— Yes, honest-to-goodness snow. That was Wednesday afternoon. Wasn’t there anything about it on the radio?
— It was wonderful.
— I know you haven’t. That’s why I was so determined not to miss it, so that for once I could be one-up on you, Mother…
— It was real but just beginning, you couldn’t tell if it was going to stick. And yet there was already something grand, something noble, in all those long feathers fluttering quietly about. It made me feel that I was in Europe — and what made that lovely European feeling even stronger was the fact that I soon found myself back in that circle near the President’s house, walking down streets whose houses were familiar and watching the snow settle over them. I went to have a look at the Prime Minister’s house too: next to it was this little tent with posters against the war in Lebanon and two demonstrators wrapped in a big bright blanket taking shelter inside from the cold, while across from them was an abandoned table with a torn sign that must have belonged to a counter-demonstration. I kept on walking, looking for drifts of snow I could step in and praying they would not melt overnight while working up the courage to go back to his apartment, because how could I explain it without making a fool of myself — and I absolutely did not want to make a fool of myself and give him an excuse to ditch me again, even if he did it like a Sephardic gentleman. And so I followed my legs past the Jerusalem Theater, which was completely dark, crossed the empty parking lot below it, and cut across the field behind the old leper hospital, where I was thrilled to see that the snow, which had melted on the streets and sidewalks, was sticking and piling up among the rocks. There was even enough of it to make a big snowball that I threw at some whooping children who had thrown one at me. I kept walking until I reached his long street, but I didn’t go into his building. I passed it and stepped into the next house to get out of the snow and warm up, because I was chilled to the bone and my sweater was soaking wet, and suddenly I felt afraid that all the games I was playing might freeze that teeny thing inside me and spoil its formula, which would have made it a criminal act not to have gone somewhere to warm myself…
— I knew you’d say that…
— Fine. Fine. So it was just a rationalization…
— Fine. I admit it. That didn’t make me any less of a fool. Of course, I wasn’t thinking of myself right then but only of what was inside me, but still…
— All right, all right. It doesn’t make any difference. In the end I went up there like a fool and rang the bell. There was no answer, and I said to myself, this time I am not making an issue of it, I don’t care if it’s my imagination or not, I’ve had enough. When I went back down to look for a bus stop, I saw his car parked in the street. I could tell it was his by the robe in the back — but still, Mother, I told myself: it isn’t your business, if he wants to kill himself you can’t stop him, you can’t come running to the rescue every night from Tel Aviv. And so I started to walk and turned into this little shopping center, where there was a café I went into to warm up and eat something. I sat there thinking about you and wondering if you were worrying — that’s when I called the kibbutz and left that message that the German volunteer never gave you. I sat by the window and had something to eat and drink while watching the snow to see if it would stick, because all those cars and people were very hard on it. I had begun to care about it as much as Mr. Mani — not that I knew why he cared about it either… By then it was nine o’clock. The evening news was on the television in the café, and there were shots of the snow in Jerusalem, and everyone sat there staring at it as if they knew that even if it melted, it would still exist on television. It wasn’t too late yet, Mother, to take a bus back to Tel Aviv, and I went to pay the bill with every intention of doing that. Before I did, though, I decided to make one last little telephone call, just to see if he had made up his mind to hang himself yet, and it was the same story now too — there wasn’t any answer — and I said to myself, he can’t possibly be playing these revolting little games again unless he’s already dead, and I sniffed and thought, well, there goes Grandpa number two, this little Mani of mine will have nothing but women around when he’s born…
— Efi won’t be there either.
— He just won’t…
— Because I have no illusions about him.
— I don’t… it’s just a feeling that I have…
— It’s nothing specific, but I have no illusions…
— I’ve already told you. There was no chance to tell him. I’m sure he won’t like it, though — I mean having a baby and all…
— Because I think he has other plans. He wants to study abroad, and the last thing he needs is a baby. Besides, who knows if we’re really in love or if it isn’t just one of those things…
— No, for goodness’ sake, Mother, not now… there’s time… I’ll get to that… if you’ll only wait… because now I left the cafe and went back to the street and into the building just to see if I would again get that solemn feeling of not being alone and of following someone’s instructions, but nothing happened. No one was waiting for me there — no author or director or photographer. It was as if I had run out of sponsors and was back on my own again — and that, Mother, was when I began to feel a little desperate, to say nothing of exhausted from my first time in the snow, which can be very fatiguing if you’re not used to it, and so I said to myself, I’ve had it, it’s time to say good-bye to this Mr. Mani once and for all. I climbed the stairs to his apartment, but I didn’t knock or ring. I just sat there quietly by the door to warm up a little before leaving. I must have been feeling kind of angry for letting everyone abandon me there in the dark…
— Everyone… everyone…
— Everyone… all of you… everyone who wants to ditch me…
— Never mind. Forget it. Later…
— Wait… wait…
— Forget it… I didn’t mean it. Anyway, Mother, just then the stairway light went on, and I saw this middle-aged woman coming up the stairs, this plump, nice-looking woman who turned out to be the next-door neighbor. And when she saw me sitting like an outcast by the door, she asked me, perfectly matter-of-factly, as if she knew who I was and that I belonged there, “Well, what’s the matter: did you lose your key again?”
— Yes. She must have confused me with someone else, or else seen me coming out of there that morning. And so I quietly said “Yes” in this passive kind of voice, which was enough to make her go get the extra key she had in case Efi forgot his — which put me, Mother, in this awkward situation, with the key to the apartment in my hand…
— No. Yes. I thought I’d stall for time and slip away the minute she went back inside, but she just planted herself in her doorway and waited for me to open the door. She gave me no choice, Mother. I even turned the key quietly and gave the door a little push and said thank you with a smile in the hope that she would be satisfied and go away, but she just went on standing there as if it were all too fascinating for words, so what could I do but go inside and shut the door behind me…