It’s safe here in Tel Aviv. Safe. And fuzzy. And flat. I’ve been walking around the streets with my camera for a week already looking for something that’ll give me that yellow pepper feeling. And nothing.
(Amir would say now: maybe you’re not looking in the right places.)
Yesterday, coming back from one of my unproductive walks, I met the guy from the balcony at the entrance to the building.
Well, hello there, he said in a kind of sarcastic tone. And I thought: he barely knows me and he’s already using that tone?
Hi, I said, and to my amazement, my tone sounded just like his.
Did you take any pictures today? he asked, pointing to my camera.
No, I didn’t find anything interesting, I admitted and turned to go.
Do you have a flash? he suddenly asked in a different, nicer voice.
Sure. Why?
If you do, I could show you an interesting place tonight.
Ah … look … I was about to make up an excuse, but then I thought: why not? Maybe all I need to help me tune in to this city is a good guide. And the guy from the balcony looked pretty nice in the daylight. There was something about his shoulders that made you think you could trust him. I wasn’t attracted to him, because he was too short, which was great. And anyway how long could I sit in Aunt Ruthie’s apartment and look at albums?
OK, I said. What time?
I’ll call you from the balcony at around one.
One in the morning?
What do you think, in the afternoon? What planet are you from?
The planet Castel, I wanted to say. But didn’t.
*
Sima has stopped coming over since our almost-kiss. It scared her. And that wasn’t Yotam’s soft knock. So maybe it’s Noa, I thought. I put on a pair of trousers and a shirt, and a pounding heart, and opened the door. A teenage girl was standing there holding a pot. Are you Amir? she asked, shooting looks to the sides. Yes, I said. My mother made this for you, the girl said, handing me the pot. Your mother? I asked. Who … Who exactly is your mother? Ahuva Amadi, the girl said, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. We live at 43 HaGibor HaAlmoni Street. One house before the turn. You don’t want it? It’s kubeh metfunia. It’s very good. My mother will be insulted if you don’t take it. Yes, sure, thanks, I stammered and took the pot from her. The handles were still hot. Why are you standing outside? I asked, come in. She walked in and stood in the middle of the living room. She had the expression of someone who’d heard about this apartment, and now was comparing what she saw to the expectations she had. Why did your mother send this? I asked after coming back from the kitchen. The girl blushed and smiled, as if my question was funny. We thought, she started talking after she realised that I was waiting for an answer, I mean, my mother thought that you probably didn’t have much food now that … Now that what? I asked her, and the demon’s tail was already wagging inside me. Now that … the girl said, looking up at the ceiling, now that there’s no woman in the house, she finally said and sat down on the sofa with a sigh of relief.
The next day, another girl appeared at my door. With a different kind of kubeh. Who spread the rumours about my being alone? I wondered. Sima? Moshe? It wasn’t clear. In any case, I gradually learned that there were a lot more kinds of kubeh than I had thought. Red kubeh metfunia, with tomato paste, okra, parsley and sour lemon. Yellow kubeh mesluha with turmeric and marrow. Sour-green kubeh hamusta, which comes in soup with beet leaves, turnips and marrow. Kubeh hemo, which is shaped like a flying saucer and comes in soup with onion and hummus. And the most delicious, at least for me: kubeh nabelsia, which is fried with onions and chopped meat. You eat five or six pieces and you’re still not tired of it.
The kubeh always came with a girl as a side dish, and it was always ‘her mother’ who sent her. It took me a while to realise that this was actually a parade of candidates to replace Noa. It was all done very delicately, tacitly. None of the girls actually offered herself, but they were all dressed too well for a short walk in the neighbourhood. Most of them wore make-up, and one or two had been daring enough to spray perfume on themselves. Girls’ perfume. Two or three days after they brought me the full pot, they would come back to get the empty pot. There were so many pots that I was getting confused, and they had to come into the kitchen and pick theirs out of the pile. Then they’d sit in the living room, give brief answers to my questions, check out the walls curiously and run away after two or three minutes, not longer.
I was able to get into a proper conversation with only one of them. She was a soldier on leave who had sincere eyes. A random question about what it’s like serving on a base she couldn’t leave every day pressed the right button. It turned out that on her base there was a group of girls who always laughed together, and she didn’t understand what was funny. It seems that she was always getting the worst shifts because she wasn’t one of the in-group. Not that she minded about the shifts. She minded that the other girls knew they could step on her because she was alone. And she minded that she didn’t have anyone she could borrow shampoo from when she ran out. And she minded that when she came home, no one cared that she was tired and her mother made her do laundry and clean and cook.
… and bring food to people you don’t know, I continued.
Yes! she agreed enthusiastically, then immediately caught herself and laughed: no, that’s something I don’t mind doing.
She took off one shoe, then the other, which — Modi taught me this once — is a sure sign that the girl intends to stay, and maybe remove other articles of clothing.
*
People were sitting at the bar with large spaces between them. The guy from the balcony gave me a quick, cold goodbye and went to sit at the far end, on a brown armchair. Pictures of naked body parts glittered on the walls. You couldn’t always tell if they were male or female. Bottles filled with golden liquid stood on long shelves. Air conditioner pipes were stuck on the ceiling like magnets on a horizontal refrigerator door. The light was dim, very dim. Even with a flash, pictures would come out dark here, I thought. But maybe that’s good. You don’t have to do anything, the guy from the balcony had told me before we came in, they’ll come to you.
In the background, the female singer of Portishead was singing ‘Nobody loves me’, and I thought it was a little cruel to play a song like that here. I sat down on a high stool and ordered a Guinness from the barman with a Popeye tattoo on his shoulder. I knew I needed a little alcohol to get through this night. The Guinness arrived with a man. May I? he asked and pointed to the empty stool next to me. I nodded. I asked the barman if I could bring your order, he said and smoothed his hair. Is that OK? Fine, I said and took a sip. I haven’t seen you here before, he said, and stroked his cheek. Is this your first time? Yes, I admitted. Do you want to go somewhere quieter? he asked, putting out his cigarette. Already? I said in surprise, maybe we could just talk a bit first. Usually a few seconds are enough to know whether it’s yes or no, he said. I didn’t know that, I said. So now you do. Great. So what do you say, he asked, rubbing a long finger around the rim of his glass, yes or no? Do I have to decide now? Yes. Or no.