by Eshkol Nevo
When he returned, he sat down very close to her, his leg almost touching hers, sipped his coffee, and asked: Are you sure you don’t want any? She shook her head, and he leaned over to put his cup on the small table. Then, with a pounding heart, he leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, stretched out his arm and trapped a strand of hair with two of his fingers.
* * *
—
What’s your family situation? she suddenly says. I forgot to ask.
Happily married plus three fantastic girls, he says.
How old are your daughters? she asks.
Twelve, fourteen, and eighteen. The oldest is starting the army on Sunday.
Where will she serve? A spark of interest ignites in her voice. Or is he just imagining it?
Intelligence, he says with a smile. He’s thinking that if even the tiniest muscle in her face moves now, it’s a sign.
But her face is frozen. Her body is frozen. Only her fingers continue to type. How much can she possibly have to type?
* * *
—
Then, too, she froze. But he continued to twist a strand of hair around his fingers, finding it difficult to part from the fantasy he had spun for so many months. Then he moved his fingers down her neck, as he had in the fantasy, to her beautiful collarbone, slightly lowering the Dacron collar so he could move along her collarbone to her shoulder, and a long moment later, he stopped. He asked her if it felt good. She moved her head slowly but clearly. To the right and then to the left. He touched her hair one last time and returned his hand to his lap. And that was that. He didn’t press up against her. Didn’t kiss her on the mouth. Didn’t tear off her uniform. On the contrary, he moved back and drank his now cool coffee as she rearranged her collar, and they sat beside each other in silence for another few moments. Along with the bitter disappointment and the desire to get on his knees and ask her forgiveness, anger began to grow inside him. All those light, seemingly random touches throughout the week in the office. All the times she leaned over his desk to show him documents, her long hair whipping his face, and the small dance of her sweeping the floor at the end of the day that seemed meant to emphasize her narrow waist. And the brief lingering a moment before she got out of his car in Beit Hanan, the lingering he was convinced meant: Kiss me.
* * *
—
Now he says: Excuse me—can I add something?
She straightens her glasses on her nose and says: I’m listening.
I’ll be as straight as I can with you, he says. When I left my last job, I never imagined it would be so hard to find work in this field. You saw my CV. You will agree with me that it’s not…sparse. Nevertheless, I’ve been going from interview to interview for six months now, and they give me the feeling that, because of my age, I’m not…current enough. Which is ridiculous. In marketing, it’s not age that counts, it’s hunger. Only hunger counts. Don’t you think so, Rotem?
Her lips tremble slightly when he says her name, and for the first time, he suspects that her behavior at this meeting is one big sham. But she quickly overcomes the trembling, goes back to typing, and says impassively, It doesn’t really matter what I think. There is an entire staff here that will make the decision.
But you have some influence, right? he persists.
Yes, I have some influence, she confirms.
So maybe you could pass on the message—he asks, his voice sounding too high in his ears, too pleading—that I am prepared to work hard. That if you give me the green light, I’ll get results.
I promise to pass on the message, she says with a small smile, a tiny smile, which he thought was more like a smirk. Then she looks at her watch. More accurately, she lifts her arm with the watch on it so he can see that she’s looking at her watch.
He gets the hint and asks, So what now, don’t call us, we’ll call you?
You’ll receive an e-mail, she explains as she stands up. Within a week, two weeks at the most.
He stands up, too, and she accompanies him to the door. A moment before he leaves, he considers saying something about what happened back then. But he still isn’t sure that she has made the connection and is afraid to hurt his chances—small as they might be—he needs the job. So, behind his glasses, his eyes look straight into her eyes behind her glasses and he says, Thank you for…your time.
What could he actually have said to her? he justifies himself in the elevator. That he’s sorry? That he apologizes? After all, what really happened there? Confusion. That’s all. Misinterpreted signs. He was only twenty-one at the time. He’d barely had a girlfriend before then, and it hadn’t been serious. He didn’t understand anything about anything. Even now, if God forbid Nirit were to leave him and he had to start all over again, he’d be just as lost. Clueless and clumsy.
When he leaves the parking lot, he thinks about his last drive to Beit Hanan.
After some silence, she asked, in a barely audible voice, if he could drive her home. Is it okay if I finish my coffee first? he asked. She nodded and eased her body away from him, a few centimeters to the left. He deliberately sipped his coffee slowly, and thought, What a mistake. She can file a complaint about me.
All the way to Beit Hanan, they didn’t exchange a word. She sat pressed up against the window and he clutched the wheel as if it were a lifesaver. There was a stop-and-go traffic jam on the coastal highway, and his leg hurt from so much pressing on and releasing of the clutch. On the radio, someone was translating love songs from English: “Mary Jane,” “Woe Is Me,” “Better Off Dead,” “Oh Carol,” “My Destiny,” “You’re Are My Happiness.” A bit before Netanya, he thought she was crying, but when he turned his head, he saw that she was only blowing her nose. There are more tissues in the glove compartment if you need them, he said, and she said, No thanks.
When they finally reached Beit Hanan, she opened the door quickly, pulled her backpack out of the backseat in a single movement, making do with one strap instead of two, walked to her parents’ house, and didn’t come back with blood oranges from the orchard.
* * *
—
Back at the base on Sunday, they both acted as if nothing had happened. He didn’t take it out on her after the incident. Didn’t order her to do meaningless tasks, didn’t make her wait to go on leave after the others had already gone, didn’t toss sarcastic remarks at her in the presence of other soldiers. Just the opposite, he was careful around her. Thought twice before asking her to do something for him, careful to sound as if he were making a request, not issuing an order. But the rides to Beit Hanan stopped. He didn’t offer anymore and she didn’t ask. And when they passed each other on the tiled paths connecting the huts, he would avert his eyes. So did she. Sometimes he really wanted to say something to her, but he didn’t know what.
After a few weeks, to his amazement, she asked for a transfer to a different section. He had no idea what reason she gave the unit commander. No one said a word to him, neither good nor bad. No one summoned him for a talk, put him on trial, or asked to hear their separate versions of the incident. One morning, she simply wasn’t there anymore.
* * *
—
He comes to the late conclusion that there was no way she didn’t recognize him. She recognized me, all right, but didn’t want to show me that she did. Bottom line, even though I’m right for the job, better than anyone else, there’s no way I’ll get an e-mail from the company within a week, two at the most. There’s no chance I’ll receive an e-mail as long as she’s their human resources manager.
* * *
—
Late Saturday night, an e-mail lands in his inbox. From her private address. The domain name wasn’t the company’s.
The subject: To Eli from Rotem—personal.
Right after he reads the first words, “Of course I recognized you,” he closes his laptop and makes hi
s “shoe rounds.” Picks up all the scattered shoes and returns each pair to its owner’s room. His eldest daughter is still on the phone with a friend, and he reminds her that tomorrow’s a big day, so she shouldn’t go to sleep too late. Okay, Daddy, she says, and goes back to her phone conversation. Then he takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his wife’s bag, returns to the study, and opens his laptop.
* * *
—
The next morning they take their daughter to the army recruiting office, the words from Rotem’s e-mail still echoing in his mind. Her side of the story was so different from the way he had imagined it.
They’re five in the car now, and it’s very noisy. In honor of the event, the new recruit is given the right to choose the soundtrack for the drive and she plays Enrique Iglesias songs on her phone. Nirit sheds a tear and the girls laugh at her for getting so emotional about every little thing. When they reach the recruiting office, it turns out that the younger girls had filled a bag with presents that will help their older sister get through her first night, and now they give it to her. The three of them cry and hug, and he and Nirit glow with pleasure as they watch from the sidelines. A moment before their daughter boards the bus, he finally manages to catch her alone for a few seconds. Take care of yourself, he says, putting a hand on her shoulder. Dad, I’m going into the Signal Corps, she says and laughs, what can possibly happen to me? An Arabic–Hebrew dictionary will fall on my head? No, really—he hugs her suddenly, too hard—take care of yourself, little girl. Okay, Daddy, she says, barely able to move out of his embrace, then adds with a smile, on the condition that you do too!
* * *
—
A week later, the official letter arrives. From her official e-mail address.
To Mr. Eli Goren,
We would like to thank you for applying to our company.
Unfortunately, after a careful evaluation of your CV and the information provided during your personal interview, we believe your profile does not suit our needs.
We wish you success in your future undertakings.
Sincerely,
Rotem Ashkenazi
Human Resources Manager
Do you dream about your characters?
There was a time when I did.
Today I dream that the members of BDS rise up as a single entity during my reading, climb onto the stage one by one, and murder me with a fountain pen while I desperately try to convince them that I have always been against the occupation and that the essence of my writing is an attempt to give a voice to the other.
Are you in favor of two countries for two peoples?
I don’t want to answer that question. I wrote books, I want to talk about my books. But I’m not naïve, I know how things work. It’s clear to me that the title of this interview will most likely be taken from my response to this question and not from my responses to other questions related to my books. I don’t understand why writers always have to be asked their opinion on political issues. Even after they’ve had a sleepless night because the wife came home late, very late, disturbingly late, from a night out with a friend, and also because recently, they have more question marks than exclamation points about everything related to current events, and most other things as well. But not all of us are Amos Oz. Not all of us are always fully prepared with a perfectly formulated reply to every question. Which doesn’t mean I won’t answer that question in the end, my way. Of course I’ll answer. Because more than I don’t feel like answering it, I don’t want people to think I’m avoiding the question.
Do you find yourself dealing with criticism when you’re abroad because you’re Israeli?
My father warned me. I can’t say he didn’t. I wrote to him from Singapore that the festival had sent a guy to escort me everywhere, and he replied: From my experience, he might be an agent with their secret police.
I wrote back: Don’t be silly. He’s a mild kind of guy. Nerdy. He writes poetry for his own pleasure.
And he replied: Maybe everything he says about himself is true. And maybe it isn’t.
* * *
—
My father worked in Singapore in the eighties. He advised the only university there on how to improve their screening processes, and was expelled from the country in disgrace after, in a private conversation, he expressed support for Singapore’s only opposition politician.
“In any case, I advise you to weigh your words carefully,” he wrote in the last text he sent me. But I—
I was intoxicated with the compliments I received there as an Israeli.
Usually, I shrivel when confronted with accusations. Admit to injustices. Watch sadly as BDS members leave the hall in open protest as I begin my talk. And suddenly—
Start-up nation. Jewish innovation. Nobel Prize sensation.
And the food. So many new tastes on my tongue! They have small open markets with food stands that sell only one dish each, but what a dish! And the liquor. They pour you something called a Singapore Sling, and after a few glasses you just—
* * *
—
Maybe it was because of the Singapore Sling that I spoke to my escort about democracy. Until then, I’d been careful about what I said, even when he himself complained about the regime (the price of cars, he kept saying, the price of cars), but after my fourth glass, I said: There’s no start-up nation without democracy. Every teacher who wants to encourage creativity and originality in his students knows that the first rule is to create an atmosphere of openness, tolerance, attentiveness in class, and, most important of all, zero awe.
You understand, I pontificated—
(Oh, the hubris.)
You can send a delegation to Israel and bring Israeli experts to advise you, that’s all well and good, but as long as you have only one party here, and one newspaper, you’ll never be able to be truly original. Do you understand? For creativity to exist, you need liberty.
* * *
—
That night, more specifically, at four thirty in the morning—
The door of my hotel room was flung open and two guys burst in with a large gun.
They were polite in the scariest way possible. According to them, they were there only to take me to my flight.
But gentlemen, I protested, my flight is in another two days! (How serious can the protest of a man in pajamas be?)
Your flight has been moved forward, said the taller one, who was still a head shorter than me, but he was the one with the gun, and I had six-year-old Shira and two-year-old Noam waiting for me at home.
So I did what they said.
Pack, they said. I packed.
(I remember throwing all my clothes haphazardly into my suitcase, and I felt they were contemptuous of me for it.)
Check to see that you haven’t left anything behind, they told me. I checked.
(I remember that my toothbrush was in the bathroom, in the soap holder. I took it.)
Please give us your passport, they said. I gave it to them.
(I remember sweat rolling down the back of my neck and being absorbed by my shirt.)
We walked through the hotel lobby—I carrying my suitcase and one of them on either side of me. The reception clerk buried his head in his keyboard. The doorman at the entrance held the door open long before we reached it.
I remember the drive to the airport. The silence in the car. I usually get people to talk. I always get people to talk. This time, there was clearly no chance. The car, which looked like a normal Hyundai, sailed through the roads of the city. We passed the botanic gardens and the tall skyscrapers that are joined together by a walkway that looks like a ship. An Israeli architect designed those breathtaking towers. Safdie. And everyone I met in Singapore mentioned Safdie’s aerial ship as another example of the creativity of the Jewish people.
Apart from my two companions,
whose silence was anything but companionable.
They also remained silent as we skipped check-in and skirted security.
The first and last time they opened their mouths was at the passport check.
The tall one handed me my passport.
The short one took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and read: “The Republic of Singapore thanks you for your visit and your contribution to our cultural enrichment and the breakthrough to new ways of thinking. Nonetheless, we wish it to be clear that any additional visit to our country by you or any member of your family is unwelcome and will be treated as such.”
(That was the first time anyone had hinted that the government had made the connection between me and my father. That, in fact, I had been marked from the first minute and someone had been assigned to follow me. But it took me a while to think about that. At that moment, all I wanted was to board the plane. Never in my life had I wanted so much to board a plane.)
* * *
—
Three hours after takeoff, my heart was still racing. The last time my heart had pounded that way was when Shira banged her head on the corner of the table and lost consciousness for a few seconds.
There were many Hebrew speakers on the plane, but I didn’t tell any of them the story of my expulsion. I think I temporarily lost my faith in people.
That escort, provided by the festival, was so open. Ostensibly.
He showed me his poems.
Poems about unrequited love. To a girl who left him for his best friend.
And several other poems, more original ones, in which he speaks on the phone with his dead father.