The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  We waited.

  Most of those waiting were Israelis who had returned. When they heard that I’d been abroad for ten years it was as if their eyes sparkled. They thought I’d returned especially for the war. I didn’t mind them thinking that, if it was good for their morale to see that even after so much time the Israeli still belongs.

  From time to time the ginger-haired girl would come out, call out the name of one of those waiting and lead him into the hut, and after a while he would emerge with a conscription order. At first they were dealing with us as if we were a nuisance, as if they were doing us a favour in drafting us, in taking the trouble to find units for us. As if there was nothing to be gained by all this conscription, as if the war was already over. But as the light faded around us their attitude began to change. The rhythm of recruitment intensified. Suddenly we became important. They needed everyone. The ranks were thinning out. From the transistor there rose a smell of death. Between the lines, among the slogans and the vague reports, it seemed something had gone wrong.

  Gradually the crowd around me dwindled. Men who had arrived after me were being called into the office and dispatched to their units and there was no sign of my case becoming any clearer. I was already famished. Aside from that piece of bread that you’d given me in the morning I’d eaten nothing all day. Suddenly I got tired of waiting. I walked into the office and said to the ginger-haired girl, “Well, what about me?”

  She said, “You must wait, we have no information about you.”

  “Then perhaps I can come back tomorrow?”

  “No, you must stay here.”

  “Where’s my passport?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “At least let me go and find something to eat.”

  “No, you must stay here … don’t start making trouble now.”

  And with the first twilight a new party of officers arrived at the camp. I never knew we had officers so old. Some white-haired, some bald, fifty, sixty years old and more, wearing uniforms from different periods, medals on every chest. Some of them lame, leaning on canes. Captains, majors and lieutenant colonels, survivors from another age. Coming to the nation’s rescue, to shore up the tottering, baffled command.

  They dispersed among the huts. Now everything was dark. Blankets had been hung over the windows to black out the lights. And on the edge of the camp I suddenly found myself alone, even the sounds of the transistors had died away. A smell of orchards all around. I wanted to call you but the public phone that had been working all day was now dead. Darkness and silence all around. Even the whine of aircraft and helicopters had grown faint. Only a distant siren, perhaps in Jerusalem, passed over like a hushed wail.

  At last the little ginger-haired girl came out, it was already nine o’clock, perhaps later. She called me and led me to a room inside the hut. Waiting for me there was a giant major, about fifty years old, completely bald, a red paratrooper’s beret tucked into his epaulette, his uniform newly pressed, he seemed fresh, he even smelled of aftershave lotion.

  He stood leaning on a chair, one hand in his pocket and my passport in the other hand, the clerk sat down at the table, already pale with exhaustion. For some reason she seemed confused by the appearance of the major in the office.

  “You arrived in Israel four months ago?”

  “Yes.”

  There was something urgent, intense in his voice. He clipped his words sharply.

  “You should have presented yourself within two weeks. Did you know?”

  “Yes …”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t expect to be staying … as it happens, I was delayed …”

  “As it happens?”

  He took a short step towards me and then back. Then I observed a small transistor protruding from his shirt pocket, a thin white flex connecting it to his ear. He was dealing with me and listening to the news at the same time.

  “How long have you been abroad?”

  “About ten years.”

  “And you never came back here?”

  “No …”

  “Didn’t you care what was happening in this country?”

  I smiled. How could I reply to such a question?

  “I read newspapers …”

  “Newspapers …” he echoed me scornfully and I saw that he was full of anger, a vague, menacing anger.

  “What are you? A deserter?”

  “No …” I began to mumble, thrown off balance by these savage questions.

  “I just wasn’t able to come back …” I paused for a moment and then added, I don’t know why, in a low voice, “I was ill, too.”

  “What was wrong with you?” He spat it out harshly, with venom.

  “The name of the disease would mean nothing to you.”

  He hesitated, looked me over carefully, glanced angrily at the clerk, who was sitting there baffled, not knowing what to write, a blank sheet of paper in front of her. He listened to the transistor plugged into his ear, some important news. His face grew dark.

  “Are you all right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you present yourself in time?”

  “I told you. I didn’t expect to be staying.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “Yes …”

  “Something suddenly caught your fancy?”

  There was something obscure about these questions. A hidden, relentless provocation.

  “No … I mean … nothing like that … I was just waiting for my grandmother to die.”

  “What?”

  He took a step towards me, as if he didn’t believe his ears. It was then that I noticed an ugly red scar on his neck. And the hand that was hidden in his pocket was motionless, lifeless, or maybe artificial.

  “My grandmother became paralyzed … she lost consciousness, that is why I came home.”

  Then began a personal, intimate interrogation, as if he wanted to prepare a list of charges against me without knowing of what crime I stood accused, probing, trying from every angle. We stood facing each other, he like a wildcat poised to spring at me, relenting only at the last moment. The ginger-haired girl listened as if hypnotized, scribbling in pencil on an army form the mass of personal, intimate details, details of no relevance at all to the army.

  But he, incredibly alert in that stifling, airless room, with old army blankets hung over the windows, shutting off the world outside, carried on the interrogation while listening to the stream of news bulletins that we did not hear, dragging out of me information that only increased his fury, mingling with the news of serious developments. For example, that I was a fourth-generation Israeli. I told him about the years in Paris, about the years before that, about my broken home, my father who disappeared, about the studies that I attempted. A year here, a course there, nothing regular, no degree completed. Then my loneliness, my confused life, were examined in depth. I even said something about the car, unintentionally. But I said nothing about you, I didn’t mention you once. As if you didn’t exist, weren’t important. I had no intention of handing you over as well.

  And he listened to it all with supreme, tense attention, dragging the facts out of me with such relish, almost madly, but a different kind of madness, his was, quite different from mine.

  At last the interrogation came to an end. I felt strangely relaxed. He gathered up the papers that the ginger-haired girl had completed in round, childish handwriting. He read through them again from the beginning.

  “I shall have to make a decision about you, it’s a pity it’s so late. We’ll straighten it out after the war, when we’ve won. Now we must get you into uniform as soon as possible. It’s because of men like you that our army is so understaffed.”

  I thought he was joking, but the clerk was hurriedly filling in the documents, a recruitment order and vouchers for the stores and the armoury.

  “Who to inform if anything happens?” she asked.

  I hesitated, then gave the address of my la
ndlady in Paris.

  Now at last I shall get away from him, I thought, but he showed no sign of leaving me alone. He picked up my documents and led me to the stores. It was nearly eleven o’clock, the camp was quiet. We found the stores locked and in darkness. I thought at least we’d postpone this business till tomorrow, but he had no intention of giving up. He set off to look for the quartermaster, going from place to place, I following him. I noticed that with other people too he behaved in a high-handed manner, with a tone of authority. At last he found the quartermaster in the clubhouse, sitting in the dark watching television. He ordered him out of there. A short, swarthy soldier, apparently rather stupid. First of all he made a note of his name and number, to bring him up on charges. The quartermaster was stunned, he tried to say something in his defence but the officer silenced him harshly.

  We returned to the stores. The quartermaster, resentful and nervous because of the charge he was threatened with, began tossing out the items of equipment.

  “I’ll show you what’s urgent,” hissed the major, still not mollified, making sure I was left short of nothing. Belt, straps, ammunition pouch, three knapsacks, a bivouac tent with posts and pegs, five blankets. I stood there dumbfounded, watching the pile of equipment grow on the dirty floor, things in which I had not the slightest interest. He stood to one side, grave, stiff as a post, the weak lamplight shining on his bald scalp.

  Suddenly I felt desperate.

  “I don’t need five blankets … two are enough for me. It’s summer now … autumn. It isn’t cold …”

  “And what will you do in winter?”

  “In winter?” I laughed. “What has winter to do with it? In the winter I shall be far from here.”

  “That’s what you think,” he whispered scornfully, without even looking at me, contemptuous, as if the whole time he was collecting evidence against me.

  Meanwhile the quartermaster, silent and scowling, was laying out eating utensils, greasy mess tins, a bayonet.

  “A bayonet? What’s this bayonet for?” I was laughing almost hysterically. “This is a war of missiles and you’re giving me a bayonet.”

  He didn’t answer. He stooped and picked up the bayonet, and gripping it between his thighs he drew it from the scabbard, ran his finger lightly over the blade, took off some black oil, sniffed it with an expression of disgust, then wiped the blade on one of the blankets and without a word put the bayonet back in its scabbard and tossed it onto the pile of equipment.

  I signed a long list, running into two or three columns. I had forgotten my army number and I had to look again at the draft form to be reminded of it. But he already knew it by heart and corrected me disdainfully.

  Finally I wrapped everything up in one giant bundle. The quartermaster helped me to fold the ends of the blankets while the officer stood over us giving advice. Then the quartermaster loaded the bundle onto my back and we went out into the darkness. It was nearly midnight. I staggered along under the crushing load while he strode in front, bald, thin and erect, the dead hand in his pocket, a small map case slung on his shoulder, the little transistor beaming its broadcasts direct to his ear, dragging behind him his very own soldier, his personal man.

  He led me to the armoury. I was already on the verge of collapse, hunger turning to nausea, to the need to vomit up something I hadn’t eaten. A sour, bitter taste in my mouth. The load grew heavier on my back. Suddenly I realized how close I was to tears, real tears. At the door of the armoury I collapsed, my equipment scattering.

  The armoury was open, lit up. Men were standing in line, most of them officers drawing revolvers and submachine guns. He by-passed the long line and went straight in, glancing at the rows of rifles and machine guns as if they were his personal property.

  Finally he called me to sign for a bazooka and two containers of bombs.

  “I’ve never touched a weapon like this,” I whispered, afraid of annoying him.

  “I know,” he replied with sudden warmth, smiling to himself, amused at the ingenious idea of saddling me with a bazooka.

  Now I was so laden with equipment I couldn’t move. But he had no intention of taking me anywhere.

  “Hurry up and sort out your belt and knapsacks. I’m going to find transport to take us down to the front.”

  And suddenly, with despair, I understood, in the dark it came to me in a flash what he intended, this ageing officer who still reeked of aftershave lotion.

  “You’ve decided to kill me,” I whispered.

  He smiled.

  “You haven’t heard a single shot and you’re already thinking about death.”

  But stubbornly, angrily, I repeated what I’d said:

  “You want to kill me.”

  But he was no longer smiling. Dryly he said, “Sort out your equipment.”

  But I didn’t move. Something was broken inside me. A spirit of rebellion seized me.

  “For half a day I’ve eaten nothing. If I don’t get some food I shall collapse. I’m already seeing you double.”

  He said nothing, not batting an eyelid. Still that arrogant, empty look in his eyes. Then he put his hand into the map case, took out two hard-boiled eggs and gave them to me.

  At one o’clock in the morning I was already in uniform, shod in heavy boots and lying half asleep under the open sky, in the growing chill of the night, my head heavy on the big knapsack that was stuffed with blankets and my old clothes, my feet propped up on the bazooka and the bombs. White egg shells scattered around me. The belt harness, which was spattered with bloodstains, I’d never have managed to put it all on by myself, without the help of the ginger-haired girl who had taken pity on me. She too was being harassed and hounded by the officer, who gave her endless instructions, sending her running from one end of the camp to the other. Now I saw his silhouette flitting about like something from a dream. He was searching in vain for transport to take us south, to the desert.

  At two o’clock, when he’d given up hope of getting there, he remembered my car and decided to commandeer it.

  I leaped to my feet, suddenly alert.

  “But the car isn’t mine.”

  “So why should you care?”

  And he sent the clerk away to fetch new forms. I watched as he took the documents and without a moment’s hesitation signed each one, easily and with complete self-assurance. He gave me a receipt and took the keys.

  “After the war, if you return, you can reclaim what’s left of it.”

  And he went to the parking lot to fetch it. Old though it was, he took an immediate liking to it. He treated it as if it was his own, lifting the hood, checking the oil and water, kicking the tyres. He was as awake as the devil. He sent the clerk, who was already collapsing from exhaustion, to find paint and a brush to dim the headlights, and she, efficient as always, brought a large tin of black paint. He began enthusiastically smearing the lights, front and back, then adjusted the driver’s seat, moving it back from the wheel to make room for his long legs. Then he watched as I loaded my equipment into the back. We set off.

  He was driving with one hand, but with absolute control. I’d never seen such an enthusiastic driver. It was as if he owned the car, the road and all the transports he was overtaking right and left, manoeuvering adroitly in the dark, in the weak light that filtered from the headlights, accelerating among the long convoys of tank transports and ammunition trucks. The Morris dared much in his hands. And I sat beside him, exhausted, as if I’d already been at war for days, looking at the melonlike head, my own personal major, all the time absorbing his own personal news bulletins, his face contorting from time to time.

  “But what’s happening there?”

  “They’re fighting,” he replied laconically.

  “But how’s it going?”

  “It’s hard, very hard.”

  “But what’s happening exactly?”

  “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” He was trying to shake me off.

  “Have they fixed us?”

&nb
sp; “Now you’re starting to squeal as well. Go to sleep.” And he broke off contact.

  I was suddenly alone, on the road to war, resting my head on the windowpane, looking out at the dry, sun-scorched fields, the sweat already dry on my face, breathing in the cool autumn air, gradually falling asleep, dreaming dreams to the hum of the engine, dreams that led me to Paris, home, walking late at night in the bustling streets beside the Seine, little alleyways, brightly lit cafés, chestnut stalls. Going down to the Odéon station. The authentic smell of the Métro, a sweet tang of electricity mingling with the stench of the crowds that have passed through these tunnels during the day. I walk about on the empty platform in the bright neon light, hearing the roar of trains from distant stations, drawing nearer, dying away. The train arrives. Immediately I leap into a red first-class compartment, as if somebody has pushed me there. And at once, among the few passengers, I recognize my grandmother, sitting in the corner, on her knees a basket of crisp, fresh-baked croissants. She eats them delicately, picking up the crumbs that fall on her printed dress, her old best dress. I’m filled with joy, the joy of meeting. So she’s regained consciousness at last. I go and sit beside her. I know she won’t recognize me immediately, and quietly, speaking softly so as not to alarm her, I say with a smile, “Hello, Grandma.” She stops eating, turns to face me, smiling absently. And I realize, suddenly I know it instinctively, she’s already divided the inheritance, she’s run away, travelling incognito in Paris. “Hello, Grandma,” I repeat and she sits there, looking confused, mumbling, “Pardon?” as if she doesn’t understand Hebrew. I decide to speak in French, but suddenly I’ve forgotten the language, even the simplest words. I feel a longing to take one of the golden croissants. I say again, almost in despair, “Hello, Grandma, don’t you remember me? I’m Gabriel.” She stops eating, a little alarmed, it’s obvious she doesn’t understand a single word. The language is quite strange to her. The train slows, approaching a station, I look at the signs. The Odéon again. The station that we started from.