I was addicted. Addicted to those muscles that tense up when you’re about to leave something. Sometimes I thought I’d never kick it.
And sometimes, I thought that maybe I could, like yesterday, when we hung the sign on the door and then made love, and stayed in bed for hours talking and snuggling while the wind rattled the windows but not us.
*
Moments when Amir is happy that he’s Noaandamir:
When they’re sitting on the sofa at the end of the day, having a hot drink and telling each other, through the steam, about the hurts, the victories, the small moments of loneliness that happened in their lives apart. The conversation flows, every word spoken in its time, and again he remembers: her soul is intertwined with mine. And also: when he comes home late, walking gingerly along the path, sneaking over to the window to peek at her through the slats of the blinds, her face serious and her brow furrowed as she labours over one of her projects. Or: how her lips open slightly when she’s watching TV. Or: how her glance wanders sometimes, hanging on an imaginary hook on the ceiling, and though it’s clear she’s daydreaming, it’s not clear what she’s feeling. And he also loves: when they watch The X-Files together on Tuesday nights. And laugh when Mulder always leaves Scully alone at the worst times. And they jump — chills slithering down their spines like a child down a water slide — when the music on the soundtrack is scary. Noa presses up against him, so he’ll keep the monsters at bay. And he puts his strong, manly arm around her, knowing it’s a pose, but enjoying it anyway.
*
Sometimes, on Fridays, in the middle of the main street of the Castel, two cars stop window to window and the drivers begin a short conversation. What’s new, you think Beitar will come out of its slump, when’s the baby due? The neighbourhood traffic behind them comes to a standstill. And what Noa likes is that no one even thinks of honking his horn.
Sometimes, on Saturdays, the air carries the sound of a darbuka into their house. Distant. Dim. Amir drums the rhythm on his statistics book. Noa takes her clothes off and dances for him.
And a small prophet dances with them for a while, swaying his bald head and smiling a crooked, devious smile.
*
There’s a new CD in Noa and Amir’s house: I’m Your Fan. New renditions of Leonard Cohen songs sung by many different singers. But a thread of dark magic runs through each and every one, and it lingers. Amir’s favourite is ‘Hallelujah’, the last track. ‘Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.’ Noa’s favourite is track number six, a French song that fills her with a kind of pleasant tension, even though the language is beyond her comprehension. Sometimes, in the morning, when they can only listen to one song because they have to get going they argue about which of the two to play. On the other side of the wall, in the Zakian home, there’s not a single angry voice. Moshe is on the road and Sima is totally free to listen to the music of her choice. Her CD of the month: Caramel, Bonbon et Chocolat, a collection of French love songs that she listens to a lot. Sima learned French at home; her mother, may she rest in peace, taught her when she was very young. ‘French is the language of beauty,’ she’d say, and she made Sima practise till the words flowed off her tongue. Her mother also taught her that God is first of all in your heart, and all the rest — the interpretations, the rules, the regulations — is just window dressing. And a father who leaves his daughters has no God in his heart, even if he obeys all the commandments and recites every blessing. When Sima hears Nino Ferrer, she dreams of slim French men with well-trimmed moustaches and remembers her mother sweeping the kitchen floor in their apartment in the Ashkelon housing project, dancing with the broom, only her black hair swaying in the small room.
In the house of mourning, there is no music now. No one banned it in so many words, but, right after the funeral, the house became shrouded in silence somehow. Sometimes, when Yotam’s father feels like he can’t take it any more, he goes down to his car, sits inside and closes the door. Then he tunes the radio to a talk show, but not because he’s interested in what people have to say. He hopes that the soothing sound of other human voices will make the pain go away. Sometimes, when Yotam’s mother feels she can’t take it any more, she turns on the small kitchen radio with the volume down low. She listens to a single song and turns it off right away so no one will know.
When Yotam feels he can’t take it any more, he goes out to the empty lot.
*
Finally, I called the boy to come over. I asked him if he knew where our newspapers were disappearing to. He pointed to the asbestos roof. From where I was standing, I couldn’t see what was on it, so I made a questioning gesture with my hand. He signalled me to follow him. We climbed over the stones, careful of potholes, till we reached a small rise in the middle of the field between the houses. We climbed it and, from the top, we could see on to the roof. Dozens of neglected rolled-up newspapers lay on it. The delivery boy must have been too lazy to go all the way to the door and, instead, tried his luck at newspaper-throwing. Thanks, I said to the kid, and he answered politely, you’re welcome, and with shoulders stooped he turned to go back to what he’d been doing. Hey, kid … I called. I wanted to keep him from leaving. There was something about him, about his dejected look, about those sharply creased pants, the shirt with the sleeves that were too long, the shoes with their big white tongues, the way he always stroked the cats — something that touched my heart. Besides, I didn’t feel like going back to statistics. What’s your name? I asked him. Yotam, he answered. Nice to meet you, my name’s Amir, I said and held out my hand. He extended his small hand, gave mine a brief shake and pulled it back quickly. What now, I thought. How do we go on from here? Wanna play? I heard myself say. He gave me a quick look, checked out my height and said, play what? He was right. Play what? After all, we were fifteen years apart in age. I tried to think of something before he took off, but all the games that came into my mind were old ones that had passed their sell-by dates. Atari, Scrabble, Monopoly. Like that.
A rusty iron pole sticking up from the ground caught me eye. I remembered that when we went on trips, my father and I used to play at throwing stones at a target. Let’s see who hits that pole first, I said. All right, he agreed, picked up a stone and threw it. There was a metallic sound. Bull’s-eye. OK, I thought, I’m dealing with a pro here.
Let’s see who hits the Coke can first, I said.
Where?
There, next to the skip.
And that’s how the game developed. From the Coke can we moved on to the plastic water bottle. From the water bottle to a large rock that was further away. Till suddenly, without warning, he said, bye, I have to go, and started running back to his house. I called after him, bye Yotam, but he didn’t turn around. He probably didn’t like the game, I thought to myself. OK, and his partner was a little too old for him.
The next day, when Noa was at college, he showed up at my door. With a backgammon set in his hand.
*
We’re on a break now. They let us have one a day. Half an hour. If we take more, Rami yells and takes it off our pay. And we get paid almost nothing anyway. Jabber takes out the pitta, Nayim takes out the labeneh. Najib and Amin take out some vegetables and start cutting up a salad. They don’t let me do anything because I’m older. Sheikh Saddiq they call me sometimes, to make me mad, even though I’m faster and better at my work than all the younger ones. With me, there are no surprises. When it comes to measuring, I’m never even a millimetre off. When it comes to pouring cement, I check all the ties and joists ten times. Here, Nayim passes me a piece of pitta and the plastic container of labeneh. Shukran I say, thank you, and my mouth fills up with spit even before I dip the pitta into the labeneh. They make Nayim’s labeneh from goat’s milk in his village, and it’s famous in all the other villages. There’s no labeneh like it, not even in the most expensive restaurants — sour and soft, like it should be. I taste some and pass it to Ramzi. He’s busy arguing with Samir about the difference between Jewish girls and Arab girls. Our girls are a lot more exciting, Samir says. With them, there’s room for imagination, not like with the Jewish girls who walk around half naked. Amin doesn’t think so. Nayim and Jabber put in their two pence. I’ve already heard those discussions about girls a thousand times and know all the different opinions by heart, so I move away a little bit and lean against the wall at an angle that lets me see the house. Even after a month, I still haven’t made up my mind about it.