There were others after him. Men on a platter. One was a wise guy. One was a shy guy. One smelt good. And another had the name of a street in my old neighbourhood. One couldn’t look me in the eye. Another tried to put his hand on my thigh. I have no idea why I’m saying this in rhyme. Maybe because I was drunk. Maybe because everything seemed a little fake, kind of glittery, like an Alterman poem. In the background, Portishead was repeating itself in metallic loops and the sound seemed to be getting louder and louder all the time. Couples walked past me on their way home. The girls actually looked nice. Like students. One of them probably went to school with Amir. Why can’t I be like them? I asked myself. Wham bam thank you ma’am. Why not? Because of the camera. No. Because of Amir. Wait. What’s that all about? How did Amir get into my thoughts twice in one minute? And where’s the guy from the balcony who brought me here? Has he gone? And left me here alone? How will I get home by myself?
Hi, he said, surprising me from the direction of the bathroom as if he’d picked up on my anxiety.
Hi, I said, as glad to see him as if we’d known each other for years.
You drink a lot, he said, pointing to my half-empty glass.
Yes, maybe we should really go.
Don’t you want to take pictures?
Not today.
So come on.
After we left, he said, we could hop over to the supermarket on Ben Yehuda.
The supermarket? Now?
Not to shop, silly. To hunt.
I think that bar was enough for me, I said, swallowing the bile that had risen into my throat.
There’s a new place that opened not far from here, with a DJ who only plays film soundtracks. Maybe you’d like that better.
Forget it. Let’s go home.
The air outside was dripping. I was slightly dizzy, but I didn’t want to lean on the guy from the balcony in case he got any ideas. A short female parking attendant was putting tickets on cars parked in no-parking zones. At this time of night? I asked. Any time, he said. They get a percentage. I didn’t know, I said and he said, be careful, pointing at the dog shit lying in wait on the pavement. I walked around it at the last moment and almost lost my balance.
You were really doing great there, in the bar, he said and grabbed my arm to steady me.
Yes, I admitted, wriggling gently out of his grasp. But they all had such cold eyes. And they were curt. It was like …
Like what? he demanded.
Like none of them believed in love any more, I said. And regretted it right away. Why am I dumping these perceptions on him in the middle of the night?
It’s not that they don’t believe in love, he said, and judging from how offended his voice sounded, it was clear that the ‘they’ could easily have been ‘I’.
So what is it? I asked, looking at him as we walked. He was quiet for a while, as if he were about to say something crucial and his words had to be precise. I started to feel the bile rising in my throat again, but I also felt that there was a real moment in the air and I shouldn’t miss it, so I took a deep breath and leaned against a tree.
It’s not that they don’t believe in love, he repeated. It’s just that sometimes love is too much of an effort.
Wait a second, I said. And went to vomit in the front yard of a building.
*
I didn’t want to make that girl soldier my own. The one and only desire I felt was to make her feel better. So I told her about my basic training, how I’d been so lonely that I didn’t sleep for nights on end. How everyone around me snored peacefully and I’d lie there in my bed with my eyes open, thinking what’s-wrong-with-me, why-is-everyone-adjusted-but-me, how-will-I-survive-two-or-three-years-of-this?
She nodded in surprise and said, ‘You mean there’s someone else in this world who felt like I do?’
Yes, I continued, encouraged by her nodding, but you know what? The fact is that everyone there was scared. Everyone burned their fingers when they vacuum-packed their kit, and no one believed you could run to the weapons depot and back in ten seconds or run a circle around the entire base. But I walked with my head down so much that I couldn’t see it. The people in the platoon seemed like a big, threatening block that functioned in perfect harmony, and I was the one who ruined it. I was wrong. It wasn’t a block. It was just a collection of confused people making a huge effort to hide their confusion from each other.
So what should I do? she asked and gave me a look that said, you’re smart, you know.
First of all, lift your head up, I said. When do you go back? Sunday? Good. Go like a queen. Smile at everyone. Ask how they spent their time off. Don’t be afraid. And every time that lonely feeling starts to come back, look at them and say to yourself: they feel this way sometimes too. It’s not just me.
I don’t know … she said, drawing out the words as if she wasn’t sure that what I suggested was doable, but she liked the idea.
Try it, I said. The worst that can happen is that it won’t work. How much more time do you have?
Eight months.
That’s nothing. If you take away Saturdays and holidays and sick days and real dentist days and fake dentist days, and two or three family affairs, how much is left? Four months, tops. And you have to subtract your discharge holiday leave, and right before that, no one will even notice you any more, so you can go back to the base on Monday instead of Sunday and leave on Wednesday instead of Thursday. And on Monday, there’ll be a day of fun in Eilat and you’ll take a sick day on Tuesday because you’ll get sunstroke. Which easily takes off another two, three months. In short, tomorrow or the day after, tops, you’ll be discharged, young lady. So what’s your problem?
She laughed and looked pleased with the way I’d juggled her time left in the army. For a minute, I could imagine how, after the army, she’d let her hair grow and be attractive. Very attractive, even. And someone else — not me — would run two fingers slowly along her naked arm, climb to her shoulder and then to the back of her sweet, white neck. Someone else. Not me. Sorry. I have to go back to studying now. I have an exam. What am I studying? Psychology. Interesting. Yes. Even though it can be a pain sometimes. Why a pain? Some other time. Tell your mother I said thanks, OK? And come over again. Don’t be shy.
Before she left, she surprised me with a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, she said. I didn’t ask what for because I was tired of pretending. I watched her through the window till she disappeared at the end of the block, and then I paced around the apartment for a few minutes feeling like I always do after I do a good deed and someone thanks me. It’s hard to explain the feeling. I’d say that maybe it’s a little bit like kubeh metfunia. It has a core of soft happiness wrapped in a sour feeling of guilt — who am I to give other people advice — and on the side, there’s a red sauce made of emptiness. And okra.
I lay down on the bed. The smell of Noa still lingered on the sheets even though I’d changed them three times since she left. She’d understand, I thought. She’d understand how a feeling can be like kubeh metfunia, and how doing something good for another person can actually make you sad.
She’d say: it’s the law of connected vessels of feelings.
And say: it’s easier for you to give than to get. So you give, and then you feel like you’ve missed out on something because look, you haven’t got anything this time either.
And say: who’s that knocking on the door now, in the middle of our conversation? Maybe you won’t answer it?
The knocking continued, persistent. Stop it, I really am in the middle of a conversation with Noa, I thought, but I went to the door anyway. Ever since I hadn’t opened the door for Yotam and he disappeared, I don’t dare not open it.