by Amos Oz
“You may sit down,” said Matityahu from the shadows. The shabby stillness that filled the room deepened his voice and made it sound remote.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“There’ll be coffee as well. The real thing. From Brazil. My cousin Leon sends me coffee too, he seems to think a kibbutz is a kind of kolkhoz. A kolkhoz labor camp. A collective farm in Russia, that’s what a kolkhoz is.”
“Black without sugar for me, please,” said Galila, and these words surprised even her.
What is this ugly man doing to me? What does he want of me?
“You said you were going to show me some canvases, and some paints, didn’t you?”
“All in good time.”
“I didn’t expect you to go to the trouble of getting coffee and cakes, I thought I’d only be here for a moment.”
“You are fair,” the man said, breathing heavily, “you are fair-haired, but I’m not mistaken. There is doubt. There has to be. But it is so. What I mean is, you’ll drink your coffee, nice and slow, and I’ll give you a cigarette too, an American one, from Virginia. In the meantime, have a look at this box. The brushes. The special oil too. And the canvases. And all the tubes. It’s all for you. First of all drink. Take your time.”
“But I still don’t understand,” said Galila.
A man pacing about his room in an undershirt on a summer night is not a strange sight. But the monkeylike body of Matityahu Damkov set something stirring inside her. Panic seized her. She put down the coffee cup on the brass tray, jumped up from the chair and stood behind it, clutching the chair as if it were a barricade.
The transparent, frightened gesture delighted her host. He spoke patiently, almost mockingly:
“Just like your mother. I have something to tell you when the moment’s right, something that I’m positive you don’t know, about your mother’s wickedness.”
Now, at the scent of danger, Galila was filled with cold malice:
“You’re mad, Matityahu Damkov. Everybody says that you’re mad.”
There was tender austerity in her face, an expression both secretive and passionate.
“You’re mad, and get out of my way and let me pass. I want to get out of here. Yes. Now. Out of my way.”
The man retreated a little, still staring at her intently. Suddenly he sprang onto his bed and sat there, his back to the wall, and laughed a long, happy laugh.
“Steady, daughter, why all the haste? Steady. We’ve only just begun. Patience. Don’t get so excited. Don’t waste your energy.”
Galila hastily weighed up the two possibilities, the safe and the fascinating, and said:
“Please tell me what you want of me.”
“Actually,” said Matityahu Damkov, “actually, the kettle’s boiling again. Let’s take a short break and have some more coffee. You won’t deny, I’m sure, that you’ve never drunk coffee like this.”
“Without milk or sugar for me. I told you before.”
6
THE SMELL of coffee drove away all other smells: a strong, sharp, pleasant smell, almost piercing. Galila watched Matityahu Damkov closely, observing his manners, the docile muscles beneath his string shirt, his sterile ugliness. When he spoke again, she clutched the cup tightly between her fingers and a momentary peace descended on her.
“If you like, I can tell you something in the meantime. About horses. About the farm that we used to have in Bulgaria, maybe fifty-seven kilometers from the port of Varna, a stud farm. It belonged to me and my cousin Leon. There were two branches that we specialized in: work horses and stud horses, in other words, castration and covering. Which would you like to hear about first?”
Galila relaxed, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs, ready to hear a story. In her childhood she had always loved the moments before the start of a bedtime story.
“I remember,” she said, “how when we were children we used to come and watch you shoeing the horses. It was beautiful and strange and so . . . were you.”
“Preparing for successful mating,” said Matityahu, passing her a plate of crackers, “is a job for professionals. It takes expertise and intuition as well. First, the stallion must be kept in confinement for a long time. To drive him mad. It improves his seed. He’s kept apart from the mares for several months, from the stallions too. In his frustration he may even attack another male. Not every stallion is suitable for stud, perhaps one in a hundred. One stud horse to a hundred work horses. You need a lot of experience and keen observation to pick out the right horse. A stupid, unruly horse is the best. But it isn’t all that easy to find the most stupid horse.”
“Why must he be stupid?” asked Galila, swallowing spittle.
“It’s a question of madness. It isn’t always the biggest, most handsome stallion that produces the best foals. In fact a mediocre horse can be full of energy and have the right kind of nervous temperament. After the candidate had been kept in confinement for a few months, we used to put wine in his trough, half a bottle. That was my cousin Leon’s idea. To get the horse a bit drunk. Then we’d fix it so he could take a look at the mares through the bars and get a whiff of their smell. Then he starts going mad. Butting like a bull. Rolling on his back and kicking his legs in the air. Scratching himself, rubbing himself, trying desperately to ejaculate. He screams and starts biting in all directions. When the stallion starts to bite, then we know that the time has come. We open the gate. The mare is waiting for him. And just for a moment, the stallion hesitates. Trembling and panting. Like a coiled spring.”
Galila winced, staring entranced at Matityahu Damkov’s lips.
“Yes,” she said.
“And then it happens. As if the law of gravity had suddenly been revoked. The stallion doesn’t run, he flies through the air. Like a cannon ball. Like a spring suddenly released. The mare bows and lowers her head and he thrusts into her, blow after blow. His eyes are full of blood. There’s not enough air for him to breathe and he gasps and chokes as if he’s dying. His mouth hangs open and he pours saliva and foam on her head. Suddenly he starts to roar and howl. Like a dog. Like a wolf. Writhing and screaming. In that moment there is no telling pleasure from pain. And mating is very much like castration.”
“Enough, Matityahu, for God’s sake, enough.”
“Now let’s relax. Or perhaps you’d like to hear how a horse is castrated?”
“Please, enough, no more,” Galila pleaded.
Slowly Matityahu raised his maimed hand. The compassion in his voice was strange, almost fatherly:
“Just like your mother. About that,” he said, “about the fingers and about castration as well, we’ll talk some other time. Enough now. Don’t be afraid now. Now we can rest and relax. I’ve got a drop of cognac somewhere. No? No. Vermouth then. There’s vermouth too. Here’s to my cousin Leon. Drink. Relax. Enough.”
7
THE COLD light of the distant stars spreads a reddish crust upon the fields. In the last weeks of the summer the land has all been turned over. Now it stands ready for the winter sowing. Twisting dirt tracks cross the plain, here and there are the dark masses of plantations, fenced in by walls of cypress trees.
For the first time in many months our lands feel the first tentative fingers of the cold. The irrigation pipes, the taps, the metal fittings, they are the first to capitulate to any conqueror, summer’s heat or autumn’s chill. And now they are the first to surrender to the cool moisture.
In the past, forty years ago, the founders of the kibbutz entrenched themselves in this land, digging their pale fingernails into the earth. Some were fair-haired, like Sashka, others, like Tanya, were brazen and scowling. In the long, burning hours of the day they used to curse the earth scorched by the fires of the sun, curse it in despair, in anger, in longing for rivers and forests. But in the darkness, when night fell, they composed sweet love songs to the earth, forgetful of time and place. At night forgetfulness gave taste to life. In the angry darkness oblivion enfolded them in a mother’s embrac
e. “There,” they used to sing, not “Here.”
There in the land our fathers loved,
There all our hopes shall be fulfilled.
There we shall live and there a life
Of health and freedom we shall build . . .
People like Sashka were forged in fury, in longing and in dedication. Matityahu Damkov, and the latter-day fugitives like him, know nothing of the longing that burns and the dedication that draws blood from the lips. That is why they seek to break into the inner circle. They make advances to the women. They use words similar to ours. But theirs is a different sorrow, they do not belong to us, they are extras, on the outside, and so they shall be until the day they die.
The captive jackal cub was seized by weariness. The tip of his right paw was held fast in the teeth of the trap. He sprawled flat on the turf as if reconciled to his fate.
First he licked his fur, slowly, like a cat. Then he stretched out his neck and began licking the smooth, shining metal. As if lavishing warmth and love upon the silent foe. Love and hate, they both breed surrender. He threaded his free paw beneath the trap, groped slowly for the meat of the bait, withdrew the paw carefully and licked off the savor that had clung to it.
Finally, the others appeared.
Jackals, huge, emaciated, filthy and swollen-bellied. Some with running sores, others stinking of putrid carrion. One by one they came together from all their distant hiding places, summoned to the gruesome ritual. They formed themselves into a circle and fixed pitying eyes upon the captive innocent. Malicious joy striving hard to disguise itself as compassion, triumphant evil breaking through the mask of mourning. The unseen signal was given, the marauders of the night began slowly moving in a circle as in a dance, with mincing, gliding steps. When the excitement exploded into mirth the rhythm was shattered, the ritual broken, and the jackals cavorted madly like rabid dogs. Then the despairing voices rose into the night, sorrow and rage and envy and triumph, bestial laughter and a choking wail of supplication, angry, threatening, rising to a scream of terror and fading again into submission, lament, and silence.
After midnight they ceased. Perhaps the jackals despaired of their helpless child. Quietly they dispersed to their own sorrows. Night, the patient gatherer, took them up in his arms and wiped away all the traces.
8
MATITYAHU DAMKOV was enjoying the interlude. Nor did Galila try to hasten the course of events. It was night. The girl unfolded the canvases that Matityahu Damkov had received from his cousin Leon and examined the tubes of paint. It was good quality material, the type used by professionals. Until now she had painted on oiled sackcloth or cheap mass-produced canvases with paints borrowed from the kindergarten. She’s so young, thought Matityahu Damkov, she’s a little girl, slender and spoiled. I’m going to smash her to pieces. Slowly. For a moment he was tempted to tell her the truth outright, like a bolt from the blue, but he thought better of it. The night was slow.
In oblivion and delight, compulsively, Galila fingered the fine brush, lightly touching the orange paint, lightly stroking the canvas with the hairs of the brush, an unconscious caress, like fingertips on the hairs of the neck. Innocence flowed from her body to his, his body responded with waves of desire.
Afterward Galila lay without moving, as if asleep, on the oily, paint-splashed tiles, canvases and tubes of paint scattered about her. Matityahu lay back on his single bed, closed his eyes and summoned a dream.
At his bidding they come to him, quiet dreams and wild dreams. They come and play before him. This time he chose to summon the dream of the flood, one of the severest in his repertoire.
First to appear is a mass of ravines descending the mountain slopes, scores of teeming watercourses, crisscrossing and zigzagging.
In a flash the throngs of tiny people appear in the gullies. Like little black ants they swarm and trickle from their hiding places in the crevices of the mountain, sweeping down like a cataract. Hordes of thin dark people streaming down the slopes, rolling like an avalanche of stone and plunging in a headlong torrent to the levels of the plain. Here they split into a thousand columns, racing westward in furious spate. Now they are so close that their shapes can be seen: a dark, disgusting, emaciated mass, crawling with lice and fleas, stinking. Hunger and hatred distort their faces. Their eyes blaze with madness. In full flood they swoop upon the fertile valleys, racing over the ruins of deserted villages without a moment’s check. In their rush toward the sea they drag with them all that lies in their path, uprooting posts, ravaging fields, mowing down fences, trampling the gardens and stripping the orchards, pillaging homesteads, crawling through huts and stables, clambering over walls like demented apes, onward, westward, to the sands of the sea.
And suddenly you too are surrounded, besieged, paralyzed with fear. You see their eyes ablaze with primeval hatred, mouths hanging open, teeth yellow and rotten, curved daggers gleaming in their hands. They curse you in clipped tones, voices choking with rage or with dark desire. Now their hands are groping at your flesh. A knife and a scream. With the last spark of your life you extinguish the vision and almost breathe freely again.
“Come on,” said Matityahu Damkov, shaking the girl with his right hand, while the maimed hand, his left, caressed her neck. “Come on. Let’s get away from here. Tonight. In the morning. I shall save you. We’ll run away together to South America, to my cousin Leon. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”
“Leave me alone, don’t touch me,” she said.
He clasped her in a powerful and silent embrace.
“My father will kill you tomorrow. I told you to leave me alone.”
“Your father will take care of you now and he’ll always take care of you,” Matityahu Damkov replied softly. He let her go. The girl stood up, buttoning her skirt, smoothing back her blond hair.
“That isn’t what I want. I didn’t want to come here at all. You’re taking advantage of me and doing things to me that I don’t want and saying all kinds of things because you’re mad and everyone knows you’re mad, ask anyone you like.”
Matityahu Damkov’s lips broadened into a smile.
“I won’t come to you again, not ever, And I don’t want your paints. You’re dangerous. You’re as ugly as a monkey. And you’re mad.”
“I can tell you about your mother, if you want to hear. And if you want to hate and curse, then it’s her you should hate, not me.”
The girl turned hurriedly to the window, flung it open with a desperate movement and leaned out into the empty night. Now she’s going to scream, thought Matityahu Damkov in alarm, she’ll scream and the opportunity won’t come again. Blood filled his eyes. He swooped upon her, clapped his hand over her mouth, dragged her back inside the room, buried his lips in her hair, probed with his lips for her ear, found it, and told her.
9
SHARP WAVES of chill autumn air clung to the outer walls of the houses, seeking entry. From the yard on the slope of the hill came the sounds of cattle lowing and herdsmen cursing. A cow having difficulty giving birth perhaps, the big torch throwing light on the blood and the mire. Matityahu Damkov knelt on the floor and gathered up the paints and the brushes that his guest had left scattered there. Galila still stood beside the open window, her back to the room and her face to the darkness. Then she spoke, still with her back to the man.
“It’s doubtful,” she said. “It’s almost impossible, it isn’t even logical, it can’t be proved, and it’s crazy. Absolutely.”
Matityahu Damkov stared at her back with his mongoloid eyes. Now his ugliness was complete, a concentrated, penetrating ugliness.
“I won’t force you. Please. I shall say nothing. Perhaps just laugh to myself quietly. For all I care you can be Sashka’s daughter or even Ben-Gurion’s daughter. I shall say nothing. Like my cousin Leon I shall say nothing. He loved his Christian son and never said I love you, only when this son of his had killed eleven policemen and himself did he remember to tell him in his grave, I love you. Pleas
e.”
Suddenly, without warning, Galila burst into laughter:
“You fool, you little fool, look at me, I’m blond, look!”
Matityahu said nothing.
“I’m not yours, I’m sure of it because I’m blond, I’m not yours or Leon’s either, I’m blond and it’s all right! Come on!”
The man leaped at her, panting, groaning, groping his way blindly. In his rush he overturned the coffee table, he shuddered violently and the girl shuddered with him.
And then she recoiled from him, fled to the far wall. He pushed aside the coffee table. He kicked it. His eyes were shot with blood, and a sound like gargling came from his lips. She suddenly remembered her mother’s face and the trembling of her lips and her tears, and she pushed the man from her with a dreamy hand. As if struck, they both retreated, staring at each other, eyes wide open.
“Father,” said Galila in surprise, as if waking on the first morning of winter at the end of a long summer, looking outside and saying, rain.
10
THE SUN rises without dignity in our part of the world. With a cheap sentimentality it appears over the peaks of the eastern mountains and touches our lands with tentative rays. No glory, no complicated tricks of light. A purely conventional beauty, more like a picture postcard than a real landscape.
But this will be one of the last sunrises. Autumn will soon be here. A few more days and we shall wake in the morning to the sound of rain. There may be hail too. The sun will rise behind a screen of dirty gray clouds. Early risers will wrap themselves in overcoats and emerge from their houses fortified against the daggers of the wind.
