by Amos Oz
And to a question from the Author she replies: I don’t know. I’m not sure. I haven’t heard anything about him for ages. It’s possible he’s still alive. But I may be wrong, no, he can’t be, because if he were still alive he’d have to be about a hundred.
*
Giving her a sidelong glance, the Author notices that her front teeth are slightly protruding and rather widely spaced, like a squirrel whose attention is fixed on something but whose fur is already rippling with fear: any moment now she will run off to her rooftop room and her jealous cat.
Casually, lightly, he puts his arm round her waist, as though here too there are stairs she may trip and fall on, Come on, don’t be frightened, Rochele. Shall we take a peep into the yard at the back? Maybe that little back room still exists. Maybe there’s a window, let’s take a look and see what’s still there, if anything? Clumsily she pulls herself free of his embrace, and at once, as though regretting this, she says boldly, Yes, I’ll come, show me.
But in the backyard lit faintly by yellowish light from kitchens there is only broken furniture, an abandoned pram, some cardboard boxes, smells of cooking and rubbish, twisted blinds, the sound of flushing cisterns, shrieks and laughter blaring from TVs, groaning air-conditioning units and the scampering of a startled cat.
The Author mutters a few confused sentences about the fog of passing time and the maze of memory, while absent-mindedly stroking her hair, down to the base of her plait, then takes her by the shoulders and draws her gently towards him. But his new book, wrapped in brown paper secured by two rubber bands, separates him from her flat chest like a shield. Suddenly, in a high, girlish, quivering voice, like a baby bird’s, so different from the warm voice she read in earlier, she says: I’m a little scared.
At once he lets go of her, he remembers that she is not that young and that she’s not really attractive, what’s got into him all of a sudden, he mumbles an apology, lights another cigarette and walks her back to her home opposite the cultural centre. On the way he tries to make amends for what almost didn’t happen by telling her amusing stories, one after another. Like the story of the woman who rang his doorbell one day. She was a short woman with broad shoulders, wearing heavy glasses and a green-and-white-striped trouser suit. She was clutching, almost violently, the arm of a child of about nine who kept trying to break free from her grasp. Excuse me for ringing your bell like this, sir, and disturbing you, the fact is we don’t really know each other – that is, everyone knows you of course, but not us, come on, Sagiv, say hallo nicely to the famous writer. We really don’t want to disturb you, it won’t take a moment, I’m a professional dietician, and many years ago I managed to speak to the famous poet Mrs Lea Goldberg at the grocer’s, but Sagiv here has never seen a real live writer. It’s very important for him to see a writer, because one day he’s going to grow up to be a very famous poet or writer. Sagivi? Come on? Tell the famous writer something very original and beautiful. No? What’s the matter with you? But you prepared so beautifully at home. We even rehearsed it together. So how come you’re suddenly so shy with the writer gentleman? There’s no need to be shy. Writers understand our souls perfectly. Isn’t that right? But we’re sorry, we really don’t want to intrude, we’re just leaving, we’ll just leave this envelope with you please and we’ll wait patiently for you to write us a letter. Write to us please and tell us your honest opinion of Sagivi’s work. What could he improve? Maybe the ideas? Or the spelling? The style, maybe? Or maybe it would be better for him to tackle more practical subjects? And please, where can we publish it? What’s come over you, Sagivi? Why don’t you speak up and say your piece? What an idiot child! Excuse me, sir, if you could please write us just a recommendation? Or an introduction? With the fine recommendation you’ll write for us please, anyone will agree to publish us!
*
Then the Author tells Rochele Reznik about his eccentric Uncle Osya, the one who forgot him in the Pogrebinsky Brothers’ pharmacy. How this Uncle Osya once delivered a resounding slap on the cheek to the Communist Member of the Knesset, Shmuel Mikunis, how the two of them eventually ended up becoming bosom friends and how they even cared for each other devotedly when both fell ill the same year, the same month, with the same disease, and were even put in the same ward in the Ichilov Hospital.
For a moment the Author thinks of the dying Ovadya Hazzam, the man who lived like a king (a lord, even), had a wild time, came into money, got divorced, cruised around town all day in a blue Buick with blondes from Russia, slapped everyone on the shoulder, laughing and joking, belched thunderously, hugged and kissed everyone he met, even strangers, men and women alike, and when he burst out laughing he made the windowpanes rattle, and now in Ichilov his catheter has slipped out and the night sister is too far away to hear his faint groan, so he lies there in a puddle of his warm, sour, bloodstained urine, which will soon cool down and run onto his belly, his groin, his back, making his buttocks stick to the wet sheet.
*
When they reach the entrance to Rochele Reznik’s building the Author takes his leave of her warmly, thanks her for coming for a little walk with him, repeats his kind words about her reading, and offers to accompany her upstairs to her rooftop. She blushes under the cover of darkness and mumbles that there’s really no need, Joselito is waiting for her up there, she always comes home alone, that is—
The Author insists, declaring in his most authoritative voice that everyone knows it’s precisely on the staircases of old buildings in Tel Aviv at night that all sorts of things recently, etc. To be on the safe side he should definitely accompany her to her own front door, hand her over to her Joselito, not to mention keys getting lost or breaking off in the lock.
Rochele Reznik, embarrassed, stammers that there’s really no need, thank you anyway, but there is really and truly no need, she simply turns on the light here, at the bottom of the stairs, and in two minutes she’ll be home, Joselito is waiting by the door and he’ll certainly kill her for coming home so late, apart from which, she’s sorry but it so happens that it’s not very cosy this evening in her flat, because she’s sent the curtains to be cleaned and there are no shutters, so the neighbours can—
At this she is smitten with panic mixed with shame: the curtains are not at the cleaner’s, they are precisely where they should be, and anyway why mention curtains? Why did I say to him that it’s not very cosy this evening in the flat? I even said that the neighbours could see everything. What on earth will he make of that? Have I gone out of my mind? What will he think I’m thinking? After all, he didn’t even invite himself in, he just offered to go up the stairs with me and at the very most stand with me while I open the door to make sure the key hasn’t got lost or doesn’t stick or break off in the lock. And I made up a lie so he wouldn’t come in. Even though the thought never even crossed his mind. And then I said that there are no shutters, and that the neighbours. You could infer that I was hinting to him that if only I did have curtains or shutters—
But what if he really did mean to imply that he’d like me to ask him in, for a chat and a drink? In which case, the moment he sets foot inside he’ll see that the curtains are actually there. That they haven’t gone to the cleaner’s. And then? He’ll realise at once that I simply lied to him for no reason. Where on earth can I hide myself?
*
Besides, she has no idea whether or not she really wants this Author, who is famous but so polite, even fatherly, that she is not entirely at her ease with him, to come upstairs with her. Yes, he wants something, but what does he really want from her? Does she want to invite him into her room or is she afraid to? Now? And did she or didn’t she leave a black bra hanging on the back of her chair when she came out? And which side of the chair? What if it’s hanging so that you can see at once that it’s padded?
The light on the stairs goes out again and again the Author presses the switch, and says: Maybe I should, after all? To be on the safe side? Just as far as your door?
But now that
she has lied to him and told him that the curtains are at the cleaner’s, it’s too late. There’s no question. No way back. She has blocked all her own escape routes. There’s no way she can let him come into her room and see that the curtains are hanging at the window as usual. She would die of shame.
In a faint voice, like a little girl who has been told off, she finally says to the Author: All right then, thank you, come upstairs with me, but only as far as the door . . . if you insist . . . but the truth is, though, that Joselito, I mean, he’s not used to—
Then, suddenly aware of what she has just said, she falls silent, panic-stricken and helpless.
The Author observes her look of a hunted animal, of a terrified baby rodent, a cornered squirrel ready to bite itself in desperation. So he smiles and politely withdraws his offer: No, no, really, it doesn’t matter, look, if it makes you feel so uncomfortable—
Now the squirrel is silenced, unable to decide which is worse, accepting his original offer to accompany her to her door, or accepting gratefully his polite withdrawal of the offer. Or should she ask him in, even though he may not be interested in an invitation, but simply offered to accompany her out of politeness or a genuine concern for her welfare? Or could she still not ask him in? Even though now that seems like the only option, and he might be offended? In which case, how can she cover her shame over the curtains? And the bra on the back of the chair? Besides which, there are little hairs everywhere from Joselito, who is starting to shed his fur now that the summer is here. And suppose the Author needs to use the bathroom suddenly, and what if she left the razor she has been using to rid herself of excess body hair out on the shelf?
Lowering her eyes to the pavement or to her shoes, she clutches the book to her chest, not knowing what to say.
The Author, of course, is aware of her distress. Lightly touching her shoulder, he courteously suggests: Look, if you feel like it, why don’t we take another short stroll? Just to the end of the street and back? Or as far as the square? Of course, if you prefer to go up right away, without the services of a bodyguard, then if you don’t mind I’ll just stand here in the entrance until I hear your door open and close, so I know that you’ve made it safely back to your Joselito without meeting any dragons on the way.
With a twisted smile, close to tears, she mutters: I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m a bit confused this evening.
The Author, too, smiles as he says to her in the dark: But so charming, too.
*
Nine or ten years have passed since someone, a boy, not a particularly attractive one, said something similar to her. He was a fast talker, and she didn’t believe him. But now, this man, suddenly—
The blood once more flushes her ears and neck, and she feels as though her knees are melting and she has no choice, she must either lean on him or collapse.
Her knuckles show white as she clutches his book, in its brown paper and rubber bands, to her belly. Like a chastity belt. At that instant she almost summons up the courage to invite him upstairs, why not, what do the bra and the cat hairs matter, he must have seen the insides of a thousand girls’ rooms in his time, she’ll make him some tea, or coffee, she even has some Argentinian hierba mate, if he’s not feeling too tired? Or isn’t in a hurry to go somewhere?
But her lips can’t help trembling in the darkness. Eventually, almost in a mumble, she reveals to him that she has a collection of matchboxes from two hundred hotels all round the world, well, maybe only a hundred and eighty, but why should a man like him be interested in a collection of matchboxes?
The Author lights another cigarette, pushes the light button again, and thinks it over. For an instant he has a mental image of the exciting asymmetry he spotted earlier in the evening, through her skirt, between the two sides of Ricky’s (the waitress’s) knickers: the left side was a little higher than the right. Like a wink promising an Aladdin’s cave of secret thrills.
For a moment he weighs up the pros and cons in his mind: is it worth his while to be invited upstairs now to Rochele Reznik’s rooftop room? Actually, why not? After all, her shy presence gives him pleasure, and he finds her tremulous praise quite enjoyable, and her fear is as sweet as the shivering of a little chick in the palm of one’s hand: so why not? She won’t eat him alive up there. On the other hand, even though she is almost stunned and even submissive she isn’t that attractive. Either way, it’ll end up being embarrassing: she is in a panic and he doesn’t really fancy her. First he’ll have to allay her fears, calm her down, like a patient family doctor with a girl who refuses to have an injection. And all the way he’ll have to be so careful, so paternal that even the small amount of desire that he’s been trying his hardest to boost with images of Ricky the waitress’s knickers will fade. Either way, he’ll have to pretend. He’ll have to put on a performance for her, one way or another. Or make up an excuse. And he’ll have to stroke her cat and say what lovely fur it has. He’s had enough of showmanship for one night. And one way or another she, Rochele Reznik, will end up being hurt by him. Or worse still, she’ll start nursing all sorts of hopes for a sequel. Which is totally out of the question.
Besides, she has no curtains and no shutters, and God knows who her neighbours are, and he is quite a well-known personality.
And so the Author entertains doubts, and the first question, Why not, is replaced in his mind by other questions. Why? Why the hell? What for? Is it just the old cliché of that wretched rhyme, You’ll always find them side by side: / never a groom without a bride?
He reflects that Chekhov has already mapped out the route by which one can approach a strange lady by paying court to her lapdog. But even Chekhov did not explain to us how, once you have established acquaintance and got into conversation, you proceed from there. How, for example, do you get close to a girl who clutches a jealous cat to her breast, a growling bundle of fur that will surely scratch anyone who attempts to usurp its place?
*
And so the Author takes his leave on a note of controlled warmth. He promises to phone her, yes, definitely, very soon. By the light of the street lamp he hurriedly strokes her plait, and tries to look her straight in the eyes, but her eyes are once more lowered in the direction of the tips of her shoes or the cracked pavement. Rochele Reznik, a hunted squirrel with an expression of panic on her small face, also looks as though she may bite, perhaps because of the way her front teeth protrude. She suddenly proffers a tiny, cold hand for a hasty handshake; the other hand still presses his new book, wrapped in brown paper secured with two rubber bands, to her chest. While she withdraws her hand from his with an almost imperceptible movement that suggests a day-old chick, she suddenly smiles sadly and says: Goodnight, and thank you for everything. Thank you very much, really. And there’s something else I wanted to say, I don’t know how to put it, I just wanted to tell you that I don’t think I’ll ever forget this evening. I’ll never forget the pharmacy and the back room with the poisons, or your uncle who slapped the member of the Knesset and then they both became ill.
*
The Author roams the streets for an hour or an hour and a half. His feet lead him away from the well-lit avenue to side streets, and unfamiliar alleyways, where all the shutters are barred and only an occasional anaemic street lamp sleepily casts a murky glow. As he walks he smokes two more cigarettes and does the sum in his head: seven or eight since the start of the evening.
Two couples, their arms round one another, cross his path on their way to bed from a night out, and one of the girls lets out a shriek of horror, as though someone has whispered some outrageous possibility to her. The Author tries to imagine this possibility in detail, turning it round and round, looking for some kind of juicy excitement in it, but the incubus of the airless dungeon where Arnold Bartok and his mother Ophelia are shut away on their bed that is damp with sweat kills his nascent desire even before it can start up: the elderly mother and her middle-aged son are both stewing in their sweat on a single shapeless mattress,
a skinny, veiny body straining to lift a massive heap of flabby flesh, and to push the chamber pot underneath – like a pair of wrestlers in the dark, the son grunting and the mother groaning, while a mosquito hums in the darkness like a tiny drill, there, or here, or both here and there.
Uncle Osya, the anarchist, the piano tuner, lived all alone in a small back room in the basement of an old building on Brenner Street, he was generally out of work, sometimes he took an odd job as a removal man or a house painter, and even when he was in his thirties – a podgy albino – everyone always called him ‘Oska-nu-kak’, meaning ‘Well, Oska, how’s it going?’, and they jokingly said of him that in the recesses of his subterranean hideout he concealed the beautiful niece of the ousted Soviet leader Leon Trotsky from the British authorities and from the party.
Even as a child the Author knew that this was only a joke, that there were no beauties hidden in his eccentric uncle’s basement, but now, for an instant, he is suddenly sorry that he never had the courage to peep behind the mouldy greenish oilcloth that hung from wall to wall, concealing the innermost sanctum of the basement.