Where the Jackals Howl (17 page)

 

Not by day and not by night
Quietly I set out and walk;
Not on the hill or in the vale,
Where stands an old acacia tree . . .

 

And at once Yair and Uri were on fire with detective zeal. An old acacia tree, that's the vital point. Not on the hill or in the vale, that's where it starts getting complicated. Yair had a bright idea: Maybe we should look the poem up in the big book of Bialik's poetry and find the context, then we'll know which way to turn. He pounced on the bookcase, rummaged around, found the book, and within three minutes had located the very poem. However, the lines that followed did not solve the puzzle, but only tantalized the hunters still further:

 

The acacia solves mysteries
And tells what lies ahead . . .

 

Yes. I see. But if the acacia itself is the mystery, how can it be expected to solve mysteries and even tell the future? How does it go on? The next stanza is irrelevant. The whole poem's irrelevant. Bialik's no use. We must try a different approach. Let's think, now. I've got it: the Hebrew word
shita
isn't only the name of a tree. It also means “method.”
Shita
is a system. These inquiries would do credit to that buffoon Kleinberger. Well, then, let's think some more. Shut up, Uri, I'm trying to think. Well, my dear Watson, tell me what you make of the first words. I mean “Not by day and not by night.” Don't you understand anything? Of course you don't. Think for a while. Incidentally, I don't understand it yet, either. But give me a moment, and you'll see.

The doorbell rang.

An unexpected guest stood in the doorway. Her face was set, her lips nervous. She was a weird and beautiful woman.

 

An alley cat is a fickle creature; he will abandon anything for the caress of a human hand. Even at the height of rutting fever he will not turn away from the caress of a human hand. When Lily touched him, he began to shudder. With her left hand she stroked his back firmly, while the fingers of her right hand gently tickled the fur of his neck. Her combination of tenderness and strength filled the animal with pleasure. The cat turned over on his back and offered his stomach to the gentle fingers, purring loudly and contentedly. Lily tickled him as she spoke.

“You're happy. Now you're happy. Don't deny it, you're happy,” she said in German. The cat narrowed his eyes until two slits were all that was left, and continued purring.

“Relax,” she said, “you don't need to do anything. Just enjoy yourself.”

The fur was soft and warm. Thin vibrations passed through it and ceased. Lily rubbed her ring against the cat's ear.

“And what's more, you're stupid as well.”

Suddenly the cat shuddered and stirred uneasily. Perhaps he guessed or half-sensed what was coming. A yellow slit opened in his face, the wink of an eye, a fleeting glimmer. Then her fist rose, made a wide sweep in the air, and struck a violent blow at the belly of the cat. The creature took fright and leapt away into the darkness, collided with the trunk of a pine tree, and dug in his claws. From the murky height he hissed at her like a snake. All his fur stood on end. Lily turned and walked to the Yardens' house.

 

“Good evening, Yair. It seems you're free. And on your own.”

“Uri is here and we . . . but isn't Dad on his way to see you?”

“Uri here, too. I'd forgotten about Uri. Good evening, Uri. How you've grown! I'm sure all the girls must be chasing you. No, you needn't invite me inside. I just came to get something straight with you, Yair. I didn't mean to intrude.”

“But Mrs. . . . but Lily, how can you say that. You're always welcome. Come in. I was so sure that just now you'd be at your house drinking coffee with Dad, and suddenly . . .”

“Suddenly your dad will find the door locked and the windows dark, and he won't understand what's become of me. He's disappointed and worried—which makes him look almost agreeable. Pity I'm not there among the trees in the garden, secretly watching him, enjoying the expression on his face. It doesn't matter. I'll explain everything. Come on, Yair, let's go out, let's go for a little walk outside, there's something I need to straighten out with you. Yes. This very evening. Be patient.”

“What . . . Has something happened? Didn't Dinah go to Tel Aviv, or . . .”

“She went like a good little girl, and she'll come back like a good little girl. But not until later. Come on, Yair. You won't need your coat. It isn't cold outside. It's pleasant outside. You'll have to excuse us, Uri. How you've grown! Good night.”

In the yard, near the pepper tree, she spoke to Yair again: “Don't look so puzzled. Nothing serious has happened.”

But Yair already knew that he had made a mistake. He should have brought his coat, in spite of what Lily had said. The evening was cold. And later it would be very cold. He could still excuse himself, go back, and fetch his coat. Lily herself was wearing a coat that was stylish, almost daring. But to go back to the house for a coat seemed to him somehow dishonorable, perhaps even cowardly. He put the thought aside and said:

“Yes. It's really pleasant out here.”

Since she was in no hurry to reply, Yair had time to wonder if there really were acacia trees in Jerusalem, and if so, where, and if not, perhaps
shita
should be taken as a clue to the verb
leshatot
—“to jest.” Who knows, maybe the treasure's hidden in one of the wadis to the west or the south of Rehavia. Pity about the program. Now I'll never know the solution.

A
FTER A
brief moment of astonishment and confusion and a few indecisive speculations, Yosef Yarden made up his mind to go to Dr. Kleinberger's house. If he found him at home he would go in, apologize for the lateness of the hour and the unexpected visit, and tell his friend about this strange incident. Who would have thought it? And just imagine the look she would have given me if I had been a few minutes late. And there I was, standing and waiting, ten o'clock already, two and a half minutes past. If something had happened to her, she would have phoned me. There's no way of understanding or explaining this.

“And for the time being you have avoided a vulgar and possibly painful argument,” said Elhanan Kleinberger, smiling. “She wouldn't have given in to you over the guest list. She'll send invitations all over the city, all over the university. To the President of the State and the Mayor of Jerusalem. And really, Yosef, why should you expect her to give up what she wants in deference to what you want? Why shouldn't she invite the Pope and his wife to the wedding of her only daughter? What's the matter, Yosef?”

His guest began to explain, patiently:

“Times are not easy. In general, I mean. And remember, all these years we have been preaching, both in speech and in writing, the need to ‘walk humbly.' Yair's mother wanted an intimate wedding, a small circle of relatives, and that is a kind of imperative, at least from the ethical point of view. And . . . then there's the cost. I mean, who wants to go into debt for the sake of a society wedding?”

Dr. Kleinberger felt that he had lost the thread. He made coffee, set out milk and sugar. And at this point he also took the opportunity to add something to his previous remarks concerning the interplay of opposite extremes. The conversation soon diversified. They discussed Egyptology, they discussed Hebrew literature, they conducted a scathing inquiry into the workings of the municipality of Jerusalem. Elhanan Kleinberger has a great flair for linking together Egyptology, his professional field, and Hebrew literature, which is his heart's love, as he puts it, and of which he is a passionate lover, as he also puts it. In general, Yosef is used to having his views overruled by those of his friend, although he tends on most occasions to reject the particular wording adopted by Elhanan Kleinberger. So their arguments end with the last word going to Yosef Yarden and not to his old friend.

Were it not for the cold, the two friends would have gone out together to stand on the balcony and gaze at the starlight on the hills, as was their habit in summer. The Valley of the Cross lies opposite. There old olive trees grow in bitter tranquillity.

In passionate, almost violent hunger, the olive trees send out their tendrils into the blackness of the heavy earth. There the roots pierce the rocky subsoil, cleaving the hidden stones and sucking up the dark moisture. They are like sharpened claws. But above them the green and silver treetops are caressed by the wind: theirs is the peace and the glory.

And you cannot kill the olive. Olive trees burned in fire sprout and flourish again. A vulgar growth, quite shameless, Elhanan Kleinberger would say. Even olives struck by lightning are reborn and in time clothe themselves with new foliage. And they grow on the hills of Jerusalem, and on the modest heights on the fringes of the Coastal Plain, and they hide away in the cloisters of monasteries enclosed within walls of stone. There the olives thicken their knotted trunks generation after generation and lasciviously entwine their stout branches. They have a savage vitality like that of birds of prey.

To the north of Rehavia lie sprawling suburbs, poor neighborhoods with charming streets. In one of these winding alleyways stands an old olive tree. One hundred and seven years ago an iron gate was erected here and the lintel was supported by the tree. Over the years the tree leaned against the iron, and the iron bit deep into the trunk like a roasting spit.

Patiently the olive began to enfold the iron wedge. In the course of time it closed around it and set tight. The iron was crushed in the tree's embrace. The tree's wounds healed over, and the vigorous foliage of its upper branches was in no way impaired.

Y
AIR YARDEN
is a young man of handsome appearance. He is not tall, but his shoulders are powerful and his torso is trim, well proportioned, and athletic. His chin is firm and angular, with a deep dimple. Girls secretly long to touch this dimple with their fingertips, and some of them even blush or turn pale when they feel the impulse. They say, “And what's more, he thinks he knows a thing or two. He's about as brainy as a tailor's dummy.”

His arms are strong and covered in black hair. It would be wrong to say that Yair Yarden is clumsy, but there is a certain heaviness, a kind of slow solidity, perceptible in all his movements. Lily Dannenberg would have called this “massivity” and returned to her theme of the inadequacy of the Hebrew language, with its dearth of nuances. Of course, Elhanan Kleinberger is capable of refuting such barbed comments and of suggesting in the twinkling of an eye a suitable Hebrew adjective, or even two. And at the same time he will come up with a Hebrew expression to fit the word “nuance.”

It may be that this fascinating “massivity” with which Yair Yarden is endowed will change within a few years into the patriarchal corpulence for which his father is noted. A sharp eye may detect the first signs. But at present—Lily has no intention of disguising the truth—at present, Yair is a handsome, captivating youth. The mustache gives a special force to his appearance. It is blond, droopy, sometimes flecked with shreds of tobacco. Yair is studying economics and business management at the university; his whole future lies before him. Romantic follies, kibbutzim, and life in border settlements hold no attraction for him. His political views are temperate; he has learned them from his father. To be precise, Yosef Yarden sees in the political situation a wasteland of degeneracy and arrogance, whereas Yair sees a wide-open prospect before him.

“Will you offer me a cigarette, please,” said Lily.

“Of course. Here you are. Please take one, Lily.”

“Oh, thank you. I left mine at home, I was in such a hurry.”

“A light, Lily?”

“Thank you. Dinah Yarden—a name almost as musical as Dinah Dannenberg. Perhaps a little simpler. When you have a child you can call him Dan. Dan Yarden: like something out of a ballad about camels and bells. How much time are you going to give me, how long will it be, before you make me a grandmother? A year? A bit less? You needn't answer. It was a rhetorical question. Yair, how do you say ‘rhetorical question' in Hebrew?”

“I don't know,” said Yair.

“I wasn't asking you. It was a rhetorical question.”

Yair began scratching the lobe of his ear uneasily. What's the matter with her? What's she up to? There's something about her that I don't like at all. She isn't being sincere. It's very hard to tell.

“Now you're searching for something to say and not finding it. It doesn't matter. Your manners are perfect, and for heaven's sake, you're not in front of a board of examiners.”

“I wasn't thinking of you as a board of examiners, Lily. Not at all. I mean, I . . .”

“You're a very spontaneous boy. And quick and witty replies don't matter to me. What interests me is, rather, your . . . how shall I put it, your
esprit.
” And she smiled in the dark.

Chance led them to the upper part of the suburb. They reached the center of Rehavia and turned north. A passerby, thin and bespectacled, definitely a student of extreme views and crossed in love, passed in front of them with a transistor radio in his hand. Yair paused for a moment and turned his head, straining to catch a fragment of the fascinating program that Lily had interrupted. Not on the hill or in the vale, where stands an old acacia tree. Thanks to her he had gone out of the house without a coat, and now he was cold. He did not feel comfortable, either. And he had missed the climax of the program. Time to get to the point, and get it over with.

“Right,” said Yair. “OK, Lily. Are you going to tell me what the problem is?”

“Problem?” She seemed surprised. “There's no problem. You and I are going for a stroll on a pleasant evening because Dinah has gone away and your father isn't at home. We are talking, exchanging views, getting to know each other. There are so many things to talk about. So many things that I don't know about you, and there may even be things that you would like to know about me.”