*
Meanwhile, in Tel Aviv they’re starting to set up the stage — pulling ropes, dragging boards, putting up lights. A Centurion tank from the armoured corps exhibition last Succoth has been left in the square. The logistics manager of the rally is on his mobile now, pleading with the army officer in charge: put it somewhere else, anywhere. But that logistics manager isn’t what he seems. He has a secret dream. He wants to write a book and then sign copies during national book week. He wants to hear his name on the loudspeakers at the shopping malclass="underline" the author is signing copies of his book at the publisher’s stall. And the queue of people will be immense. He even has an idea for a book, an exciting novel set during the War of Independence. And also a title: ‘Burma’, after the name of the road to Jerusalem paved by the fighters. But he can’t find the time to write it. The wife. The kids. This job, a bottomless pit. For instance, this peace rally on Saturday night. They say that more than a hundred thousand people will come to hear Rabin and the mayor speak, and they’re probably right. If even the smallest thing gets screwed up — if the loudspeakers squeak, if they don’t take away that Centurion tank they were supposed to pick up this week — his boss won’t hesitate to take it out on him. So it’s better to get back to work now, he tells himself. To make calls, raise walls, nail boards. And for the time being, leave his dreams on the shelf.
*
Today, out of the blue, in the middle of a lecture, I really missed you.
Lucky me.
I just wanted to get up and go straight home.
So why didn’t you?
You know …
Get up, get up, I’ll meet you at the door in my underwear.
And with a big hug too?
Sure, a big hug too. Why, did something happen at college?
Nothing special. I have days like that when Bezalel seems like one big maze and I’m the mouse, and every little conversation drains me, and I think that no one in the world loves me, no, even worse, that there’s something hard inside me that doesn’t let people love me.
What are you talking about?
It’s like a hungry tiger has its claws around my throat and won’t let go.
Yes, I know the feeling.
You do? What’s going to happen to us, we’re too much alike.
No we’re not. You’re messy and I’m organised.
How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not messy, I’m free.
Sounds like one of those soul songs, ‘I’m not messy, I’m fr-e-e-e-e-e’.
With Gidi Gov and Mazi Cohen in the background.
Accompanied by the Steve Miller Band and Singers.
The Hungry Tiger Singers.
Come here for a minute. Yes. Closer. Closer. You protect me from my tiger and I’ll protect you from yours, OK?
*
At the end of the month, the water heater exploded. No one knew yet that it was a metaphor. Someone, they didn’t know who, forgot to flip off the switch and all of a sudden, a little after one in the morning, it blew. A big boom, like a clap of thunder, but shorter. And a one-time geyser sprayed into the night air, covering the roofs and the field below with water.
Within seconds, everyone was outside. Moshe and Sima, Amir and Noa, and Yotam and his mum. (His father stayed asleep: the sound fitted right into the war he was dreaming about, the sound of an exploding bomb.)
During the first few seconds, they thought the worst (an earthquake, a Scud missile, even a terrorist bombing), but when the water began dripping from the roof, splashing on the asbestos and raising vapour, they realised it was nothing alarming. Noa went inside to turn off the switch, and her hand brushed against Sima’s, who had gone inside with the same objective in mind. Amir reassured Yotam by waving his hands and yelling: go back to sleep, kid, everything’s fine! The cats organised a meowing support group next to the washing line. Moshe Zakian stood outside, twisting a non-existent sidelock with his finger, thinking about how much money he’d have to pay. And decided to take care of it the next day.
Chorus
Sometimes we’re rap
Dissin’ each other all the time
Words, knives, nasty cracks
Listen up, yo
We do it all in rhyme.
Sometimes we’re trance
Smashin’ heads, necks, eyes
Bitin’ shoulders, asses, thighs
Night train! Take your seat!
‘Did you come?’ ‘Can you get me something to eat?’
But every time I think I know
How it’s supposed to be, all this you and me.
This you and me, hey,
The beat shifts, the disk warps
Love is a jittery deejay.
’Cause sometimes we’re blues
Playin’ in a key that’s oh so sad
Did you say something? No, did you?
We’ll talk about it tomorrow –
I’m tired too.
And sometimes we’re an Israeli folk tune
The kind that is so nice to croon
Scratch me here, stroke me there
Oh why can’t it be just this fine
All the time?
’Cause sometimes we’re Iggi Pop
or A Hard Day’s Night
Sometimes it’s rock guitars
And distortion all night
But every time I think I know
How it’s supposed to be, all this you and me
All this you and me, hey,
The beat shifts, the disk warps
Love is a jittery deejay.
The beat shifts, the disk warps
Love is a jittery deejay.
Music and lyrics: David Batsri
From the Licorice album, Love As I Explained it to My Wife,
Produced independently, 1996
2
THE DRIVE WAS actually fine. My little Lilach didn’t cry too much, she just threw up a bit on the ride down to Jericho because of the turns, but I cleaned her up with the napkins I brought with me and gave her some water to drink. On the Jordan Valley Road, she went back to smiling that smile of hers that makes her look like an angel, and Liron played quietly with his Tetris. Usually, he keeps on shoving his head between the front seats and Moshe doesn’t like that because it’s dangerous, so they argue about it the whole way, but this time, because of the Tetris, he sat close to the window and didn’t look up from the screen, not even when Moshe said, look, here’s Lake Kinneret. Too bad, Liron, you’re missing out, I told him, because it really was something to see: a giant blue pool glittered between the mountains like a mirror. I don’t believe it, he said — and for a minute, we thought he was admiring the pool — I beat my own record! I beat it! Moshe laughed and said, that’s great, kid, and my little Lilach started giving a whole speech in her own language, biddy, bodu, bu du ja. Liron, pleased with himself, finally put down the Tetris, tickled her stomach and asked, Mum, what’s bigger, the Kinneret or the sea? I said, the sea, and he asked, how do you know? I said that you can’t see where the sea ends, but you can see where the Kinneret ends, and he didn’t say anything, but looked satisfied with the answer. The four of us drove along like that, the Kinneret on our right, a whole row of kibbutzim on our left and Greek music in the middle, Moshe singing along with Poliker singing about Aleka, the poor little Greek boy who was no Alexander. I drummed the rhythm on Moshe’s knee and thought, no question about it, we have to get out of Jerusalem every once in a while, to get a breath of fresh air, especially during such a tough week when all the TV stations are talking about Rabin, may he rest in peace.