Black Box

by Amos Oz

  I am writing this in the hope that you will soon give me a little sign, and I will harness your dormant cash to these chariots of the gods. And I will undertake to steer Sommo in such a way that he will do for you in the present what I did for your father in the good old days. Think it over carefully, my dear friend: If your old Zakheim has not rusted entirely, then you simply have to rely on his intuition and climb onto this new wave without delay. In this way we can kill three fine birds with one paltry million: we harness Sommo to us, make your Gulliver’s fortune (if you have definitely made up your mind to appoint him your crown prince), and also get our hands on Lady de Sommo. Because Zand reports to me that while Napoleon is advancing toward the pyramids, signs of restlessness are appearing in Desirée, who has begun to take an interest in the possibility of going back to work in the same bookshop where she made her living in those fiery two years of hers, after the prince left and before the frog arrived. If I have read your mind correctly, then this development is playing straight into our hands. Would you like me to book her a ticket and send her to you prontísimo? Or should I wait until I am quite sure that she’s ripe for it? Would you like me to send Zand to sniff out what’s going on in Zikhron? And the main thing, Alex: Will you let me sell that ruin that brings in nothing and costs you a fortune in taxes, and use the money to hammer in a little Tentpeg of your own? Please, send me a one-word cable: “Affirmative.” You won’t regret it.

  Take good care of your body and your nerves. And don’t hate your only real friend, who is waiting for a sane answer from you and signs off now anxiously but affectionately—

  Your miserable

  Manfred

  ***

  PERSONAL ROBERTO DIMODENA JERUSALEM ISRAEL

  FORBID YOU TO LET YOUR PARTNER MEDDLE IN MY AFFAIRS FIND OUT AND REPORT AT ONCE WHO HIS PURCHASER IS KEEP PAYING BOAZ ALEXANDER GIDEON

  ***

  Professor Alexander Gideon

  Political Science Department

  Midwest University

  Chicago, Ill., U.S.A.

  15.8.76

  Dear Alec,

  From Zikhron I traveled on to Haifa. A strong, strange smell, a heady mixture of pine resin and Lysol, pervaded the sanatorium on Mount Carmel. From time to time the moan of a ship’s siren floated up from the harbor. Trains hooted and fell silent. The gardens lay in rustic tranquillity shrouded in gentle sunlight. A couple of old women were dozing on a bench, shoulder resting on shoulder, like a pair of stuffed birds. An Arab male nurse who was pushing a patient in a wheelchair slowed as I passed and eyed me lasciviously. From a corner of the garden rose the croaking of frogs. And in an arbor of thick vines I finally found your father, sitting alone at a white-painted metal table, with his shock of prophetic white hair waving slightly in the breeze, his unkempt Tolstoyan beard flowing down over a stained dressing gown, his face brown and shriveled like a dried fig, with a teaspoon in his hand and a cake on a plate and a half-finished glass of yogurt on the table in front of him. The blue eyes sailing away toward the blue of the sea. His deep, calm breathing stirring the spray of oleander that he was fanning himself with.

  When I pronounced his name he deigned to turn and look at me. He rose slowly, majestically, from his seat and bowed to me twice. I held out a bunch of chrysanthemums I had bought at the Central Bus Station. He handed me his oleander spray, drew the chrysanthemums to his chest, carefully inserted one of them into the buttonhole of his dressing gown, and unhesitatingly planted the rest of the bunch in his yogurt glass. He called me Madame Rovina, and thanked me for finding the time to come to his funeral and even bringing flowers.

  I laid my palm on the back of his broad hand, which was crisscrossed with a fascinating network of delicate blue blood vessels and blotched with patches of brown pigmentation, like a landscape of rivers and hills, and asked him how he was. Your father fixed me with his hard, piercing eyes, and his enchanting face darkened. Suddenly he chuckled as though he had seen through my little scheme but had decided to forgive me. Then he turned serious, frowned, and demanded that I tell him if there is any pardon for Dostoevsky; how was it possible that such a man of God “could beat his wife all through the winter and then get drunk and play cards like a beast while his baby is dying?”

  Here he was apparently shocked at his own bad manners. He snatched the chrysanthemums out of the yogurt glass, hurled them disgustedly over his shoulder, pushed the glass toward me, and asked me if I would care for some champagne. I raised the glass to my lips—there were petals and dust floating on the murky liquid—and pretended to take a sip. Meanwhile your father wolfed down the remains of his cake. When he had finished it I took out a hankie and brushed the crumbs from his beard. He responded by stroking my hair and declaiming in tragic tones: “The wind, krassavitsa, the autumn wind, all day long stealing into gardens. Ho, and its conscience is not clear! It knows no rest! Banished! And in the night they start to ring the big bells. Soon snow will be falling, and we—dayosh!—will ride on.” Here he lost his way. He fell silent. He gaped slightly, with a cloud of sadness on his face.

  “And your health is all right, Volodya? The pains in your shoulder have gone?”

  “Pains? Not me! I don’t have pains—he does. I heard tell that he’s alive, that he talked on the radio even. If I was in his place I would marry a wife and immediately make her have a dozen babies.”

  “Whose place, Volodya?”

  “You know, that little fellow, whats-his-name. That one. The little brother. Binyomin. The one who used to wander around in front of the Arab village of Budrus with the first flock of sheep from the settlement. Binyomin, they used to call him. Described to the life in Dostoevsky! Even truer than he was in realia! I was in realia also, but as a swine. We had another one there—Sioma. Sioma Axioma, we used to call him. He was one in million. Not one ounce of swine in him. He came from my hometown. Shirky. Minsk Region. Realia could not forgive him, and it killed him with love for woman. He took his own lovely soul with my revolver. Could I do something to stop him? Had I the right to? Would you offer him, dear lady, one goblet of woman’s love? He would repay you with crimson and turquoise. Generously he would repay you. His soul for one single goblet! Half? Quarter? No? Well, then! Never mind. It is not necessary. Do not give. Every human being is—one planet. There’s no way through. Just twinkling far away whenever there are no clouds. Realia itself is swine. May I offer you one flower? In memory of that poor miserable one. One flower for ascent of his soul? Dostoevsky killed him, with my revolver. Anti-Semite he was! Despicable! Epileptic! He crucifies Christ at least twice on every single page, and still he accuses us. He beats the Jews murderously. And perhaps he is right, dear lady? I am not talking about Palestine. Palestine is—another song. What is Palestine? Realia? Palestine is dream. Palestine is cauchemar, but still is dream. Perhaps you have deigned to hear of Lady Dulcinea? Well, Palestine is like her. In the dream, myrrh and frankincense, but in realia swinery! Misery of swines. And in the morning—‘behold it was Leah!’ What Leah? Malaria. Ottoman Asia. I was just little boy, little boy catching sparrows. I used to sell them two for a kopeck. I loved to wander by myself on the steppe. So: dreamily strolling in the meadows. And all around—terror! Forests! And muzhiks, with, whatdyacallem, not boots—leggings. That is our Palestine back in Shirky. The stream is Palestine too. And I can swim in it. And one day, there am I as young boy wandering between forest and meadow, and suddenly right in front of me out of the ground up pops little peasant girl. With braid. A swineherd, begging your pardon. Maybe fifteen years old. Well, I don’t ask her how old she is. Up she pops and without a word she starts to hoist up—begging pardon—her skirt. And beckoning with her finger. Not one goblet of woman’s love—one whole river. Take and it shall be given to you. And I am only young stripling, my foolish blood boiling, and my brain—begging his pardon—fast asleep. Would I lie to you, madame, in the middle of my own funeral? No. Lying is totally contemptible. All the more so before open grave. In short, I do not deny, my dove
, I lay hands on her in that field. And for that sin I am sent to Ottoman Asia. ‘Flow on, Jordan . . .” My father himself smuggles me out in middle of night, so they will not hack me to death. And there, in Palestine—wilderness! Graveyard! Fear! Foxes! Prophets! Bedouins! And the air all ablaze! Take another sip; it will do you good. Drink to memory of women’s love. On the way, when I am still on ship, I throw my tefillin straight in sea. Let fishes eat and grow fat. And I will explain this to you also: Short while before we reach city of Alexandria, I have one big row with God. Both of us screaming at each other half the night there on the deck. Maybe we overdo it. What does He want from me? That I should be his little zhid. And that’s all. Whereas I for my part, I want to be one great swine. And so we quarrel, until comes the night watchman and kicks both of us off that deck in middle of the night. That is how He loses me and I lose Him. Such a secondhand, grumpy, sour God. So. He stayed up there all alone like a dog muttering in his mustache, and I stay down here, one swine among swines. And so we part. And what do I do? Na, tell me what I do with the gift of life? What do I spend it on? Why do I sully it? I smash teeth, I cheat, I steal, and, above all, I hoist up skirts. Filthy swine in every way. And now, begging your pardon, dear lady, it is not quite clear to me why you deigned to come and see me today. Are you sent by Binyomin? He has been horribly punished. And who by? By the fair sex! Only because he was such a nonswine. They broke his heart at their pleasure but they did not let him beat a path to their bodies. Even before the shadow of a touch he would faint with embarrassment. So much he suffered that his pure soul departed. And by means of my own revolver! Is madame maybe familiar with the location of the city of Simferopol? There was a terrible battle there. The boys were dying like flies. And who does not die loses God. Does not know what is up and what is down. Gives up God for the sake of women’s love, but women they do not find. Women in the Land of Israel are rare then. Perhaps five or six between Rosh Pina and Kastina. Perhaps ten, if you count Baba Yagas. But a barishnya—not to be found. The boys, after the discussions, they lie down each one on his mattress and they dream of brothel of Odessa. And this because God tricks us. He never comes to Ottoman Asia. He stays behind in attic of synagogue in Shirky, lying there and waiting that Messiah should come. In Land of Israel there is no God and there is no love of women. So everybody gets screwed up. And those that go under bridal canopy? Well, of course, in the morning—behold it is Leah. They are ringing the village bells again far away in the distance. Soon it will start to snow, and we will ride on our way. Can the good lady understand me? Can she pardon me? Forgive me? She is alone and I am alone in that field, and she hoists up her skirts and with her little finger she beckons to me and I lay my hands on her. Therefore I am smuggled to Zion. I am first Jew to extract honey from bees. First since Bible times. Malaria passes me over and I hoist up skirts, like a demon! I am first Jew to hoist up skirts in Palestine since Bible times. Assuming Bible is not legend. For that I am punished in Simferopol. One horse falls on top of me and breaks my legs. In Tulkarem they blow off my head. I get them in the teeth. Much blood spilled. Does madame know? My life is no life at all. Great tearfulness I have until day of my death. And yet once I also loved a woman. Even I forced her to go under bridal canopy with me. Although her heart did not desire me. Perhaps she desired some poet? Whereas I—how should I put it?—from navel up I was in love, singing serenades, offering handkerchiefs and flowers, but from navel down a swine from the land of swine. Hoisting skirts left and right in fields. And she, my beloved, my wife, she sat all day long at her window. She had little song: ‘Yonder, where the cedars grow. . . .’ Do you happen to know this song? Permit me to sing it in your honor: ‘Yonder, where the cedars grow...' Beware of these songs, dear lady. They are written by angel of death. And she, on purpose to punish me, she ups and dies on me. Just to be contrary. She leaves me and goes up to God. She does not know that He is one swine also. She jumps out of frying pan into fire. Give me your hand. Let us be off. The watch is ended. The Jews built themselves a land. It is not the right land, but they built it anyway! It is all askew, but they built it anyway! Without God—but they built it anyway! Now let us wait and see what God has to say about it all. Well, that is enough now: two kopecks I should give you for your sparrows? Two. More than that I will not pay. My whole life has been battle and defilement. I soiled the gift. Skirts and punched teeth. So why should I give you money? What have you done with your own gift of life? One flower I will give you. One flower and one kiss on the lips. Do you know what is my secret? I have never had anything. And what about you? What brings you to me? What have I done to deserve this honor?”

  When he finally stopped and his eyes roamed from me toward the view of the bay in the blaze of sunset, I asked him if there was anything he needed. If he wished me to see him back to his room. Or to fetch him a glass of tea.

  But he only shook his magnificent head, and muttered: “Two. More than that I will not pay.”

  “Volodya,” I said, “do you remember who I am?”

  He withdrew his hand from mine. His eyes brimmed with tears of sadness. No, to his shame he had to confess that he could not remember, that he had omitted to inquire who the lady was and why she had asked if he would agree to see her. So I settled him back in his chair, kissed him on the forehead, and told him my name.

  “Of course.” He smiled with childlike cunning. “Of course, you are Ilana. My son’s widow. At Simferopol they were all killed. Not one of them was left alive to observe the beauty of the fall. Soon the snow will start and we—dayosh!—we shall ride on. Out of this vale of tears! Away from rotting generals who drink and play cards while the women are dying. And who are you, my lovely lady? What is your name? And your business? Abusing the male sex? And for what purpose did you request that I should grant you an audience? Wait! Do not tell me! You came about the gift of life. Why did we defile it? Why did we curdle our mother’s milk? You may have done, madame, but not me. Me, my revolver—down the drain. I threw it away and that is the end of that. So, may God be with us, and may we rest in peace. Liu liu liu. Is that one cradle song? Or deathbed song? So, be off with you now. Go. Only this do for me: Live and hope. That is all. Look at the beauty of the fall in the forest before the snow. So? Two kopecks and that is all? I shall even give you three.”

  With these words he rose, bowed low before me, or rather bent down and picked up one of my chrysanthemums, dirty with dust and yogurt, and delicately proffered it to me: “Only do not get lost in the snow.”

  And without waiting for an answer or saying good-bye he turned his back and strode toward the building, as upright as an old Red Indian. My audience was at an end. What more was there for me to do but pick up my sticky chrysanthemums, put them in the trash can, and take the bus back to Jerusalem?

  The last of the daylight was still glimmering in the west between serrated clouds on the sea horizon as I sat on the half-empty bus on my way back from Haifa. The memory of his brown hand, gnarled like a volcanic slope, would not leave me: how like yet unlike your own stiff, square hand. I had an almost tangible feeling that his hand was resting on my knee all the way from Haifa. And I found its touch consoling. When I got home, at quarter to ten in the evening, I found Michel asleep on a mattress at the foot of Yifat’s bed, fully dressed and with his shoes on. His glasses had slipped onto his shoulder. I woke him in alarm and asked what had happened. It transpired that in the morning, after I had left, when he had dressed Yifat and was on the point of taking her to the nursery, on a sudden suspicion he had taken her temperature, and it turned out he was right. So he decided to call and cancel at the last minute the meeting he had arranged with the deputy minister of defense, a meeting for which he had been waiting for almost two months. He took Yifat to the clinic and waited for an hour and a half before the doctor examined her and pronounced that she had “a slight ear infection.” On the way home he stopped at the pharmacy and bought some antibiotics and ear drops. He made her some chicken soup and mashed potatoes. By
cajoling and bribery he managed to get her to drink some warm milk and honey every hour. At midday her temperature rose, and Michel decided to call a private doctor. Who confirmed his colleague’s diagnosis, but charged Michel ninety pounds. He sat till evening, telling her one story after another, and then he managed to make her eat a little chicken and rice and afterwards he sang to her, and when she was asleep he went on sitting beside her in the dark with his eyes closed, measuring her breathing with his stopwatch and singing hymns. Then he dragged a mattress in for himself and lay down at the foot of her bed in case she coughed or her bedclothes fell off while she was asleep. Until he fell asleep too. Instead of thanking him, admiring his devotion, kissing him and undressing him and making it up to him in our bed, I asked irritably why he hadn’t telephoned for help to one of his innumerable female in-laws or cousins. Why had he canceled his appointment with the deputy minister? Was it really just to make me feel guilty for going away? Was any means justified to cause guilt feelings? What the hell made him think that he deserved a hero’s medal just for spending a single day in the home that I was stuck in for the whole of my life? And why did I have to report to him on where I had been? I wasn’t his maid. And while we were on the subject, it was high time he realized how I despised the way the male members of his community and his family treated their poor wives. I refused to give him a report on where I had gone and why. (In my blind fury I had overlooked the fact that Michel had not even asked. No doubt he was intending to ask me and tell me off, and I was merely anticipating him.) Michel listened in silence as he made me a salad and poured me a Coke. He switched the water heater on so that I could take a shower if I wanted to. And made our bed. Eventually, when I stopped, he said: “Is that it? Have we finished? Shall we send a dove out to see if the water has subsided? We’ve got to wake her up at one o’clock to give her her medicine.” As he spoke he bent over her and touched her forehead lightly. And I burst into tears.