“No, Tsakhi,” Rivlin said, delighted to have been thought of. “I don’t need a thing, honestly.”
“How about the car?”
“You can have it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
The main thing the ex-officer wanted to know was whether his father could direct him to the income-tax bureau.
“What do you need that for?” Rivlin asked.
He and his friend, Tsakhi explained, wanted to give their customers receipts. That meant registering with the tax authorities.
“You want to register before you’ve earned your first cent? Forget about it.”
His son heard him out imperturbably and asked again:
“But do you know where they are?”
“Of course I do. But there’s no point going there. You’ve just been discharged. You don’t owe any taxes. Why register now?”
“Never mind,” the young officer said soothingly. “Just tell me where they are.”
“On Ha-Namal Street, near the outdoor market. Ask when you get there.”
“Thanks,” Tsakhi said, offering to buy fruit and vegetables for the house.
Rivlin was touched. “You needn’t bother,” he said. “You have enough on your mind. Do your thing.”
“You’re positive?”
“Well, if you insist, I suppose you could bring home some artichokes.”
“How many?”
“You’re asking me? Five or six.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“No. Just artichokes.” He was impatient to get back to work.
Since their storeroom in the basement of their building was too small for all the ladders, paint cans, rollers, and brushes, some of this equipment was moved into Tsakhi’s bedroom, along with a folding cot for the blond sergeant. The two got along well, at least to judge by the quiet, mutually respectful way they sat planning their business. Although the tax authorities were happy to open a file, and receipt books were printed, prospective customers were hard to find. The few who phoned often did so when Tsakhi was out, and Rivlin, who took to identifying himself as “the housepainter’s father,” had to take their calls.
The problem was the baby-faced sergeant, whose blond hair and blue eyes failed to win the confidence of potential clients, especially given the high prices the two asked for. This led to a revised marketing strategy, whereby Tsakhi’s partner stayed below while his former CO, unshaven and wearing paint-spattered overalls, visited the apartment to be painted and gave a low estimate. Then, the deal concluded, he called in his expert assistant to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb and suggest a few extras for a slight increase.
This worked better. The two young housepainters soon acquired a reputation on the Carmel. Returning in the evening proud and pleased after a hard day’s work, they lingered in their overalls, wearing them like a badge of distinction while cooking their supper and planning the next day. So great was their comradeship that Rivlin was tempted to come downstairs from his computer to join them. It was a chance to hear about small, old apartments with their rickety terraces and strange storerooms and funny owners, elderly pensioners or widows who, infected by the two young workers’ enthusiasm, decided to do another wall or door… and then another and another…
“What a waste,” Rivlin teased. “Here the army invests a fortune in teaching you high technology, and you end up painting walls.”
But they didn’t see it that way. Heatedly they defended the house-painter’s profession, which needed skill and judgment and rewarded them with the bright colors and good smells that they had been deprived of all the years that they had lived, while staring at flickering screens, like moles in the belly of their mountain.
27.
THE DAYS WERE GETTING warmer. Rivlin, opening his study window as far as it would go, tried longingly to remember the aroma of spring flowers that had bathed their old apartment in the wadi. His eyes, tired from hours at the computer, instinctively sought out the old woman across the street. She, too, had raised all the blinds on her terrace. A large ladder was standing there. On it, Rivlin was astonished to see the blond sergeant. He was talking to the young officer, who was seated at the card table, while slapping plaster on the wall.
Without thinking twice, or even saving the text on his computer, Rivlin left the duplex and hurried excitedly to the building across the street, in which he had never been before.
He didn’t know the ghost’s name. But he did know her floor, and he knocked on her door without looking at what was written there. The old woman, wearing a large apron and a hairnet, opened it. The smell of some cheese dish came from the kitchen. A radio on the terrace was playing the rock music his son liked. The ghost’s face was soft and smiling, unlike the time he had met her in the pharmacy. Perhaps this was because she was in her own territory, protected from all harm by two sturdy young workmen newly discharged from the army.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Rivlin introduced himself. “I’m the boss of the two painters working for you. I came to see how they’re doing and to ask if you’re satisfied.”
The ghost’s weather-beaten face gaped at him. She looked back into the apartment, as if racking her brain for something to complain about.
Meanwhile Tsakhi, hearing his father’s voice, appeared in the hallway, a lively mixture of amusement and astonishment in his big, brown eyes.
Rivlin warned his son with a look not to give him away. “I want you to be entirely satisfied with my staff and their work, ma’am,” he continued. “You should feel you’re getting the best possible service. That’s why I need to know if you have any complaints. Think carefully. Perhaps they’ve been noisy, or impolite, or not neat enough. Just tell me. I’ll give them a piece of my mind and change them immediately. Why, if you’d like I’ll take their place myself. Just say the word and I’ll put on my work clothes….”
This was already too much for the ghost. The smile of pleasure fracturing her face was positively alarming. So much consideration could be fatal for a hard-bitten woman like her.
“There’s no need,” she murmured, thrilled and grateful to be getting such attention. “Everything is fine. Don’t put yourself out. Your workers can stay. Just tell them to hurry up and finish…”
“You’re sure? Perhaps you’d like to think about it.”
“Oh, no.” She was suddenly worried she might lose them. “They’re just fine. They’re nice boys…”
Brimming with pride that his younger son had vanquished so fearful an apparition, he strode quickly out to the open terrace, which was bright with morning sunlight. Curiously, he glanced at the window of his study across the street. Through it he could spot his computer. He went over to the red card table. Despite all the flying plaster, a deck had been dealt for a game of solitaire. He carefully picked up a card. The old woman, though concerned that the strange contractor might ruin her game, said nothing. It was too beautiful a morning to be angry at the world. She stared at the middle-aged man with the gray curls, who did not seem to fit his own job description.
“Tell me,” she said, “don’t I…” Her clear khaki eyes squinted at him. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“No,” he said, giving her a firm, friendly smile of encouragement. “You don’t know me from anywhere. But now, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so, you do know me a little bit….”
Haifa, 1998–2001
About the Author
A. B. YEHOSHUA is one of Israel’s preeminent writers. His novels include Journey to the End of the Millenium, The Liberated Bride, and A Woman in Jerusalem, which was awarded the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in 2007. He lives in Haifa.