Molkho gazed at them for a moment and asked for some water. “Gladly,” said the Indian. “Or would you prefer a glass of juice?” “Juice will be fine,” answered Molkho, and the girl glided out with dancelike steps to fetch it. “She’s a lovely child,” remarked Molkho. “How old is she?” “Eleven,” said the Indian. “That’s all?” marveled Molkho. “And she needs glasses already?” “Not exactly,” said her father. “She wants to wear them, because she is slightly cross-eyed, and thinks they hide it.”
The girl returned with a large glass of watery yellow liquid. “You forgot to stir it,” said her father. “Never mind,” Molkho told him, still wanting to touch her ebony skin, no matter how lightly, though she seemed too grown-up for him to risk a paternal pat. He took a sip of his drink, which was very bitter, and said to the Indian, who was sitting stock-still and ignoring the papers on the table, as if it were just a matter of time before they went away by themselves, “I’m afraid we’re going to make things difficult for you. You won’t get another penny of government money. We can cut you off without a cent.” “But why?” asked the Indian innocently. “Because you haven’t done anything right here, that’s why,” said Molkho, quietly sifting the papers. “What isn’t right?” asked the Indian wearily. “Everything,” said Molkho. “Nothing is even close to being right. This looks like a criminal case to me, and it will end up with the police.” Although he knew he sounded angry, he felt perfectly calm inside. “Who does this Ben-Ya’ish of yours think he is? I came all the way up here to see him today, and he doesn’t even bother to show up!” “But he will,” said the Indian. “He has to. You can wait for him right here. You can see his house from this window. We’ll know the minute he gets home.” He pointed further up the rocky hillside to a gardenless hut that had not a single patch of green around it. “Maybe I should go talk to his wife,” suggested Molkho. “He doesn’t have any,” said the Indian. “No wife?” “No, he’s still young. He’s only twenty-three.” “Twenty-four,” corrected the girl, who had been listening to every word. “It’s his birthday soon.”
Her father smiled at her. “He has a way with kids. They’re very fond of him,” he explained, telling Molkho that the young man had arrived in the village two years ago as a substitute teacher, had taken a liking to the place, and had done such a good job as an organizer and fund-raiser that he was elected council manager. In fact, he obtained all kinds of things for next to nothing, or even for nothing at all, which was a great help, since everyone had debts and times were so hard that no one could have managed without him. “What kind of things?” Molkho asked. “Everything. Seed. Fodder for the animals and chickens. Cheap clothes.” “And food too,” the girl reminded her father. “Yes,” he nodded, “food too.” “Food?” queried Molkho. “What sort of food?” “Why, canned goods and meat.” “And cake and ice cream too,” said the girl, who appeared to love Ben-Ya’ish dearly. “But where does he get it all from?” asked Molkho anxiously. “From all kinds of organizations and agencies in Tel Aviv,” said the Indian. “He’s there all the time studying, because he’s still working on his BA.” “But not a word of that’s written down here!” exclaimed Molkho in exasperation. “That’s true,” explained the Indian. “It isn’t, but that’s only because it comes from outside funds, not from the village budget.” Molkho felt himself losing his temper. “All right, fine,” he declared, “outside funds are his own business; but here he lists a road that cost ten million shekels, and here he says he’s planted a park. Where is this park of his? I’d like to see it!” And when the Indian said nothing, casting a worried glance at his daughter, he continued sarcastically, “And here it says he bought himself a tractor! Where does he get off buying unauthorized tractors? Doesn’t he know he has to go through proper channels? Look here, the reason I’m here is to get your side of the story before we hand this over to the police.” But still the Indian was silent, his head bowed languidly. “Where’s the road?” demanded Molkho. “Where’s the park? Nothing in these accounts makes any sense!” “He’ll explain everything,” insisted the Indian with dogged obstinacy. “All I did was add up the figures for him. He’ll explain them to you himself.”
All at once, as if the mountain opposite the window had caved in on the house, the bright sunlight faded and Molkho felt as hungry as if he had not eaten all day. Gathering up his papers, he returned them to his briefcase. In the sudden gloom the girl looked as dark as if a black night were under her skin and he jumped to his feet with a start. “Where are you going?” asked the Indian. “Why don’t you wait? He should be here any minute.” “I’m going to have a look at the village,” said Molkho. “But won’t you have lunch with us?” asked the man. “No, thank you,” said Molkho, thinking of his expense-account meal. “If you’ll be so kind as to show me the bathroom first, I think I’ll have a look around.”
Yet, when the girl led him to a room that at first glance looked clean and comfortable, he was shocked to discover that it had no door, just a curtain over the entrance. He relieved himself as quietly as he could, his face toward the open window, through which there was a breathtaking view of a snowcapped Mount Hermon. So the snow is still after me, he thought with a smile, washing his hands. Controlling himself, he kept from peeking at the medicine cabinet and emerged with a friendly glance at the Indian, who, as though lost in thought, had not budged from his place. “If you’E just let your daughter show me the way back to my car,” Molkho told him, “I’ll have myself a little look around.”
And so, again he strode behind her, this time along the main street, her body, thin as a rail, growing longer in the soft, grayish light that seemed a throwback to winter. As they passed beneath a huge pylon that hummed electrically, apparently the relay of a regional grid that seemed to come from and continue to nowhere, he asked her for her name and the name of the cow in the shed, after which, his supply of questions exhausted, he continued to trail after her through the ghostly silence, falling a little behind. There was not a sign of human activity anywhere, let alone a paved road or park, not even the sound of a farm vehicle, though three workers were standing by a fire in a distant field, from which the moist scent of burning brush was wafted on the air. His hunger growing, he kept his eyes on the little bottom bouncing firmly in its tight leotard. What, he wondered, did he find so infatuating about her? Why, it was sheer madness! Suddenly, the horrendously funny, frightening, ghastly thought occurred to him that he could quite unsexually eat her like an animal, literally chew her flesh. Fortunately, she did not seem to guess what the wintry man lagging behind her with his briefcase was thinking and went on leading him with proud but fragile determination past the schoolhouse to his car, around which a crowd of children was swarming like flies, touching the shiny paint and sprawling on the ground to peer up at the chassis. Sternly he made his way among them, aided by the girl, who imperiously began driving them away, though soon she vanished in their midst.
Molkho opened the trunk, laid his briefcase in it, started to drive off, realized he did not know to where, and decided to stop in the little shopping center, where perhaps he could buy some expense-account groceries. He circled the square, which housed a wool store, an appliance store, a stationery store, a vegetable store, and a grocery, coming at last to a small café with a sign that featured a spit of shishkebab, his progress followed by every one of the shopkeepers. Apparently they had heard all about him, and the thought of his new prominence rather pleased him as he stepped out of the car.