He sat down in a chair and burst out laughing. They looked at him. One of them wanted to get up and hit him, but one crushing blow was enough for him not to try again. Sam shot three more times into three foil cigarette packs pasted to the ceiling, returned the Uzi without a magazine to the limping soldier, and said: You don't understand anything, who's going to bring something to eat now, I'm paying!
And that was how the celebration began that ended later on the seashore when the Border Patrol, searching for terrorists, stopped them and he produced his documents (passport, certificate of honor from the Hilton, and a letter from the Minister of Education and Culture), and then they walked in the sand and sang. They said: What a real mafia this is, and he really took care of us, and the whore kept walking with him and went into the hotel with him, and in the distance he saw the beauty with three other women sitting and drinking coffee. He took the whore upstairs, took from his pocket a key he had previously taken out of the beauty's purse, opened the door of the suite of the ambassador of Peru, lay the whore on the bed, and she jumped up and down on the springy bed, and said: What a beautiful ceiling, and he said: You surely know rooms by the ceilings, and then he said: I'll be right back! And she wept at the sight of the wealth and beauty and the sea spread out in the window, and he went down, and the queen said with unrestrained malice: This isn't a hotel for such people! And he told her all that had happened, and he started laughing and there were tears in her queenly eyes, and he took her to his room and lay next to her, and said to her: Show me your gigantic artificial breasts, and she showed him, and then he entered her, and when he was inside her he called New York and said to Lioneclass="underline" Listen, man, come here immediately, all of you, it's urgent, and he hung up.
Tape / -
Tonight (I'm talking into the tape recorder again), tonight something strange happened to me. I walked on the seashore with Fanya R. As usual, she picked up shells and threw them and I looked at the spires of the churches of Jaffa. When we came to the marina, I fell asleep on my feet. I don't know how that happened. My body stood still. You can say that a person who just now turned seventy-two is liable to fall asleep on his feet, but I'm not an expert in the lives of old people like me. From what I can tell from what she said, Fanya R. tried to carry me, but I was too heavy. Maybe because of the relation between the full moon and the low tide or the high tide, I don't know exactly, but it wasn't possible to move me from the spot, Fanya R. went to the Henkin home to call for help, but Henkin wasn't at home and Hasha and Fanya R. called Boaz, but the phone was apparently disconnected. They took a cab and went to Boaz (she told me), went up to the roof and called him. I lay on the chilly sand and slept. And then a rooster crowed. In my sleep I thought cocks were forgotten on the seashore of Tel Aviv, but with my own ears I heard the crowing.
I opened my eyes. A bearded sculptor wearing eyeglasses was sitting on the beach sculpting water. A policeman on a motorcycle passed by not far away, but didn't notice me. The flash of a spotlight illuminated the beach for a moment, and went out. When I turned my face, I saw the Hilton. The rooms were lit up in a bold mosaic. Independence Park above me was dark, but the moon lit up some trees and a sculpture that looked like a bird frozen in flight and a few pieces of limestone. I felt a need to die, to weep, to eat hamburgers, and then I understood that the hundreds of hours I had spoken, those dozens of tapes, had cast a high wall off me and I thought of my life, was it nice, was it good? I didn't know what to think, that was the first time in years I was almost liberated from all the people who had been talking in me until then, and I'm talking now on one moment, I'm talking not to myself, not to an anonymous audience, not in a nightclub, I'm talking to Germanwriter and to Henkin who will hear these things and will say, Ah, Ebenezer stopped being a Last Jew, and if I stop being a Last Jew, will they be able to write the book I wove for them from memories that weren't mine, and suddenly I was alone with my life, with Mother, with the old charred smell of the cowshed and the casuarinas and eucalyptus trees and the fragrance of citrus blossoms, and an awful longing for wood, for the face hidden in wood, burned in me, and I thought of Boaz, of a little boy I left here so many years ago, of Samuel, the two of them I felt as if they were struggling in me for a birthright, Esau and Jacob, in me, a hollow person like me, who went to search for a father and found a disaster and now starts returning from the disaster and bringing down more disasters. I longed for Dana, but also for Fanya R. I thought about the German who came today, about Hasha, about Henkin, about poor Jordana who went back to work at the Ministry of Defense and still watches television every night, suddenly I knew everything, but I didn't know anything, I didn't know other things I once knew, I almost didn't know things told me by the dead people I had amassed inside me and I kept myself from being myself, and that was how I was saved from death maybe even more than the boxes I built for Kramer, Weiss, and others, not everything was clear to me on the damp sand, I tried to get up, but I couldn't, I knew Fanya R. wouldn't let me stay like that, that she'd get help, and I waited, I wasn't afraid, I was tired, dead tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and my body ached, but it ached me! And that was my body that ached and I thought about Mother, about the awful life she lived, about the curse that patched up her life like glue, I thought: I couldn't be the son of Joseph because there's no wickedness in me, no anger, no rage, no vengeance, no glorious words, there are no splendid paper flowers in me, I'm not especially wise, I'm a simple man, like a sponge, my wisdom is in my hands, I know wood in its distress as it says on the wall in the community house in the settlement. I thought about Boaz and knew that even though he's my son he's also the son of Joseph and suddenly it wasn't strange anymore, I understood that there are things I may never understand. I thought about Einstein's theory and I couldn't recite it anymore, Kafka's stories, I didn't remember them, I remembered Mother working from morning till night and Ahbed helping her, how I sat in a corner, sucking a finger, hurting her bitterness, and how I wanted somebody to love me, and there wasn't anybody to love me and a deaf girl came and sat and looked at me, and then Dana and how Boaz was born and the struggle between Mother and Dana over Boaz and I hated him then, and Mr. Klomin and the Captain, and the children who plagued me because I wasn't like them, what a ridiculous thing I was, for a settlement of people who had started entering gold frames, I had nothing, only the wood and the passion to know who really was my father and how again and again I imagined father Nehemiah, whom I envied because he might or might not have been my real father, Nehemiah who died on the seashore of Jaffa, so as not to betray his dream, and gloomy memories rose in me on the seashore, pure memories I hadn't remembered for thirty years, I, Ebenezer Schneerson, an ashamed old man, who didn't hit me, who didn't strike or offend me in my life, and I, with a crooked back, in a hundred fifty nightclubs stand up and recite, so that Samuel Lipker can get rich, what a buffoon I was, but I loved Samuel, his boldness, my life was a contemptible collusion against myself, a pauper of shoe soles, who am I? Why am I? Something happens, a late awakening, second childhood, I know the limestone rocks now, the terror of barbed wire fences drops on me, Kramer turns into a distant picture, maybe I dreamed him too, but that's not important anymore and those yearnings… And I waited for Fanya R. I shook from the damp, I tried to sit up, but I didn't have the strength. But that wasn't important to me either, what was really important was after fifty years to be again somebody I once was, for good or for bad; what did they know about my thoughts, about my heavy and bitter meditations, when Mother and the Captain sat and talked and he would raise his voice and she, contemptuous but beautiful, and there was in her, beyond everything, some decency.