“When did she die, this old lady … your grandmother?”
An idle conversation in the heavy, slow, burning traffic.
“But she isn’t dead …”
“What?” He started to explain to me the “mishap” that had befallen him, with that same reckless sincerity. Two weeks ago he heard that his grandmother had died, he made arrangements, scraped together the money for the ticket and arrived here a few days ago to collect the inheritance, as he was the sole heir, her only grandson. But it turned out that the old lady was still dying, she’d lost consciousness and was in the hospital, but she was still alive … and in the meantime he was stuck here, waiting for her to die … that was why he’d tried to move the car, otherwise it wouldn’t have occurred to him to have anything to do with it … he knew as well as I did what it was worth … but if he had to wait a few more days perhaps he’d tour the country a little … see the new territories … Jerusalem … before going back to France …
Cynicism or just eccentricity, I wondered. But for some reason there was something charming, open, agreeable in his manner of speech. Meanwhile we were entering the centre of the town, going up towards Carmel, he still didn’t ask to be put down. As we climbed the hill, with the sun beating down on the windshield, dazzling me too, he really seemed to shrink, curling up in his seat as if he were being shot at.
“This Israeli sun … it’s impossible …” he complained. “How can you stand it?”
“We get used to it,” I replied solemnly. “Now you’ll have to do the same …”
“Not for long.” He hoped with a smile.
Conversations about the sun –
I was approaching central Carmel. He still showed no sign of wanting to get out.
“Where do you want to go?”
“To Haifa … I mean to the lower city.”
“You should’ve got out long ago.”
He didn’t know where we were.
I stopped at a corner, he thanked me, put on his cap, looked around him, not recognizing the place. “Everything here has changed,” he said very mildly.
Next morning I asked Hamid to dismantle the engine to see what could be done with it. It took him five hours just to shift the rusty screws, and they were ruined by the time he’d managed to free them.
“Is it really worth it, working on this heap of junk?” From the start Erlich had taken a violent dislike to the little car, which perhaps reminded him of the days of his unsuccessful partnership in the garage. To make matters worse he couldn’t even make out a work sheet because I’d forgotten to take the owner’s name and address and there were no documents in the car.
“Why should you care?” I said, but I knew he was right, was it really worth the effort of removing the engine, dismantling it to its smallest components, looking through old catalogues to find replacements for the rusted parts, testing the pressure of the pistons, drilling, cutting out new parts, welding, and all the while improvising with odd spares. Only an old lady could have put a vehicle into such a state. If instead of sewing covers for the seats she had once changed the oil …
We worked on that car for three full days, building it up from scratch, Hamid and I. Because for all his abilities, Hamid couldn’t manage the work on his own, he didn’t have enough imagination. Sometimes I used to find him standing motionless for half an hour with two little screws in his hand, trying to figure out where they belonged. Erlich paced around beside us like a restless dog, noting down the hours that we worked and the spare parts that we used, afraid that the owner of the car wouldn’t come back at all. “The repair will cost more than the car’s worth,” he grumbled, but it may be that deep down that’s what I intended. I wanted to get control of it.
On the third day we reassembled the engine and it worked. We discovered that the brakes were in a hopeless state and Hamid had to dismantle them too. At noon he appeared. I saw his funny hat bobbing about in the crowd, among the moving cars and the whispering workers. I hid from him. He stood beside the car, unable to imagine the amount of work that had been put into it. Erlich pounced on him, wrote down his name and address, but as was his way made no mention of the bill. He was told to come back when the job was finished, the car had yet to be tested on the road, there were final adjustments to be made.
A few hours later he returned. I myself took him for a test drive, listening to the engine, which throbbed delicately but steadily, testing the brakes, the gears, explaining to him all the time the meaning of the various noises. He sat beside me, silent, with a strange weakness that was somehow endearing, worried about something, pale, unshaven, occasionally closing his eyes, without appreciating the miraculous resurrection of the ancient car. For a moment it occurred to me that he might already be in mourning.
“Well then, has your grandmother passed away?” I said softly.
He turned to me hurriedly.
“No, not yet, there’s no change in her condition … she’s still unconscious.”
“If she recovers she’ll enjoy riding in the car with you again …”
He looked at me in terror.
We returned to the garage, I gave him the keys and went out to talk to one of the mechanics. Erlich had been lying in wait for us and he came out at once with the bill, demanding payment immediately and in cash. The man looked dubious to him, not to be trusted with a bill sent through the mail. The cost of the repair amounted to four thousand pounds. A bit steep, but still reasonable in view of the amount of work put in. Erlich had decided to impose an especially high rate on work in which I was personally involved.
The man took the bill, glanced at it, he couldn’t understand the writing, Erlich explained it to him and he shook his head. Then Erlich left him. I stood to one side, deep in conversation but watching him with a sideways glance, watching him go to the car, starting to pace around it, glancing at the bill, his face growing dark, looking around for me, seeing me deep in conversation and drawing back. Erlich returned, he retreated, muttering something, came to me. I finished my conversation and turned towards the office, he began to walk beside me, his face very pale, I noticed white hairs at his temples, although he couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. At the door of the office he began to speak, he didn’t understand, he was sorry, but he didn’t have the money to pay now, he was sure that a lot of work had been put into it, he didn’t deny it, but such a price …
I stood watching him, listening in silence, cheerfully, smiling to myself, I knew just how it would be, that I was involving him in a repair job beyond his means. I was calm. But Erlich, who came and stood beside me and also listened, was furious.
“Then why did you leave it here to be repaired?”
“I thought it was something trivial … a screw…”
That screw again –
He was very pale, confused, but nevertheless retaining something of his civilized manners, taking care in phrasing his answers.
“Then kindly borrow some money,” Erlich interrupted him.
“But from whom?”
“From relations, your family, anyone. Haven’t you any relations?”
Perhaps, but he didn’t know anything about them … he had no contact with them …
“Friends …” I suggested.
He had none … he’d been away for more than ten years … but he was prepared to sign a promissory note … he’d sign … and as soon as …
I was inclined to leave him alone, but Erlich was getting more and more angry.
“Of course, we can’t let you take the car. Give me the keys, please.”