“I wish he’d been killed, the monster …”
And we’re so tired we don’t even tell her to shut up.
“You’re driving to Lod for him? What’s the idea?” Asya is amazed.
“It’s for Dafi … so he’ll think twice before expelling her …”
“It won’t do any good … I know him … he’ll expel her … and she deserves it too.”
Dafi listens in silence, quietly chewing a piece of bread, her hair falling over her face, her face puffed up, lately she’s really gone to pieces.
“Pity he wasn’t killed …” she whispers again.
“That’s enough.”
She’s beginning to get on Asya’s nerves. Asya paces about the kitchen in an old nightdress. Suddenly I remember the dream I had.
“You woke me up in the middle of a dream.”
Asya looks at me.
“What was the dream?”
“I don’t remember.”
But as I’m accelerating down the hill, I remember the dream, I even smell it. I was in a big hall, at a sort of meeting, crowds of people were wandering about there, Gabriel among them, his head shaved, pale. I was angry with him, spoke to him harshly, he turned and went away …
A thin silhouette outside the old lady’s house, a flickering cigarette. Na’im is already waiting. These last months he’s grown a lot taller, grown a great mop of hair, matured. Chain-smoking, buying himself new clothes, and all the time taking money from me. I don’t care. A strange boy. What does he go through in the silence with the old lady, whole days? I’ve ruined him completely. This power that money gives me, I must put my mind to him, return him to his village.
The lights are on in the old lady’s house. She’s looking out of a window, her face white, like the face of a corpse come to life.
“Your sweater, Na’im,” she shouts from above and throws the sweater down to the pavement.
“I don’t need it,” he mutters, embarrassed, angry, but he picks the sweater up from the ground.
I get out of the car, wave to her.
“She’s in love with you.”
He turns around to me quickly.
“Who?”
“The old lady.”
“The old lady,” he says softly, seriously, “is way off her rocker.”
I say nothing. There’s a new tone to his voice, cynical, decisive.
We arrive at the garage, Na’im jumps down to open the gate. The watchman is asleep in his shelter, the little dog in his arms is asleep too, they don’t notice us coming in, changing vehicles, leaving the Dodge and climbing aboard the tow truck. Na’im loads a box of tools. Quietly we close the gate behind us, the dog opens his eyes, looks at us affectionately, wags his tail and lays his head on the watchman’s chest.
A clear summer night. The sea lies calm. A grey colour to the sky. The truck runs slowly. I’m very tired. Na’im is silent beside me. I ought to ask him a little about his life, but I haven’t the energy to talk. Now and then I feel him staring at me. Perhaps he would like to say something to me, but he holds back.
We reach the scene of the accident after two hours. From a distance I see the headmaster, pacing back and forth on the road as if he’s walking the corridors of the school, his head wrapped in a sort of white turban, a tall ghostly figure. He shakes my hand, embraces me, his torn shirt stained with blood. “Adam, dear friend, such a catastrophe, never before have I been in an accident …”
He shakes Na’im’s hand as well, ruffles his hair, gives him a little hug, as if he’s one of his pupils. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s an Arab. We walk together arm in arm, treading on glass splinters and fragments of metal. Where is the car? To my astonishment I find it hanging on a tree, as if he had been trying to climb the tree with it. It’s incredible, I can’t help smiling, it’s actually hanging there caught in the branches.
I see the smile on Na’im’s face.
“The car is hopeless …” He follows my gaze.
“No car is hopeless. Only people are.”
He bursts out laughing.
Meanwhile Na’im goes to the truck and lifts down the box of tools, attends to the winch chains, lays out flashing lights on the road. There’s no need to tell him anything.
Two figures appear on the dust bank at the side of the road, lean white-haired Yemenites with rifles in their hands. The night watchmen of the moshav. The headmaster hastens to introduce them to me.
“These dear Jews, they looked after me until you arrived … we had a wonderful conversation … didn’t we? We talked about the Torah.”
He hugs and caresses them too. The two old men look a little dazed from their time spent with Mr. Shwartz. It seems he’s caused quite a stir in the moshav. Lights are on in some of the houses, other figures appear, watching us from a distance.
“What happened exactly?”
A strange story. He was returning from Jerusalem after a long conference on educational matters. Oh, these damned meetings, the endless chattering, all so depressing. At first he intended to stay in Jerusalem overnight, but in the morning there was to be another meeting in Haifa in the office of the city architect, about the new wing that they’re going to add to the school. He decided to return home. Everything was in order, the road was empty, he was quite wide awake. When he was young he used to drive for long hours at night without any problems. In England, before the war, when he was a student at Oxford. He was so engrossed in his memories of England that apparently without realizing it he began slowly straying towards the left. Suddenly a little old black car appeared in the opposite direction, with lights almost blacked out. At the last moment he recovered himself and swerved towards the right, but evidently he swung the wheels too far, and suddenly this tree, this unnecessary tree …
“What happened to the other car?”
Nothing, a light collision, a few scratches. If he had run into it rather than this damned tree the damage might have been less, for him that is, ha, ha, the other car would have been completely squashed, that little old tin box, to say nothing of the men within. And they turned out to be religious, these men, an old rabbi and a young man with side curls, dressed all in black, Naturei Karta or some sect like that. Like a hallucination. What were they doing driving about near the airport after midnight? They stopped, they both got out, they didn’t come too close. Just checked that he was alive and on his feet.
And the old man said softly, from a distance:
“You are aware, sir, that you are to blame …”
What could he say to that?
“Yes, I am to blame.”
Curse them. Anti-Zionists. They didn’t ask him if he needed help, as if they were afraid of getting involved with him.
Na’im is already playing out the cable. This tow is going to be very complicated. A light breeze passes over us. Better get rid of the headmaster so he won’t get in the way. I persuade him to go home. He’s easily persuaded, he’s quite exhausted. He goes to the two Yemenites, takes leave of them, writes down their names in a little notebook, promises to send them a book, his own book apparently, to continue their conversation. We flag down a car, bundle him into it and send him northwards.
Now Na’im and I start assessing the situation. One of the front wheels is really embedded in the tree, wrapped around it. Na’im crawls between the tree and the crushed hood to free the wheel, I pass him the tools. A good boy. What would I do without him? For a full hour he struggles there until he succeeds in freeing the wheel, comes out covered in sweat, takes the end of the cable, ties it to his belt and gets down on the ground again, crawling right underneath the car. It’s a wonder how the headmaster survived. Dafi wasn’t far wrong, he could easily have been killed. He himself doesn’t realize how lucky he was.
We start to move the car. Pieces fall off it, a headlight, a bumper, a door handle. Na’im explains to me how the truck must be positioned, at what angle, the boy’s already starting to give me instructions. But I don’t care, I just want to get the job d
one and go home. Na’im operates the winch and starts drawing the car away from the tree, but the tree doesn’t want to be parted from it, branches break off, clinging to the car. A small crowd watches us in silence. The dawn is breaking fast. Birds chirp. On the back of the tow truck hangs a wrecked car wearing a laurel of leaves. A strange sight. Cars passing on the road slow down, people stare curiously through their windows. Somebody stops. “How many killed?” he asks Na’im but he doesn’t answer.
His clothes are torn and dirty, his hands cut, his face oily, but there’s no denying he’s learned a lot in these night trips. Now he secures the car with extra ropes and I move the truck to the side of the road.
It’s already daylight. Na’im goes to collect the tools, switches off the flashing lights on the road and picks up the bits that have fallen off the car. I stand still, exhausted, smoking a cigarette, my clothes wet with dew. Na’im comes to me and shows me a piece of black metal. “Is this a part of it too?” I glance at it. “No, that looks like part of the other car.” He’s about to throw it away in the grass at the roadside but suddenly I stop him. Something in the shape of the metal reminds me of something. I snatch it from his hand. I recognize it at once. A piece of the bumper of a black Morris. The same model. Nobody can compete with me when it comes to an eye for car parts. I feel elated. Rapidly the light grows stronger. The morning mists have gone. A day of hamsin ahead of us. I stand at the roadside, a piece of bumper in my hand. Black, admittedly, but belonging to a 1947 Morris. Clear and living evidence. I examine it closely, turning it over in my hand, there are drops of dew on it. Na’im lies back on the bank beside me, looking at me angrily. He doesn’t understand what the delay is. I examine the paint, the paintwork is crude, an amateur job.
“A small screwdriver …” I whisper.
And the screwdriver is there in my hand. Carefully I scrape off the layer of black paint, blue shows through underneath, the colour of the Morris that I’ve been searching for desperately since the end of the war.
I trembled –
NA’IM
What’s with him? He’s got hold of a bit of metal and has fallen in love with it, doesn’t want to let it go. Has he gone soft in the head? And I used to think of him as a little god.
I’m so tired. He hasn’t done anything here. He doesn’t work now, he doesn’t bend down, doesn’t move, he’s even stopped giving advice. Already he’s sure I can do it all without him. The cables, the hitching up, the winch. Before he has time to tell me anything I already know what he’s thinking and I do it by myself. If he had to do the job by himself the car would still be hanging in the tree. His mind’s somewhere else, you can tell. All the time looking around for something like he’s waiting for something and he hasn’t decided yet what it is.
What is this, is he sick? Fingering that bit of metal like I’ve given him gold. It’s morning already, what does he think he’s doing? How much longer are we going to stand here? I’m nearly asleep on my feet. This is the hardest tow job we’ve had yet. That old man planted his car in the middle of that tree, smashed it up, I still don’t see how he got out of it alive. And I’ve got myself torn and scratched all over, crawling under the car. Who for? What for? If only Dafi was here. God, sometimes I miss her terribly. But she’s not here, she’s finished with me, no point in trying any more.
What does he want now? He’s off his head. What’s he thinking about? He might at least give me some money. He’s got so much money and I’ve done a real professional job for him here. He reckons if he gives me a hundred pounds now and then that’s enough. What’s a hundred pounds these days? I can spend twenty or thirty pounds in just one outing, quite easily. An average sort of meal, the movies, a few nuts and a pack of Kent and I’m on my way home with only coins in my pockets. Lucky I’m not smoking cigars yet or inviting some lady out to dinner. Give me some money at least. Once I used to take it carefully, shyly, now I just grab it off him and stuff it straight in my pocket. So what? I haven’t yet seen him empty his wallet for me.
When will we be finished here? Why doesn’t he take this bit of metal home with him and think about it there? Why waste all this time? The smashed-up car is hanging on the winch all covered with leaves. No wonder they’re all slowing down on the road and staring at it, looking for blood.
“How many killed?” somebody shouts.
That’s all they’re interested in. Corpses. I don’t answer, I’m not getting involved with anyone here. The car’s no loss to anyone. The insurance company will pay, why should anyone worry? And they’ll repair it. I’ve seen cars in the garage in a worse state than this one, seen them cutting them in half like a cake, getting a complete half from another wrecked car and stitching the two halves together and making a new car. It’s like a real ceremony in the garage, everyone standing around and watching them weld the two halves together, slap on a fresh coat of paint and there’s a new car ready to be sent to the dealers in Tel Aviv.
I shall sleep here on this bank. I wish now I hadn’t given him that bit of metal that I asked him about. Now he’s whispering to himself, the man’s gone bananas, he’s asking for a small screwdriver.
What does he want with a screwdriver?
Here take this screwdriver, I hope it makes you happy, just make up your mind and move.
He starts scraping paint off the metal. He’s gone right off his head. I’m going to have to leave him, I’ll have trouble from him yet. Maybe I should go back to the village, persuade Father to send me back to school. I’ve missed only a year.
A twig fell on …
On what?
Sometimes I wish I was dead.
The piece of metal isn’t black anymore but blue. Big deal. But this scraping of his has got him all excited. He jumps into the truck and shouts at me.
“Hey, let’s go, what are you waiting for?”
Go fuck yourself, it’s not me who’s holding things up.
I’m getting out –
DAFI
What’s this? She’s not going straight back to bed. What’s the matter with her? Sitting in the kitchen beside the empty coffee cup and losing her sleep. Mommy’s wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. Incredible. The house is full of light, Daddy’s gone to rescue Shwartzy, poor man, all for my sake. And Mommy’s in no hurry, not tired, giving me an understanding look, studying me as if she hasn’t seen me for a long time. Touching me, trying to start a conversation, smiling.
A wild happiness takes hold of me.
“You woke me in the middle of a dream …”
Strange to think of her having dreams, but, I suppose, why not?
“What was the dream?” I ask politely.
“A real nightmare. I dreamed about you.”
“A nightmare? What was it?”
“A strange dream, awfully confused, we had gone to some far-off country and you were sick there.”
And suddenly she pulls me to her and hugs me. I really like this dream of hers, about me being sick. I hug her in return. Her stale old smell. She’s not turned completely to stone after all.
“A serious illness?” I ask.
“No,” she says hastily, hiding something, “what does it matter … it was just nonsense … were you awake when the headmaster called?”
“Yes.”
She shifts out of the embrace, very slowly.
“Still can’t sleep at night? What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I just can’t sleep.”
“Are you in love with somebody?”
“No. Why do you say that?”
“Nobody?” She smiles at me so sweetly. “That’s impossible …”
“Why’s it impossible?”
“Because there are some very nice boys in your class.” “How do you know?”
“I taught in your class once, didn’t I? I saw some … really charming boys.”
That’s what she thinks –
“Who?”
“I can’t remember … I was just struck by some of the faces.�
�
“But who?”
She’s still stroking me, absently.
“It doesn’t matter. I just said … I was joking … so what do you do when you can’t sleep, do you read in bed?”
“No. I walk about, eat something, listen to music …”
“Music? In the night? I never hear anything.”
“You and Daddy sleep like a pair of corpses, if somebody blew up the house you wouldn’t notice.”
“That’s odd. In the daytime I don’t notice that you’re particularly tired. It amazes me how you get through the night, all alone like that. I wish I could do with less sleep … but don’t you get bored by yourself in the dark house … time creeping by so slowly …”
“It’s not that bad … sometimes when I go out for a little walk it’s really very nice …”
“What?”
“You heard me …”
“You go out of the house at night? Are you crazy? You know what can happen to a girl walking the streets at midnight …”
“Two o’clock in the morning, not midnight. There’s nobody around then …”
“Dafi, you must stop this …”
“But why all the fuss? What can happen? Everything’s quiet … and there’s the civil patrol … nice old men …”
“Dafi, that’s enough, no arguments …”
“What can happen to me? I don’t go far. Down to the corner where Yigal was killed and back again …”
She goes pale. The hand lying on the table clenches to a fist … she wants to say something but the words don’t come. I shall have to help her.
“But you told me …”
“Who told you?” she snaps.
“Daddy.”
“When did he tell you?” She’s all on fire. “A long time ago.”
She starts biting her nails, in agony, bewildered. I carry on in an innocent, patient tone.
“But what is there to hide … why am I not allowed to know? Daddy said he was killed at once and didn’t suffer.”
The Lover Page 34
