The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  He cleared the table by himself, without being told, went out with the rubbish and suddenly disappeared, I was afraid he might have run away but he came back. He offered to do some work in the house, I asked him to change a light bulb and I watched him as he worked, quietly, without giving himself a shock, without a lot of noise. If he stays with me till Passover he can help me remove the hametz and we shall make the place very kosher. He can read newspapers too. Adam has brought me a real treasure.

  But when evening came and darkness filled the house, I saw that the two of us were alone here for the night and panic seized me. Suddenly I thought, he’s not a little child, he’s a big boy, he has a dark and dangerous face. He could steal my gold coins, attack me, if not he then his brothers, these people always have big brothers. He will open the door to them in the night. This boy has already broken into the house once. Why did I have to be so foolish, wasn’t it better before, when things were quiet? Four bolts I put on the door and Mrs. Goldberg has perfect hearing. I was well protected and now I have let the enemy inside.

  Strange thoughts began to confuse me.

  I asked him to read me something from the paper, to see how he would read, perhaps his voice might reveal something of his intentions. I gave him the article by Dr. Rosenblum, who uses short sentences and simple ideas. He began to read, reading very clearly, and the gist of the article that we hit upon was something I have known for years, that the Arabs have no thought other than to destroy us all. That was all I needed now, to put the idea into his head. And he actually paused, thought for a moment, looked up at me and said, “Do you think I want to destroy you?”

  “Of course,” I wanted to say, “but you can’t, thank God.” But I said nothing. He was so sweet when he asked that question, full of sweetness. Again I remembered Gabriel and how he disappeared, all so quickly. Then the idea occurred to me of asking him to kiss me. Once he’d kissed me he couldn’t use violence against me in the night and I’d be able to sleep peacefully, he might perhaps steal something small, but nothing worse than that. I watched him, sitting there, brooding, plotting. I said, “Come here, give me a kiss.” The little bastard couldn’t believe his ears, but he controlled himself, he couldn’t refuse an old woman like me and he came and touched my cheek with a flutter of his hot lips. Perhaps my first kiss in fifteen years. So sweet. I sent him off to bed. I’d hidden the key to his room beforehand, so he couldn’t lock himself in and make plans. He put on his pyjamas, got into bed and went to sleep. I washed, put on a nightdress, switched off the lights and sat down in the dining room, listening to his breathing. Eight o’clock, nine, ships’ sirens in the harbour. I went into the bedroom to look at him. He lay sprawled there on the bed, flushed with sleep. I tidied his clothes a little. Ten o’clock, eleven, and I’m still dozing in the armchair in the dining room, waiting, perhaps the telephone will ring. At eleven-thirty the lights in the bay go out, I go to his room. He’s in a deep sleep, the blanket slipping off the bed. I cover him up. Suddenly I bend down and kiss him lightly. What can I do? So sad.

  I go back to the dining room, still hoping for a call.

  DAFI

  What’s the time? Nearly midnight. I’ve slept two hours and wakened. Dark in the house. A light and simple wakening, that’s what’s been frightening me lately. My sleep is like straw in the wind, leaving no traces.

  Daddy’s going out to work tonight, between midnight and two he must be on call. I heard it all yesterday, I know all about it. Looking for the lover at night and through the window I see the tow truck parked at the kerb, the yellow crane like a finger pointing at the sky. I get out of bed and put on the clothes that I got ready during the evening. Corduroy trousers, woollen vest, warm sweater. I’ve decided to go with him. Hiking boots, a scarf. Winter clothes that I’ve never worn in winter. Just pray that some car will have an accident, or break down.

  I get dressed in the dark, outside the moon moving fast against broken clouds. The water sounds in the gutters but you can’t see the rain. I think of a car on its way from Tel Aviv to Haifa. I even see its shape. Its colour – bright blue. I think of the driver and I see him, a young man, very sexy, in a black golf shirt, looks a bit like a gym instructor. Beside him a small woman, his wife or his mistress, very sweet. They’re coming home from a play or a party, the radio plays soft dance music, he lays a hand on her shoulder, caressing her, the other hand rests lightly on the wheel. I see the speedometer – a hundred and twenty kilometres. He leans towards her and kisses her, but the lady isn’t content with a kiss, she leans over and lays her head on his shoulder, distracting him. They’re talking about themselves, about how charming they are, and meanwhile the rain sets in (I see it, the moon is hidden, the sky grows dark, rain lashes the windows) and he simply misses the bend, crash, the car smashes through the iron fence between the lanes, the bumper is crushed, the door caves in, the lights shatter, the woman screams, the brakes squeal, the car nearly overturns but ends up on its side. They’re alive. Just a few scratches and bruises. I go on quietly dreaming as I lace up my shoes. I see the man climbing out through the window and helping his lady friend to get out. Running and flagging down a car coming the opposite way, giving the details, a few minutes later the phone rings in the control room. The bored duty clerk takes down the details, looks in the register to see who’s on call. I see it there, Daddy’s name, and beside it our phone number. She lifts the receiver and dials.

  My heart misses a beat. At this very moment the phone rings. I freeze. This is crazy. The dream is becoming reality. I run to the phone in the study. I pick up the receiver and say, “Yes?” but Daddy has beaten me to it with the receiver beside his bed. I hear the particulars. BMW, 1972 model, registration number so-and-so, three kilometres south of the Atlit intersection. Daddy writes it all down in the little notebook that I put beside the phone for him yesterday. I go into the bathroom right away, wash my face, clean my teeth and come out expecting to give Daddy a surprise but the house is in darkness, as if he’s already gone. I go quickly into their bedroom, God Almighty, he’s asleep again, the bedside lamp’s switched off. I rouse him, shaking him roughly. “Daddy, are you crazy, have you forgotten? You’ve got a tow job to do.” He sits up in bed, confused, bleary with sleep, he suddenly looks old. “What’s the matter? What is it?” He thought he dreamed it. “Lucky that you’re awake.” Mommy stars under the blanket. He starts taking off his pyjamas in a hurry, stripping almost naked in front of me, completely befuddled. I run to the kitchen, put water in the kettle to make some coffee. Daddy goes into the bathroom, comes out dressed.

  “Come on, Daddy, the coffee’s ready.” He smiles. “Dafi, you’ll make a wonderful wife.” I phone the old lady’s house to wake Na’im, curious to see how he’ll react to the sound of my voice, but it’s the old lady who answers.

  “Good evening, could you wake Na’im, please? Daddy is on his way to collect him.”

  “But who are you?”

  “I’m his daughter, my name’s Dafi.”

  “Dafi? What sort of a name is that?”

  “Short for Dafna. Sorry, it’s so late. We’re on our way.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Daddy and I … please hurry … wake him up and tell him to wait outside.”

  “All right, all right, no need to get excited, young lady.”

  Daddy still doesn’t realize that I intend to go with him, he looks at the details written on a page torn from the notebook, his eyes half closed, you can tell it’s years since he’s seen what the world looks like at midnight. Drinking his coffee, smiling at me affectionately. Doesn’t realize that I’m sitting beside him in an overcoat, drinking coffee, ready to leave. He puts the dirty cup in the sink, bends down and kisses me hurriedly. “There now, I’m off. Thanks for the coffee.”

  I stand up at once.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “What?”

  “What difference does it make to you? I can’t sleep. I’m coming with you. I want to see how the towing i
s done.”

  He’s baffled.

  “You’ve got school tomorrow. What is there to see? You want to see the towing? What are you, a baby?”

  “Why should you care? Better that than wandering around the house. I won’t get in the way, I promise. I’ll be company for you too.”

  He hesitates. I know how things are, they lost control of me years ago.

  “At least let’s tell Mommy …”

  “She won’t wake up, she won’t know.” He shrugs his shoulders, defeated.

  “I warn you, we’ll be back very late.”

  “What’s so terrible about that?”

  We go down to the tow truck. It’s very cold outside, rain. He starts the engine, warming it up.

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “No.” We drive down first to the lower city, going into a little side street in the heart of the deserted market. We see a shadowy figure in a funny long overcoat. Na’im the night owl. He hurries towards us, opens the door and climbs aboard, nearly falling out again when he sees me. Even in the dark I can see his face light up, his eyes opening wide.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” he whispers.

  And he sits down beside me. Silence. Daddy drives fast down the empty streets. The traffic lights are stuck, flickering on amber. Na’im curls up beside me, watching me furtively. Suddenly he whispers:

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. How’s Grandma?”

  “She’s all right.”

  And we drive on in silence, joining the Tel Aviv highway, Daddy turning his head now and then to look at the cars passing by. We pass the Atlit intersection. Daddy starts to slow down, a few kilometres farther on we see red lights beside the steel fence between the lanes and I see a car lying on its side. My heart thumps. We pull up on the roadside and climb out to look. I can’t believe my eyes – a blue car. It’s as if I’ve created this accident. The bumper and the front of the car are crushed. On the opposite side of the road two cars are parked, lights dimmed. A little crowd has gathered.

  The people are surprised to see Na’im and me.

  “What’s this, have you brought your children along?” somebody shouts but Daddy doesn’t answer.

  The driver, a young man, some kind of student, starts to explain what happened, making excuses, he’s not entirely to blame, of course. Beside him a middle-aged woman in trousers paces around nervously, her eyes red. She’s involved in this too. “What matters is that nobody’s been hurt,” says the young man. “What matters is that we’re not hurt,” he repeats in a loud voice to the little crowd of onlookers, as if he wants us to confirm what he says and share in his happiness.

  Daddy still says nothing, very grim, as usual, in fact he hardly looks at the car but watches the road, watches the cars passing by, looking for something else.

  At last he sets to work. Getting back into the truck, driving forwards a few hundred metres till he finds a gap in the fence and crossing to the other side. Na’im strips off his coat, takes out triangles and a flashing lamp and sets them out on the road. Daddy starts giving instructions, Na’im gets out the tools and slowly they start unwinding the cable. The driver watches anxiously, the little crowd looks on with interest, I don’t know why we don’t sell tickets for the show. From time to time somebody shouts out a piece of advice.

  I go and stand beside the woman.

  “Whose is the car?”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours? And is that your son?”

  She looks at me angrily.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just … I thought … where have you come from?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “From Tel Aviv.”

  She snaps out her answers, my questions irritate her.

  “Have you been to see a play?”

  “No.”

  “Then where have you been?”

  “We are returning from a protest meeting.”

  “Protest against what?”

  “Against all the lies.”

  “Who’s been lying to you?”

  She stares at me, can’t decide if I’m trying to provoke her or just being thick.

  “What are you doing wandering about at night, at your age? Don’t you go to school?”

  “I’ve skipped a grade,” I say quietly. “I can afford to wander about a bit.”

  She doesn’t know what to say, she leaves me and goes to watch Daddy working on the car. I follow her. Very interesting. Na’im crawling on the road and Daddy playing out the cable, telling him how to make the connection. Now very, very slowly they start raising the car. Splinters of glass and fragments of buckled metal fall on the road. Terrific.

  The young man covers his face.

  “A real smack-up,” I say to the woman.

  She’s furious.

  Now Daddy climbs into the truck and starts the engine, dragging the car away from the fence and towing it to the side of the road. Meanwhile Na’im is picking up the tools, folding up the triangles, taking the flashing light and hanging it on the back of the truck. Working quietly and energetically. Daddy wipes his oily hands, his face is covered in sweat, there’s a tear in his trousers. It’s a long time since I’ve seen him so out of breath. He tells me to take a piece of paper and write down the details. He asks them where they want the car to be towed. The woman asks his advice.

  “I can tow it to my garage.”

  “How much will the repair cost?”

  “I shall have to examine it, I can’t tell you now. In the meantime there’s the towing charge.”

  “How much?”

  Daddy sends me to fetch the list of prices that the towing firm gave him, I crouch over it, lighting the pages with a flashlight. It has to be calculated according to the distances involved and the size of the damaged car. It takes me a while to work it out.

  “A hundred and fifty pounds,” I announce triumphantly.

  Daddy checks it and agrees.

  The man starts to argue, Daddy listens in silence, chewing his beard. But I get impatient.

  “It’s written right here, sir, what do you want us to do?”

  “Shut up, girl,” the woman hisses.

  But Daddy says, “There’s nothing you can do about it, she’s right.”

  A police car pulls up. Two tired cops get out, start sniffing around, the man gets desperate, stops arguing. He just wants a receipt.

  “Why not?” says Daddy and he tells me to write a receipt and take the money.

  I take out a receipt at once, enjoying this work very much. Na’im has finished collecting the tools, he stands watching me with his mouth open. The young man holds out the money. I count it. Ten pounds short. The lady has to make it up. I’d love to know what’s between them. Now the cops are in charge. We leave them to it. The money’s in my coat pocket. Daddy switches on the flashing beacon on the roof of the cab and a red light flickers over the road like something supernatural. Na’im and I sit on the back seat of the truck bed, facing the hanging car, watching it and making sure we don’t lose it on the way. We talk, I say something funny and he’s surprised and laughs, his eyes sparkling.

  Daddy drives calmly, once he stops beside a car parked at the roadside, gets out to take a look at it and then drives on. We arrive at the garage. It’s huge, the cars are like horses in a stable, each one in its stall. Daddy and Na’im unhitch the damaged car, leaving it at the side. We drive on, putting Na’im down outside his house. When we get home it’s already four in the morning.

  Daddy says, “I’m worn out.”

  “I’ve never been more wide awake.”

  “How are things going to work out with you?”

  “It’ll be all right, don’t worry.”

  He goes to take a shower because he’s very dirty, I go and peep at Mommy, who’s still lying there in the same position as when we left her, she’s got no idea how busy we’ve been these last four hours. From there I go to the kitchen to put the
kettle on for tea. Through the window, across the wadi, I see the man who types, slumped in his chair, his head thrown back, he’s not usually still at it this late.

  Daddy has put on his pyjamas, his face is pale, he’s worn out, he comes into the kitchen to put out the light and finds me sitting there, still dressed, quietly drinking tea.

  “Come and drink some tea before you go to sleep,” I suggest. But for some reason he’s angry.

  “This is the last time I take you with me. You have to make such a big party out of everything.”

  “But that’s life – a party…”

  Four in the morning philosophy –

  He turns away and goes to bed. In the end I go to bed too, stripping off by the open window, watching the clouds, a thin stream of light showing through. I’m not cold, the opposite, I’m all boiling hot and low down in my stomach there are dull twinges of pain, it’s nearly time for my period. In the pocket of my coat, crushed, I find the money. I go quickly into Daddy’s bedroom, he’s under the blankets trying to sleep.

  “Daddy, what shall I do with the money?”

  “Put it in my wallet,” he mumbles, “and for God’s sake go to sleep … this is the last time …”

  “All right … all right …”

  I take the wallet out of his trouser pocket. It’s stuffed full of bills. I count them – two thousand one hundred pounds. Why does he drag so much money around with him? I put in the night’s takings, then think again, you shouldn’t exploit workers even if they are members of the family, and I take out thirty pounds for myself, secretarial fees. I go to take another look at the man who types and he’s disappeared. I put out the lights and disappear under the blanket, me too.

  NA’IM

  It isn’t me who answers the phone but her, she’s always awake, wandering around the house, dozing in armchairs. I’ve never seen her properly asleep. “How much longer do I have to live?” she says sometimes. “It’s a shame to sleep.”