by Amos Oz
What do I care if he’s offended or shocked? Why should I care what happens to that man and his son? There are some emotions that the Hebrew language isn’t sufficiently developed to express. If I say that to Yosef or his friend Kleinberger, the pair of them will attack me, and there’ll be a terrific argument about the merits of the Hebrew language, with all kinds of unpleasant digressions. Even the word “digression” does not exist in Hebrew. I must drink this coffee without a single grain of sugar. Bitter, of course it’s bitter, but it keeps me awake. Am I allowed one biscuit? No, I’m not allowed to eat biscuits, and there’s no room for compromise. And it’s already a quarter past nine. Let’s go, before he appears. The stove. The light. The key. Let’s go.
Lily Dannenberg is a forty-two-year-old divorcee. She could easily claim to be seven or eight years younger, but that would be contrary to her moral principles, so she does not disguise her true age. Her body is tall and thin, her hair naturally blond, not a rich tint but deep and dense. Her nose is straight and strong. On her lips there is a permanent and fascinating unease, and her eyes are bright blue. A single, modest ring seems to accentuate the lonely and pensive quality of her long fingers.
Dinah won’t be back from Tel Aviv before twelve. I’ve left her a little coffee in the pot for tomorrow morning. There’s salad in the fridge and fresh bread in the basket. If the girl decides to have a bath at midnight, the water will still be hot. So everything is in order. And if everything’s in order, why am I uneasy, as if I’ve left something burning or open? But nothing is burning and nothing’s open and already I’m two streets away heading west, so that man Yosef isn’t likely to meet me by chance on his way to the house. That would spoil everything. Most young Levantines are very attractive at first glance. But only a few of them stand up to a second look. A great spirit is always struggling and tormented, and this distorts the body from within and corrodes the face like a rainstorm eating limestone. That is why people of spiritual greatness have something written on their faces, sometimes in letters that resemble scars, and usually they find it hard to keep their bodies upright. By contrast, the handsome Levantines do not know the taste of suffering, and that is why their faces are symmetrical, their bodies strong and well proportioned. Twenty-two minutes after nine. An owl just said something complicated and raucous. That bird is called Eule in German, and in Hebrew, I think, yanshuf. Anyway, what difference does it make? In exactly seven minutes, Yosef will ring the doorbell of my house. His punctuality is beyond doubt. At that precise moment I shall ring the doorbell of his house on Alfasi Street. Shut up, Eule, I’ve heard everything you have to say more than once. And Yair will open the door to me.
3
A PERSON who comes from a broken home is likely to destroy the stability of other people’s homes. There is nothing fortuitous about this, although there is no way of formulating a rule. Yosef Yarden is a widower. Lily Dannenberg is a divorcee whose ex-husband died of a broken heart, or jaundice, less than three months after the divorce. Even Dr. Kleinberger, Egyptologist and stoic, a marginal figure, is an aging bachelor. Needless to say, he has no children. That leaves Yair Yarden and Dinah Dannenberg. Dinah has gone to Tel Aviv to pass the good news along to her relatives and to make a few purchases and arrangements, and she will not be back before midnight. As for Yair, he is sitting with his brother, a grammar-school student, in the pleasant living room of the Yarden household on Alfasi Street. He has decided to spend the evening grappling with a backlog of university work: three exercises, a tedious project, a whole mountain of bibliographical chores. Studying political economy may be important and profitable, but it can also be wearisome and depressing. If he had been able to choose, he might have chosen to study the Far East, China, Japan, mysterious Tibet, or perhaps Latin America. Rio. The Incas. Or black Africa. But what could a young man do with studies such as these? Build himself an igloo, marry a geisha? The trouble is that political economy is full of functions and calculations, words and figures that seem to disintegrate when you stare at them. Dinah is in Tel Aviv. When she comes back, perhaps she’ll forget that unnecessary quarrel that we had yesterday. Those things I said to her face. On the other hand, she started it. Dad has gone to see her mother, and he won’t be back before eleven. If only there was some way of persuading Uri to stop sitting there picking his nose. How disgusting. There’s a mystery program on the radio at a quarter past nine called Treasure Hunt, broadcast live. That’s the solution for an uncomfortable evening like this. We’ll listen to the program and then finish the third exercise. That should be enough.
The brothers switched on the radio.
The antics of the night birds do not abate until a quarter past nine. Even before the twilight is over, the owls and the other birds of darkness begin to move from the suburbs to the heart of the city. With their glassy dead eyes they stare at the birds of light, who rejoice with carefree song at the onset of the day’s last radiance. To the ears of the night birds, this sounds like utter madness, a festival of fools. On the edge of the suburb of Rehavia, where the farthest houses clutch at the rocks of the western slope, the rising birds meet the descending birds. In the light that is neither day nor night the two camps move past each other in opposite directions. No compromise ever lasts long in Jerusalem, and so the evening twilight flickers and fades rapidly, too. Darkness comes. The sun has fled, and the rear-guard forces are already in retreat.
At nine-thirty, Lily had meant to ring the doorbell of the Yardens’ house. But at the corner of Radak Street she saw a cat standing on a stone wall. His tail was swishing, and he was whining with lust. Lily decided to waste a few moments observing the feverish cat. Meanwhile the brothers were listening to the start of the mystery program. The first clue was given to the studio panel and the listeners by a jovial fellow; the beginning of the thread was contained in a song by Bialik:
Not by day and not by night
Quietly I set out and walk;
Not on the hill or in the vale,
Where stands an old acacia tree . . .
And at once Yair and Uri were on fire with detective zeal. An old acacia tree, that’s the vital point. Not on the hill or in the vale, that’s where it starts getting complicated. Yair had a bright idea: Maybe we should look the poem up in the big book of Bialik’s poetry and find the context, then we’ll know which way to turn. He pounced on the bookcase, rummaged around, found the book, and within three minutes had located the very poem. However, the lines that followed did not solve the puzzle, but only tantalized the hunters still further:
The acacia solves mysteries
And tells what lies ahead . . .
Yes. I see. But if the acacia itself is the mystery, how can it be expected to solve mysteries and even tell the future? How does it go on? The next stanza is irrelevant. The whole poem’s irrelevant. Bialik’s no use. We must try a different approach. Let’s think, now. I’ve got it: the Hebrew word shita isn’t only the name of a tree. It also means “method.” Shita is a system. These inquiries would do credit to that buffoon Kleinberger. Well, then, let’s think some more. Shut up, Uri, I’m trying to think. Well, my dear Watson, tell me what you make of the first words. I mean “Not by day and not by night.” Don’t you understand anything? Of course you don’t. Think for a while. Incidentally, I don’t understand it yet, either. But give me a moment, and you’ll see.
The doorbell rang.
An unexpected guest stood in the doorway. Her face was set, her lips nervous. She was a weird and beautiful woman.
An alley cat is a fickle creature; he will abandon anything for the caress of a human hand. Even at the height of rutting fever he will not turn away from the caress of a human hand. When Lily touched him, he began to shudder. With her left hand she stroked his back firmly, while the fingers of her right hand gently tickled the fur of his neck. Her combination of tenderness and strength filled the animal with pleasure. The cat turned over on his back and offered his stomach to the gentle fingers, purring loudly and contentedly. Lil
y tickled him as she spoke.
“You’re happy. Now you’re happy. Don’t deny it, you’re happy,” she said in German. The cat narrowed his eyes until two slits were all that was left, and continued purring.
“Relax,” she said, “you don’t need to do anything. Just enjoy yourself.”
The fur was soft and warm. Thin vibrations passed through it and ceased. Lily rubbed her ring against the cat’s ear.
“And what’s more, you’re stupid as well.”
Suddenly the cat shuddered and stirred uneasily. Perhaps he guessed or half-sensed what was coming. A yellow slit opened in his face, the wink of an eye, a fleeting glimmer. Then her fist rose, made a wide sweep in the air, and struck a violent blow at the belly of the cat. The creature took fright and leapt away into the darkness, collided with the trunk of a pine tree, and dug in his claws. From the murky height he hissed at her like a snake. All his fur stood on end. Lily turned and walked to the Yardens’ house.
“Good evening, Yair. It seems you’re free. And on your own.”
“Uri is here and we . . . but isn’t Dad on his way to see you?”
“Uri here, too. I’d forgotten about Uri. Good evening, Uri. How you’ve grown! I’m sure all the girls must be chasing you. No, you needn’t invite me inside. I just came to get something straight with you, Yair. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“But Mrs. . . . but Lily, how can you say that. You’re always welcome. Come in. I was so sure that just now you’d be at your house drinking coffee with Dad, and suddenly . . .”
“Suddenly your dad will find the door locked and the windows dark, and he won’t understand what’s become of me. He’s disappointed and worried—which makes him look almost agreeable. Pity I’m not there among the trees in the garden, secretly watching him, enjoying the expression on his face. It doesn’t matter. I’ll explain everything. Come on, Yair, let’s go out, let’s go for a little walk outside, there’s something I need to straighten out with you. Yes. This very evening. Be patient.”
“What . . . Has something happened? Didn’t Dinah go to Tel Aviv, or . . .”
“She went like a good little girl, and she’ll come back like a good little girl. But not until later. Come on, Yair. You won’t need your coat. It isn’t cold outside. It’s pleasant outside. You’ll have to excuse us, Uri. How you’ve grown! Good night.”
In the yard, near the pepper tree, she spoke to Yair again: “Don’t look so puzzled. Nothing serious has happened.”
But Yair already knew that he had made a mistake. He should have brought his coat, in spite of what Lily had said. The evening was cold. And later it would be very cold. He could still excuse himself, go back, and fetch his coat. Lily herself was wearing a coat that was stylish, almost daring. But to go back to the house for a coat seemed to him somehow dishonorable, perhaps even cowardly. He put the thought aside and said:
“Yes. It’s really pleasant out here.”
Since she was in no hurry to reply, Yair had time to wonder if there really were acacia trees in Jerusalem, and if so, where, and if not, perhaps shita should be taken as a clue to the verb leshatot—“to jest.” Who knows, maybe the treasure’s hidden in one of the wadis to the west or the south of Rehavia. Pity about the program. Now I’ll never know the solution.
4
AFTER A brief moment of astonishment and confusion and a few indecisive speculations, Yosef Yarden made up his mind to go to Dr. Kleinberger’s house. If he found him at home he would go in, apologize for the lateness of the hour and the unexpected visit, and tell his friend about this strange incident. Who would have thought it? And just imagine the look she would have given me if I had been a few minutes late. And there I was, standing and waiting, ten o’clock already, two and a half minutes past. If something had happened to her, she would have phoned me. There’s no way of understanding or explaining this.
“And for the time being you have avoided a vulgar and possibly painful argument,” said Elhanan Kleinberger, smiling. “She wouldn’t have given in to you over the guest list. She’ll send invitations all over the city, all over the university. To the President of the State and the Mayor of Jerusalem. And really, Yosef, why should you expect her to give up what she wants in deference to what you want? Why shouldn’t she invite the Pope and his wife to the wedding of her only daughter? What’s the matter, Yosef?”
His guest began to explain, patiently:
“Times are not easy. In general, I mean. And remember, all these years we have been preaching, both in speech and in writing, the need to ‘walk humbly.’ Yair’s mother wanted an intimate wedding, a small circle of relatives, and that is a kind of imperative, at least from the ethical point of view. And . . . then there’s the cost. I mean, who wants to go into debt for the sake of a society wedding?”
Dr. Kleinberger felt that he had lost the thread. He made coffee, set out milk and sugar. And at this point he also took the opportunity to add something to his previous remarks concerning the interplay of opposite extremes. The conversation soon diversified. They discussed Egyptology, they discussed Hebrew literature, they conducted a scathing inquiry into the workings of the municipality of Jerusalem. Elhanan Kleinberger has a great flair for linking together Egyptology, his professional field, and Hebrew literature, which is his heart’s love, as he puts it, and of which he is a passionate lover, as he also puts it. In general, Yosef is used to having his views overruled by those of his friend, although he tends on most occasions to reject the particular wording adopted by Elhanan Kleinberger. So their arguments end with the last word going to Yosef Yarden and not to his old friend.
Were it not for the cold, the two friends would have gone out together to stand on the balcony and gaze at the starlight on the hills, as was their habit in summer. The Valley of the Cross lies opposite. There old olive trees grow in bitter tranquillity.
In passionate, almost violent hunger, the olive trees send out their tendrils into the blackness of the heavy earth. There the roots pierce the rocky subsoil, cleaving the hidden stones and sucking up the dark moisture. They are like sharpened claws. But above them the green and silver treetops are caressed by the wind: theirs is the peace and the glory.
And you cannot kill the olive. Olive trees burned in fire sprout and flourish again. A vulgar growth, quite shameless, Elhanan Kleinberger would say. Even olives struck by lightning are reborn and in time clothe themselves with new foliage. And they grow on the hills of Jerusalem, and on the modest heights on the fringes of the Coastal Plain, and they hide away in the cloisters of monasteries enclosed within walls of stone. There the olives thicken their knotted trunks generation after generation and lasciviously entwine their stout branches. They have a savage vitality like that of birds of prey.
To the north of Rehavia lie sprawling suburbs, poor neighborhoods with charming streets. In one of these winding alleyways stands an old olive tree. One hundred and seven years ago an iron gate was erected here and the lintel was supported by the tree. Over the years the tree leaned against the iron, and the iron bit deep into the trunk like a roasting spit.
Patiently the olive began to enfold the iron wedge. In the course of time it closed around it and set tight. The iron was crushed in the tree’s embrace. The tree’s wounds healed over, and the vigorous foliage of its upper branches was in no way impaired.
5
YAIR YARDEN is a young man of handsome appearance. He is not tall, but his shoulders are powerful and his torso is trim, well proportioned, and athletic. His chin is firm and angular, with a deep dimple. Girls secretly long to touch this dimple with their fingertips, and some of them even blush or turn pale when they feel the impulse. They say, “And what’s more, he thinks he knows a thing or two. He’s about as brainy as a tailor’s dummy.”
His arms are strong and covered in black hair. It would be wrong to say that Yair Yarden is clumsy, but there is a certain heaviness, a kind of slow solidity, perceptible in all his movements. Lily Dannenberg would have called this “massivity
” and returned to her theme of the inadequacy of the Hebrew language, with its dearth of nuances. Of course, Elhanan Kleinberger is capable of refuting such barbed comments and of suggesting in the twinkling of an eye a suitable Hebrew adjective, or even two. And at the same time he will come up with a Hebrew expression to fit the word “nuance.”
It may be that this fascinating “massivity” with which Yair Yarden is endowed will change within a few years into the patriarchal corpulence for which his father is noted. A sharp eye may detect the first signs. But at present—Lily has no intention of disguising the truth—at present, Yair is a handsome, captivating youth. The mustache gives a special force to his appearance. It is blond, droopy, sometimes flecked with shreds of tobacco. Yair is studying economics and business management at the university; his whole future lies before him. Romantic follies, kibbutzim, and life in border settlements hold no attraction for him. His political views are temperate; he has learned them from his father. To be precise, Yosef Yarden sees in the political situation a wasteland of degeneracy and arrogance, whereas Yair sees a wide-open prospect before him.
“Will you offer me a cigarette, please,” said Lily.
“Of course. Here you are. Please take one, Lily.”
“Oh, thank you. I left mine at home, I was in such a hurry.”
“A light, Lily?”
“Thank you. Dinah Yarden—a name almost as musical as Dinah Dannenberg. Perhaps a little simpler. When you have a child you can call him Dan. Dan Yarden: like something out of a ballad about camels and bells. How much time are you going to give me, how long will it be, before you make me a grandmother? A year? A bit less? You needn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question. Yair, how do you say ‘rhetorical question’ in Hebrew?”
