After I took his picture and saw that he wasn’t angry at me for waking him up, I put my camera down and joined him. I hugged him from behind, threaded my hand into the space between his chest and his sweater and whispered lovers’ nonsense. From the angle of his cheek, I could see that he was smiling lazily, and he reached an arm behind him to pull me closer.
On our way back to the world, on the road that wound between the Galilee hills, we started talking about maybe moving in together next year, even though he was still going to school in Tel Aviv and I was still studying in Jerusalem. How can I sleep without you? he said, and I crossed over the valley made by the handbrake that separated us and grabbed hold of his hand. We’d talked about that possibility before, but always in very general, noncommittal terms. Neither of us wanted to suggest it in so many words, as if the one to suggest it first would be responsible for making sure it didn’t fail.
*
Moments of flickering doubt in Noa:
When Amir insists on hanging that sad picture — a man who looks like Gérard Depardieu sitting on a bed in a hotel room shadowed in gloom, with something that looks like an old radio next to him, looking out at the pale moon — in the middle of the living room. ‘It’s the only thing in my life that’s permanent, the only thing that goes with me to every apartment,’ he says, checking to see that it’s hanging just so. But that picture makes her feel so low.
And the way he tidies up after her drives her up the wall. Look, she tries to explain to him, without the mess I can’t create anything at all. He nods and continues to follow her around and pick up shoes. Socks. White hairbands. Black hairbands.
And there’s another unpleasant thing: in the two weeks they’ve been living together, all the projects she had started for school have stalled. When Amir is in the apartment, she can’t concentrate on anything. Her mind is always wandering. It’s only in the shower that her thoughts flow freely. Only in the shower do ideas come easily.
So she stays in the shower hour after hour, until the hot water is gone and her fingers are wrinkled like an old lady’s or a newborn baby’s.
*
Only a plaster wall separates the students from the Zakians. And Moshe put a small hole in it. Why? So the students can stick their hands through it to switch on the water heater, which is in the landlord’s house but heats the tenants’ water too. So every time Noa and Amir want a hot shower, they first remove the piece of wood that covers the hole in the wall. Then they stick a hand into the home and lives of the other family, and then withdraw it quickly, as if it had never been there at all. But sometimes (after all, everyone likes to shower at the same time most days), two hands reaching for the switch would graze. And once a week, usually on Thursday, the piece of wood is shoved aside and a Zakian hand drops in letters addressed to ‘Amir and Noa — care of the Zakian family.’ (I’ll set up a mailbox for you, Moshe had told them with a smile, but it’ll take a while.)
When he hears the thud of the letters hitting the floor, Amir leaves his books and notebooks and runs to see what has come that day. To see if, along with the mail from the university, there is also a letter from Modi, his best friend — who’s so far away.
*
These are hopeful days. In the news, Pilot Pens publishes a picture of the peace agreement signing ceremony, with a close-up of the pen they used. Abu Dhabi is considering renewing its relations with Israel (how we’ve missed you, Abu Dhabi). There’s talk of economic projects, joint agricultural enterprises, cucumber of the courageous. There’s a building boom in Gaza. Trees are being planted in Ramallah. An Arab village is offering summer cottages to Jews. Pitta, hummus, zata’ar, whatever you want. And believe it or not, they’re swamped.
*
Hey m-a-a-a-a-n, what’s happening?
Before anything else, I have to describe the place I’m writing from. It’s called Reconcito which, translated loosely from Spanish, means hole. And, bro, this is one hell of a hole. To get here, you have to call the owner Alfredo a day in advance from the closest city to set up transportation. Only a jeep can make it through the lousy road that leads from the city to the farm and, of course, Alfredo is the only one who has a jeep. And what does Reconcito have that makes such an operation worth while? Not a hell of a lot. A few horses. A few cows. A small hostel with eight beds. A restaurant that serves two meals a day. And then there’s that elusive something that I’ve no idea what to call, but it’s the thing that draws all the tourists to this place. What do I do here? It’s like this. From the morning on, I sit on a crooked wooden chair, in the same position, and watch how the same things — the cows, the trees, the clouds — look different all the time. Because of the sun, which moves. Because of my mood. Because of the fact that I’m looking at them for the third time. Sound weird? Sorry, that’s how it is when you’re in ‘trekness’ mode. Yes, I’ve developed (in the course of a single day) a new theory here that says people have three basic modes of consciousness: ‘soldierness’, ‘civilianness’ and ‘trekness’, which spread out on this kind of axis:
Soldierness——Civilianness——Trekness
And here’s the explanation: remember that feeling you get when you come home from the army and change from your uniform to your pyjamas and, all of a sudden, your body turns limp, all the air drains out of your chest and the hardness out of your shoulders, and you know that for at least the next forty-eight hours you don’t have to be afraid that anyone — the platoon commander, the regiment commander, the military police — might take away your liberty? That’s the difference between ‘soldierness’ and ‘civilianness’. It’s that you know no one can tell you what to do. That you and only you decide what to do. Now, pay attention. The difference between ‘civilianness’ and ‘trekness’ is the same, but it’s internal. Because even after you’ve given back your uniform and moved on, once and for all, to ‘civilianness’, you still have to listen to those internal policemen of yours. Still have to act the way people who know you expect you to act. In the ‘trekness’ mode, through a process that isn’t exactly clear to me (remember, this theory is still being developed), you get rid of all of the above, one after the other. And your consciousness, at least in theory, remains open to surprises and amenable to changes.
So what do you think, future psychologist? (Before you shoot me down, remember what Zorba the Greek said to the old head monk of the monastery who explained to him the three totally weird theories he’d spent his whole life working on — wait, I don’t remember the exact words he used, let me look for it in the book. Here it is, I found it: ‘Your theories can save many souls, my Old Father,’ Zorba said to the head monk, and before he lied to him, he thought — and this is where the really beautiful sentence comes — ‘Man has another, much greater obligation that is above and beyond the truth.’
I talked to my mother and she told me that you and Noa moved in together. To tell you the truth, I was pretty surprised. The last time we spoke before I left — remember? — after you clobbered me in tennis (you competitive bastard, couldn’t you send me off with a victory?) you said you were afraid it wouldn’t work, didn’t you? That you had a feeling you’d met her too soon. But it looks like things have worked out for you two since then. So I’m happy for you. Where exactly is the Casteclass="underline" before Hummus Abu Ghosh or after it? Anyway, I promise to come and visit when I get back (right now, that looks very far away, but who knows).