The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  He remembered Gabriel as a boy. Sometimes his father brought him to visit them. But then they went to Venezuela. They may have got only as far as Paris, but the intention was to go to Venezuela, to join a wealthy branch of the family that had settled there in the middle of the last century.

  Anyway, he was very friendly and didn’t want to be parted from me. He insisted on me staying for supper and told me stories about the whole family, about his grandchildren.

  It was late at night when I left his house. Although my efforts so far had been fruitless, I was more and more convinced that he hadn’t been killed, that he was alive, wandering about the land. The stories that I’d heard about this adventurous family convinced me that perhaps there was some truth in what the old lady had said and that I should try searching for him at night. I turned off the main highway and continued heading north by old side roads, looking around me, surprised to see so much traffic on the roads so late, nearly midnight. At one intersection I saw a little car parked at the roadside, its hood raised. My heart thumped wildly. I was sure it was the little Morris that I was looking for, but it was an Austin, a similar model, 1952. Somebody was pacing about beside it. Something in his profile caught my attention, I stopped at once, got out to have a look. No it wasn’t Gabriel, I must have been imagining things, but he was about the same age and something about him really did remind me of Gabriel. Coincidences like this increase my conviction that Gabriel is close by, that he is wandering about this very neighbourhood perhaps, that right here, on these little side roads in the night hours I shall find him.

  I pulled up beside the parked car. “What’s the problem?” The boy explained, some kind of blockage in the engine, he doesn’t understand these things. He called for a tow truck and he’s been waiting for it three hours. I glanced at the engine. “Start it up,” I said. But he looked at me suspiciously, my heavy beard misled him.

  “Do you know anything about engines?”

  “A little … start it up.”

  He started the engine. A fuel blockage. I took a small screwdriver out of my pocket and dismantled the carburettor, cleaned the cup and released the jammed needle. A ten-minute job. The young man looked on anxiously all the time, afraid I was damaging something.

  “Start it up.”

  The car sprang easily to life. He was amazed. “Is that all it was?” He was so grateful. At least he’d be able to drive to the nearest garage. “No need to drive to a garage,” I said. “It’s O.K. now.”

  Midnight. Looking around me all the time. Cars passing by in an endless stream. I had no idea there was so much traffic about at night. He got back into his car, thanked me again and drove off. It seemed strange to me, doing a repair job and not getting paid for it.

  I continued on my way, ten kilometres farther on, and then another vehicle parked at the roadside. This time it was a tow truck, presumably the one that went out for the Austin that I’d repaired. It had broken down itself. I was tired but I stopped nevertheless.

  The driver was dozing on the seat, under a blanket. I roused him. “Do you need help?”

  He woke up, confused, a heavy, bony man, his hair going white, his face wrinkled.

  Oh, it doesn’t matter, he’ll wait till morning. There’s a fuel blockage that he can’t shift. One of the petrol stations in this area is clogging up everybody’s engines selling dirty fuel.

  “Let me try.”

  “You won’t do it.”

  “Let me try, it can’t do any harm.”

  He opened the hood, I probed in the dark at the dirty and neglected engine, unscrewing the fuel pump. It was years since I’d done jobs like this.

  Meanwhile we talked. He told me about himself. He came originally from a moshav not far from here, after the Six Day War he got tired of working on the land, he sold his land and bought this tow truck, now he did towing jobs at night. But this work too was beginning to bore him. His eyesight wasn’t good, and he knew nothing about modern cars, he didn’t even try to identify the fault, he just used to hitch up straightaway and start towing. His boss had doubts about him.

  “What goes on around here at night? Is there enough work for you?”

  “Plenty of it. The Jews are always speeding.”

  He watched me cleaning the fuel pump and fitting a new screw, giving me strange advice. His knowledge of mechanics was hopelessly vague.

  “Have you perhaps in the last few months come across an old Morris, 1947, coloured bright blue?”

  “You get them all here. Morris, Volvo, BMW, Volkswagen, Ford, Fiat. All the models there are. The more they raise the road tax, the more crowded the roads are.”

  “But a little Morris, blue …”

  “Morrises too, the lot.”

  What a fool the man was.

  I got his engine going for him. He was most impressed. He could go home now and sleep. Perhaps I’d like to work for him, he’d give me a percentage.

  I smiled, the idea amused me.

  “No, but I’d be prepared to buy this tow truck from you.”

  “Buy it?”

  “Yes, why should you be driving around at night at your age?” He scratched his head.

  “How much would you give for it?”

  “Bring it around to my garage tomorrow and we’ll make a deal.” At noon the next day Erlich said to me, “What’s going on, did you invite someone around here to sell you a tow truck?” I went out to meet him. He stood there, squat and heavy, an old farmer beside his tow truck. Something about the way he talked reminded me of my father, the same habits of pronunciation, the same way of putting his sentences together. He looked around him, astonished and impressed by the giant garage and the dozens of workers.

  “Is all this yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I wanted to employ you …” He said, partly in bitterness, partly in amusement.

  I examined the vehicle. It was in a thoroughly neglected state. I called Hamid to inspect the engine and told Erlich to check the market price. An hour later they both reported to me. I said to Erlich, “Right now, give him the money and buy the truck.”

  Erlich wasn’t keen on the idea.

  “What do you want a tow truck for?”

  “We’re going to start towing at night, it’ll bring in more customers.”

  “But who’s going to do the driving?”

  “I am.”

  “You?” He didn’t believe me.

  “Yes, why not? I know you think I’ve forgotten what work is …”

  NA’IM

  The next day he didn’t come to the garage. The Arabs didn’t ask me any questions, it was like they really didn’t care about me sleeping at his house. Only Hamid asked me what job I’d been doing that night and I told him Adam was repairing a rusty old water tank in his house and I was passing him the tools. So I lied quite calmly though he never asked me to lie.

  The next day Adam came to work but he didn’t say a word to me, another day went by and it was like he didn’t see me, and then another day and then another. Once he saw me and smiled and said, “How’s the poetry?” but before I could answer he was called away to the phone and disappeared. Maybe two weeks had gone by since that night and it was like he’d forgotten me. Forgotten that I’d slept in his house, washed in his bath. And I don’t know why, it made me sad, even though I didn’t really expect anything from him.

  I didn’t feel like reading poetry either. I tried as hard as I could to keep close to him, so he’d say something to me, give me a job to do, but he ignored me. I got to be like a little hound, I could sniff him out anywhere, follow his tracks. But he was busy, running backwards and forwards all the time. He’d bought a second-hand tow truck and he spent all his time on it, he wasn’t interested in the garage. He overhauled it, painted it, fixed all kinds of gadgets on it.

  The days are getting longer. It’s light when we leave for the garage in the morning and it’s light when we go home. I’m bored stiff already. Tightening brakes all the time. Lying underneat
h the cars and shouting to the Jews “Press, let go, harder, ease off, slowly, press.” The Jews do exactly what I tell them.

  And the days go by and they’re all pretty much the same. Nothing happens. They’re talking about war again and the radio’s buzzing all the time. We start listening to what the Jews are saying about themselves, all that wailing and cursing themselves, it pleases us no end. It’s nice to hear how screwed up and stupid they are and how hard things are for them, though you wouldn’t exactly think so seeing them changing their cars all the time and buying newer and bigger ones.

  Late one afternoon he brought in his tow truck to have the brakes tightened. He himself got down underneath and I pressed on the brake pedal, it was like he didn’t trust me to do the tightening for him. By now we were sick of that machine of his, all of us, he messed around with it all the time, like a kid who’s never seen a car before. Then he finished tightening the brakes and crawled out and stood there beside the truck, drooling over it and wondering if there were any more fancy things he could do to it. Just the two of us there. I was afraid of him slipping away from me again and suddenly I came out with:

  “How is the grandmother?”

  I’d meant to say “How is Dafi?” but it came out as – the grandmother. I blushed.

  “Whose grandmother?” He didn’t understand.

  “The grandmother we visited that night, the one who went into a coma and got better.”

  “Oh … that grandmother? …” He roared with laughter. “Grandma … ha ha … she’s fine, she sends you her regards.”

  And he started working the winch, raising it and lowering it. Suddenly he turned and looked at me, staring at me so hard you could tell he’d just had an idea.

  “Listen, I need you for night work with this tow truck. Would your father let you sleep in town?”

  “No problem …” I got all excited. “My father doesn’t care where I spend the night …”

  “Good, bring your things here tomorrow, your pyjamas and the rest … you’ll be starting to work nights with this tow truck … we’ll tow cars in … tour the roads … you and me …”

  My heart beat fast, I lit up inside.

  “Fine … but where shall I sleep? At your house again?”

  He looked at me a bit surprised.

  “We’ll find you a place to stay … don’t worry … we’ll fix something for you here at the garage … or perhaps even at Mrs. Ermozo’s … Grandma’s …” And he started to laugh again. “Perhaps you should sleep at her house … an excellent idea … she can look after you and you can look after her a bit.”

  ADAM

  And the next day Na’im came in carrying a big suitcase, wearing a winter coat too big for him. The Arabs watched him from a distance as he came towards me. I’d noticed before that they were very interested in our relationship, the association seemed to them suspicious and strange.

  “What did you tell your father?”

  “I said you were going to take care of me.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Nothing.” He blushed. “He said you’d look after me as if you were my father.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  They don’t seem to care much about giving the boy up.

  “Good. Sit here and wait.”

  And all day he sat there at the side in his big overcoat, the suitcase beside him, waiting quietly, already apart from the other workers, watching me, wherever I went those dark eyes followed me. Suddenly I had a boy at my disposal, as if I’d adopted a son.

  At midday I decided to have a word with Hamid.

  “I’m taking Na’im with me to help with the night towing, he’ll be staying with an old lady. It’ll be all right, don’t worry.”

  But he had no intention of worrying, hardly even looked up, went on tightening a nut in the engine in front of him, not understanding what I wanted from him.

  After work I took him to the old lady’s house, I rang the doorbell, heard her shuffling little footsteps.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Adam. I’ve brought the boy.” And then she began shifting the bolts, drawing back one after the other. At first I hardly recognized her. Standing there small and upright, in a flowery pink dress, wearing glasses, her face full of life. And this was the old lady who a few weeks before was lying unconscious in the old people’s home, a nurse pouring porridge into her mouth. I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “How are you, Mrs. Ermozo?”

  “Fine, fine … as long as my brain is in the right place everything is fine, even though I’m working all the time, cleaning, tidying … please don’t look, everything’s in such a mess …”

  “What do you mean, a mess … I hardly recognize the place … it’s all so clean …”

  But she interrupted me.

  “Do you call this clean? This is nothing. You should have seen the place forty years ago, you’d have seen what cleanliness is. You could have eaten off the floor.”

  I pushed Na’im forwards.

  “I’ve brought Na’im here. Do you remember him? He came with me that night.”

  She looked at him closely.

  “Yes … yes … this is the Arab who climbed in through the window … How are you, boy? You can come in through the door from now on.”

  She addressed him in Arabic and he blushed bright red, looking at her with hatred.

  “He can stay here for a while, during the night he’ll help me look for Gabriel.”

  She groaned when she heard Gabriel’s name. “Come on, come inside … what’s he got in that suitcase?” And, again, to him in Arabic: “Come on, let’s have a look. You haven’t brought me any bugs, have you?”

  He was still speechless and she bent over the suitcase, opened it and began examining the contents. On a heap of folded clothes there were eggs, peppers and eggplants.

  “What’s this? The Turks left this country long ago.”

  He was embarrassed, angry.

  “I don’t know who put them in … maybe my mother.”

  She started taking out the vegetables, examining the eggs by the light from the window.

  “Very good. Fine eggs these. Take all these clothes out and hang them up to air. Thank your mother very much but tell her next time not to mix clothes with food, you’ll get egg yolks in your pockets …. Where did you steal these pyjamas from? … You won’t need the towel, put it in the laundry basket … we’ll look at these clothes later. In the meantime you go and have a wash. Do you hear? Off you go. The water will go cold. I lit the boiler this morning when I heard that you were coming, He should wash before he eats, not good to bathe on a full stomach … But don’t make a mess, this isn’t a hotel and I’m not cleaning up three times a day … I’ve prepared a separate room for him … a wardrobe … all for him … You’ll sleep on your own here, without donkeys and goats and chickens.”

  And she led the bewildered Na’im into the bathroom, the poor fellow was getting used to being sent into the bathroom every time he entered a Jewish house. She sat me down in the big room and brought in plates full of biscuits, nuts and almonds. She made coffee and brought it to me.

  “Don’t bother.”

  “I’ve already bothered. I’m not going to throw it all away.”

  The coffee was excellent and she charmed me with her courtesy, with her thin smile. I explained to her my intention of patrolling the roads at night, towing in cars and looking for Gabriel. I told her that of course she could make use of the boy, he could help with the cleaning, go shopping, do minor repairs if necessary. “A good boy,” I said. “You’ll see.”

  “When they’re young, perhaps, before they join Fatah.”

  I laughed.

  Then she put on her reading glasses and picked up a heap of newspapers, most of them copies of Ma’ariv and Yediot Aharonot of the last few weeks, and she began leafing through them excitedly. After a while she took off her glasses and turned to me with a question.


  “Perhaps you can help me?”

  “By all means.”

  “Tell me, what is this Kissinger?”

  “What?”

  “What is he? Who is he? Before I went into the hospital I’d never heard of him. Now that I’ve recovered the papers are full of him, they never mention anyone else. Why?”

  I told her about him.

  “A Jew?” She was amazed, didn’t believe it. “That’s impossible! An apostate, perhaps … how could they let him? What do you say? Isn’t he ashamed to make so much trouble?”

  “It’s not so bad …” I tried to calm her.

  “What’s not so bad?” she protested. “Read what the papers say about him. Somebody ought to talk to his father.”

  Na’im came out of the bathroom, scowled at us.

  “What’s this!” she said, in Arabic. “So quickly? You’ve just been playing with the water. Come here … let’s see how well you’ve washed … behind your ears, isn’t that part of you? Next time I shall wash you … Don’t look so surprised, I’ve washed bigger boys than you … now sit down and eat.”

  She was a real live wire. Drowning in newspapers and politics, all the time pumping me for information about politics and parties, complaining that she’d missed the election, she’d never missed one before. Even unconscious she would have known how to vote.

  “How would you have voted?” I asked with a smile.

  “Not for the Communists anyway … perhaps for that slut … what’s her name? The one who sticks up for women … perhaps for someone else … but that should be a secret, shouldn’t it?” And she winked at me.

  Na’im sat there in silence, eating biscuits and drinking coffee. I’d noticed before how relaxed he could be, he had an astonishing ability to adapt himself to new surroundings. Watching her suspiciously but calmly, picking up the paper that lay in front of him and starting to read it with deep concentration, trying to ignore us.