The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  And I found a pure, clean beach, silence all around, like another world. No country, no war, nothing. Just the murmur of the waves.

  I lay down under a palm tree, facing the sea, and went to sleep at once, it was as if I’d inhaled ether, I could have lain there for days. But the setting sun broke into my sleep and I woke up, stretched out in the sand. A little sand hill moved above me and sheltered me. Such a pure kind of warmth. I dozed again, enjoying the sea breeze, turning over in a bed of sand, and still lying there I stripped off my clothes, the black coat, the tassels, my trousers, underwear, shoes and socks. I lay naked in the sand for a while, then rose and went to bathe in the sea.

  How wonderful it was, solitude all around. To be alone again after long days among crowds of people, quite alone. The gentle silence. Even the whine of the aircraft was swallowed up by the murmur of the waves. It seemed the local Arabs were afraid to leave their homes because of the war. I put on my underwear and strolled about the beach as if it were my own private shore. Time came back to me. Sunset approaching. The sun, a Cyclops’ eye on the horizon, watching me calmly.

  I went back to the Morris, which was standing faithful and quiet, its face to the sea, and I had a sudden shock. Inside the car was all the officer’s luggage. He’d been using my car as a storage cupboard. Some folded blankets on the back seat, a small bivouac tent, even his mysterious map case was there. I opened it nervously and found that it really did contain maps, a stack of detailed maps of the Middle East, Libya, Sudan, Tunisia. In a little box were the new insignia of a lieutenant colonel. He was expecting promotion. There was also a white linen bag containing two old, cracked, hard-boiled eggs, their shells turning pink. Without thinking twice I peeled them and ate them hungrily, while reading an interesting document that I’d found. It was a sort of will that he’d written, addressed to his wife and two sons, written in elevated tones and a poetic style, something about himself and the people of Israel. It was a strange mixture – destiny, mission, history, fate, endurance. A bloated anthology of righteousness and self-pity. A chill passed through me as I thought of the rage he’d fall into when he discovered that the car had gone. He wouldn’t rest till he’d found me. Perhaps he was already in pursuit, perhaps not far behind. He hadn’t seemed really involved in this war.

  I took all his maps and papers, tore them into little pieces and buried them in the sand, threw the empty bag into the sea and cleared the car of all the rest of his property. In the trunk I found a large can of paint and a brush that had been left there after the lights had been blacked out, back in the base camp.

  I had a sudden inspiration –

  I’d paint the car black, change its colour. I set to work immediately, stirring the paint to thicken it a little, and in the dim afterglow of sunset, with brisk brush strokes, I painted the car jet black. Standing in my underwear as the light faded, turning my car into a hearse. And I was adding the last touches of paint, humming an old French song to myself, when I sensed that I was being watched. I turned around and saw on the little sand hill behind me a number of shadowy figures. A little group of Bedouin in flowing robes, sitting there, watching me at work. I hadn’t heard them approach. How long had they been there? The paint brush fell into the sand. Now I wished I hadn’t discarded the bazooka. I had only my bayonet.

  I could see they were fascinated by me. For them I was a real event. Perhaps they were considering my fate. I’d fallen into their hands, such an easy prey.

  But they apparently sensed my fear, and with a slow movement they raised their hands high to greet me, a sort of half salute.

  I smiled at them, bowing slightly from a distance, then turned to the heap of my clothes and dressed in a hurry. The shirt, the tassels, the trousers, the black jacket, the hat. Suddenly it occurred to me that in these clothes I was sure to be safe from them. And they, following my movements, were astonished indeed. I saw them stand up to watch me more closely. Hurriedly I gathered the rest of the things together and buried them in the sand, in the dark, knowing that anything I hid would be unearthed the moment I left. I leaped into the car and tried to start the engine. But it seems that in my agitation I missed the point of contact and the engine just groaned.

  After a few moments of futile attempts I saw them approaching, standing in a circle around the car, a few paces distant. They watched me fumbling under the dashboard. They were certain of one thing at least, that I’d stolen the car. I kept smiling at their dark faces, groping again feverishly for those goddamn wires. At last I succeeded, bringing the engine to life and breaking the silence, switching on the lights, sending out twin beams of light onto the dark sea, starting to move, turning, sinking in the sand, the wheels digging deep.

  Meanwhile the crowd of onlookers had grown, like a flock of birds settling at night. Children, youths, old men springing up from the folds of the sand. I bent down to examine the tyres stuck in the sand, returned to the car and tried again. The engine cut out. I started the engine again and sank farther.

  Then I turned to the silent shadows and wordlessly appealed for help. They’d been waiting for this sign. Instantly they leaped at the car, dozens of hands sticking in the wet paint. I felt the car moving, hovering in the air, carried up to the road. The wheels touched firm ground. I drove forwards a short distance and stopped. Climbed out and looked back at the group of shadowy figures standing silent on the road, took off my hat and waved it in an elegant gesture of thanks. I heard a mumbled response, something in Arabic, presumably a farewell.

  I went back to the car and set off.

  To Jerusalem.

  Yes, to Jerusalem. Why Jerusalem? But did I have an alternative? Where else could I go? Where could I hide till the storm blew over? The ginger-haired girl had all my personal details recorded in her files. The one-handed major would be searching for the car. Could I have gone back to grandmother’s house, a fugitive from the war, a deserter, a wanted man?

  Or perhaps you think I could have returned to you. To live with you, to be more than a lover, to be one of the family. Was that possible?

  But why not carry on with the destiny chosen for me. The first step had been taken, I’d escaped from the desert, crossed the border into Israel. I was wearing black clothes, tassels and a hat. I’d grown accustomed to the smell of the sweat of the holy man. My beard was flourishing, I didn’t object to the idea of growing a side curl or two. The Morris had turned black, was well disguised. Why not carry on with the adventure?

  Also the money that you’d given me, Adam, was running out. I had somehow to get through a difficult period, until the war was won or died down. Why shouldn’t the religious Jews take me in? They seemed quite good at that sort of thing, at least to judge by their emissaries in the desert. It seemed that somebody looked after them.

  Such were my thoughts on the night journey, in the pale light of the waning moon. Passing through the settlements of the south, reaching the coastal plain, driving slowly to conserve fuel. I didn’t even know the date, much less what was going on in the world.

  And so, cautiously, in a dark land, at three o’clock in the morning, I began climbing the road to Jerusalem. From time to time I left the main highway and took to the side roads, to throw any pursuers off the scent. Looking out at the dark, rocky landscape, hearing the crickets. Since returning home I hadn’t visited Jerusalem, I’d been so busy with my grandmother, with the legacy, with the lawyers, and with your love. So that when with the first light of dawn I entered the city, dirty and deserted though it was, with sandbags piled up around the houses and shabby civil defence personnel patrolling the streets, I was startled, overwhelmed, by the stark beauty. And in the approaches to the city, like an omen, my last drop of fuel was used up. I left the car in a side street and set out to look for them.

  They weren’t hard to find. Their quarter was in the suburbs. They were already out in the streets for their early morning shopping, baskets in their hands. Men and women. A light rain falling and a smell of autumn. Another world. Shops o
pen, business as usual, a smell of fresh-baked bread. Here and there a huddled group, talking excitedly about something. Strange signs on the walls, some of them torn.

  I followed them, followed the black drops that became, as I watched, a black stream of pious Jews, hurrying inside, into the heart of the religious quarter. When I saw the big Sabbath hats of tawny fox fur I knew I’d reached the end of my journey, nobody would find me here. There was a group of them standing on a street corner. I went to meet them, to make contact.

  They knew immediately that I wasn’t one of them. Perhaps it was the shape of my beard, the style of my hair, perhaps some more intimate sign. There was no deceiving them. At first they were shocked at the idea of somebody appearing among them in time of war, disguised in their clothing and their likeness. Quietly I asked, “Is it possible to be with you for a while?” I didn’t tell them that I’d come from the desert, I said that I’d just arrived from Paris. They looked at the dust and sand on my clothes and at my boots and said nothing. In silence they listened to my confused words. Clearly they thought me a madman or a dreamer. But to their credit they didn’t turn me away, they took me lightly by the arm and led me slowly and tenderly, while I was still talking and explaining myself, through alleyways and courtyards to a big stone house, a yeshiva or a school, teeming like an ant’s nest. They took me into a room and said:

  “Now, start from the beginning.”

  I began by bending the facts, changing dates, jumping from topic to topic, telling them about my grandmother lying in a coma and about the car that I was willing to hand over to them. My head was spinning from weariness but slowly a story began to take shape, a story from which I was never again to deviate. But, just as in that night interrogation by the officer, I made no reference to you. Again I saw how easily I could wipe you from my past.

  They brought in a blond, heavily bearded Jew, with the clear features of a goy hidden beneath beard and side curls. He spoke to me in French, questioned me with a perfect Parisian accent about the French details of my story. He asked me about streets in Paris, about cafés, varieties of cheese and wine, names of newspapers. I gave detailed replies in fluent French. I felt inspired.

  When they saw that I really did know Paris, they asked me to undress. For a moment they were in doubt as to whether I was Jewish at all. I could see that they were quite baffled, not knowing why I’d come to them or what I really wanted. They repeated their earlier questions from a different angle, but I kept to my story.

  Finally they held a brief, whispered conversation among themselves. They were afraid to come to a decision of their own. They sent a messenger to make some inquiry and he returned, nodding his head. They led me to their rabbi. In a little room I stood before a very old man, wreathed in cigarette smoke, reading a newspaper. They told him the story that I’d told and he listened, all the while his eyes fixed on me, studying me with a kindly, good-natured expression. When he heard about the car that I wanted to make over to them, he turned to face me directly and, in Hebrew, began asking me detailed questions about it. The date of manufacture, the capacity of the engine, the number of seats, its colour, finally he asked where it was parked. He was delighted at the idea that I was bringing the car with me as a kind of dowry. Suddenly he began scolding his men. “He must be given a bed … can’t you see he’s tired? He’s come a long way … from Paris” – he winked at me – “first of all find him a place to sleep … you are hard-hearted Jews.”

  And he gave me a playful smile.

  At last they were satisfied. They led me through the courtyard, before the curious gaze of hundreds of inquisitive students who felt instinctively that I was putting on an act. They took me to a room that served as the yeshiva guest room. A humble room, with old furniture, but pleasant enough and clean. I was already growing accustomed to the light, religious smell of the objects around me. A blend of old books, fried onions and sewers.

  They made up one of the beds and went their way, true to the rabbi’s instructions. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. A faint grey light in the world outside. Through the embroidered lace curtain, a curtain fit for a king, there appeared at my fingertips the Old City, which I’d never seen before.

  A startling, breath-taking view of the lovely old wall, the towers of churches and mosques, little stone courtyards, olive groves on the mountain slopes. For a long time I stood beside the window. Then I took off my boots and lay down fully clothed on the bed. There was something in the air of Jerusalem that kept me awake, though I was exhausted and almost feverish.

  At first I had difficulty sleeping, I was dirty as well, my hands stained with black paint, my hair and beard full of sand. An eternity had passed since I last slept in a bed. I began to doze. The murmuring voices of the yeshiva students, their intermittent shouts blended with the sighing of the waves, the roar of tank engines, the crackle of radios.

  Soon after, while I was still dozing, my roommate came in. A little old man, elegantly dressed, with a red silk skullcap on his head. He stood at my bedside and looked down at me. When he saw I was only dozing, he began chattering at me gaily in Yiddish, trying hard to communicate with me. He couldn’t believe that I didn’t understand Yiddish. He began telling me about himself, things that I couldn’t understand precisely. I only grasped that he’d come here for a matchmaking, that he was going to take some girl abroad with him, and meanwhile he was undergoing a series of tests – physical or spiritual, I wondered.

  He went prattling on, pacing about the room, playful, making jokes, as if there were no war, no other reality. For some reason he was convinced that I too had come here to find a match and he tried to give me some cunning advice. As if through a mist I remember my conversation with him, sometimes I think perhaps he was just a part of my dream, because after he’d undressed, paced about the room in his shining white underwear, sprinkled some perfume on himself and put on a dark suit, he disappeared and I didn’t see him again.

  Slowly I sank into a bitter, fitful sleep.

  When I woke up there was darkness all around. It was nine o’clock in the evening. Through the magnificent curtain, stirring lightly in the evening breeze, the Old City was dark. Utter silence. I was still exhausted, shivering with cold, as if I hadn’t had a moment’s sleep. Suddenly I felt a strange longing for the desert, for the faces of the men of my platoon, now fighting on the other side of the canal. I opened the window. The air of Jerusalem, pure, intoxicating, unfamiliar. Now I know that I really was feverish, running a high temperature, falling sick. But at the time I thought the pain was the result of hunger, my excruciating, maddening hunger. I put on my shoes, too weak to lace them up, and went in search of food. The yeshiva was silent and in total darkness. I wandered from floor to floor, corridor to corridor. Finally I opened a door and found myself in a tiny room, full of cigarette smoke, the blinds closed. Two students in thin shirts, sleeves rolled up, were bent over enormous volumes of the Talmud, disputing in whispers.

  They seemed annoyed at the interruption. They told me the way to the dining room and immediately returned to their studies. The dining hall was empty, the benches were stacked on the tables. A young woman in a grey dress, a kerchief around her head, was washing the floor.

  She almost cried out when she saw me, as if she were seeing a ghost.

  “I’m new here …” I mumbled. “Is there anything left to eat?”

  Dishevelled from sleep, my army boots unlaced, clad in a mixture of secular and religious clothing, my head uncovered, I made a startling impression on her, but she recovered her composure and set a place for me at one of the tables. She brought a big spoon, a dish and slices of bread, discreetly and without a word laid a black skullcap beside them, and then she brought in a dish of thick, oily soup, full of vegetables, dumplings and pieces of meat, a hot, spicy mixture. My first proper meal for two whole weeks. The pungent spices brought tears to my eyes. The soup was delicious. At the other end of the room she carried on with her work, stealing furtive glances at me. She c
ame and took the empty dish and refilled it, smiling pleasantly to herself at my effusive thanks. A good-looking woman, so far as it was possible to tell. Only her hands and face were uncovered.

  At last I stood up unsteadily, left the table without saying grace and groped my way back to my bed. Entering the room I was surprised to find that the Old City, which had been in darkness when I went out, was now all lit up. And in the yeshiva as well, shutters were opening one after another and lights were appearing.

  Excited voices talking about a cease-fire, students appearing from every side, shirts unbuttoned, milling about noisily in the courtyard, as if a battle has just ended. It seems I was hasty in my flight. The war is over.

  A sort of inner peace descends on me. I take off my clothes, strip back the bed, gather together all the blankets from the other bed and wrap myself up tightly. I’m ill, a mighty pain hammering in my head.

  For two weeks I lay in bed with a strange disease. High temperature, aching head and inflammation of the intestines. Cowpox was the diagnosis of the doctor who treated me. Apparently I’d caught it from some cow shit on the beach. They tended me with great devotion, even though I was a stranger and a puzzle to them. One day they were thinking of transferring me to a hospital, but I asked to be allowed to stay with them. They granted my request, even though I caused them a lot of trouble and considerable expenditure on medical fees. At night, youths studying Torah and reading the psalms kept watch at my bedside.