by Eshkol Nevo
Who do you draw inspiration from?
On my way back from Kiryat Shmona, Robbie Williams is singing that he wants to feel real love. The taxi driver’s phone rings and he apologizes. It’s his daughter, he has to answer it.
Robbie Williams continues singing, at a lower volume, that he wants to feel real love and the driver’s daughter says, I don’t feel well.
You don’t have to go to school, he calms her down.
And she says, I’ll go anyway, Daddy.
Whatever you decide, my love, he says. And I think: Maybe if I had said to Shira, “Whatever you decide, my love,” more often, she wouldn’t have left us.
It starts to rain. Drops splat diagonally across the windshield of the taxi. There’s a new hotel at the Koach intersection, and next to it is a grounded hot air balloon. And Robbie Williams sings that he wants to feel real love. Wants to feel the home he lives in.
Do your children read your books?
For years, I had this scene in my head of Shira on her post-army trip to South America. She’s finished reading all the books she took from home, and after two weeks of not speaking Hebrew—because, if I know her, she deliberately planned her trip to avoid the Hummus Trail—she boards a bus. I always imagine her walking down the aisle, her matchstick legs stuck in stiff hiker’s boots, looking for an empty seat. She has put her large backpack on the roof of the bus, so she only has a small purple (her favorite color) bag on her shoulder. And a guitar, of course, on her back. On purpose, she lets her curls—still light brown? maybe already dark brown?—fall onto her face, the way she always does when she’s embarrassed, and apologizes in beginners’ Spanish when the neck of the guitar bangs into the shoulder of one of the passengers. She sits down, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. Small white earbuds are stuck in her ears. What is she listening to? Salsa. At the beginning of the trip, she hated it, then she became addicted. Her right knee rises and falls to the beat of the music, that knee has had a beat of its own since she was a child, and when the never-ending song finally ends, her knee stops moving, and in the ensuing silence, she suddenly hears Hebrew. She opens her eyes. A group of Israelis is sitting in the last row of seats. Though she’s a bit put off by their loudness, she has no choice but to go over to them because she needs a book desperately. After a brief discussion, one of them says that he has a book he’s willing to exchange. He takes it out of his bag and she sees that it’s one of her father’s books. Even as a child, she was embarrassed when people made the connection. And as she grew older and more rebellious, the embarrassment actually caused her to cringe. She doesn’t say anything about it to them and thinks to herself that the last thing she wants to read is one of her father’s books, but the alternative is to remain bookless. And who knows when she’ll have another opportunity. So she takes the book, gives the guy one of hers, and goes back to her seat. She doesn’t like to read when she’s in a moving vehicle, it makes her nauseous—she’s been that way since she was a child—so it isn’t until that night, in the hostel, wearing a now faded sweat suit I bought her years ago, that she opens the book. I’ve always hoped it would be my first book she starts reading in the hostel. It’s my most innocent book. In my mind’s eye, I see her finishing the first page, touching her tongue with her finger—something her mother does—and turning the page. And another one. She keeps reading page after page, feeling slightly disconcerted. Or she puts the book down, uninterested. I created several detailed options in my mind for this scene. But sometimes, reality beats out imagination. And Shira, being Shira, had plans of her own.
I myself have tried my hand at writing, and the hardest thing for me is developing a plot. Do you have a tip for me?
Tell your kid bedtime stories, or borrow someone else’s kid and tell him. I’ve been doing it for more than a decade. And if my plot-developing skills have improved slightly, it’s thanks to my kids. It has always been true that if the story I make up doesn’t interest them enough, they stop listening. Their eyes wander. Their bodies move restlessly. And sometimes, they tell me to my face: Dad, it’s boring. Or even more embarrassing: Forget it, Dad, read us something from Dr. Seuss. So I had no choice, and very slowly, from failure to failure, I learned how to dance out a plot. How to move a story so deftly that the next step is never predictable.
These days, only Yanai still asks me to make up a story. After his bath, I wrap him in two towels and carry him to his bed. We call it “Yanai in a pita.”
Carefully, I carve out a path for us through the Lego pieces scattered on the floor of his room, put him on the bed wrapped in the towels, and take his superhero pajamas out of the closet.
He asks to stay wrapped in the towels for a little while longer. I say okay. And rub his body through the towels to warm him up. Then I peel them off him, slowly, and help him into his pajamas. When he lies down, I cover him with his blanket and take a quick sniff of the wonderful smell of his scalp. Then I sit on the large quilt on the side of his bed.
He already knows that the story is about to begin and looks at me.
His eyes are identical to his mother’s, brown and large, with beautiful long lashes.
But the way he looks at me—is so different. Free of disappointment. Free of anger. Shining with pure love.
I begin telling the story. He looks at me, eager to devour every word, and his face reacts with great emotion to every turn of the plot.
Those are the best moments of my day. No dysthymia. No dying Ari. No evasive looks from Dikla. Just Yanai and me and the stories about the intrepid boy, Eelai (he needs the name change in order to believe it can all happen: a bird that carries a child in its beak when the child is unable to get down from the tree he’s climbed; a boy who’s bitten by the mix-up mosquito at night and, in the morning, instead of going to kindergarten, goes to his mother’s office, and his mother, who was bitten by the same mosquito, goes to his kindergarten).
When I leave the room, Dikla goes in.
Well, actually, she waits a few seconds so we won’t accidently brush against each other in the hallway and then goes in to lie down next to him. Her hair spreads out on the blanket. Her long legs hang slightly off the edge of the bed. She kisses him. Hugs him. Often falls asleep beside him.
If she does fall asleep there, I go inside again and look at the two of them wound around each other. So alike that it’s funny. Yanai also has long legs. And a defiant, rebellious curl to his upper lip. His hair is very dark and his skin very light. Like hers.
I think Yanai is too young to understand that we have been taking comfort in him recently, each in our own way. Or maybe I’m wrong.
Yesterday, on the way to school, he told me that his classmate, Guy, is really living it up because he has two homes, his dad’s and his mom’s. And each has a whole drawer full of candy just for him.
It’s because his parents split up, Noam explained to him in her big-sister voice, what’s so great about that?
It is too great! Yanai insisted. In his little-brother-has-an-opinion-too voice.
I didn’t say a word.
I dropped Noam off at her school, and continued to his. “Kiss and go” or “walk and hug”? I let him choose, as I did every morning. Walk and hug, he said. I was glad. That meant we’d have more time together.
I parked far away. We got out of the car and walked hand in hand. When we reached the gate, I hugged him. Too hard. You’re crushing me, he said. I let go. I watched him as he went on his way, and didn’t walk to the car until he disappeared. On the way, I called Oranit from the after-school program and told her he wouldn’t be staying that day.
I waited for him at the gate at 12:45. He was surprised. What are you doing here?
(What could I say? “Your mom is growing more distant from me and if it keeps on this way, you and I might end up seeing each other only twice a week, which would destroy me, so while I still have a say in this, I want to be with you and Noam as mu
ch as possible”?)
I thought we’d go out and have a fun day, I said. What do you say?
There are quite a few mentions of photographs in your books. Are you a photography buff?
I can’t stand photography. I don’t want to take pictures. Don’t want to have my picture taken. I’m like the witches in the Bolivian Witches’ Market—when someone takes my picture, I feel as if they’re stealing part of my soul.
Even more—that desire to document, to freeze a moment, is alien to me. And goes against the Taoist approach on which I have been trying to base my life since I read The Book of Tao when I was twenty-three, in South America: everything passes, everything is in motion, life is a powerful stream you should give yourself over to instead of trying to stop it. Or in the words of Lao Tzu: “Where Taoism acts, people say—it happened of itself.”
I try to adopt that approach in my writing as well, by the way. I was supposed to be writing a novel this year. Instead, I’m writing answers to this interview, which is based on “a selection of our surfers’ questions” that the editor of an Internet site passed on to me. I was supposed to prepare standard answers to those questions, but I decided to answer truthfully. It was supposed to be only an interview, nothing else, but slowly—it seems I can’t do it any other way—I’ve
been turning it into a story. I was supposed to leave Dikla and the kids and the dysthymia out of it. And all of them are in it. Occasionally, in the middle of the night, I drive to see Ari, in oncology, to get his blessing. If he’s awake, we watch repeats of Champions League games and talk about this and that. If he’s asleep, I straighten his blanket, fill his empty glass, and listen to him breathing. Being with him, for some reason, confirms my feeling that I have to keep writing this text, even though I have no idea—really no idea—what’s going to happen as I go on.
Would you agree to appear on the other side of the Green Line?
I didn’t hesitate to meet with readers in Ma’ale Meir. If what I try to do in my books is deny that there is only one truth and challenge every narrator who claims to be omniscient, how can I refuse the opportunity to get to know people who think and live so differently from me?
In addition, they asked me so nicely. I mean, she asked. Iris. The librarian. Everyone here loves your books, she wrote, adding, and so do I, very much. And added a smiley face.
It’s almost impossible not to return love to people who love you.
So we set a date. All I asked was for them to provide a bulletproof car to pick me up at the checkpoint. After all, we were in the middle of what was turning out to be another intifada.
I can’t promise bulletproof, she wrote. But my Fiat is rock-proof. Is that good enough?
I was already trapped in my agreement-in-principle to go there, and I was ashamed to admit that what was safe enough for her wasn’t safe enough for me. So I said, yes. Of course.
* * *
You expected to see an ultra-Orthodox lady, eh? she said when I got into her car.
The truth is…yes.
With an ugly hat and a crazy look in her eyes. And an American accent that’s almost, but not quite, undetectable.
More or less.
Nice to meet you, I’m Iris, she said, extending her hand. And she gave me a smile which, at that particular moment, I mistakenly thought was distracted.
You don’t…?
Don’t avoid touching? She left her hand in mine—after only the first handshake!
Her tone was cheerful, but her handshake was limp, almost melancholy.
* * *
On the drive from the checkpoint to Ma’ale Meir, she gave me a rundown of the terrorist attacks that had taken place in the area.
You see that monument on the right? Iris asked as she pointed at it. The Arzi family. A Molotov cocktail, their car went up in flames, the father, the mother, and the children died.
The pile of stones lit up on both sides by spotlights? In memory of Aharon Goldschmit, the military security coordinator of Elisha G. Two bullets in the chest—an ambush. Died before the ambulance arrived.
And a bit farther, there, on the hill after the curve, you can see the caravans of the Lior outpost. His friends from the yeshiva built it after he was run over and killed at the Tapuach intersection. A kid, twenty years old.
* * *
—
With each passing minute, I cowered lower in my seat. I tried to reduce my surface area in case someone decided to shoot at Iris’s car with me sitting in it. Unconsciously, I locked my hands behind my head to protect it. Looking out of the window, I tried to see figures lying in wait in the dark.
Isn’t it hard, living in constant fear? I finally asked. And to my shame, I felt the quiver in my voice.
It depends when, Iris said, her voice firm. Now, specifically, is not a great time. But here we are, almost at our destination, she added. By the way, ten meters ahead, on the left, you can see the Boaz Memorial.
Don’t tell me—I tried to ease the tension with a joke—the stones hit the windshield. He lost control of his car. Forty-five years old.
Almost, Iris smiled that distracted smile. Stabbed in the chest. At the gate. Thirty-four years old. Left behind three sons, and me.
I stopped short.
I mean, the car kept moving, but inside me, something suddenly braked.
Oh, I didn’t know. I’m really sorry for—
It’s okay.
No, really, it was so insensitive of me.
Never mind. You didn’t know.
But still…I’m sorry for your loss. It must have been…for you…how long ago did he…
Two years, she said, and ran a finger over her right eyebrow. After a brief pause, she added, But it feels like it happened this morning.
Maybe we should stop for a minute near the memorial? I suggested, trying to make up for being so tactless. And you can tell me a little bit about Boaz?
Some other time, she said, and kept driving, smiling that smile I had mistakenly thought was distracted and now knew was sad—they’re waiting for us in the library.
* * *
—
Half of the community is here, Iris said when we entered.
I noticed that most of those present were women. Seated next to one another on plastic chairs that were crowded together in the small space between the reception counter and the bookshelves.
Two of the women—probably Iris’s assistants—stood up, welcomed me warmly, and asked if I wanted something to drink. Tea? Coffee?
Just water, please, I said. I took the books out of my bag, walked over to the non-stage, and arranged them on the table. Near the vase of flowers. There is always a vase of flowers.
Iris turned on the microphone and introduced me. She mentioned that my grandfather was once prime minister. Listed the names of my books. Said how much they appreciated my coming at a time when even their relatives were afraid to visit.
Then she turned to me and said, I’ve spoken enough. We’ve come to hear you.
* * *
The meeting went smoothly. At least at the beginning.
I deliberately chose to read passages that weren’t directly political, but even so, they had at least one moment when a character unexpectedly identifies with “the other”: A man suddenly realizes why his wife is not happy with him. The father of a little boy forgives his own father, in retrospect, for his flaws.
During the question period, I was asked very cautiously about the writing process. What time of day do you write? What happens if you have nothing to write about? What is the role of your editor?
Neutral questions you can answer with humor that seems spontaneous but is actually well planned and timed.
Then Iris raised her hand.
I recognized the raised hand and riding on the wave of the earlier laughter, I said to the audience: Like in the International Bible C
ontest, when it’s time for the prime minister’s question? So now we have the library director’s question!
This is nothing like that, Iris said so quietly that her words were almost inaudible. I have to ask you something. How is it…why did you agree to come here today?
What do you mean, why? Why not?
None of the other…left-wing writers agreed to come. I try to invite them every year. And don’t say you’re not left-wing. I googled you. I read your articles. It’s pretty clear which side you’re on.
I thought before replying.
I drank some water.
I weighed my words.
Curiosity, I finally said, I’m curious about you. About settlers in general. The fact that you choose to live in this place…it affects the future of our country. If affects my life. I personally think that settlements like yours are an obstacle to peace. Frankly? I think you’re destroying the chances that my children and I will ever have a normal existence here. But I think that from a distance. The last time I crossed the Green Line was in the army. And out of curiosity, I wanted to come here and see things with my own eyes. With me, curiosity usually conquers any force that stands in its way. Including ideology.
How much can you really see in an hour and a half? The complaint came from the last row.
It’s better than nothing, another voice said from the other side of the room.
Let him come here for Shabbat, and then we’ll talk, said a woman sitting right in front of me who nonetheless used the third person.