by Eshkol Nevo
What is beauty
The wife of the hostel owner
In Puerto Viejo
Sweeps the area in front of the hammocks every morning.
* * *
—
What is conflict
The wife of the hostel owner
In Puerto Viejo
Where we’re staying on our honeymoon
Sweeps the area in front of the hammocks every morning.
* * *
—
What is conflict development
The wife of the hostel owner
In Puerto Viejo
Where we’re staying on our honeymoon
Sweeps the area in front of the hammocks every morning.
She gives me a look.
* * *
—
What is plot
The wife of the hostel owner
In Puerto Viejo
Where we’re staying on our honeymoon
Sweeps the area in front of the hammocks every morning.
She gives me a look and signals me to follow her.
* * *
—
What is a turning point in the plot
The wife of the hostel owner
In Puerto Viejo
Where we’re spending our honeymoon
Sweeps the area in front of the hammocks every morning.
She gives me a look and signals me to follow her.
In one of the hostel rooms she shows me black-and-blue marks and asks if we can help her get away.
Is it really possible to teach someone to write?
He died a day before the last meeting of the workshop. I’m already saying this now, so there won’t be any illusions. I don’t remember who spoke before him when the members of the group took turns introducing themselves. I think it was a retired teacher who said something about how much she loved to read. In any case, his turn came after hers. His bald head was tanned, crisscrossed by veins and capillaries. Later I thought that men have it easier as far as that’s concerned. He said: Good evening, my name is Shmuel. I have cancer and the doctors give me another few months to live. A month ago, my daughter said I should try to write. And that was the best piece of advice anyone ever gave me. I’ve been writing constantly for a month already. I write day and night. I write with one hand and hold the IV with the other. I just can’t put my pen down.
And what do you expect from the workshop? I stuck to the routine question.
I want to finish at least one story here, he said. A story with a beginning, a middle, and an end.
* * *
He did all the homework exercises I gave. And came to every meeting. Since that workshop in a northern town was funded by the State Lottery, the participants didn’t have to pay a penny. Which meant that no one felt obligated to attend regularly. Except for Shmuel. Who appeared every week, five minutes early, with a pad of yellow paper, a blue Pilot pen, an extra Pilot pen, and a dusty tape recorder to tape the session.
Most of the time, I felt I was speaking mainly to him. And he came up to me at the end of every class, leaned on his cane, and asked me to explain a point that wasn’t clear enough to him. Or he came to disagree with me. It was especially difficult for him to accept that it was possible, sometimes even desirable, to use colloquial language in a literary text. Forgive me, but what you suggest means forcing the language into prostitution, he claimed. But your characters don’t speak a language that was natural to them, they all sound just like the narrator, I persisted. Who said that was bad? he persisted right back. Isn’t it like that in Agnon? And Amos Oz?
In the end, we reached a compromise. I suggested to him that when young people—only young people—in his stories speak to each other, he would allow them to speak the Hebrew that is natural to them. Fine, he said, but without words like…like…I can’t even say them aloud!
At the end of the eighth lesson, I reminded him that he’d wanted to complete one story during the workshop and asked whether he wanted us to focus on one of the homework exercises he had already done and work on it.
He ran his hand over his bald head, slowly, as if there were still hair on it, and said that it was difficult for him to give up on a story. There are so many to tell and so little time, and whenever he’s drawn to a new story, he always abandons the one he’s already begun.
That’s perfectly all right, I told him. But if you change your mind and decide to choose a text and develop it…you should hurry, because the workshop ends after two more meetings.
* * *
—
At the beginning of the ninth session, he handed me some pages and said: This is what I’d like to develop.
While the others were busy with an exercise I gave them, I couldn’t resist and read the pages. It was a short story about a father helping his beloved only daughter with the final preparations for her wedding. I don’t remember specific sentences. All I remember is that he managed to convey beautifully the ambivalence of the situation. And that something about the daughter’s speech still wasn’t natural.
When I finished reading and looked up, his chair was empty.
He returned several minutes later. But left the room again at least three more times during the lesson. His face was pale and his eyes sunken. He rested his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. The cane, which always stood tall at the side of the desk, fell noisily to the floor, and he didn’t bend down to pick it up.
I’m sorry, he said when he approached me at the end of the lesson. I didn’t feel well today. That’s why I had to go out. But I recorded everything and will listen to what I missed at home.
I read your story, I said, gathering the pages that were scattered on my desk.
Well, what do you say? he asked. His voice shook. The veins on the top of his head bulged.
A very good story, I said, and handed him the pages. I’m proud of you.
Don’t let me off easy—he refused to take the pages and waved his finger at me—I know you have comments. You always have comments. So tell me what they are. Don’t take pity on me because I’m sick.
Look…I hesitated. The story is constructed well…but if you want to polish it…if it’s important to you—
Of course it’s important to me, he interrupted me angrily, what do you think?
It needs a bit of tweaking, just a tiny bit, in…the daughter’s speech.
I knew it! Shmuel said—almost happily. I had a feeling that I didn’t get that right. But what can I do? I just can’t cope with that language, young people’s language.
So maybe you should record them, I said, pointing to the tape recorder in his hand. Record young people talking and then weave the words you’ve recorded into the story.
Now there’s an idea! Shmuel said, as if a lightbulb had gone on over his head. Not a bad idea at all!
Work on the story during the week, give it to me again at the beginning of the last session and I’ll read it while you’re doing your final exercises, I promised him.
It’s a deal, Shmuel said.
His daughter called me a few hours before the last class and said, This is Shmuel’s daughter. Dad…won’t be coming to class today.
I asked, How does he feel?
Dad passed away, she said, this morning.
I was silent. We were silent.
Then she said, I want to thank you, in my father’s name, for the workshop.
And I…I want to thank you…for encouraging him to come.
He just needed a little push, you know.
Yes, I said, and asked, Where will you be sitting shivah?
She gave me the address.
* * *
—
I didn’t go. Ari’s condition worsened that week, the doctors couldn’t say whether he had a few months or a few days left and I didn�
��t want to take the risk. I hardly moved from his bedside.
We met when we were fifteen, Ari and I, in the stands behind the basket at Malcha Stadium. Hapoel was losing by a large margin and the game was so lost that we could talk. I mean, he imitated one of the sportscasters calling the game, and I roared with laughter.
He taught me how to laugh, and that was one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. Not that I didn’t laugh before that, but the basic approach to life in my home was terribly serious and critical. It wasn’t that my basic approach to life changed completely because of Ari—but thanks to him, it took on another aspect. Suddenly, I could find the comic side of certain situations. When I failed the theory part of my driving test the second time—I imagined describing to him all the ridiculous questions I got wrong. And as they were crushing my free will during basic training in the Armored Corps on the Ovda cliffs, I collected golden moments for him: When Velkstein couldn’t stand at a ninety-degree angle because he didn’t know what ninety degrees was. When the squad commander dozed off during the platoon commander’s speech. I knew that on Friday night, no matter what, Ari and I would go out to the Octopus or some other bar in Jerusalem. On the way, he would drink in my little stories about the army, and when we left the bar to go to his father’s car—I was the designated driver—he was totally shit-faced and would hug strangers in the street, zigzagging in that drunken walk of his. My God, how much I miss that walk now that he’s bedridden, a happy walk, as if he’s dribbling a basketball or as if he himself is a bouncing basketball—
* * *
—
In his hospital room, I told him about my student, Shmuel, who died before he could complete the first story he ever wrote. He listened, as always, with deep curiosity—he was curious about everything—and when I finished, he shifted in his bed and said, It beats me, all that writing stuff you people do. You, for example, since you started writing, you’ve become even sadder, isn’t that true?
Yes.
Even Dikla has no more patience for your moods, isn’t that true?
Yes.
So here’s the thing. It’s not the Colombian girl, because from what I know about you—and I know quite a bit—there’s no way it really happened.
Apparently.
All that writing has put you in a funk. Dikla too. Because between you and me, she’s no ray of sunshine either. So something in the balance between you is fucked up, isn’t that true?
A nurse came in with a tray of hospital food and put it on the night table beside his bed.
No way I’m touching that, he said.
Should I get you something from downstairs? I asked.
Thanks, amigo, Ari said.
What should I get?
You know what.
Bitter Lemon?
And a roast beef sandwich.
Are you even allowed to eat roast beef?
Fuck what I’m allowed.
* * *
—
When I came back with the roast beef and the Bitter Lemon, he wasn’t in his bed.
That’s it, grief crash-landed inside me. It’s over. They took him. And I didn’t get to tell him he was a brother to me.
A second later, he emerged from the bathroom, his IV pole connected to one hand and the sports sections in the other, and said, I thought about it.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Silently. So he wouldn’t feel that I was breathing a sigh of relief. Shoot, I said.
I also have something I want to finish before I go, he said. Like that Shmuel of yours in the workshop.
What?
I want to see Hapoel in the arena. After all the years of standing like ushers in Malcha, don’t we deserve it?
Yalla, let’s go.
Yalla, let’s go.
I’m serious, but Ari—
What?
It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it? Taking a sick friend to a game?
Fuck clichés.
Okay. Can you even leave here?
Hell no.
So what…how?
Smuggle me out.
* * *
—
I thought he was kidding, but he called me the next day and sounded as strong and sly as the old Ari. He’d thought about it. There was a window of opportunity when the nurses changed shifts, around six in the evening. We’ll pretend we’re taking a stroll and then vanish into the service elevator. You, he told me, have to get two tickets to the next game. And find a car large enough to hold the wheelchair. Ah, yes, and if you can arrange direct access to the field with the wheelchair—that would be huge.
I called my former boss at the ad agency. We hadn’t spoken for almost fifteen years, but I read in the papers that he sat on Hapoel’s board of directors now. I told him the story and he immediately said there was no problem and I didn’t have to buy tickets either. Park in the lot and call me, he said. In the same tone he once used to give me instructions.
* * *
—
Halfway up to Jerusalem, Ari talked constantly about other journeys we’d made together. Remember how we ran after the plane in Ecuador? Remember that crazy girl who bit my ear in Bolivia? Remember Oren from Hadera? But when we hit the turns on the road before the entrance to Jerusalem, he turned pale and withdrew into himself. I asked him what was wrong, and he asked whose car it was. When I told him it was rented, he said, Then there’s no problem if I vomit on the upholstery, right? That scared me, and I asked whether he wanted to go back to the hospital, but he shook his head and said in a weak voice, Drive, just drive.
My former boss turned out to be a real prince. One of the managing directors was waiting for us at the gate and took us through the side entrances directly to the court, not far from Hapoel’s basket. Hand over the scarf, you jerk, Ari said with a smile. I unwound if from my neck and wound it around his. We have love, and love conquers all. We looked at the stands, which were filling up. The die-hard fans sat together at one of the gates and I saw some familiar faces among them. I didn’t recognize anyone else in the stands. TVs hung from the ceiling like in America, broadcasting pictures and commercials. There were more stands higher up than the others, and people—incredibly—rode an escalator to reach them. It’s like Yad Eliayhu here, I said. And Ari shook his head and said, Much more beautiful.
* * *
—
Hapoel played badly. Lost balls, missed shots, scandalous defense. Everything they’re famous for. That was the only thing I hadn’t taken care of, I thought. I should have gone into the locker room and told the players to give it their all. For Ari. Actually, they’re all Americans, or British. Please, I should have said in English, put the ball in the hoop. Do it for my friend. Maybe it’s his last chance.
Ari himself waved his hands and cursed every missed shot in Spanish. He always curses in his native language when he’s really pissed off. Hijo de puta. La concha de tu madre. Burro. And then suddenly, he said to me in Hebrew: I haven’t been this angry in ages. What a blast!
His bald head glistened with sweat.
We were so close to the parquet that we could hear the players’ shoes squeaking. And so close to Hapoel’s bench that we could hear the coach spurring his players on during the time-out.
The management guy suddenly appeared with two bottles of water, looked at Ari, and asked him if everything was okay.
I remember that when Ari drank his water, some spilled on his red shirt. And I remember, right before halftime, Yotam Halperin scored a three-pointer out of nowhere, which made Ari rise out of his wheelchair and stretch the scarf between his hands, in the air, and the speakers blared out at the spectators: Now’s the time, let’s make some NOISE! And I remember that I knew, though we hadn’t said a word to each other, that the announcement annoyed Ari too and made him miss the mumbled announcements at Malcha as much as I did.
After the h
alftime whistle, I put my hand on his shoulder and asked if he wanted anything from the cafeteria. He said, No, let’s split, bro.
Are you sure? I asked, Hapoel is always better after the break—
I don’t feel well, he said, putting his hand on his stomach.
* * *
—
The enormous, silent parking lot looked like a field planted with cars.
We were silent on the way back. Ari closed his eyes, but it was obvious to me that he was awake. Every once in a while, he grimaced in pain. And his hands clenched into fists.
We listened to radio updates on the game.
Hapoel lost. And the analysts agreed it was clear now that this was a crisis.
Then suddenly, Ari opened his eyes and said: This is a humiliating disease, you know? A damn humiliating disease.
After we drove into the hospital parking lot, he turned his entire body around to me and said, Thanks for taking me to the arena. Now I can close up shop.
What? I said, alarmed.
He pulled the scarf from around his neck, put it on mine, and said, You keep it.
But—I tried to object—
He ignored me and said, I have to ask you for something.
I said, Of course, anything—
And he said, Bro, I need you to help me die.
When was the last time you lied?
I drove back from the hospital. The last things Ari said were: “We’ll do it at my place. It’s safer”; “There’s a nurse here who likes me. She’ll get the stuff for us. I made arrangements with a private doctor who’ll come afterward and sign the death certificate”; “All you have to do is give me the injection.”
Those words had upset me so much that I took a wrong turn on the way home and suddenly found myself in Kiryat Ono. In the middle of a neighborhood of high-rises. At the first traffic light, I tried to type in my home address. But Waze warned me that I’m not supposed to type while driving. “I’m not the driver,” I lied to it. “I’m not the driver.”