The Lover (40 page)

Now Na’im and I start assessing the situation. One of the front wheels is really embedded in the tree, wrapped around it. Na’im crawls between the tree and the crushed hood to free the wheel, I pass him the tools. A good boy. What would I do without him? For a full hour he struggles there until he succeeds in freeing the wheel, comes out covered in sweat, takes the end of the cable, ties it to his belt and gets down on the ground again, crawling right underneath the car. It’s a wonder how the headmaster survived. Dafi wasn’t far wrong, he could easily have been killed. He himself doesn’t realize how lucky he was.

We start to move the car. Pieces fall off it, a headlight, a bumper, a door handle. Na’im explains to me how the truck must be positioned, at what angle, the boy’s already starting to give me instructions. But I don’t care, I just want to get the job done and go home. Na’im operates the winch and starts drawing
the car away from the tree, but the tree doesn’t want to be parted from it, branches break off, clinging to the car. A small crowd watches us in silence. The dawn is breaking fast. Birds chirp. On the back of the tow truck hangs a wrecked car wearing a laurel of leaves. A strange sight. Cars passing on the road slow down, people stare curiously through their windows. Somebody stops. “How many killed?” he asks Na’im but he doesn’t answer.

His clothes are torn and dirty, his hands cut, his face oily, but there’s no denying he’s learned a lot in these night trips. Now he secures the car with extra ropes and I move the truck to the side of the road.

It’s already daylight. Na’im goes to collect the tools, switches off the flashing lights on the road and picks up the bits that have fallen off the car. I stand still, exhausted, smoking a cigarette, my clothes wet with dew. Na’im comes to me and shows me a piece of black metal. “Is this a part of it too?” I glance at it. “No, that looks like part of the other car.” He’s about to throw it away in the grass at the roadside but suddenly I stop him. Something in the shape of the metal reminds me of something. I snatch it from his hand. I recognize it at once. A piece of the bumper of a black Morris. The same model. Nobody can compete with me when it comes to an eye for car parts. I feel elated. Rapidly the light grows stronger. The morning mists have gone. A day of
hamsin
ahead of us. I stand at the roadside, a piece of bumper in my hand. Black, admittedly, but belonging to a 1947 Morris. Clear and living evidence. I examine it closely, turning it over in my hand, there are drops of dew on it. Na’im lies back on the bank beside me, looking at me angrily. He doesn’t understand what the delay is. I examine the paint, the paintwork is crude, an amateur job.

“A small screwdriver …” I whisper.

And the screwdriver is there in my hand. Carefully I scrape off the layer of black paint, blue shows through underneath, the colour of the Morris that I’ve been searching for desperately since the end of the war.

I trembled –

What’s with him? He’s got hold of a bit of metal and has fallen in love with it, doesn’t want to let it go. Has he gone soft in the head? And I used to think of him as a little god.

I’m so tired. He hasn’t done anything here. He doesn’t work now, he doesn’t bend down, doesn’t move, he’s even stopped giving advice. Already he’s sure I can do it all without him. The cables, the hitching up, the winch. Before he has time to tell me anything I already know what he’s thinking and I do it by myself. If he had to do the job by himself the car would still be hanging in the tree. His mind’s somewhere else, you can tell. All the time looking around for something like he’s waiting for something and he hasn’t decided yet what it is.

What is this, is he sick? Fingering that bit of metal like I’ve given him gold. It’s morning already, what does he think he’s doing? How much longer are we going to stand here? I’m nearly asleep on my feet. This is the hardest tow job we’ve had yet. That old man planted his car in the middle of that tree, smashed it up, I still don’t see how he got out of it alive. And I’ve got myself torn and scratched all over, crawling under the car. Who for? What for? If only Dafi was here. God, sometimes I miss her terribly. But she’s not here, she’s finished with me, no point in trying any more.

What does he want now? He’s off his head. What’s he thinking about? He might at least give me some money. He’s got so much money and I’ve done a real professional job for him here. He reckons if he gives me a hundred pounds now and then that’s enough. What’s a hundred pounds these days? I can spend twenty or thirty pounds in just one outing, quite easily. An average sort of meal, the movies, a few nuts and a pack of Kent and I’m on my way home with only coins in my pockets. Lucky I’m not smoking cigars yet or inviting some lady out to dinner. Give me some money at least. Once I used to take it carefully, shyly, now I just grab it off him and stuff it straight in my pocket. So what? I haven’t yet seen him empty his wallet for me.

When will we be finished here? Why doesn’t he take this bit of metal home with him and think about it there? Why waste all this time? The smashed-up car is hanging on the winch all
covered with leaves. No wonder they’re all slowing down on the road and staring at it, looking for blood.

“How many killed?” somebody shouts.

That’s all they’re interested in. Corpses. I don’t answer, I’m not getting involved with anyone here. The car’s no loss to anyone. The insurance company will pay, why should anyone worry? And they’ll repair it. I’ve seen cars in the garage in a worse state than this one, seen them cutting them in half like a cake, getting a complete half from another wrecked car and stitching the two halves together and making a new car. It’s like a real ceremony in the garage, everyone standing around and watching them weld the two halves together, slap on a fresh coat of paint and there’s a new car ready to be sent to the dealers in Tel Aviv.

I shall sleep here on this bank. I wish now I hadn’t given him that bit of metal that I asked him about. Now he’s whispering to himself, the man’s gone bananas, he’s asking for a small
screwdriver
.

What does he want with a screwdriver?

Here take this screwdriver, I hope it makes you happy, just make up your mind and move.

He starts scraping paint off the metal. He’s gone right off his head. I’m going to have to leave him, I’ll have trouble from him yet. Maybe I should go back to the village, persuade Father to send me back to school. I’ve missed only a year.

A
twig
fell
on
…

On what?

Sometimes I wish I was dead.

The piece of metal isn’t black anymore but blue. Big deal. But this scraping of his has got him all excited. He jumps into the truck and shouts at me.

“Hey, let’s go, what are you waiting for?”

Go fuck yourself, it’s not me who’s holding things up.

I’m getting out –

What’s this? She’s not going straight back to bed. What’s the matter with her? Sitting in the kitchen beside the empty coffee
cup and losing her sleep. Mommy’s wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. Incredible. The house is full of light, Daddy’s gone to rescue Shwartzy, poor man, all for my sake. And Mommy’s in no hurry, not tired, giving me an understanding look, studying me as if she hasn’t seen me for a long time. Touching me, trying to start a conversation, smiling.

A wild happiness takes hold of me.

“You woke me in the middle of a dream …”

Strange to think of her having dreams, but, I suppose, why not?

“What was the dream?” I ask politely.

“A real nightmare. I dreamed about you.”

“A nightmare? What was it?”

“A strange dream, awfully confused, we had gone to some far-off country and you were sick there.”

And suddenly she pulls me to her and hugs me. I really like this dream of hers, about me being sick. I hug her in return. Her stale old smell. She’s not turned completely to stone after all.

“A serious illness?” I ask.

“No,” she says hastily, hiding something, “what does it matter … it was just nonsense … were you awake when the headmaster called?”

“Yes.”

She shifts out of the embrace, very slowly.

“Still can’t sleep at night? What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I just can’t sleep.”

“Are you in love with somebody?”

“No. Why do you say that?”

“Nobody?” She smiles at me so sweetly. “That’s impossible …”

“Why’s it impossible?”

“Because there are some very nice boys in your class.” “How do you know?”

“I taught in your class once, didn’t I? I saw some … really charming boys.”

That’s what she thinks –

“Who?”

“I can’t remember … I was just struck by some of the faces.”

“But who?”

She’s still stroking me, absently.

“It doesn’t matter. I just said … I was joking … so what do you do when you can’t sleep, do you read in bed?”

“No. I walk about, eat something, listen to music …”

“Music? In the night? I never hear anything.”

“You and Daddy sleep like a pair of corpses, if somebody blew up the house you wouldn’t notice.”

“That’s odd. In the daytime I don’t notice that you’re particularly tired. It amazes me how you get through the night, all alone like that. I wish I could do with less sleep … but don’t you get bored by yourself in the dark house … time creeping by so slowly …”

“It’s not that bad … sometimes when I go out for a little walk it’s really very nice …”

“What?”

“You heard me …”

“You go out of the house at night? Are you crazy? You know what can happen to a girl walking the streets at midnight …”

“Two o’clock in the morning, not midnight. There’s nobody around then …”

“Dafi, you must stop this …”

“But why all the fuss? What can happen? Everything’s quiet … and there’s the civil patrol … nice old men …”

“Dafi, that’s enough, no arguments …”

“What can happen to me? I don’t go far. Down to the corner where Yigal was killed and back again …”

She goes pale. The hand lying on the table clenches to a fist … she wants to say something but the words don’t come. I shall have to help her.

“But you told me …”

“Who told you?” she snaps.

“Daddy.”

“When did he tell you?” She’s all on fire. “A long time ago.”

She starts biting her nails, in agony, bewildered. I carry on in an innocent, patient tone.

“But what is there to hide … why am I not allowed to know? Daddy said he was killed at once and didn’t suffer.”

She doesn’t answer, looks at her watch, groans, doesn’t want to answer. I’ve ruined everything.

“Do you think he did suffer?” in a soft, distant voice. Sometimes I can be dreadful, unbearable, I know.

“What does it matter now … enough, Dafi.” She won’t be drawn –

Silence. A clock ticking. A clear summer night. The house all lit up. Bread crumbs on the table. Mommy sits there frozen, her eyes hard. Tense as a spring. Now and then she looks at me, her sweet smile has gone. Night crickets. Poor Daddy, driving with Na’im to Lod. He was so tired, he didn’t want to wake up, I really dragged him out of his sleep.

“I wish he’d been killed,” I say quietly, thoughtfully.

“Who?”

“Shwartzy.”

“That’s enough, Dafi …”

“Why not? He isn’t a young man.”

“Enough, Dafi …”

She’s pleading –

“All right then, not killed, just badly hurt, a few months in the hospital.”

“Enough!”

“O.K. then, no blood even, just concussion, paralysis from the neck upwards, so he won’t be able to talk …”

And then I get a hard slap on the cheek. She hits me, the first time she’s hit me in seven years maybe. And I fall silent, it’s easier now. My cheek burns, tears spring to my eyes, but this blow has cracked something inside me, weariness, something dissolves in me. A stupefying sort of blow. I don’t move, don’t jump up, just slowly put a hand to my cheek to feel if the skin’s been torn.

She’s more shocked than I am, she clutches at my hand, as if she’s afraid I’m going to hit her back.

“I said, enough,” she almost whimpers.

“Will he expel me from the school?” I ask quietly, not saying a word about the slap, feeling quiet, relaxed and tired, a sweet tiredness, the tiredness of immediate sleep.

She’s still holding my hand.

“I don’t know.”

“But what do you think?”

She starts thinking.

“Do you deserve it?”

“I deserve it a bit …”

“What do you mean, a bit?”

“I deserve it.”

“Then it looks as if he will expel you. It’s not so bad, we’ll find you another school.”

And I stand up, tired, I’ve never felt so tired before, yawning a big yawn … so drowsy … my other cheek is burning as if it’s been slapped as well, I go stumbling to my room and Mommy comes with me, supporting me. She puts me to bed, covers me up, puts out the light. My room is dark and the rest of the house lit up, as it always used to be, as it should be. She sits on the bed beside me, as she used to years ago, and I say to myself, a pity to sleep now, and with this thought, as I’m still thinking it, I go to sleep.

Is this how it will end? For weeks now I’ve seen my body depart from me. There’s no taste in food, it’s like putting plaster or absorbent cotton in my mouth. I cover my food with salt and black pepper and red pepper and it makes no difference. All the taste has gone. And Na’im is a fool, he burns the food. Much too hot. “Are you in love with somebody?” Little swine. And I’m afraid to tell him that I’m going to die because if he thinks this is the end he’ll run away and I can’t be left alone any longer.

He’s so jittery. Impatient. They’ve forgotten him, it’s true. He’s become a real delinquent. His bed in a mess, socks thrown on the floor, chain-smoking the whole time, I run around after him checking the ashtrays. I must sniff them to make sure there’s no hashish there. You never know, anything is possible.

He doesn’t even want to read the newspapers. He just tells me what the headlines are and says it’s all lies, all nonsense, you shouldn’t believe what they say. What is this? We’ve gone back to Turkish rule. He does as he pleases. Once I thought of phoning the police, telling them to keep an eye on him.