing forwards all the time.

“I hope nothing has happened … I was really worried … didn’t she tell you to give me a message?”

“I think there was something, I remember now, it was so early in the morning …”

“What did she say?”

“That she wouldn’t be in school today.”

“Then why didn’t you phone?”

“I forgot.”

Straight to his face.

“You forgot?”

“Yes.”

Out of your jurisdiction, mister, you’re not my headmaster any longer, you can’t do anything more to me.

He doesn’t go. Astonished, red with anger. He waves his cane in the air and puts it down again.

“There’s something wrong with you … something really wrong …”

“I know.” I look at him straight in the eyes.

Silence. Why doesn’t he go? Na’im is in there listening quietly, suddenly he moves a chair.

“But there is somebody in the house.” All at once he comes to life, pushing me out of the way and storming into the house, he bursts into the dining room, sees the table with the remains of the meal, and Na’im standing there all tensed up in the corner.

“Who are you?”

‘I’m Na’im,” he replies like an idiot, as if this is his headmaster.

And Shwartzy catches hold of him, grabs his arm, the same way that he catches hold of children during break, all excited.

“I know you from somewhere … where have we met?”

“That night. When your car got smashed up. I came to tow you in …”

“Ah, you’re his assistant?”

“Yes.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for him.”

Shwartzy seems satisfied, walking about the room, examining the table and the cutlery, behaving as if he’s in school. I could shoot the man. Tears spring to my eyes.

“Tell your mother to contact me.”

I don’t answer.

“All right?”

I don’t answer.

“I’ll tell her,” Na’im chips in.

Shwartzy smiles to himself. And I nearly faint.

And she goes to open the door and I hear a familiar voice. It takes me a while to remember who it is, that old man, we towed his car in the night before last, he’s talking to Dafi at the door. And Dafi answers him rudely, again I’m impressed, she really has nerve. He asks her about her mother and father and she answers him with a lot of nerve. And the man gets really up-tight, starts talking sort of poisonously, in that soft voice of his. In the end he forces his way into the house, she’s got him really worked up. Walking about with a cane, he sees me and grabs me. I’m terrified, I don’t know why this old man with the white bandage on his head should scare me.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Na’im,” I say right away.

He catches hold of me roughly.

“I know you from somewhere … where have we met?”

He doesn’t recognize me.

“That night, when your car got smashed up. I came to tow you in.”

“Ah, you’re his assistant?”

“Yes.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for him.”

And then he walks around the room a bit, like it’s his house, taking a look at the plates on the table, smiling to himself a bit. Then he says to Dafi, “Tell your mother to contact me.”

But she doesn’t answer.

“All right?”

She still doesn’t answer. Answer for God’s sake. Why is she provoking him like this? But she doesn’t answer, and he isn’t going to budge.

“I’ll tell her,” I say, just to get rid of him.

And he went. Leaving the door wide open. I went to close it. Dafi didn’t move, standing there staring at the wall. I went to her, touched her.

“But who was that?”

And she didn’t answer, just stared at the wall, pale. He made a good job of scaring us. And suddenly she turned to me, I think she grabbed me and then I grabbed her, embraced her I mean, and then we kissed, I don’t know who was first, I think it was both of us together, at first we fumbled a bit, but then we kissed full on the mouth, with the tongue, like in movies, only in movies there’s no taste, and I tasted the coffee and the cake on her lips, and a deeper smell, and it was a long kiss and suddenly I saw that I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d die if I stayed in that kiss, and I fell on my knees and started kissing her feet, for so long I’d been wanting to do that, but she lifted me up and pulled me into the bedroom, and she was almost naked, and then she tore off my shirt and said, “Come and be my lover.”

And then Na’im came to me, miserable and broken and said, “Who was that?”

And I didn’t answer. I felt so sorry for him. The way that bastard interrogated him, and the way he co-operated, so humbly, so wretchedly. And I grabbed him because I was afraid he’d leave me and he hugged me and suddenly we were kissing, I don’t know how it happened, who was the first, I think it was both of us together. And a deep sort of kiss, like in movies, and the taste of pineapple and chocolate on his lips, sucking at my tongue. And suddenly he let go of me and fell down on his knees and started kissing my feet, like a madman. And I saw he was afraid to stand up and he wanted to stay there on his knees, so I lifted him up and he pulled me into the bedroom and opened my dressing gown and pyjama top and then I tore off his shirt so he wouldn’t still be in his clothes when I was almost naked.

It’s wonderful. Already, so quick. But is this all? I’m really doing it, God, this, this is it, this is the real thing. These little tits, like hard apples. A little girl. And that cry. What am I doing? Inside, really inside. Inside her. Just like I thought it would be but different too. Her eyes are closed. Why doesn’t she say something? This is happiness this is the highest happiness there’s nothing greater than this there couldn’t be … and then I start sighing terribly…

I said, “Come and be my lover,” because I didn’t want him to hurt me. But he did hurt me. There was no stopping him. Enough, stop now, it’s so sweet, oh God. There’s no stopping him. This is it. I’m sure I’m the first of all the girls. If only Osnat and Tali knew. That it’s good, it’s like a dream. Na’im inside me, awesome, this smooth movement. All terribly serious. And suddenly he starts to sigh, like an old man, like somebody else inside him. Sighing in Arabic … from pleasure or pain there’s no way of telling.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m just not thinking.”

“That’s impossible, you must be thinking about something.”

“Good for the old woman.”

“What about the old woman?”

“She must be dead by now.”

“How old is she?”

“Over ninety. I wish I could live that many years.”

“Did he offend you?”

“Who?”

“The headmaster …”

“That was the headmaster … No, why, what is there to be offended about? I was just scared.”

“Were you scared?”

“Yes, he really scared me …”

“When did Daddy give you the key to the house?”

“He didn’t.”

“But you had the key today.”

“It’s my key…”

“Yours?”

“I got a duplicate of the key he gave me, that time he sent me here to fetch his case … when I saw you …”

“So long ago …”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to have a key to this house.”

“But why?”

“I just did …”

“Because of me?”

“Because of you too.”

“Because of who else?”

“All right, only because of you.”

“But they can put you in jail for that.”

“Let them … Somebody’s coming into the house.”

“No!”

“Listen … people coming in …”

“Then get dressed … hurry… I’ll hide you … it’s Daddy and Mommy and I think there’s somebody else.”

ADAM

Stretched out weakly, dozing on the broad bed, his head on a heap of pillows that he’s put together, the strong light of a Jerusalem morning filling the room. The music still playing, a lively march. She clutches at me, she stumbles in the doorway. I didn’t expect her to be so shocked at the sight of his black beard, his long side curls, the tassels straggling carelessly from his clothes, and the hat of tawny fox fur that lies menacingly on the table, beside the telephone.

“What happened?” she whispers.

He opens his eyes, looking at us, still lying there, a thin smile appearing on his face, as if he’s enjoying her astonishment, as if the whole sequence of his actions has been aimed at this moment.

“How are you? Mrs. …”

And she can’t even answer, the words stick in her mouth, is she afraid that the lover is no longer a lover, that the lover has gone mad?

The love of an ageing woman –

“But why?”

He rises slowly, sitting up, still smiling with a sort of happiness.

“They wanted to kill me, I had to escape. Praise the Lord, what matters is that I’m alive.”

And he starts pacing about the room, going to the window to look at the wall of the Old City, its towers and turrets. She watches him as if every one of his movements has a deep significance. Still afraid to approach him, still nervous of him.

He notices the Morris in the parking lot.

“So they’ve given me up? Wonderful people.”

I don’t answer. Speech has deserted me. He continues pacing about the room before us, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s grown accustomed to slow, elderly movements.

“But what will happen now?”

“God willing, we shall return home. Grandmother is alive, let us bid her goodbye. Receive her blessing. Now there is no legacy, that was a dream and is no longer. Let us sit and wait. Really, why should we hurry? I have time …”

Praise the Lord, God willing, these phrases fall from his lips without a thought, naturally, or is he trying intentionally to provoke us? Walking about the big, pleasant room, at some distance from us, lightly touching the furniture, picking up an ashtray to examine it, standing in front of the mirror and studying his reflection, lightly touching his curls.

“You won’t believe it, but I’ve hardly seen myself these last few months. They don’t have mirrors.”

And he sinks into a chair.

Somebody knocks at the door. The hotel reception clerk appears, staring at us so hard you’d think we were standing there naked. He can’t quite get the words out. It’s twelve o’clock, he’s afraid, he says, we must leave the room, today some congress or other is convening here.

I’m still silent. Asya doesn’t know what to say. Gabriel stands up, taking the initiative.

“We’re leaving.”

The clerk bows to him slightly and closes the door.

A few minutes later the three of us are walking down the stairs. I go to the desk and pay a hundred and fifty pounds for the use of the room. “We don’t have hourly rates,” the clerk apologizes, but I’m not asking for such a rate, I hand over the money (my wallet has become light, crumpled, I’ve never known it so flabby). The delegates to the congress stand in a line in front of a hostess who’s sticking name tags on the lapels of their jackets. They watch the three of us curiously. Gabriel makes a great impression on them with his black clothes, his curls, the broad fur hat. A flash bulb pops, somebody has taken his picture.

We get into the Morris, I at the wheel, leaving Jerusalem at last.

A blazing hot day. The car goes slowly, thirty to forty kilometres an hour. Everything overtakes us, even little motorcycles, drivers turning to us with a friendly smile as if we’re young adventurers. The very presence of such a car on the roads deserves respect.

On the ascent to Castel the Morris starts to cough, the engine making a strange ticking noise like a rusty machine gun, a light report responds from behind. But with one leap we reach the crest of the hill. But after Sha’ar Ha’gai on the sharply winding road a long line of cars starts to trail along behind us, unable to overtake us because of the oncoming traffic. Like a little black beetle with a trail of big coloured beads. A traffic cop on a motorcycle stops us, asks us to pull over to the side to free the clogged traffic. We do as he asks. Before we return to the road he checks the documents, my mechanic’s licence reassures him.

And again a long column of traffic builds up behind us, and again we pull over to the side of the road and the line of cars breaks through.

We reach the Tel Aviv-Haifa freeway after five hours’ driving, as if we’ve come from another continent. Before Hadera we stop at a roadhouse, fill up with petrol and go inside for a meal. Curious stares follow us all the time, something in the combination of the three of us arouses great interest.

We eat. Or rather, Gabriel eats, devouring course after course, as if he has some ravenous hunger to satisfy.

We leave to continue our journey. It’s four o’clock. We stand in the parking space beside the car, looking at the sea sparkling nearby, around us the movement of people and cars. We don’t speak. All the time followed by curious stares, smiling eyes. Gabriel turns towards a little shop, souvenirs and camping equipment, we follow him, still afraid he may try to escape.

Among the objects in the display window his reflection appears.

“She’ll be shocked to see me like this …” he says as if only now he realizes the effect of his remarkable appearance.

He takes off the big fur hat, stands there bareheaded, takes off the black coat, touches his side curls.

“The time has come.”

He goes into the shop and returns with an old razor in his hand. We turn to the sea, to the beach. He sits on a big stone and Asya bends over him and cuts off his curls. Two long thin locks, shining from endless fingering. She gives them to him, he’s about to throw them away but changes his mind, finds an old tin can lying on the beach and puts them in it.

Asya feels easier, she begins to smile. He takes off his tasselled apron, folds it and puts it into the can. Asya starts trimming his beard with the rusty razor, they laugh. I walk back and forth along the shore, my head bowed before the dazzling brightness of the waves. Tired, numb, only one thought in my head, to get home.

We go back to the car. People no longer stare. We drive on for about an hour and a half, the rusty ticking stops, instead the engine begins to creak, I have no idea what’s going on inside there.

We arrive at the house. He’s decided to come in with us and phone her first, so she won’t be startled by his sudden appearance. I can see how concerned he is about her, looking forward to the meeting with excitement.

I go up the stairs first and they follow. My shoes battered, my legs like jelly, I’m encrusted with sand and oil. It’s been a long journey. The apartment is dark, on the table piles of plates and cutlery, as if there’s been a banquet. A big candlestick stands there with the flickering remains of a candle, shadows on the walls. Dafi’s dressing gown and pyjama top lie scattered on the floor. Suddenly I feel terribly afraid. Something has happened to the girl.

VEDUCHA

So now it’s the reverse the body is lost and only thought remains the hands have gone the legs have gone the face is going can’t move but I think of what I want to think knowing it all my name and my parents’ name and my grandson’s name and my daughter’s name remembering them all recalling all I was a stone a frog a thorn bush all is clear how can death come when I’m thinking with such power no pain but no feeling and I don’t want to die no no why if I’ve lived so long why not a few more years I was born in the nineteenth century sometimes I’m astonished when I remember but soon this century too will be over no pity I could have lived a little into the next century too at least the first years two thousand and one two thousand and two the fullness of light it’s all gone so fast this century so quickly a dark and fast century not like the last years of the century that went before full of sun in Jerusalem when Jerusalem was great full of fields when I was married it began to grow dark nineteen hundred already twilight.

The bastard came in through the window they aren’t as stupid as they were when the state began he thought I was already dead the little Arab he put a sheet over me lucky there was one more tear left and it fell he would have choked me little fatah animal then he tried to feed me put bread in my mouth so kind and I had a daughter and I had a grandson it’s all a disappointing dream without a true end.

No hunger no thirst no feelings I’m only thought the brain works very clear there’s even a whistling in the mind I can think of what I like but of what?

The boy has gone left fled good if he had stayed longer in the house I would have given him it all as a present terribly sweet when he reads the papers sweet and dangerous but why should he take this house?

Oh Lord of the Universe the eyes sink in darkness the cupboard before me goes black the corners turn and split farewell cupboard farewell table darkness approaches black mist quickly quickly farewell carpet farewell chair I am going and peace all around good at last I shall think in peace but of what?

The cars have gone from the road farewell bus what’s this the siren of a ship like the wail of a little cat hearing nothing seeing nothing farewell street enough street and suddenly a little bell a whistle oh the telephone is ringing like a little lamb beside me someone is calling wants me weaker and weaker not a bell but the whistle of a dying wind I know but do not hear too bad too bad about me too bad for I am dead too bad, for I am not.

ADAM

What is this? What’s going on here? Who’s here? The whole place is dark. Pulling down the blinds in the middle of the day. These new ideas. Na’im standing there in a corner dressing.

“Daddy don’t do anything to him he isn’t to blame Daddy have mercy on him.” Why’s she yelling at me like that? Dafi’s completely disturbed. I shall have to do something about her. I hardly understand what’s going on here. I’m the one who needs pity, not him. I’ve spent two mad days on the road. I go closer to see if it really is Na’im and what the hell he’s doing here and he tries to slip away or it looks as if he’s trying to, and I catch him by the shirt, the shirt that’s already torn, and he dangles in the air, either he’s very light or I’ve forgotten the strength in my arms that’ve slumbered for so many years, there was a time when I used to lift engines, turn cars over, bend steel pipes and put doors straight.

Now I just hold him for a moment in the air, by the shirt that I haven’t torn, in the dark room, and he’s sure I’m going to strangle him and he shakes all over. I’m shaking too, I’m capable of anything. And Dafi leaps up, throwing off the blanket, getting dressed, quite hysterical. I’ve never seen the girl in such a state, so aggressive. Na’im is silent, I’m silent, only Dafi speaks.

“Leave him alone, he came to say he’s resigning.”

And Na’im, still suspended in the air, repeats after her in a choking voice, “Yes, I’m resigning …”

“Resigning from what?”

“From everything … from working with you.”

I drop him on the floor. This is crazy.

“You’re not moving from here now even if you have resigned, do you hear?”

“I hear …”

“Tell me exactly what’s happened to the old lady. Where is she? I rang and there was no answer.”

He looks at me, very quiet.

“I think she’s already dead.”

“What?”

“Since yesterday she’s been paralyzed. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t answer, doesn’t eat.”

“Then why did you leave her?” I yell, suddenly I feel like stamping on him.

“But he’s resigning …”

Dafi again. I go to silence her once and for all, but she slips away.

Asya is in the doorway, looking in silence at the chaos of the darkened room, the blankets on the floor, the crumpled sheet, Dafi’s clothes. Na’im hurriedly buttons his trousers, puts on his shoes. From the living room comes the sound of the television. Gabriel is attacking civilization. Now we shall lose him again.

“What’s happened?” she asks.

“We’re going down to see the old lady, come on you …”

Gabriel’s sprawled in an armchair, he stares at the little Arab, who stares at him. We leave the house. A drizzly summer evening, the hamsin broken. I have great difficulty starting the Morris, it’s exhausted after the long journey. The battery’s almost dead. I jump out and go to Asya’s car, quickly remove her battery and throw it onto the back seat of the Morris, in case of need. Also, I think, better they shouldn’t follow us there.

Na’im curls up in the seat beside me, scared by the little black car that looks like a coffin. The sight of the tasselled apron, the fringes, the tin can with the severed side curls, the big fur hat and the other ritual objects scattered about the car, all perplex him. He’s careful not to touch them. He wants to say something but before he can open his mouth I say, “Shut up.”

We drive fast to the lower city. The gear box shakes, the engine goes on bubbling and shimmying, the whole thing’s falling apart, but I hurry on, cutting the corners, the sea on our left, the bay all green and red, a strange sick colour.

“What’s this? What’s happened to the sea?”

I’m talking to myself, he looks at the sea, he’s about to say something.

“Be quiet, it doesn’t matter …”

We go up to the old lady’s apartment. A heavy twilight. I’ve forgotten this apartment, so long since I’ve been here. We find her in the armchair in the big room, leaning forwards a bit, dead. The telephone on a little stool beside her. She’s still warm, she died just a few hours ago. I take a sheet that’s lying beside her and spread it on the floor, I say to him, “Come on, we’ll lay her on the floor,” and together we lift her. Newspapers start falling from her, scattering and drifting. Copies of Ma’ariv and Yediot Aharonot sticking to her body, she’s upholstered with newspapers. I’ve never seen such a mass of newspapers. Na’im looks at me, wants to say something, but he’s afraid.

“Well?”

“She loved newspapers …” An evil smile twists his mouth.

I pick up the phone, to pass on the news, but suddenly I change my mind and put the receiver down again. I don’t have the strength now. Let’s give her one night at least.

It’s seven o’clock, still traces of light outside, but in the room it’s dim. Na’im lights himself a cigarette, offers me one, with an adult sort of gesture, I take it, he gives me a light, I look at him, now I begin to realize what’s happened between him and Dafi. I sit in the old lady’s chair, seeking a moment’s rest.

The old lady lies there in front of me in the clear light of evening. Through the open window — the sea, endlessly changing its colours.

“Pack your belongings and bring them here,” I tell him quietly.

He goes to his room and returns with two big cases.

So, he really did mean to leave –

And with property –

We go out, closing the door behind us, leaving the old lady lying on the floor, covered with a sheet, newspapers scattered about her. For a moment it seems there’s a slight movement there, but it’s a newspaper stirring in the breeze. The Morris sinks under the weight of Na’im’s cases. The engine won’t start, but I keep on trying, playing with the accelerator. At last I get a spark and start the engine.

But what to do now?

Where to?

A grey evening in spite of the clear skies, thin smoke covering the town, a hamsin wind. We’re still stationary, the engine running, charging up the almost dead battery. Na’im sits beside me, listening to the engine. What’s he thinking? He’s a stranger really, another world, and I thought he was close to me. No, I’m not angry with him. From his point of view, why not? And anyway, what use are words, I must just get him away from here.

But where to?

“How long has this been going on with you and Dafi?”

I don’t look at him.

“Only today …”

“Did you sleep together?”

He doesn’t know … he thinks so, isn’t sure, doesn’t know … this was the first time in his life … if that’s what they call it … he isn’t sure … he thinks so …

He stammers, his voice shaking, as if he’s about to burst into tears. I remember how he stood and cried outside the bathroom.

He’s become a little lover in the course of the year –

I feel a sudden stab of pain. Must get him away from here at once.

I switch on the lights, the engine falters, coughing.

The lights are weak but I start to drive. I feel something mechanical in my movements, something perverse, I’m about to do something stupid, so I drive very slowly, very carefully.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks.

I don’t answer.

This car’s going to fall apart under me and yet I can’t bring myself to leave it. I’ve spent too much time searching for it up and down the land.

At a petrol station I fill the tank, my wallet almost empty, I’ve been spending money like water these last few days. I buy a map as well, unfold it on the wheel and calculate the distance to the border.

Lunacy, a stupid idea, to throw him across the border. And yet I drive north, passing through Acre and Nahariya, following the road north.

The night grows clearer, the headlights are dim on the narrow road. Suddenly there are searchlights, roadblocks, half-tracks, machine guns and soldiers, the frontier guard, Circassians, Druze.

“Where are you heading?”

I look at Na’im.

“Peki’in,” he says.

“You’re on the wrong road. Get out of the car!”

They search us thoroughly, everything arouses their suspicion, me, Na’im, the car, they shine their flashlights into the car, taking everything out, searching under the seats. Everything is stripped, the suitcases are opened, old clothes from generations past are scattered on the road, they’re astonished to find the big hat, they examine the tassels, the severed side curls.

“But who are you?” they almost shout.

Na’im pulls out his identity card, I search for mine.

In the end they send us back, showing us the way to the village. After half an hour, the road stops, on the hillside the dim lights of a little village.

“This is it …” he says.

I put him down.

“Go to your father’s house. Tell him you’ve finished working for me.”

And then he starts quietly weeping, explaining that he’s willing to get married, not just to be in love.

In love? What’s he talking about, the world’s gone mad. How old are they?

“In our village … at this age …” he tries to explain, the tears still flowing.

I smile.

“Go, go, tell your Ether to send you to school …”

He really does love her. He fell in love quietly and I didn’t sense it.

He starts to go, carrying the two cases. The headlights lose him, he disappears around a bend in the road, I try to turn the car but the engine goes dead. The lights fade. The battery is absolutely dead.

I take Asya’s battery, lift the hood and change the batteries, unfastening and replacing the screws with my fingers. But even now there’s no response from the engine, her battery too has gone dead these last months, I hadn’t noticed.

A smell of fields around, the sky full of stars, a broken side road. Somewhere in Galilee.

Old lives, new lives –

He will go and I shall have to start from the beginning.

My state of mind –

Standing beside a dead old car from ’47 and there’s nobody to save me.

I must look for Hamid –

But still I don’t move. Silence envelops me, deep stillness, it’s as if I’m deaf.

NA’IM

He could have killed me but he didn’t kill me, didn’t strike me, didn’t touch me he was sorry or he was afraid back home in the village I’d have bit the dust.

Great God, thank you God –

It was so sweet, only now I understand how good it was. Honey and butter to the very end and at once how wildly she kissed how she tore my shirt. Dafi Dafi Dafi Dafi I could shout your name all night and how I suddenly sighed what happened to me such shame sighing and sighing and she just gazing at me my love –

I fall at your feet –

This warm dust the smell of the village and down below a new desire awakening –

I kneel before you God –

It was so good and wonderful so good Dafi Dafi Dafi

Now to go home to the village and say to Father “I have come”

To say hello to the donkeys

What do I care if they don’t let me see her I shall remember her a thousand years I shall not forget

I miss her already –

I’ve been burned with kindness –

And he doesn’t move from there. He’s switched off the lights. From behind a fence of cactus I see him lift the hood and try to start up. Not moving … a big tired shadow … stuck …

Let him work a little, he’s forgotten how to work –

“Go back to school” he said and I’ve forgotten what school is. A good man, a good and tired man, and they got on poor Adnan’s nerves so –

It’s possible to love them and to hurt them too –

He’s stuck there he can’t do anything. But if I go back to help him he’ll attack me better to go and rouse Hamid.

The people will wonder what’s happened to Na’im that he’s suddenly so full of hope.