by Eshkol Nevo
Why here? asked a male voice, let him spend Shabbat with our Arab neighbors in Ein Tor. And let him bring his children with him. Then we’ll see if you talk about peace after the welcome they give you there.
Angry mutterings of agreement rose from the audience.
I drank some more water from the glass, which was almost empty. I tilted it desperately to trap the last few drops. And the truth is, I drank air.
I picked up my last book. There’s a passage in it that I always read at the end of these meetings to send people home feeling pleasantly comforted. But what, what would be comforting? I put the book down and considered telling them about Jamal’s father and that final moment before he left Beirut, when he stood at the door of his room, looked at the sculptures he had worked on all his life, and parted from them. With a look. Maybe he went up to one of them and ran his hand over the cool marble. A caress. Or maybe not, maybe there hadn’t been time—
But I wasn’t sure it was an appropriate story for this audience. Or even whether a story was what should happen now between me and them. But what instead? And what am I doing here anyway? I’m a writer. I’m supposed to write books that end with a few blank pages on which the reader can argue with me in his imagination.
That’s where I should meet my readers. In our imaginations. Person to person. Not person to audience.
Okay—Iris rescued me, people were already moving around in embarrassment on their plastic chairs—our time is up. I want to thank you sincerely for coming. You are not the only curious one, as you can see from the number of people who have come to hear you and the number of questions. I hope this won’t be the last time we see you here. And that many other writers follow you.
* * *
The audience dispersed quickly to their homes. I put my books in my bag. I took another drink of air from the glass.
No one came up to ask a personal question. No one asked me to write a dedication.
Only Iris came over and said it was fascinating.
I appreciated the fact that she didn’t say “lovely.” People who say “it was lovely” are usually hiding a different thought.
Shall I drive you down to the checkpoint, she half said, half asked.
But then the beep of an incoming message came from her phone.
She looked at it for a long time.
And said: Oh dear.
What happened?
The road is blocked off. There’s a targeted warning that a small gang of terrorists is in the area.
So what do we do?
Wait.
How long can it take?
At least four or five hours.
That long?
Yes, I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ll have to spend the night here.
Oh boy. Are there any B and B’s here?
B and B’s? Now it was no longer a sad smile. It was a broad smile, which turned into real laughter.
Iris was roaring with laughter, and it was a spectacular sight. Large dimples deepened in her cheeks and her entire, slim body shook with glee.
Okay—I felt a blush climb from my neck the way it always does when I blurt out something totally stupid—I realize there are no B and B’s, so where…
You’re invited to my house.
Really? That won’t be a problem for you here? After all, I’m…a man.
I noticed.
* * *
B and B’s—she repeated on the way to the car and put a hand on her stomach—fantastic! I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.
* * *
When we lived on Hatishbi Street in Haifa, a family that lost their father in the First Lebanon War lived across from us. Their son played cops and robbers with me, so I spent all my waking hours at his house. I remember how, after the father died in the Tyre disaster, their living room became a shrine to him: Memorial candles were lit every hour. Pictures of him, in color and black-and-white, with the family and alone, lined the sideboard, beside the honorary shields he received from the units he had commanded. You couldn’t go into that friend’s house without mourning.
* * *
I looked around Iris’s living room while she went to get linens from the bedroom.
No candles. No pictures. No honorary shields.
A hammock stretched from one side of the room to the other. A phonograph. With a long row of records beside it. The record at the end of the row, the one whose cover showed an ashtray with a cigarette butt in it, was visible, and I recognized it right away: Shalom Hanoch’s Waiting for the Messiah. There were large cushions on the floor, and on the walls hung unsophisticated, highly emotional paintings. Some of them quite sensual. Hers?
* * *
She came back to the living room and spread a single child’s sheet on the couch. She added a blanket and a pillow. And placed a man’s tracksuit on the pillow, along with a Golani Brigade end-of-course T-shirt.
I said thank you. And the chills of an on-the-verge-of-a-mistake passed through my body.
Coffee? she offered. Or do you always drink “only water”?
* * *
She came back from the kitchen with two steaming cups of coffee and said in the tone of a squad commander: Follow me!
We climbed the stairs that led to the second floor of the house. For a moment, I was afraid she was taking me to her bedroom, but she kept climbing even after the second floor until we reached a small ladder. Which led to a kind of opening in the roof that had an iron cover.
Come on, she said, lifting the cover, we can see the Tel Aviv Azrieli Tower from here.
* * *
On the roof, between the solar water tanks, stood two red-and-white-striped deck chairs. We sat down on them and looked at the lights of Tel Aviv and the surrounding cities.
I sipped my coffee and remained silent. I had spoken so much during the meeting with my readers that I had no words left.
When there’s silence, you notice things. So I noticed that the steam rising from my cup blended with the steam rising from hers.
And that she gave off a light fragrance of body lotion, which wafted in my direction with the wind.
And that her jeans ended slightly before her socks began.
And that all the houses in the settlement were completely illuminated. As if no one here was planning to go to sleep, ever.
* * *
That’s where I met Boaz, she said after several moments, pointing toward the towers of Tel Aviv.
In Azrieli?
Not far. I was studying literature and teaching in the Kibbutzim College of Education. One of the girls in my class was giving an Independence Day party. And he walked in. Our eyes met. He didn’t look away. And I said to myself, He’s wearing a kippah, so cool it. Then he came over and just started talking to me, no clever opening line, he simply began a conversation. I said to myself, Iris, stop with the pounding heart, nothing will come of it, he’s wearing a kippah. And then he offered to drive me home, and I said to myself, If there was a chance that something serious might come of this, then there’s a reason to play hard to get, but there is no chance, so let him drive me home, and come up for coffee, and kiss me more gently than I’ve ever been kissed before, and have sex with me as if he knew instinctively what turns me on, and he’ll sleep over and hug me all night, a protective kind of embrace, and he’ll make breakfast for me—what difference will it make? He’s wearing a kippah.
She spoke very quickly, without taking a breath between one word and the next, between one sentence and another. As if the words were already fixed in her heart, and she had been waiting a long time for the chance to bring them out into the light.
And that was it? I asked. You stayed together until he passed away?
Of course not. Over the course of four years, we broke up and got back together again and again. Each of us tried to impose our lifestyle on the other, and nat
urally, it didn’t work. So we distanced ourselves from each other and tried to go out with other people, and of course, that didn’t work either. Finally, I went to him and said, Listen, I’ll say this in the kind of religious language you understand, we can waste our whole lives trying to avoid each other, or we can accept the situation. For a start, I’ll tell you that I’m prepared to live with you wherever you want. On the condition that inside the house, I can live the way I want.
Wow.
How did you put it at the meeting? When your curiosity wins out, no force can stand in its way, including ideology. So in our case, love won out over every force that stood in the way.
Including ideology.
Ah-ha.
And that’s how you ended up in Ma’ale Meir?
The truth is that we wanted to rent an apartment in Jerusalem, but it was too expensive. Do you see? That’s how we became “settlers.” And there are other people like us here, each with their own story. You wanted to see things close up? No problem. Just take into account that when you see things close up, you notice the small details. And afterward, it’s harder to make generalizations. In articles published in the newspaper, for example.
Which means, I’m done for, that’s what you’re saying. My curiosity has gotten me into trouble.
Exactly!
There’s just one thing I don’t understand, I said after a brief silence.
Feel free to ask, Iris said.
* * *
I sipped my coffee to keep from saying the words that were on the tip of my tongue. I knew what I wanted to ask, but not how to word it in a way that wouldn’t offend her. Something about the way she described her dead husband was so alive.
I’ll tell you what you want to know, she said.
What do I want to know?
What’s keeping me here now that Boaz is gone? Why don’t I take the kids and just leave? Right? I’ll tell you why. In your opinion, how long does the official mourning period last?
Ah…seven days, no?
In Ma’ale Meir, it continues for three hundred and sixty-five days. You are surrounded on all sides by love and caring for a whole year.
That’s very nice.
In my case, it wasn’t just nice, it was crucial.
Why?
For the first month or two, my body reacted as if Boaz and I had just separated again. My body knew how to deal with that. It was kid stuff. But then, after about three months, it hit me. I couldn’t drag myself out of bed in the morning. It would take time for the antidepressants to kick in, and meanwhile, someone had to take care of the kids. People here took turns around the clock. And they didn’t care that I didn’t wear a head covering. They took the children home from school. They brought me a doctor. They shopped for me. They gave me reflexology treatments. There’s someone here who does Watsu in a huge tub he has on his lawn. Everyone gave what they could, do you see? After that year, an unbreakable bond was forged between me and this settlement.
I can imagine.
No, you can’t. Because you don’t know what a community is. I can see that in your books, too. Everyone is always alone. And if you created those characters, then you must be a loner as well. So imagine that there is no loneliness in your life anymore. That people never let you feel alone. Because you are always surrounded by warmth and support. Do you understand how much that gives you?
* * *
We sat on the roof a while longer, until even the lights of Tel Aviv began to dim. And the coffee grew cold. And the wind shifted from cool to cold.
Shall we go inside? she asked.
I nodded. And stood up after her.
When we passed her bedroom, she lingered briefly, as if trying to decide whether to invite me in or not, and then shook her head, seeming to shake off the thought, and continued walking down the stairs.
I followed her down. We reached the living room.
We stood facing each other. As if we were about to part. Or embrace. I clasped my hands together, behind my back. Like a diligent student. Or someone afraid that his hands might move of their own accord.
Do you have kids? she asked.
Two girls, I replied, and told her their names and ages.
And these are yours? I asked, pointing to the paintings.
Yes, and don’t say they’re beautiful. First of all, they’re not. Second, I don’t care whether other people think they’re beautiful or not. I started painting them for myself. A month after Boaz died. Does it…happen to you, sometimes? Just writing something for yourself?
Less and less.
You should.
I nodded.
She took a step back.
If that’s the case, I thought to myself, then a parting, not an embrace. It’s better this way. I leaned back and put a hand on the back of the couch.
Do you want another blanket?
No thanks.
Great—she reached out suddenly (it really was sudden, there was no sign that it was about to happen) and stroked my cheek slowly, gently, the way you caress a child. And brushed her fingers across my chin.
And then, all at once, she pulled her hand back and said: I’ll wake you at six and we’ll drive to the checkpoint. The alert will definitely be over by then.
* * *
I tried to sleep in my pants and button-down shirt. But after an hour of tossing and turning in an effort to get comfortable, I gave up. I undressed in the dark and put on Boaz’s tracksuit and shirt. They fit me really well. But sleep continued to evade me. I could still feel the touch of Iris’s hand stroking my cheek. And fragments of all kinds of memories began to run through my mind, searching restlessly for meaning.
Then I heard footsteps, a sort of light patter.
I didn’t move. I kept my eyes closed. I was afraid that if I made a movement that was too sharp or too eager, she might be alarmed and change her mind.
The footsteps came closer.
I deliberately breathed slowly. As if I were sleeping.
I maintained that rhythm of breathing even after I felt a hand supporting a body on the mattress close to my waist.
But the body that spooned against my back a moment later was not Iris’s but a smaller one, with smaller arms.
I remained facing the wall. The small arms tightened around my body.
We lay like that for a while until I could no longer restrain myself and turned around slowly to see. The boy moved slightly but didn’t wake up, and now I could see his face. He didn’t look like Iris. He must have gotten those features from his father: A dominant nose. Long lashes. Lips that turned downward a bit. Giving him a slightly offended look.
He put his arms around me again. He was absolutely not willing to end our embrace.
I gave him a little more room on the couch, turned him slightly. And now I could hug him from the back, pull him close to me.
I thought: I’ve never hugged a little boy. It’s difficult to explain. More muscular? Not exactly. And no less clinging. Maybe an echo of the memory of holding your own body when you were little.
We fell asleep, clinging to each other.
* * *
I woke up to the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder. Iris was standing at the head of the couch, watching us with glistening eyes, and she whispered: The alert has been lifted.
I was afraid to move, I didn’t want to wake the boy to discover that he had slept with the enemy.
I whispered to her: I don’t want to wake him.
And she whispered: So stay for Shabbat.
After a very brief silence, during which she might have been waiting for my response to her invitation—she smiled her melancholy smile, and explained what to do in whispers and gestures, careful not to touch me: Yes. First remove your arms from around his waist. Then slide your body away. Exactly like that. And be careful when you move your leg over him.
* * *
—
Nimrod—not Yanai—was the name we had planned to give to a boy if we had one. And since writing is also, perhaps mainly, compensation for what didn’t happen, or still hadn’t happened, I named the children in various books Nimrod.
And now a real Nimrod had slept in my arms. For a whole night.
Reluctantly, I withdrew my arm from around his body. Very slowly. To prolong the moment. His long lashes quivered slightly, as if his eyes were about to open, but a few seconds later, the quivering stopped, and he continued to sleep.
* * *
—
The sun rose over the Shomron hills. Iris slowed down a bit and put her sunglasses on as she drove.
It’s amazing, she said. On the surface, Nimrod handled Boaz’s death better than the other kids. His siblings cried constantly. Clung to me. He was the only one who went to his room to play on his PlayStation with his friends. From the sidelines, it seemed like he cared less. At first I thought that maybe it was because he was the youngest and had had very few years with Boaz, but later, he began to act out in different ways.
For example?
Fighting in school, Iris said. I mean, he hit other kids. And at the same time, he suddenly became very devout. Scolded me for all the small liberties I allow myself to take on Shabbat. He rebuked me for naming him Nimrod, which is a slightly…unusual name for religious people. For a while, he went back to wetting his bed at night. Then he started sleepwalking all over the house.
Actual sleepwalking, with his hands held out in front of him?
No, that’s only in movies. In reality, they walk with their hands at their sides and their eyes closed.