*
It’s a hot night in Maoz Ziyon. The air is still and it’s hard to sleep in bed. Yotam’s father is lying on the living room floor with a pillow under his head. Yotam and his mother flew to Australia on Sunday. He’s the one left behind to turn off the lights before he goes on his way. He had a few ends to tie up at work. You know how those things are. And someone had to advertise and sell the car.
He’ll put all the furniture on the street. A friend is supposed to come with a van and pick it up. Meanwhile, he’ll wait there. Sit down on an armchair. Nibble at a pear. A neighbour will wash his car, a hose in his hand. He’ll remember that when he was Yotam’s age he used to watch the streams of water running off the cars to see which would be the first to land.
A woman whose bags he once carried from the shops will make her way between the sofas and smile at him as if she had something to say.
Another woman will stumble against the cabinet and grumble: you’re blocking the way.
*
Madmoni has been blocking the pavement since yesterday. Trucks unloaded furniture for the new house — a table, a sofa, a sideboard. It’s all sitting there on the street. And now he’s trying to fall asleep, but can’t because of the heat. And it’s all so new. He hasn’t got used to it yet, and the smell of paint is making him feel sick. His thoughts float in the space of the bedroom, wandering to and fro. And he suddenly remembers a picture taken many years ago. He found it today, in the garden in a hole in the ground. One of the Romanian workers must have left it behind, and now it had been found. It was a picture of a woman who was neither young nor old. Something between a girlfriend and a mother. Or maybe she was his sister and he was her brother. He looked at the picture for a while, then put it away in a drawer. But now, suddenly, the picture was keeping him from sleeping, and he couldn’t ignore it any more. Maybe he should look for that Romanian and give the picture back. What did he need it for?
*
Angrily, Saddiq remembers the house he was building in el-Castel. Those bastards cut me off in the middle of my work and put me in a prison cell. I’m interested how the second floor came out, he says to Mustafa A’alem, who is teaching him Hebrew. Mustafa corrects him: Curious, not ‘interested’, is the right word, son. Then he pats Saddiq on the back and says: Ili pat, mat. What’s done is done. It’s better to think of what the future will bring. Think about going back to el-Castel with the commandos to capture the land, the houses, everything. Mazbut, you’re right, Saddiq says, because he can’t think of anything better to say. But in his heart he’s tired of the old man, of the prison, of hearing those speeches every day. Most of all, he misses his wife, Nehila. And he worries about his mother. And his children. At night he dreams about his grandmother Shadia’s gold chain escaping from one of the brown bags in the confiscated goods department, passing by the guards, getting through the fence, floating above his head. Then it lands on his neck, caressing, choking, till he wakes up and sees that there is no chain in his bed.
Avram thinks about Saddiq every now and then, but he doesn’t tell Gina so she won’t worry that he’s ill again. But she’s known him for fifty years. When he gets out of bed and stands where Saddiq pulled the stone out of the wall, she knows he’s thinking about Nissan and his heart is as bitter as gall. She tries to sweeten it with cheesecake she serves him on a gleaming white plate. He eats every last crumb, goes back to bed and says, kapparokh, Gina, that’s the best cheesecake I’ve ever eaten.
Sima and Moshe aren’t alone at night in their bed. First Liron crawls in, saying there’s a mosquito in his room, buzzing round his head. Then Lilach finds her way into their bed too, but for her, that’s nothing new. And now they’re like a multi-limbed octopus: all the arms and legs of a mother, a father, a son and a daughter. Every once in a while, Sima gets up and brings a glass of water. Moshe drinks. She drinks. Even Liron puts the glass to his lips and takes a few sips. When everyone’s finished, she slips under the cover and thinks: you have everything you ever wanted in life: you have a home full of love, you’re a mother and a wife. So don’t be a fool, Sima, what else do you need? Moshe strokes her hair and says to himself: thank God. For a few weeks, he’d felt that it was only Sima’s body he had, that her thoughts were elsewhere and it was all a façade. He’d begun to fear that she wanted to leave him for a man who was thinner and knew how to talk a lot. But he tried to be patient, telling himself, you don’t want to lose what you’ve got. And in the end, his restraint paid off. She’s finally back, this time with her whole heart. Or so it seems.
For Amir and Noa, the homecoming celebrations are over. And the daily, crushing march up the path of love has begun. They try to argue more and gloss over less. And every time the buzzing between them starts, they talk or dance to relieve the stress. There are nights, like this one, when restlessness seeps into the heart. And each on his own side of the bed is hatching a plot that will let them live apart. Are you sleeping? Noa asks, breaking the silence, and Amir admits that he hasn’t shut an eye. So why don’t you read me a story to make the time go by? OK, he says, getting up and going into the living room. He comes back with Modi’s last letter, and she asks, are you sure it’s OK? He wrote that letter to you. It’s perfectly OK, Amir says, spreading the pages out on the bed. And Noa rubs her foot on his and reaches out to stroke his head. A minute before he begins to read, Amir gives her a kiss and she puts her hand between his legs, caressing and kneading. He turns the page over and says, sorry, but if you do that, I can’t do any reading.
And someone looking at them now would say, in a year or two, they’ll be married and having kids, you can bet on it. And someone else looking at them now would say, in a month or so those two will have definitely split.
*
Bro,
I’m going to use you. I’m telling you this right off so you won’t get pissed off and wonder why the next few pages don’t mention you or Noa or ask any questions about what’s happening there. Forget it. The chances are that this letter won’t get to you until after. In five hours, I’m taking a taxi to the San Juan airport, and in less than a day, I’ll be in Tel Aviv. It’ll be Friday there, if I’m not mistaken. And I promise that on Saturday, Sunday at the latest, I’ll be at your place in the Castel with all the pictures and stories and bullshit of someone back from a long trip. But meanwhile, I need you to be my witness. To read all the promises I made to myself on this trip so that later it’ll be harder for me to back out of them. I’m tired of making great decisions on trips and then when I’m home, feeling them slip through my fingers. This time I want all my resolutions to be documented in writing and I want you to read them and remember and hit me if you see me starting to squirm out of them.
Is that OK with you?
So let’s get to it.
I want to start swimming. Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Tennis is nice, but (a) there are more babes in the university swimming pool than on the tennis court, and (b) there’s something about swimming that leaves you with more room in your soul. That gives you the natural rhythm of things. Besides, why am I apologising? A pool. Once a week. Write it down and shut up.
I also want to be less cynical. I’ve spent the last year with people from all over the world, and I’m telling you for a fact that the Israelis are the most cynical of all. And I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick and tired of pretending that nothing turns me on just so I don’t look pathetic. I’m sick and tired of shooting poisoned arrows at other people just because I’m afraid they’ll hurt me. I want to come to people with an open heart. What’s the worst that can happen?