The Lover (41 page)

Adam has forgotten him, but apparently he’s giving him money, otherwise how could he go out to the movies every
evening, two movies in an evening. I say to him, “At least tell me what you’ve seen, tell me the story. I’m so bored here. And I know about films, when I had a good pair of legs I used to go to the movies in the afternoon.” But he refuses – “What is there to tell? Leave me alone, these movies aren’t your kind, all kissing and cuddling and guns, you wouldn’t understand.”

He’s learned how to talk –

Hooligan, bastard –

Fatah
–

Sits in the armchair, pretty boy, all sweet and laughing.

What can I do?

I’m completely dependent on him, I can’t move much now, just go from chair to chair. If he wasn’t buying the food and taking out the garbage, things would be very bad here.

I bring out old clothes and give them to him, emptying the wardrobe, and he takes them and says nothing. He’s bought himself an old wardrobe and he’s started filling it. And already I’m forgetting that I have toes on my feet, they’ve disappeared. It’s a sign of the end. I can’t stand up from my seat any longer. He has to pull me to my feet.

In the middle of the night Adam phones to call him out on a tow job. At first I thought it was news of Gabriel but I was wrong. Sometimes I say to myself, Gabriel did not return, not he, and if he did return then he really is dead.

The Arab puts on working clothes, clothes that he hasn’t touched for a long time. I said, “These clothes suit you better than those silly clothes you buy. Now you only need a haircut and you’ll look like a human being again.” But he didn’t answer, he just scowled at me and left, leaving me in the armchair.

And so I’m stuck here all night, unable to stand. My legs are like torn absorbent cotton. And outside it slowly becomes light. They don’t come back. Must be a difficult job. I try to stand and sink back again. All the windows are open, he forgot to close them. Suddenly it’s cold. I’m in a thin nightdress, as if I’ve just got out of bed. The cold enters the dry bones. I bend down, start picking up the newspapers scattered around me, papers that I haven’t read, papers that I so much wanted to read, stories about this unfortunate government, I start covering myself with them, stuffing them behind my head, behind my back, at my sides, no
longer knowing which is
Yediot
Aharonot,
which is
Ma’ariv,
tucking in here and tucking in there, a little comfort and warmth for the grieving body.

And at the window – the sun rising. Hands slowly sinking. No feeling in the fingers, as if the wires inside have burned out.

This time it’s the opposite … the body perishes and only the mind remains.

And I’m still standing there, on the road, deep in thought, smoking cigarette after cigarette. The piece of metal has turned blue in my hands. An endless flow of traffic passing on the road, the first planes taking off with a roar from the airport. The tow truck at the side of the road, the headmaster’s car covered with leaves hanging on the back. Na’im sits on the dust-bank, his eyes closed, his head in his hands, waiting for me in silence.

So the Morris exists. It hasn’t been dumped in a wadi, or buried in the sand. They painted it to conceal its identity. Perhaps they stole it. But who? The religious Jews?

At last I make a move, climb into the truck and drive to the first gas station. I phone Erlich, getting him out of bed and telling him to send Hamid to pick up the truck from here. I tell Na’im to wait for him, giving him fifty pounds so he can eat at the diner nearby. I cross the road to the bus stop and take the local bus to Jerusalem. I’ve forgotten what a bus looks like from inside, it’s thirty years perhaps since I’ve travelled by bus. I sit by the window, the torn piece of metal on my knees, convinced now that I’m going to find him.

I’m shown the way to the religious quarter and I begin slowly combing the streets, studying the parked and passing cars. No sign of the little Morris but I have a vivid feeling that I’m close to it, that it’s only a matter of time. I choose a busy intersection in the heart of the religious quarter and stand there watching the passing traffic. Before long a crowd of children with long side locks gather and stand watching me. Suddenly somebody touches me, a religious Jew with a broad felt hat.

“You are waiting for somebody, sir?”

“Yes.”

But I say nothing more. I decide not to ask any questions about the car, if word gets around that I’m looking for it it may vanish again.

At midday I go to a little restaurant at the corner of the street and order lunch. I’m the only non-religious one in the place, and the proprietor discreetly lays a skullcap beside my plate. I put the cap on my head and eat, my eyes straying all the time through the window to the street outside. The proprietor realizes that I’m looking for somebody.

“You are looking for somebody, sir?”

“Yes.”

“May I be of assistance?”

I want to ask him, his face inspires confidence, but I stop myself, they all belong to one sect here.

“No, thank you.”

For some reason I’m absolutely sure I’m going to find him. I have no doubt. I don’t know where this certainty comes from. I pay and leave. Exhausted. I’ve been awake since two in the morning and excitement is sapping my energy. A blazing hot day in Jerusalem and I walk around the dirty little side streets, already feeling dizzy. I start looking for garages, perhaps they’ve left the car to be repaired somewhere. There are several small garages there, or rather shops converted into garages. Workshops really, men repairing ovens, children’s carriages, bicycles, and a car standing there in the middle, beside it a mechanic with long side curls arguing with somebody. I approach and look to see if the Morris is hidden there behind the rusty scrap metal and the junk.

“Looking for something …?”

I don’t answer, take a look and walk on.

My movements become heavy. I’m attracting attention with my persistent patrolling of the religious quarter, with my big tousled beard, my uncovered head and dirty overalls. I decide to leave this area, to search in the streets nearby, finding myself turning towards the Old City, jostled in the crowd. I who have forgotten what walking is, walking on and on, following in the tracks of religious Jews, I never knew there were so many of them, young and old, a black river sweeping me along the streets. Sometimes I have to rest, leaning against a wall, take a break,
looking at them full in the eyes, studying them closely, but they don’t seem to mind, staring back at me with a proud and empty look, passing me by hurriedly.

In the end I reach the square in front of the Wall. The place has changed a lot since I last visited it. White all around. The sun burning down ferociously. I go close to the great stones. Somebody stops me and thrusts a black paper skullcap into my hand. I go and stand by the Wall itself. Just standing there. Looking at the crevices. A piece of paper falls at my feet. I pick it up and read it. A prayer for the return of a faithless husband. I pocket it. Dazed by the heat, the commotion of prayers around me. Somebody starts to wail. Somebody shouts. A crazy thought occurs to me. The religious ones killed him and stole the car.

I leave the place, the light skullcap still on my head, forcing my way against a mad stream of people. I reach the New City, find a public phone and call Asya.

“I’m in Jerusalem.”

“Have you found him?”

Straight to the point, without unnecessary questions. My heart misses a beat.

“Not yet. But I think I’m close behind him.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No … not yet.”

I return to the religious quarter, combing the streets in a wide circle. It seems there’s something special in the air, the shops are closing, people walking about in canvas shoes. As if there’s a festival or a fast. Towards evening I find myself outside the little restaurant again. I go in. Nobody there. The tables clean, the chairs upturned on them. The proprietor appears at an inner door. He’s surprised to see me.

“You haven’t found him yet?”

“No.”

He says nothing, embarrassed.

“Could you serve me the same meal … as at lunchtime?”

He hesitates, looks at his watch, then goes to the kitchen and brings me a full plate and a slice of bread. I start to eat, almost falling asleep, my head bowed over the plate. He touches me.

“Sir, you must hurry … before the fast …”

“Fast?”

“Tomorrow is the seventeenth of Tammuz … you must hurry …”

“Seventeenth of Tammuz? What’s that?”

“The day they breached the wall.”

“The wall?”

“The wall of the Temple.”

I touch my head, the skullcap is still there, stuck to my head, I take it off, put it back, carry on eating, but my eyes close again. I’ve never known such a deep weariness.

“Do you wish to sleep, sir …?” I hear him say. It turns out he’s willing to let me sleep at his house. I go up the stairs with him. It’s six o’clock, the day is fading. The house is full of blond-haired children, he clears them out of one of the rooms and leads me in there, goes away to fetch clean sheets but I’m already lying on the bed fully clothed, on a threadbare silk blanket. He tries to rouse me, touches me, but I don’t move.

I sleep in the daylight, a fitful sleep, hearing the sounds of the street, the chatter of children, seeing the light turn to a limpid darkness. Dirges rise from a nearby house of prayer.

At about midnight I wake up. A small light burning in the house. People talking, the voices of children. I go out into the corridor, my clothes crumpled, an attractive young woman sits calmly on the floor, reciting dirges in a low voice. Still
murmuring
the prayer, she points the way to the bathroom, I turn on the tap and drink water.

Evidently her husband is in the synagogue. I stand in the dark corridor waiting for her to finish, but she doesn’t look up from the book. I take out a hundred pounds from my wallet, go into the room and lay the money on the top of the cupboard, she shakes her head as if to say, there’s no need. “Give it to somebody who needs it,” I whisper, and leave the house.

I resume the search, revived. Religious Jews pass through the streets, passing from one synagogue to another. I’ve noticed that these people are constantly, restlessly in motion. Again I comb the streets thoroughly, examining the cars. Strange, how sure I am that I’ll find it, this stubborn search looks a bit like a sort of madness.

About three in the morning and all is quiet. The houses of prayer are silent, the streets deserted. I start exploring the
courtyards 
of the houses, the inner courtyards of big yeshivas, inspecting car after car. At four o’clock I find it. Parked in a corner. The engine still warm, apparently it has only recently returned from a journey. Part of the front bumper is missing. With my fingernail I scrape some paint off one of the doors. In the clear night light the original blue beneath is soon revealed. Inside is a black hat and some newspapers. I take a small screwdriver from my pocket and pry the window open, looking for clearer signs of him but finding nothing. The kilometre gauge shows thousands more than before. I find a hiding place nearby and sit down to wait.

With the first signs of dawn, once more the religious people begin to emerge from the houses. From the synagogues rises a plaintive, monotonous chant. Church bells ring softly. At
five-thirty
a party of young boys arrives, chattering excitedly, and stands waiting beside the Morris. A few minutes later he arrives, walking slowly, a religious Jew with long side curls, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and stands beside the car, running his hand over the damaged bumper.

The lover transformed into something unlike a lover –

I leave my hiding place and approach him. He sees me, smiles sadly, as if to apologize. I stare at his changed face, at his black side curls. He’s very fat, a big paunch flops over his belt.

“Hello …”

A faint reek of onions.

I touch him.

“So you didn’t make it to the front.”

But I did get to the front. Hardly twenty-four hours had passed since you sent me away, and there I was in the middle of the desert. They pushed me out there so fast I couldn’t think straight, and not because they needed me, but because they wanted to kill me. I tell you, they wanted to kill me. Just that. It had nothing to do with the war. And they really did kill me, and this is somebody else.

I thought – it’s nothing more than a formality. Is there anyone to whom I’ll be of any use in this war? I shall present myself at
some office and say, “Well, here I am. I belong here too. Include me in the list of volunteers and don’t say I didn’t close ranks in time of trouble.” I had no wish to be a partner in victory, much less in defeat, but if my presence was so important to them, I didn’t mind standing for a day or two beside a roadblock, guarding an office, even carrying equipment. Something
symbolic
, for the sake of history, as they say…

I didn’t know somebody was going to snatch me up and send me straight into the inferno. I say it again – they simply wanted to kill me.

At first things happened casually. By the time I found the camp it was already midday. I parked the car in the parking lot and looked for the gate, but there wasn’t a gate, just a broken-down fence and a lot of confusion. People running backwards and forwards among the barracks, army vehicles racing about, but behind the mask of feverish activity a new and unfamiliar lethargy prevailed. The system breaking down. Ask a question and nobody listens. Everywhere you’re pursued by the voice of the transistor, but it gives no news. Even the old marching songs have no spirit left in them. Suddenly, folly.

It was obvious, I saw at once, they didn’t know what to do with me. Aside from a passport, I had no document that could have given them something to work on. They sent me from hut to hut, they sent me to the computer building, perhaps the computer would come up with something about me. And the computer did come up with something – not me but an old Jew, about fifty-five years old, living in Dimona, perhaps a relative of mine.