The Falafel King Is Dead

by Sara Shilo

  I wouldn’t dream. I was always the first to know when one of them was going to wake up – I’d place my hand on him, put the dummy in – and I’d always remember who’d fed last and who’d filled his nappy. She couldn’t remember a thing. It was like she was drunk. I’d pick them up, wake her, arrange two pillows behind her – one at the bottom and one behind her stiff neck – give her the babies, take them from her, change them and bathe them in the dark. Oshri was always quiet when he was eating or bathing. Before bedtime I’d fill the baby bath with water and put it on a chair, then, when he cried, I’d add boiling water from the kettle and wash him with soap, so he’d feel nice and clean. I’d undress him and wrap a towel around him so he wouldn’t get cold. My heart would beat faster when he cried. I’d imagine he was shouting at me, telling me to stop being nasty to him. When I held him in the towel, my shadow rose up the wall almost to the ceiling. There wasn’t much light, just one in the bathroom, as Dudi couldn’t sleep if it wasn’t pitch-black. At bedtime we’d turn off all the lights, then, once he was asleep, we’d turn on the bathroom light and open the door a crack. I’d take Oshri out of the towel and he’d scream, but as soon as his body touched the water he’d be quiet. I washed him the way she taught me. First I’d take a little water in my hand and pour it over his face three times: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob. The blessing made my heart quiet, too. Then I’d pour water onto his belly, swishing him back and forth, then turning him over and holding him by the chest, so his head wouldn’t go under the water, and pouring water on his back and bottom, then onto his back again, letting him push his feet against the edge of the bath. It was like a merry-go-round. When the water had cooled, I’d take him out and give him to her so she could dress him.

  The whole room was filled with their smell. What a smell. There’s nothing in the world like it. If the dummy hadn’t managed to calm them, I’d cuddle them and they’d start nosing around my shirt, searching for milk. Her shirt would be open all the time. She never closed it. I’d give them to her and watch how they opened their mouths wide to feed. It was like a game – her red circles swallowed up by theirs. I’d watch how she pushed with two fingers to take out the nipple when she thought her milk had finished, and I’d listen to the sound of their gulping. I loved looking at her face when they got into a good rhythm, because it made her feel good. I’d lie on my side and let them hold my finger with their whole hand as they were feeding, and stroke their hair with my other hand. It was beautiful hair. When you touched it, it was as if the hair rose up to stroke you instead.

  Not once did she mention Dad. I was waiting for her to say his name. But even when there was a memorial for him, she didn’t talk about him, just about what we had to do and who would babysit the twins while we were at the cemetery. She didn’t shed any tears for him. She cried for her mum, who died in Morocco. When I thought about him, I’d wait for Mum to leave the room. Then I’d lie down on the left-hand side of the bed, his side. I’d fold the pillow in two, just as he did, put my head on it, and stretch my feet downwards, waiting for the day I could touch the end of the bed. Every time I did it, I’d see that I would soon be as tall as he was, that I’d soon cover the place where he slept. Dad was tall, taller than his brothers and the rest of his family. I’m 1.68m, and when I lie on the bed, I imagine his foot sticking out underneath mine.

  Sometimes she’d close her eyes and talk to me. She’d say, ‘Kobi, precious, go and wake Etti so she can help me. You get some sleep. You have school. Go on, it’d be a shame to miss all your studies.’ So I’d go and see Etti, then come back and tell her Etti was dead to the world, that I couldn’t wake her.

  Before she finished feeding the twins, I knew she had to replace what she had given them. How else would she feed them again when they woke up? I’d stand in the kitchen, my face against the little coffee pot, close my eyes, feeling the milk boil. My skin would be as soft as a baby’s again. When I heard the milk rise, I’d open my eyes, turn off the stove, put in two sugars and half a teaspoon of instant coffee, and take it into the bedroom. I’d also bring in three or four almonds from the bag I’d hidden at the top of the cabinet, because Rikki said I should only give them to her for her milk so it would be white and strong, not watery. We’d sit in bed and drink coffee and look at the twins together. Even when they went to sleep, we couldn’t close our eyes. We just felt like looking at them all the time. I loved the quietness. Before the twins arrived, she shouted all the time. She’d raise her voice and never lower it. But when she came back from hospital with the twins, she talked quietly so they wouldn’t wake up. After they’d fed, she’d wind them, patting them on the back: ha-ha-ha-hi, ha-ha-ha-hi.

  Once I had a dream that she was holding a baby against her shoulder and the baby was me. The dream’s coming back to me now. That’s how it is with dreams: when you try to remember them, nothing; when you turn your back, they ambush you. I dreamed I was a baby, making little throaty noises. She was holding me and patting me on the back to wind me. Again and again on my back and my bottom, again and again, quite hard, lifting me up to see if I’ve filled my nappy, and hitting me on the back, ha-ha-ha-hi, and on the bottom and pushing against me with her whole hand. I come on her, and she says, ‘To your good health.’ Why did I let her do that? And why couldn’t I feel it?

  Suddenly, the back pain. The screw is hammered into me with one mighty blow – no pencil, no drill, just shoved straight in.

  But I don’t double up. I just pull the sheet straight, put on my jacket, and walk down the hallway, holding on to the walls. Oshri and Chaim call me from the bedroom. I don’t reply. They follow me. I sit down to put on my shoes, but my back won’t allow me to do it. I don’t have to say a word. Each twin takes a shoe and puts it on, tying the laces the way I taught them. It takes them ages. As I sit there, watching them, the pain melts away. They’re beautiful when they’re trying to be nice. Their heads are bent over the laces, and they hold the knot tightly so it won’t slip. I glance at the picture of Dad on the wall. Why did I sit opposite it right now? So I’ll look at Dad and remember I must not think of them as my children? When he died, it was as if his face was copied twice, like a key, and tossed back into the world. What can I do? I can’t stand his picture being there. I wish I could take it down. I try to tell myself he can’t see me, but his eyes land on me as soon as I set foot in the house.

  They finish tying the laces, kiss me on both cheeks. I can tell who’s who just from the kiss. Oshri’s side is wet.

  I get up and wrench open the door. I don’t know what to say to them. I walk down the hallway of the old apartment and they’re following me. I hold onto the terrorists’ cupboard, and I say, ‘This is the terrorists’ cupboard. When you hear a big boom, you know terrorists are here, but you don’t need to be afraid. Kobi’s built somewhere for you to go. You climb up on a chair, take the key from the top of the cupboard, open it and go inside. There was a girl who stood behind the door of a cupboard and the terrorists didn’t find her. They won’t find you in here, either. Inside is a bottle of oil. You pour the oil on the floor, so the terrorists will slip on it and die, and then you close the door and sit quietly until I come to get you.’ That’s what I tell them, even though I know I won’t be the one to come and get them. I’m dying to say: One day I’ll take you away from all of this, not just the cupboard, or the house or the town, not just away from the Katyushas and the terrorists, but from everything. In Rishon they have no idea what we’re going through here. They hear it on the radio, but they don’t understand.

  The twins can’t wait to get into the cupboard. They’re jumping around, going off to get a chair and drag it over, climbing on to it. It makes me feel like crying. I don’t know why. It’s just that when I see them happy, I feel like crying. It’s not just with my own children, either. I always feel like crying when I see happy little kids.

  I want to go, but they won’t let me. They want me to stay with them all the time. I’m their dad. I take off my bar mitzvah watch. They can’t be
lieve I’m giving it to them. They look at it, feel its weight, put it to their ears. They both want to wear it. I haven’t got the time. I don’t want Mum to come back. Luckily Etti’s fast asleep. I tell them to check how long it takes them to run from their bed to the terrorists’ cupboard, and make them take turns so they won’t fight over who’s the runner and who’s the timekeeper.

  Now I know what to do. I’m going to see Jamil. I go down the stairs, holding on to both sides. There’s only one thing that’ll get me out. I’m going to take all the money now. I’ve waited long enough and I can’t wait any more. How long can a man wait? There’s nothing here for me. I’m going abroad with my dollars. I’ll fly to Norway, get married there. I don’t need to learn Norwegian. Mordi says my looks will speak for themselves. I’ll go and make a load of money, then I’ll come back with my wife. I’ll go to Rishon straight from the airport, suitcases and all, sign on the dotted line for the Model Apartment, give them the deposit there and then. I’ll find a girl who’s got the rest of the money for the apartment. I have to do it now. I’ve run out of time. I can’t spend one more day in this hole.

  I leave the building, walk to Mordi’s house, and whistle. He sticks his head out of the window, shouts that he’ll be down. I go and stand next to his car, and he follows me there, opening the door for me before getting in the driver’s side. ‘Go,’ is all I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Mordi sees the mood I’m in and keeps quiet. He releases the handbrake, puts the car into gear. Two minutes later we’re driving out of the town. I give him directions with nods – right, then left. He glances at me, drives silently. We drive for ten minutes. When we get to Jamil’s village I tell him to stop. He puts a hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Why, what’s the matter?’ I don’t look at him. I can’t. He says nothing more, removes his hand so I can get out. He doesn’t drive away. I wave, telling him to go, and start walking. He drives after me, his window down, saying, ‘I’m not leaving you here alone with the Arabs.’ I tell him I’m going to see someone from the factory, smile to reassure him, so he won’t worry about me, remind him about the alert, that it’s not good to leave Fannie and the kid on their own. Finally, when he realises I’m serious, he drives away. I walk into the village. I don’t know where to go. How am I supposed to know? The village is dead. There’s not a single person walking around.

  Why did I let Mordi drive away? I thought it was my own business, that I could manage. I didn’t think it through. Now I wish he’d stayed. Why didn’t I bring him into the village to get the money and then escape, fast? Why didn’t I tell him about the Model Apartment? As I walk, all I can think is, ‘Why, why, why?’ What was I thinking to let him drive away? I’m not walking straight. The pain in my back is holding me in its grip, deciding what it’ll do with my body, hammering that screw in with another mighty blow. If I do something to annoy the pain, it shoots a surge of electricity from my head to my legs. I have no answer; the little screw in my back controls everything I do.

  I look around. Not one house is finished here. Everything is moving, growing, half-built, wherever you look. In one house there are stairs on the roof, but nothing above them; in another, stone cladding is finished on one wall and begun on the next. On some houses you can see where they’ve filled in with two or three rows of cinder bricks. There’s sand, gravel and boarding everywhere. Nothing is completed. I walk around until I almost forget where I am. Suddenly it’s starting to get dark. I don’t want to believe it.

  I don’t know where to go, whether to head right or left. It seems as though the only colour left is black, as if they stole the colours while my back was turned, dragged them away from the houses, the closed shops, the clothes on the washing lines, the rubbish bins.

  I wish I could lie down but there isn’t a single pavement in the whole place. I’m dying to straighten out my back, to push it the other way. It’s the only thing that helps with the pain. In the factory I close my door and lie on the floor until it passes. But as I sit down on the road, thinking about taking off my jacket so it won’t get dirty, I hear the sound of children. I get up, wanting to run, but my back mocks me, making me walk like an old woman.

  The children see me cross the street, and come over. I ask for the Khouri family. One of them speaks Hebrew and says, ‘Which Khouris? There are lots of Khouris.’

  I say, ‘Jamil Khouri.’

  ‘There are lots of those, too.’

  I say, ‘He’s got blue eyes.’

  He laughs, tells the rest of them in Arabic, and they laugh as well. ‘All the Khouris have got blue eyes.’

  In the end I say, ‘The factory book-keeper.’

  Then they take me to him, all of them. First they run ahead, but when they see I can hardly move, they walk next to me slowly, chattering all the time in Arabic. What are they talking about? Why are they laughing?

  I catch a word here and there, but I can’t understand the whole. It’s not the Moroccan of my parents. Why did I let Mordi leave? What was I thinking? Why didn’t I take him to Jamil’s with me? Why-why, why-why. My head is pounding, as though the hammer is pounding in nails, twice for good measure – why-why, why-why – then, with its claw, taking them out again. The answer is: I don’t know. I just don’t know.

  Seven or eight kids are standing behind me. ‘Shoukran,’ I shout. I want them to go, but they don’t move. I want to go back to the factory, take my clocking-in card, erase the last hour and start the whole day again. How can I go into his house now, with all these children looking at me? How can I break my word, the promise I made that he’d never see my face in his village so no one would suspect our deal. I can’t forget how he looked at me with those blue eyes when I said, ‘Either you trust me or you don’t. There’s no halfway house.’

  The children knock on the door, and who opens it but Amin, who organises the factory transportation for people who live out in villages. The children call him Abu-Jamil. They say, ‘Fi wahad yahdi bishal ’an Jamil.’ He shows me in, shakes my hand, goes and calls Jamil. I never realised that was his dad. I look at him in a different light, thinking maybe I was only seeing half the picture. Maybe he’s in on the deal. Maybe everyone in the house knows. Maybe they’re all spending my money.

  I look around. The house is clean and neat. In the middle of one wall is a sink with soap and a towel. No bathroom, just a sink in the hallway. Jamil comes and takes me to a side room. A woman is sitting on the floor, chopping meat with a small knife. The room is tiny, and she’s fat, taking up half the space. Her big blue dress, the same blue as her eyes, circles her like a pool of water. She’s obviously Jamil’s mother and it’s also obvious that, on the plastic sheet in front of her, she’s dicing a dead sheep. She throws the cubes of meat into a deep tray, takes out the liver and laughs. ‘Want some? It’s good for you, gives you strength. You eat it raw.’ She cuts a few bloody slices and eats a slice raw, just like that.

  Jamil is the Jamil I know from work. His white shirt is ironed and buttoned up to the neck. He doesn’t laugh or cry or move. He’s blank, like his mum. I can’t understand how an educated, elegantly dressed guy has a mother like that, sitting barefoot on the floor in an old dress. We go past her and through another door into an inner room. I sit on the sofa. He takes a chair. He looks out of the window, doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘I’m not giving you the money,’ he says. ‘You can stay here for a while, having something to eat and drink, and my brother will take you back. Tomorrow, when you get up and go to work, you’ll have forgotten. It’d be a shame to lose everything you’ve saved. Just a little more patience, and you can go and buy your apartment.’ Now he’s looking at me with those blue eyes, and I don’t know what to do. He has all my money. It’s as if it’s locked away, with his promise as the password, and I don’t know how to get to it. I don’t have the password. He promised me, and his word is his bond. What can I do? I want to go mad, to start shouting, but I can’t take it out on him. He sits there quietly, so I am powerless. If he shouted, ‘Why did you come into my vil
lage?’ I’d stand up to him, make no mistake. I’d take everything. In five minutes I’d be out of there.

  But we sit in silence instead. My back’s killing me. The sofa’s missing a support, and sags in the middle. My back can’t cope with it and I start to fidget. Jamil thinks we’re finished. He gets up to go, but I don’t move, grabbing the sofa arm instead.

  Suddenly I see Mordi laughing at me. ‘You’re letting him make plans for you? Who does he think he is? Did you really think he wouldn’t steal from you? You’ll believe anyone, even an Arab. I can’t believe you, Kobi. You gave all your money to an Arab? An Arab? How many times have I told you about not trusting an Arab, even one that’s been dead forty years? How many times? You gave him seven thousand dollars? You’ve just thrown it away!’

  I picture Mum, the white handbag banging against her, the brown stains I made on the mattress, the keys to the Model Apartment slipping away from me. I hear Yafit laughing at me, giving the keys to someone else. All of a sudden I’m going mad, jumping up and shouting, ‘Give me the money. Where did you put my money?’ Part of the sofa’s wooden armrest has come off in my hand. I’m standing right in front of him. ‘Kobi, what are you doing?’ he says, and I hit him on the head with the armrest. He dodges to one side. I fall on to the chair. My back is shot to pieces.