by Meir Shalev
“You’re something different,” Dovik said at the time, and said to the twins, “I’m just kidding, you guys. Where’s your sense of humor?”
Dafna and Dorit corrected his language. “We’re not guys, we’re girls.”
Whatever. He took them down to Sde Boker—“We know where you’re heading from here, Abba, and we want to go too,” they said—and continued farther south by himself. Mitzpeh Ramon, the Crater, past Nahal Meshar, across the Paran, finally arriving at Tzihor. There he turned right onto a dirt road marked in red—I saw it all on a map, in case you’re wondering how I know the details—reset his odometer, and drove to the tree. There are guys like that who only need coordinates and a reset button and everything is clear and good. On the other hand, if you take away their coordinates, they’re worthless.
He reached the acacia, which was standing there among other acacias exactly where it was supposed to be. It wasn’t hard to identify it, he told me when he got back, because it really was the most beautiful acacia in the area. And when he got closer he saw that all the equipment was still there. Nobody had touched it, as if the thieves also knew what had happened and didn’t touch a thing: the tent still stood there, waiting, and the gas burner, cold and waiting, and the tarp still tossed to the side, and the two mattresses they never got to sleep on, and the bird handbook that I read and studied later on, to know which birds my little boy saw and identified before he died and which birds saw and identified him.
Dovik put it all in the pickup, spread the tarp over it, found Eitan and Neta’s footprints, and followed them. The footprints of a father and son on a leisurely hike were mixed with the footprints of a father who ran back on exactly the same path. The footprints of a running man look completely different from those of a walking man, especially if he is carrying a child in his arms, and especially if this child is dying, and especially if this dying child is his and he is to blame for his death. Things like this have a great effect on the footprints. You can learn a lot from footprints, even about the state of mind of the person who left them.
Dovik followed the footprints, climbing to the top of the ridge on a diagonal, as one should, and reached the place where the snake bit Neta and Eitan killed it. There he also found the camera, which in the commotion had slipped a bit down the slope, where it was blocked by a rock that luckily shaded it from the sun during most of the day.
He also found the stone that Eitan used to smash the snake, and also the bare spot of ground where the stone had originally lain. I know all this because a few weeks later I changed my mind and asked him to take me there, and he, my dear big brother, suddenly objected: “Why do it, Ruta? What for? You yourself said you couldn’t bear it.” It was a good imitation of me, by the way, and he also tried to tell me that there was nothing at all to see there. There had surely been flooding since then and everything was erased.
He told me all that, and I put on a performance of a mother and sister that he would never forget. Even Bialik never imagined a mother and sister like that. An imitation of a bitterly grieving she-bear from the woods, roaring loud enough for the whole moshava to hear her. Don’t be alarmed, Varda, I’m just imitating myself screaming at him: “What kind of flooding in your dreams, Dovik? Where’d you pull that one from? It’s the dry season and you’re going to take me there. Otherwise I’ll go by myself to look for your coordinates and you’ll be responsible if anything happens to me!”
Sorry, I apologize. I already told you. Sometimes screams and shouts emanating from our property provide raw material for all the ears and mouths of the moshava, and this was one of those times.
Whatever. We drove down there, and on the way we didn’t talk much, but there were nice songs on the radio and we joined in, he singing the melody and I the harmony, and we arrived at the acacia that Eitan had picked out, which was indeed good and beautiful, and we walked to the spot where Neta was bitten, and Dovik said, “This is it, Ruta, here’s where it was.” And I actually held up well, and on the way back we stopped at Sde Boker to visit Dafna and Dorit, who were surprised by the visit but not by its cause. I was very happy to see them, because after Neta died and they went off to Sde Boker, we were left without children, and it was terrible. The yard was empty. Yes, I had more than enough children whom I taught at school, but that’s not the same. I’m not one of those teachers who calls them “my” children. They’re not.
“Abba took you to see the place where Neta died?” asked the girls, both asking and declaring, and I said yes, of course, it’s the duty of a brother and the right of a mother.
A few weeks later we went down there one more time, because Grandpa Ze’ev suddenly wanted to visit the place where his great-grandson had died. He was eighty by then, and it was easy to see that he wasn’t comfortable in the desert, it wasn’t a place that suited him, the plants were unfamiliar, it was all too yellow and dry, stony and bare, but the footprints were still there and Dovik showed them to him, and he walked along the wadi without a problem, and he looked and examined and asked questions. And a few months later, during the Sukkoth holiday, there was a sudden rainstorm there with flash flooding. A huge rainfall, the likes of which the Negev hadn’t seen for many years. Flooding in Tznifim, Tzihor, Paran, Karkum, I look at the map from time to time and know the roads and the names of all the wadis.
It was the first rain after Neta died, and the first rain of that year, which fell not in the Galilee or Golan or in our moshava, which gets a lot of rain, but in the desert. There of all places, in that shitty wasteland.
The rain came down, and there was a flood, and everything was washed out. God took time off from his other activities and for a few hours did not kill or bring to life, did not make marriages or break them, did not uplift or bring low, did not bring forth cows from the Nile or she-bears from the woods, did not visit the iniquity of fathers upon children or the iniquity of children upon fathers. No. He only returned to the scene of the crime and destroyed all the evidence.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE CAVEMAN AND THE FIRE
Another Story for Neta Tavori Also by His Mother
1
Many, many years ago, in the wadi of Grandpa Ze’ev, there lived the Caveman. That’s what they called him because in those days people didn’t have names.
Grandpa Ze’ev wasn’t there yet, and neither was his carob tree. But the wadi was there, and on the other side of it was a cave, and that was the Caveman’s home.
The Caveman loved the cave very much. In summer it was nice and shady and cool, and in winter it protected him from the rain. But in winter there were also clouds, and the sun disappeared, and there was not only rain but snow and hail, and the wind blew in the wadi, whistled through the rocks and reached the top of the hill.
The Caveman sat in the entrance to the cave, looked out, and felt cold.
Really cold.
Terribly cold.
He hid very deep inside the cave—but that didn’t help.
He wore a bearskin—but that didn’t help either.
He cuddled with his wife, the Cavewoman, inside the bearskin—and that was very pleasant and it did help, but only a little and for a short while.
2
One day the Cavewoman said to the Caveman, “We’re out of food, you need to go out and bring us more.”
“In this cold?” he asked. “It’s raining outside, the winds are blowing, there’s a storm.”
“There’s no choice,” she said, and made a joke: “Otherwise you’ll have to eat me and I’ll have to eat you.”
The Caveman loved the Cavewoman. He didn’t want to eat her and didn’t want her to eat him.
He went out, and walked and walked and looked and looked and walked, the rain whipping his face and the wind freezing his body, but he kept looking and walking and didn’t rest for a minute.
And all of a sudden, right above him, there was a flash of lightning and a huge clap of thunder, and the tree beside him caught fire and burned in a big yellow-red blaze.
/> The Caveman had never seen fire before. He was scared and fell to the ground, and quickly got up and shouted, “A monster…a yellow monster…no…a red monster…”
The Caveman had also never seen a monster before, but that seemed a very appropriate word.
3
He was so scared that he ran away from there, back home to the cave.
“Come quick!” he said to his wife. “I want to show you something.”
The Cavewoman loved hearing those words. Every time the Caveman told her he wanted to show her something—something nice happened.
“What?” she asked.
“Something really terrible.”
“What?”
“There’s a monster over there,” said the Caveman. “It’s enormous. It’s going wild. It’s red and yellow. It’s eating a tree on the other side of the hill.”
“What is a monster? We don’t have a word like that,” said the Cavewoman.
“I just invented it. Now there’s a monster and also a word for it.”
“What does it look like, this monster of yours?”
“It doesn’t look like anything at all.”
“Like a bear? Like a rhinoceros?”
“No.”
“Does it have wings? Claws? Scales? A tail?”
“Yes! A whole lot of tails and a wing and another wing and another wing.”
“Is it skinny? Is it fat? Does it have a trunk? Or just a nose?”
“What do you mean? It has no shape at all. Actually, it has many shapes. Every minute a new shape. Come on, I want to show it to you.”
4
The Caveman and the Cavewoman ran together in the rain and the wind and the cold and the storm, went around the hill, and reached the burning tree.
“Look,” said the Caveman, “have you ever seen a monster like this?”
The Cavewoman drew closer. Raindrops hit the burning tree and made whispering sounds.
“Be careful,” the Caveman called out. “It’s very dangerous.”
“It’s nice,” said the Cavewoman, “it makes me warm. You should come closer too.”
The Caveman came closer slowly. He felt nice and warm. He stuck out his hand and touched it. All he wanted to do was pet the monster, but it hurt really bad.
He jumped and shouted, “It bit me! The monster bit me!” And he ran back to the cave.
5
The Cavewoman stayed near the fire and enjoyed being warm.
After a few minutes a big bear showed up. He stood up on his hind legs and growled at her, but he didn’t dare come close because he was afraid of the fire—and he ran away.
A few minutes later a tiger came near. He crept toward her and roared but didn’t dare come closer because he was afraid of the fire—and he ran away.
A few minutes later, a pack of wolves appeared. They ran around her and bared their teeth, but they didn’t dare come close because they were afraid of the fire—and they ran away.
A few minutes after that, the Caveman returned and she told him what had happened.
“You know,” she said, “if we had a yellow monster like this inside the cave, we could keep warm and it would also protect us from wild beasts.”
“True,” said the Caveman, after thinking it over. “But only if it’s a small yellow monster.”
“So let’s take home a branch like this with the yellow monster on it, and when it finishes eating we’ll give it another branch, and then another, and that way we’ll have a yellow monster like this in the cave.”
And that’s what they did. They took a branch with a little monster, brought it to the cave, gave the little monster branch after branch, and called it a fire.
And at night they slept beside it, and they felt nice and warm, and no bear or lion dared to come inside.
And the fire also gave them light, and shadows danced on the walls and ceiling.
The Caveman asked, “What are these black things? They’re really scary.”
And the Cavewoman answered, “They are me and you.” And she made him shadows that looked like animals—a bear and a she-bear, and a tiger and tigress.
The Caveman looked at his wife and said, “Outside it’s raining and cold and stormy, and here it’s nice and warm and you are so smart and capable and beautiful.”
“Really? What do I look like?” she asked. “Like an anteater? A fox? A lizard? An egret?”
“What’s an anteater? There’s no such animal here.”
“But there surely is someplace else.”
The Caveman laughed. “You’re so sweet, you little monster Cavewoman. You don’t look like anything. Every minute you have a new shape.”
6
The winter came to an end. Spring arrived and then summer, and one day, when the Caveman returned from hunting, the Cavewoman said to him, “Come quick, I want to show you something.”
The Caveman loved to hear that sentence. Every time his wife told him she wanted to show him something—something good and pleasant happened.
He came to her and she showed him a little tiny Caveman, wrapped in an animal skin.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“This is the Cave Baby,” she said. “He’s mine and yours.”
TWENTY-SIX
THE WEDDING NIGHT
1
The journey was over. Dov drove the wagon to his brother’s yard. Ze’ev and Ruth followed him on foot. When they got to the house the brothers hid the rifle and unharnessed, fed, and watered the cow and the ox, which like a man at the end of a mission collapsed with exhaustion to the ground. Ze’ev petted the ox on the head and asked Dov what was happening back home, and he whispered that their father had sent the message—that’s what he said, “sent the message”—that he needed to begin rubbing his hands with olive oil twice a day.
“What for?” grumbled Ze’ev, who viewed such things as wimpy and feminine.
“That’s what he said I should tell you and that’s what you have to do.”
That night, as Dov slept a deep sleep, Ze’ev and Ruth sat and talked. Ze’ev told Ruth about his father’s orders and she smiled to herself. The next night they also talked, and the following morning Dov and Ruth went back to the moshava in the Galilee. Ruth told her parents that she had met Ze’ev and that they wanted to get married, and she gave Ze’ev’s parents a letter from their son.
The wedding was set for just after the Shavuot holiday, on Ze’ev’s twenty-third birthday. He came to his parents’ home three days ahead of time and first of all he and his father went walking through the orchard and the yard. Then he walked around in the village, met friends, told them about the new moshava where he lived, and at night, as he lay in bed, he smelled the aroma of pipe tobacco and knew his father was waiting for him in the yard.
The father cleared his throat and asked if he knew what happens on the wedding night.
“Don’t worry, Abba,” said Ze’ev. “I know very well.”
“And what, for example, do you know?”
Ze’ev was embarrassed. “I know.”
The father said, “It’s good that you have gained experience. And good that the bride is still a virgin and the groom is not, but that’s not what I’m talking about, but rather that you have to understand and remember that this is the woman who from now on, for the rest of your life, will be with you. You will be her one and only and she will be your one and only. And therefore, Ze’ev, on this important and special night, the wedding night, you must not make her angry or hurt her or insult her or leave her a bad memory for whatever reason. You need to be gentle and patient and pleasant and polite, and everything you do to her and with her you must do with affection and tenderness.”
Ze’ev was not surprised. He father was a tough, aggressive man, but with his wife, Ze’ev’s mother, he was always patient and faithful. He said nothing, and his father continued: “On all other nights we have to be tough and strong, inside and out, in body and soul, because there’s not only a wife, there’s also land to be far
med and livestock to tend and thieves to catch and enemies to chase away. But on this night the groom belongs only to his wife, with a good heart and soft hands and hard only in the place he needs to be.”
Ze’ev kept quiet. He had never heard his father, a man of few words, make a speech like this.
“Do you understand me, Ze’ev?”
“I understand, Abba, thank you.”
“Even the little details are important,” the father went on. “You need to be closely shaved, washed, and clean and sweet smelling in every part of your body, your nails clipped and filed, because you might touch a delicate place and you mustn’t scratch it. That’s why I told Dov to tell you to rub your hands with olive oil, every day, so they will be nice and soft and smooth.”
The mother of the bride had a similar talk with her daughter, but her talk was much more practical than the father of the groom’s to his son. Along with similar recommendations about patience and thoughtfulness, cleanliness and fragrance, the mother gave clear technical instructions. “And if he doesn’t find it, you have to take it in your hand and put it in the right place,” and made a biblical joke: “ ‘Come in, thou blessed of the Lord, why are you standing out there?’ ” And Ruth burst out laughing.
Everything was thus in order. The neighbors baked bread, brought homemade cheeses; men carried boxes of fruit and vegetables. Meat was not served; several bottles of wine and schnapps were opened but were consumed at a separate table, so as not to offend the Muslim guests who came from adjacent villages bearing figs and cakes. Members of Hashomer, the Jewish militia, raced the Arab horsemen, galloping and waving sticks as if they were swords.
The wedding ended late at night. The guests who came from nearby went home. Those who came from afar took turns guarding the horses and wagons and getting some sleep, in various corners of the family home or at the neighbors’, in storehouses, granaries, milking sheds. “From the firstborn according to his birthright, and the youngest according to his youth,” the elders on beds and mattresses, the latter on jute sacks filled with straw.