by Amos Oz
She stood up, whirling her light skirt, thrusting her fair hair back from her left cheek, as though opening up to me: We're not going to get into trouble, Theo. At least, I might, but you won't. You'll go on being the gleam in the eye. You're not a part of this.
If I were a stubborn man I could easily have explained to her that, even though I had promised not to touch and I was not breaking my promise, strictly speaking any involvement of hers involved us both for the simple reason that we had a joint bank account. Not to mention the three hundred dollars a month that the father sent her to fund the committee, and nobody knew, least of all she herself, what precisely she did with the money. Nevertheless I did not bother. I merely said: Look. These receipts. They're printed anyway. Here they are, on the table, I'm leaving them and you can do whatever you like.
Benizri, she hissed suddenly, that obsequious, brilliantined Levantine, calls you an angel of a man. You know what you are, Theo? A tombstone. It doesn't matter. I've got a headache.
I went back to the hall and continued my ironing. Inwardly I agreed with her: It's hopeless. There won't ever be a clinic for drug addicts in Tel Kedar. Or if there is, it'll close within a month. Nevertheless, it's something she's got to find out for herself, without my help. I've got to be invisible. Although maybe, on the other hand, maybe what I ought to do is locate the Orvieto man and say a few words that'll take this nonsense away from Noa once and for all, making certain she never discovers how I managed to find the crook, what I told him or what I saved her from. But no. I'll wait.
SATURDAY. Three p.m. Theo was lying in his undershirt on the floor of his room with the fan blowing next to him. I was sitting at the kitchen table, with grapes and coffee in front of me, reading an American monograph entitled The Chemistry of Addiction. There has been a debate for several years between two opposing schools of thought about whether drug addiction is an illness or whether it is a congenital tendency to be dependent on so-called psychoactive substances, including those found in tobacco, alcohol, coffee, aphrodisiac plants; in fact in a certain sense one might say that substances that cause dependency can be found in almost everything. A parallel was then drawn, albeit with certain reservations, between drug addiction and known diseases, such as diabetes, that display hereditary factors and environmental conditions that accompany the development of the disease or impede it. An addict who has been weaned off the drug still carries with him a chronic latent problem, that is, he is more exposed than other people to the danger of a relapse, qualified in brackets by the Hebrew expression "liable to return to his evil ways", an expression that I find unfair, as I noted on a slip of paper on which I was collecting questions and objections that occurred to me in the course of my reading. Suddenly Muki Peleg appeared: excited, out of breath, dishevelled, with the flowing locks of the young philosopher from the brandy advertisement, in trendy baggy trousers, with an artistic silk scarf at the opening of his crisp red shirt, a fifty-year-old teenager; with dazzling sky-blue shoes, bearing a pattern of little ventilation holes in the form of the letter B. He begged my pardon a million times over, but he had something really urgent to say. He always has something really urgent to say about everything. If it's not one thing it's something else, but always unpostponable. I sometimes enjoy his utterly unquenchable enthusiasm.
I reached up to button the light dress I was wearing and found that it was already buttoned up. Seating Muki across the kitchen table from me I closed my book, using the page of notes as a bookmark. Despite his protestations I poured him a cold Coke and passed him the grapes. Where's Theo? Resting? Sincere apologies for bursting in at such an unsocial hour, I normally hold Saturday afternoon sacrosanct. But something's cropped up that we've simply got to make a decision on today. By the way, in that green dress you look just like a flower on its stalk. Except that any flower would look like a weed next to you. To cut a long story short, if it weren't for the urgent problem he would go down on his knees here and now, if I would only stroke him, as the legless man said to the armless woman. Jokingly he raised his six-fingered hand and put a finger pistol-like to his temple to illustrate the hopelessness of unrequited love. He was probably trying to be funny, but when he realized he had failed he laughed and said, Never mind, and he also said, I've got this thing going with Linda now. But that's not why I've come. The point is, we've got to tell Theo at once that a fantastic opportunity has come up and it would be a crime to miss it. In a word, I've found a building for us. A palace, as a matter of fact. And it's only eighty-five thousand dollars, and there's no agency fees because I'm the agent, the only condition is that we initial an agreement tomorrow and finalize the contract, hand over the cash and do the transfer of ownership, all signed and sealed with no loose ends, by Tuesday morning at the latest.
I told him to begin at the beginning.
Yes, miss. Sorry, teacher. Well, it's like this. You must know that building all by itself, with the tiled roof, near the industrial zone. Everybody knows it. The Alharizi house. Opposite Ben Elul's garage. The one that's been empty for nearly a year. To cut a long story short, it's like this. There was this television importer called Alharizi from Netanya, when the town was just beginning, who had the bright idea of starting up a sort of exclusive business. A house to let to artists who wanted to commune with the desert and so on. Or to have a good time with a little rosebud on the side, if you've heard of such an option. It very soon turned out that it wasn't such an attractive proposition, there's Elat, Arad, Mizre Ramon, there's no shortage of desert paradises. This Alharizi guy let the house to Desert Resources, who used it to house technicians working on the oil drillings. To cut a long story short, you know how it was, they drilled and they drilled and nothing came of it and so the building stood empty, there was nobody to let it to, and now the gent is in a tearing hurry to sell it. The important thing is to pull out in time, as Snow White said to the seven dwarfs. To cut a long story short, he was asking a hundred thousand but I got him down to eighty-five by promising he'd have the money in his hands this week: the guy's under pressure, there's some story, he's got the law on his tail, don't ask me how I found out, Noa. I've got my methods. The trouble is that the old fart, sorry, got in touch simultaneously with Peleg's Agency, i.e. me, and with Bargeloni Bros, those new agents, the bastards, no disrespect intended to any real-life bastards. And they've got a client of their own, a dentist with his own lab, an Argentinian, a new guy, competition for Nir and Dresdner. Don't ask me how I found out. I've got my methods. Will you get me another Coke? Just seeing you getting up and sitting down makes me thirsty, and that dress like cellophane on a stalk. To cut a long story short, it's like this: we've got a couple of days' lead on them because fortunately for us the dentist is on reserve duty filling teeth in the army. We've got to make our minds up today and get in touch with Ron Arbel so he can ring Nigeria tonight. If the money's available, we must rush round there tomorrow and sign a provisional agreement, and pay up and complete on Monday or Tuesday at the latest. So what do you think: aren't I the greatest? Say something nice. A kiss perhaps? And the property's all checked out. It's clean: no mortgage, no lien, no third party. Never mind what it means. Forget it, Noa. You take care of the pretty side of life and leave the ugly side to me. Just you wake Theo up and we'll pop round together to look at this Buckingham Palace, though actually I ought to tell you to do the opposite, let him sleep so you and I can go on having fun here in the kitchen, at least in theory, as the bread said when the butter spread all over it. Okay. I'm sorry. It just slipped out. To cut a long story short, miss, I'm handing you the clinic on a silver tray. It's quite a lot of money, actually, but weren't you afraid it might take us six months to locate suitable premises or that we might even have to build, which would have cost twice as much and taken four or five years, with all the permits? If we ever got there at all. Aren't you going to tell me I'm wonderful? Well don't, then. You're just mean. You know who really did tell me this week that I'm simply divine? You won't believe it: an Ethiopian woman. A divor
cee. A peach. Didn't you know they get divorced, too? My second time with a black woman. Believe me, that was class. Classic class, if you really want to know. Eventually at three o'clock in the morning she let out such a loud scream the neighbours thought it was an air-raid alarm. Only make sure Linda doesn't find out. She's sure to take it amiss. To cut a long story short, we've got to the moment of truth. We've got to get Theo to say something about the state of the building and so on, and then we have to decide if we're going for the place or letting the dentist have it. If you want my opinion we should go for it. And I'm speaking as a member of the committee now, not as an estate agent, I've already told you that as an estate agent I won't accept a penny. Personally I'm all for a quick grab, as the Cossack said to the gypsy girl. Even if we haven't got the paperwork tied up just yet. What have we got to lose? Let's imagine the worst scenario, suppose we end up not getting planning permission. Suppose the clinic never gets off the ground. We can still say perfectly calmly to lawyer Arbel and mystery man Orvieto that the eighty-five thousand are as good as in a safe deposit: if our venture gets bogged down, I'll undertake to sell the property in six months' time for ninety or ninety-five. I'm even willing to let them have it in writing. Well, what do you think of me? Will you say something sweet?
I said: You're wonderful, because I was suddenly filled with affectionate pity for this middle-aged lamb with his sky-blue shoes, trying hard to be a wolf. A pitiful, vulnerable wolf, or, rather, a tortoise without a shell: with a single hint of scorn any woman could wipe out all the conquests of his thirty years' seduction marathon. In that instant I could see the twelve-year-old he had once been: pudgy, unloved, noisy, joining in the cruel jokes about his six fingers, a tedious, ingratiating child, attaching himself to everybody, striving in vain to amuse the world, and when the world refused to smile lapsing into buffoonery. Always hurrying to fill every gap in every conversation, to prevent a silence that might deny his existence. Constantly responsible for feeding the communal bonfire with twigs of foolish prattle, and when the twigs ran out he would get up and throw his own heart on the bonfire of mockery. A juvenile also-ran.
For almost twenty years he has been a divorced skirt-chaser (though he himself denies chasing skirts, quipping that he only chases what's inside them). He views the entire female sex as a stem tribunal unanimously condemning him to rush around making ritual gestures so as to please it, but it is never pleased. Subconsciously he knows that he can never obtain the desired pardon, despite the bed-points that he is indefatigably clocking up on a score-sheet of achievement that can never be completed. Despite which, he persists, undeterred, Sisyphean, panting from bed to bed as though the next one will bring him at last the coveted distinction, the formal release, the certificate of exemption from further exertion. Every time he tries to beam me a half-serious gesture of everlasting smouldering desire, what I pick up is not desire but a plea for some kind of feminine receipt that he has no idea what to do with. So he staggers on until his strength gives out, from seduction to seduction, from quip to quip, from bedroom scene to bedroom scene, puffing and panting, boasting, constantly threatened by the fear that the women are making fun of him behind his back, the threadbare hero of an Odyssey peopled by lonely divorcees, cheated wives taking vengeance, middle-aged housewives turning sour.
Muki, I said, you're wonderful, and I'm terribly jealous of all your Ethiopian women. Why don't I ever meet an Ethiopian man? But why don't you tell me what there is in that house? Didn't you say it was empty?
So it emerges that some money will have to be invested in improvements. For example, to put down new floors. For example, the toilet bowls are broken, so are the washbasins, even the roof is a bit so-so. And there will have to be some changes inside, but that really isn't his field. The best thing would be for Theo to pop round with us for half an hour or so, and give it a professional once-over. To give his opinion on the structure and on the possibility of shifting some walls or adding a storey and so forth. Apart from which, addicts, you know, bars on the windows, locks on the doors, the fence as I've said before is none too high. To cut a long story short, it's bound to come to a good few thousand on top, as the photographer said to the naked model. Actually, it depends how much more we want to spend. To cut a long story short, let's be decisive for a change, let's grab Theo and let's pick up Linda and Ludmir on the way, the whole committee, and take a really close look, as that horny Italian once said to Cleopatra. We've got to make our minds up today, because of the dentist. Yes, I've got the key. The unfortunate thing is that Bargeloni Bros have also got a key. Though actually you don't even need a key because it's all so decrepit. Why are you looking at me like that? Is decrepit a rude word? Or have you suddenly seen the light? Have you realized the man you've been looking for all your life is standing in front of you? Okay. Don't be angry. It just slipped out. I never manage to say what I'm really feeling, what I truly mean. That's my whole problem. Here's Theo. Hi, Theo. You jealous at finding us whispering together in the kitchen? If only it were true. Did you get some sleep? Are you awake? Let's put you in the picture.
There's no need, I said. Theo's not involved in all this.
Theo said: I'm just going to make myself some coffee and I'm off.
And Muki: What do you mean you're off? So who's died? On the contrary. Listen to the story, Theo, and then come along with us, take a good look, and decide about the place.
I said in a flat voice: Theo doesn't decide. The committee decides.
Meanwhile the water boiled. Theo made instant coffee for the visitor for me and for himself. He offered sugar and milk. He took some more grapes out of the refrigerator, washed them, put them in front of us on two plates, and said: Well? To stay or to go? What's the majority verdict?
Without waiting for an answer he turned his back, in his undershirt, suntanned, his shoulders thick and hard, he gave us up, took his cup and went. All he left behind was his sorrow, wrapping it, as it were, round my shoulders. Beyond his bedroom door which he drew noisely to behind him I could guess him bent over his desk, leaning on it with both fists, resembling from behind an old, tired ox, standing silently as though waiting for some inner sound to come and release him from his waiting. I recalled him during one of our first trips in Venezuela, in a Jeep, on a dirt track running along a winding mist-filled valley, as he suddenly exclaimed that even if what was happening to us turned out to be love, he hoped we could go on being friends.
I went to his room to call out to him to come back, to join me and Muki. And while I was calling I knew I was making a mistake.
He sat down on his regular chair in the kitchen, his back resting on the side of the refrigerator, listening silently to the story about the Alharizi building, asking a couple of short questions, and while listening to the answers patiently and meticulously cleaning out the holes in the salt shaker with a toothpick and then going on to clean the pepper mill. Muki concluded with the words: Either way there's nothing to lose. And then Theo declared: It doesn't look right.
But why?
From every point of view.
What can we lose if we go there now? Just for a few minutes? To look the place over?
There's no point in going. It looks wrong from the outset.
Because you're opposed to everything to do with the clinic, or because you think this particular step is wrong?
Both.
Isn't it a shame to miss the opportunity?
There's no opportunity,
Meaning?
I've already said: it doesn't look right.
Up to that moment, my opinion was that it was too soon for us to start looking for a building. I felt that Muki Peleg was too eager, there was no sense in acquiring a building just because there might or might not be a chance of a bargain, and it definitely was not good to make decisions the same day, under pressure of time. But Theo's mockery, his scorn, his faint rudeness, his peasant-like way of sitting, in his undershirt, legs apart, deliberately picking grapes from the middle of the bunch
in front of him, all exasperated me. My father's temper suddenly welled up inside me like boiling oil. At that instant I resolved not to let go of the building, if it seemed suitable. Just as when in class some dozy show-off says in a wheedling voice, Oh, that Agnon does go on so, and I tremble with rage and give her and the whole class a stinker of an essay for homework on the functions of the lyrical aside.
Theo, I said, Muki and I certainly don't consider ourselves as intercontinental experts on realizing projects. Or as entrepreneurs who have left their mark et cetera. So you'll just have to explain to us in simple Hebrew why we shouldn't take a step that on the face of it looks pretty rational.
On the face of it, said Theo: a good expression. And one that contains an answer to your question.
Not my question: our question. And now Muki and I are asking you for the third time, what are your objections to the purchase of the Alharizi house, and to going round now to see whether or not the building is suitable? We would be pleased to receive a verbal answer instead of that grimace.
There are eleven reasons, Theo said, with a fleeting shrewd smile under his grey moustache, why Napoleon's guns did not bombard Smolensk. The first was that there was no more ammunition, and the other ten reasons he rightly refused to listen to. The sum that has been mentioned, even without the improvements, is more than your gent has undertaken to donate. Any more?
We'd had two further small benefactions, and I knew Theo knew about them. But I chose to say nothing. Theo added: Besides which, I thought I read in the local paper that you had volunteered to form a team to investigate possibilities, not to purchase properties. Besides which, there hasn't been even the beginning of a beginning of a proper public procedure. Besides which, has anybody yet calculated the volume of junkies that you are planning to raise here, in proportion to the capacity of the building in question? Eh?