It’s Na’im. Him I haven’t forgotten.
NA’IM
All right then, they’ve forgotten me. It’s six weeks now since we stopped doing the towing and he’s forgotten me. Two weeks ago I went to see him at the garage, to clarify my position. I didn’t want to go inside, I didn’t want the Arabs to see me and start asking questions. I waited outside, sitting on a big stone, till he came out. He stopped his car at once.
“Has something happened, Na’im?”
“No … I just wanted to know how much longer I’ll be staying with her … with the old woman …”
He was embarrassed, I could tell, he took my arm and walked with me around the car, explaining that it was important to stay with her, it counted the same as working in the garage. What was wrong with the place? If I was short of money he’d give me some more, and he took out his wallet and gave me two hundred pounds. That’s always the easiest thing for him, giving money, just so long as I don’t ask awkward questions. He gave me a little hug, said, “Don’t worry, I’ll phone you, I’ll be in touch, I haven’t forgotten you,” and he got into his car.
What could I say? “How’s Dafi?” I said quickly before he moved away.
“She’s fine … she’s fine … she hasn’t forgotten you either.”
And he smiled and drove away.
That was a long time ago and since then he hasn’t been in touch with me or given any sign. He’s forgotten.
And the winter’s over and now I spend all my time walking the streets, I’ve tired of the movies. Walking around the city, going up to Central Carmel, among all the Jews. Walking a lot. Once I even went as far as the university but I didn’t go to the registrar’s office, I went into one of the lecture halls and heard a young man talking eagerly about the habits of mice. I spent a while at the bulletin board, looking at the lecture lists. One evening I even went to a poetry recital in the basement of the Community Centre. There wasn’t much of an audience. Three middle-aged men, a few old women and me. We sat in a dark room and listened in silence to two young men in old clothes reading poems without rhymes, all about death and suffering. And after each poem they explained what it meant. The two men fascinated me and after they’d finished I followed them to a café and sat down not far from them, hearing them complain to the organizer about there being only old women in the audience. They were looking around them kind of hungrily.
And I listened. They didn’t realize I was an Arab, nobody does these days, not Jews anyway. Only the Arabs are still not quite sure about me. Has something about me changed? Am I not exactly myself any longer?
Sometimes, not often, I go back to the village, to see Mother and Father, taking them presents. Once it was an umbrella, once two pairs of pyjamas that I bought at a closing sale at the same shop in the lower city where I got my pyjamas. And they’re always pleased with me and the presents and they treat me with respect, inviting uncles and aunts to come and see me. “A great engineer,” Daddy tells them all. I daren’t tell them that for more than a month I haven’t touched an engine, I’m just looking after an old Jewish woman.
And I carry on wandering about, sometimes getting up at six and going out into the streets, sometimes lying in bed till lunchtime. I’ve started sitting around in cafés, ordering beer, smoking a cigarette and listening to the conversations around me. Getting older all the time.
Sometimes I feel I’m old enough to slip unnoticed into some seedy bar late at night, sitting beside a painted woman and smiling at her politely. Until the waiter comes along, a man with an evil face, and turns me out – “Run away, little boy, and bring your sister here or your mother if she’s still any good.”
Filthy bastards –
There are some people I feel drawn to. Arabs from the occupied territories, real Palestinians, dim-witted labourers walking around the city looking lost, not understanding anything and not settling down. And I help them, interpret for them, show them the way. They’re very surprised, they don’t realize I’m an Arab too. Telling me about their problems, about the cost of living, saying something about the great Palestinian problem and crossing the road or boarding a bus. Sometimes a girl or a young woman smiles at me, saying something or other, and I think maybe the time has come to fall in love with somebody else, and I take a good look around …
The old woman’s getting quieter all the time. A smell of death around her. Sitting all day in a chair without moving, becoming more and more dependent on me. I asked her once, “Haven’t you got any friends or relations?” but she didn’t answer. Soon she’ll die and I’ll have to run away, they’ll say I caused her death. I think of phoning Adam, but at the last moment I change my mind.
It’s not so good now, I’m not enjoying it anymore. They’ve forgotten me. So what am I supposed to do? I go and wander about in the crowd. Not looking in the shop windows anymore, just watching the people, getting pushed around by them, studying them. Sometimes I follow a man or a boy or a little girl, walking behind them, just to see what happens to them. Sometimes I follow somebody who’s following somebody else. Like today, when I started following a girl with soft legs and after a few minutes I realize – it’s Dafi, she’s following somebody. I hurry after her and catch up with her by a street crossing. I touch her gently. A wild sort of happiness takes hold of me.
At first she doesn’t notice that I’ve touched her, standing there waiting for the light to change. Then she’s confused, like I’ve wakened her from a dream. She’s grown a bit taller, got very thin, her face is pale, black rings under her eyes.
“Na’im” – she grabs my hand – “what are you doing here?” I don’t want to say I’m just wandering about.
“I’m going to visit somebody.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
“You’ve got friends here already?”
“Yes.”
The light changes to green but she hesitates to cross, a stream of people pushes us aside. Suddenly we’ve got nothing to talk about, we’re staring at each other, you wouldn’t think we’d travelled together at night and been friends. The light changes to red.
“Are you still living with the old woman?”
“Your father asked me to …”
“You two are in love.”
Mocking, unpleasant, her eyes glaring at me strangely. People crowding together beside us, waiting for the light to change. She seems distant, proud. My heart sinks.
The light changes to green, but she doesn’t cross. People crush us hard against the iron railing at the side. No manners. She scowls at me.
“You’ve changed a lot.”
And she doesn’t say if the change is good or bad. She isn’t friendly, isn’t laughing. Serious.
I light a cigarette, so many things I want to say to her but I don’t know how to begin. We stand there in this strange place, opposite the changing light, pushed around by the crowd crossing from side to side. I don’t want to scare her, to look like I’m trying to put the make on her, though I could invite her to have something to drink, to sit quietly and talk. She’s pressed hard against the railings, sad and pale. I feel dizzy with love. I’m afraid she’ll go away and leave me.
“And are you still in school?” I smile.
“What can I do?” she says angrily, like I’ve insulted her. “I can’t wander around free like you … without any worries … they’ve forgotten you, you’re lucky …”
Talking so bitterly, like she wants to hurt me. What have I done to her? Why am I to blame? I feel helpless.
A taxi stops by the crossing, she grabs my hand.
“Come on, I’ll take you to your friend’s house.”
And without asking, like I’m a baby, she opens the door and pushes me inside. I have to think quickly, make up an address, stammering a bit as I tell the driver where to go, I’ve never ridden in a taxi before. In the end I stop the taxi outside a house, get out, wanting to say something to her, I can see she wants to say something too, she’s sorry she was so hard on m
e, wants to go on being with me but the taxi’s starting to move, it can’t stop here, and she pulls the door shut, nodding her head to say goodbye. I’m left standing on the pavement. Miserable. I’ve lost her.
DAFI
I clutch at his hand, as if at freedom itself.
“Na’im, what are you doing here?”
That mysterious smile on his face, full of confidence. Not the same Na’im, he’s taller, wearing new clothes, his shoes shiny. A handsome hustler. Pleased with himself, free of worries. No longer that awkward country boy. A different person, unbelievable, standing there by the crossing, hands in his pockets, in a hurry, going to visit a friend, he’s made friends already, settled down well. Suddenly, I don’t know why, I feel so sad.
He doesn’t really do anything. Living with that old woman, he’s got himself a meal ticket. A strange kind of work for a healthy boy. He walks around town all day. No worries. They’re not throwing him out of school. He’s lucky. They’ve forgotten him. I feel sorry for myself. He leans up against the railings, looks me up and down. I must look like a child to him now. Where’s the little wet boy who came to our house that Friday night? And I was sure he was in love with me. Poor Dafi.
“You’ve changed …” I can’t resist saying.
And he doesn’t reply. He knows he’s changed, of course. He holds his head high. He’s got nothing to say to me now. He’s climbed so high. He’s learned a lot these last months, prowling about in dark corners, smoking earnestly. They’re all of them breaking out of their shells and coming to life, to freedom, and I’m left stumbling along at the end of the line.
And what a silly place to stand, impossible to talk here, with the light changing and rude people pushing against us. I want to say to him – take me with you to your friend’s house, but I bite my tongue, I don’t want him to think I’m trying to put the make on him. And already he wants to get away from me, he’s got nothing to say. He asks coolly, in a mocking tone, “And are you still in school?”
That really annoyed me, he found just the place to dig, my weak spot.
“What can I do? I can’t wander about free like you … they’ve forgotten you … you’re lucky …”
He knows he’s lucky. Bows his head, wants to break off contact. And suddenly I begin to wish this silly meeting never happened, why’s he so proud and puffed up? I’d take him with me, if he could forget about his friend for a bit. His freedom fascinates me. A taxi stops at the crossing and straightaway I grab his hand – “Come on, I’ll take you to your friend’s house” – and I push him inside. He’s a bit stunned at first but he recovers himself quickly, sitting there on the edge of the seat, all excited, explaining to the driver where to go. Seems it isn’t a friend but a girl friend, he’s got himself a little Arab chick. We drive down a few streets and then he asks the driver to stop. He looks at me, blushing. He’s hiding something. But there’s something gentle about his eyes. He wants to say something, he’s not proud and mysterious anymore. But the taxi can’t stop there, he gets out, stands on the pavement, staring at me, looking sorry about something, maybe he doesn’t want to leave me, but the taxi moves off. I’ve lost him.
VEDUCHA
They’ve forgotten him. They’ve forgotten me too. I’m alone here with a little Arab and that’s how it will end. Strange. No family, no relations, no husband, and this is the last face I shall see before I die. For this is death, I know. A heaviness such as there has never been before. Standing is difficult, walking is difficult. Hardly eating but swelling all the time. Only the mind is clear and lucid. The body is a rag.
Na’im is a good boy. A real stroke of luck. Cleaning the floor, washing the dishes, taking out the rubbish, going shopping, helping with the cooking. That’s what the Arabs are really good at – housework. And the men are better than the women. They don’t make a lot of noise, they’re clean workers. In the days of the Turks we had a servant in the house, an old sheik, a real sheik, Masiloan. The whole house, all ten of us, he held together. But Hebrew newspapers he didn’t read, no, that he didn’t do.
But this little fellow reads newspapers too, entertains me. I can no longer go to the movies, he tells me about the ones that he sees. Through him I see the films. But it’s not really the same thing because he doesn’t understand. He gets confused, you can tell. What interests him most are the gun fights, who killed whom, who drew a gun on whom, who came up from behind, who jumped down from the tree, who fired back, and all the love interest in the film he forgets. Sometimes I listen as he tells the story and when he comes to the end I take five pounds from my purse and send him out to see the film again, this time at my expense and for my sake, so he’ll get it right, who loved and who betrayed, who kissed and who disappointed, and who married in the end.
He spends long hours walking by himself in the streets. Who does he see, who does he talk to? He tells me, “Just … just people.” What is this just? Just is how a boy turns into a fatah from too much idleness, too much thinking. The most dangerous are the ones who are forgotten.
But I can’t do without him, I’m more and more dependent on him. I who was once well known as a courageous woman, a lone wolf. For ten years I was alone in this house and felt no fear, and now I begin to be afraid.
My body does not move, but my mind, thank God, is still working, working so hard it almost hurts. It’s hard for me to sleep, to dream dreams. I can’t allow myself to lose consciousness again. I lost it once and a war broke out and the government changed.
The situation is bad. I’m not talking now about prices, to hell with money, we’ll eat onions instead of meat, but the newspapers, the pleasure has gone out of newspapers. Darkness in the eyes and where is mercy? There are too many villains, the mistakes are too great, the dead are too young. He sits there in the armchair facing me, the young Arab, the damned dog, reading quietly, and I sense his enjoyment, how can he help taking pleasure in our sufferings? He breaks off, looks up, watching me quietly as if he doesn’t care and perhaps he really doesn’t care. I want to weep for all the troubles, for the isolation of the state, but I control myself, why add to his pleasure? Sometimes I nearly go to the telephone to call Adam – take him away from here, let him go back to his village, I’m better alone. But at the last moment I relent. Not yet. There is time.
For he has some movements that remind me of my Gabriel. Especially when he wanders around the house at night, when he stands at the window, silent and earnest, gazing into the distance. Young and sturdy, shining white teeth. When he sits at the table with knife and fork quietly finishing his food, I think – God, here I am raising a young terrorist who will slaughter me in the end.
Adam has forgotten him and he doesn’t care. They’ve dumped him here and he’s his own boss. He’s forgotten his mother and his father and his village and taken root here. He’s settled down here very well, it’s as if he was born here and I’m his grandmother. They also lose their roots so easily. He isn’t short of money and all day he searches for entertainment. What is he thinking deep inside, sometimes I really wish I could get inside his head. In the middle of the night I go into his room, sit on his bed and look at him hard, even in his sleep he’s a savage.
The beginning of summer already and it’s warm outside. He still goes about in old winter clothes. I found in a wardrobe a few clothes that were Gabriel’s when he was that age. I offered him a pair of trousers and a shirt. I was sure he’d refuse. But he said nothing, took it all. He didn’t mind wearing somebody else’s castoffs. He took off his own clothes, put on the clothes that I gave him and walked up and down in front of the mirror, smiling, pleased with himself. My heart ached at wasting good clothes like these on him, I had other dreams. Suddenly he came to me and kissed my hand. His own idea, I said nothing. I expected nothing, not even thanks. I almost died, it was so sweet. He touched me to the heart. So did we, as children, at the beginning of the century, used to kiss the hands of the old men as a mark of respect. Where did he learn to do this? The young lips on my skin, a
pleasing sensation of freshness. The next day I gave him a jacket the colour of Bordeaux wine. Again he kissed my hand. Ah, God, a little comfort in my last days. I almost wanted to say to him, Don’t call me Mrs. Veducha Ermozo, call me Grandma. But that would have been going too far.
DAFI
Today in the class that was supposed to be history suddenly Mommy came into the classroom as a substitute. Our history teacher went off to do his reserve duty two weeks ago and usually we play basketball instead of learning about the history of Jewish settlement.
Everybody looked at me and I went red, I don’t know why. Mommy has never come into my class before. I thought she’d ignore me completely but the woman turned to me straightaway and asked me which page of the book we were on. I said at once that we hadn’t brought any books with us because we knew the teacher was away. But it turned out that a lot of the children had brought their books along anyway. Little suckers. And then somebody told her the page and somebody else lent her a book and she looked at it for a while and went straight into the lesson.
At first she asked questions and the pupils answered. It was amazing how well she coped with the lesson, even though she hadn’t prepared for a lesson with us. She ran it at first like a question and answer session and there was some noise and chattering going on, some of them tried to annoy her even though they knew she was my mother. Anyway we didn’t feel like doing any work, we were a bit rusty in history. But slowly the class quietened down.
I’ve never seen her so friendly, so good-natured. Sure of herself, keeping control easily. Making jokes, not very funny in my opinion but the others in the class were in fits of laughter. She knew the names of some of the girls and she addressed them by name, asking them questions. She got on particularly well with Osnat, who for some reason was full of excitement, as if there was nothing that interested her more than early Zionism. Her hand was in the air all the time and that pleading voice of hers, “Teacher, teacher.” And Mommy let her do nearly all the talking. Even Tali came to life a bit. The whole class was ecstatic, answering questions, making guesses, and Mommy walked about in front of them, smiling at everybody, even when someone was talking bullshit and she knew it, disagreeing politely, without giving offence.
The Lover Page 31
