“Do you really mean to employ him here?”
“Perhaps.”
I go into the kitchen, everything’s tidy and clean, no sign of supper. I take a slice of bread, go back to him, pick up the paper and glance through it, go to the study door and listen, but Daddy looks up and angrily signals to me to move away.
“What’s she doing in there? How long’s he going to stay?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“I’m starving.”
“Then eat.”
“No, I’ll wait.”
It’s a bit strange to see him sitting there in the dark, without a paper, without anything, his back to the sea.
“Shall I put the light on for you?”
“There’s no need.”
I eat another slice of bread, which only increases my appetite. At the beach we hardly had anything to eat. It’s eight o’clock now, I’m frantic with hunger.
“But what’s happening?”
“Why are you making such a fuss? If you want to eat, eat,” he snaps. “Who’s stopping you … anyone would think Mommy still had to feed you …”
“You know I don’t like eating alone … come and sit with me.”
He looks at me angrily, groans, gets up from his seat, scowling, comes into the kitchen and sits down beside me, helping me to slice the bread, bringing out cheese and olives and salad and eggs and after a while he too begins to nibble, digging around in the dishes with a fork. The study door is still closed, she’s gone quite crazy, taken my idea seriously, made him her slave.
Suddenly the door opens, Mommy comes out to us, her face tense, she’s very alert.
“Well?” I say, jumping up.
“O.K.” She smiles at Daddy. “He can help me with translating at least … he’s translating something already …”
“Now?”
“He’s got time to spare … why not?”
“Come and eat with us,” I suggest.
“I can’t leave him on his own, I’ll make sandwiches and coffee, you carry on without me.”
Hurriedly she prepares sandwiches, makes coffee, puts some olives in a dish, lays it all out on a big tray and disappears again into the study. We finish our supper, Daddy insists that I clear the table and wash the dishes and then he goes and sits down in front of the TV.
Nine o’clock. Ten. They still don’t come out, now and then I hear their voices. Daddy goes to his room, but I can’t relax, I don’t know why, this strange and sudden invasion has upset my balance, made me nervous. I undress slowly, put on my pyjamas, feeling the pain of my sunburned limbs. I sit in the living room and watch the closed door. At a quarter to eleven he leaves the house, I leap up and rush into the study. Mommy sits there in a chair, the room’s full of cigarette smoke, she’s flushed, papers and books scattered about her in a chaos that reminds me of my own room, a light smell of sweat in the air, in her hands a bundle of papers covered with a strange, rather ornate handwriting.
ADAM
Erlich of course wasn’t impressed, wasn’t mollified, a hard-boiled yeke, standing erect at my side, his turnip head tilted back, glaring at the pale man with the stumbling speech. To him, all this fainting was just an act, an attempt to escape payment.
“That’s all, Erlich,” I said pleasantly. “It’s O.K … you can go home now … I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Erlich was taken aback, blushed a bright red, mortally offended, never had he heard such an explicit order from me. He snatched up his old briefcase, tucked it under his arm and stormed out of the office, slamming the door.
By this time the garage was empty. I’m always struck by the sudden silence that falls within a few minutes of the workers leaving. The old watchman came in through the gate, Erlich stumbled against him, the dog barked at Erlich, Erlich kicked the dog and walked out.
I knew I’d offended Erlich, but I wanted to be left alone here with the pale young man who sat there with his head in his hands. Did I already know what my intention was? Is it possible? I knew very little about him, but enough to feel that unconsciously I’d cast a net and a man was caught in it, and was writhing in my hand. The sense of warmth that I’d felt when I helped him up from the floor, it certainly wasn’t regret at having involved him in such an expensive repair job, because I was already prepared to cancel the debt, but …
I smiled at him, he looked at me gloomily, but then a light flicker of a smile appeared on his face. My slow, relaxed, assured movements can instil calm all around me, this I know. I bent down and picked up the bill, which still lay on the floor. I read it through, folded it and put it in my shirt pocket. I left the office, called the watchman and sent him to buy coffee and cake from a nearby café, I switched on the electric kettle and made coffee for him and for myself.
Again, the story about his grandmother, which sounded to me more and more like a hallucination. A very old woman who had brought him up after his mother died. A few months ago she fell into a coma and was taken to a hospital, but only two weeks ago he received a letter in Paris, a neighbour found his name and address and wrote to him, telling him that she was dying. He wasn’t sure whether to come, but since he knew he was the only heir he decided to come and claim whatever there was. There wasn’t much, he had no illusions, but there was after all an apartment in an old Arab house, this car, a few bits and pieces, perhaps some jewellery that he didn’t know about. What did he have to lose? He spent most of his money on the plane ticket … he didn’t intend to stay here long … he thought he’d just sign some papers, take the money and go … but in the meantime … from an official point of view there was nothing he could do … the small amount of money that he’d brought with him was running out fast … it seemed prices had risen a lot … and his grandmother wasn’t yet … almost … today he was at the hospital again … she was like a vegetable … worse than that … a stone … but, alive …
What did he do in Paris?
All kinds of work … in recent years he even taught Hebrew … private lessons … the Jewish Agency even sent him three priests who wanted to learn Hebrew, enthusiastic and reliable pupils … and friendly, not like the Jewish businessmen … aside from this he taught French to foreigners, to other Israeli immigrants, Arabs, Africans, students especially, helping them to write their papers … recently the agency had sent him some Zionist publicity to translate … he hadn’t been short of work and his needs had been few.
Had he studied there?
Yes … no … a little … years ago he attended lectures on history and philosophy but because of his illness he’d been forced to give them up … he used to feel faint in crowded rooms … not enough air … but this last year he’d started going to lectures again … not for a degree … for pleasure … now if he was going to have money he’d be able to spend more time studying …
Meanwhile he finished off the sandwiches, eating delicately, picking up the crumbs around him. A hungry man in Israel in 1973.
“Do you intend to work now?”
If there’s no alternative … if he has to wait much longer for his grandmother to die … but not work in the sun … he’ll go to the Jewish Agency … perhaps I know somebody there …
Such an alien passivity amid the chaos of life all around, but no particular worries either.
The watchman came in, took away the empty cups, the man put his hand to the keys lying on the table and played with them.
“Excuse me, I don’t know your name.”
“Gabriel Arditi.”
“You won’t be able to take the car.”
“Not even for a few days?”
“I’m sorry.”
He put the keys back on the table, I took them and hid them away in my pocket. “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll take care of it here, nobody will touch it, until you’re able to pay the bill …”