He turned and headed on toward the girl’s house, passing it, however, and continuing on to Ben-Ya’ish’s hut, where he knocked on the door and received no response. Through an open shutter he caught a glimpse of the interior: an unmade bed, a television, a video, a set of speakers, and a pile of dirty dishes on the table, which indicated that the occupant had left not long ago. Circling the dwelling through tall, thorny weeds, he glanced up the hillside and made out an old wooden outhouse that looked like an upended coffin. It still had a door, though, he saw as he approached it, clearing his way through the dense undergrowth. The ceiling was low, no higher than a man’s head, and more weeds sprouted from the cesspit. Shutting the door behind him, the wind moaning dully through the dry wooden planks as though through a stifling hand, he unzipped his pants and tried relieving himself, but the trickle that came out only increased his sense of debility. Why, a person might think I was in love with that little dark girl, he thought, that I meant to wait right here for her to grow up! Walking back down the hill, he knocked on the door of her house.
The Indian opened it. “Ben-Ya’ish isn’t here yet,” said Molkho with a show of calm. “It looks like I’ve wasted my time, and so I’ll be heading back. Just please tell him that I was here and that I’m sore as hell,” he continued, not feeling sore in the least. “If he wants to tell me his side of the story—if he has any story to tell—he can try looking for me, because I’m through looking for him.”
The Indian listened earnestly, at his back the shadowy room full of books. “But what’s the rush?” he demurred. “He’ll come. He has to. You can rest here while you wait.” “What for?” asked Molkho. “I’ve waited long enough.” “But you have to have patience,” said the Indian. “Why don’t you come in. I’ll give you a bed to lie down in.” “Your wife isn’t home yet?” asked Molkho. “My wife? She doesn’t come home until five.” And when Molkho said nothing, he set about persuading him again. “Why don’t you come in? He’ll feel bad if he knows you didn’t wait.”
Molkho felt himself waver, wondering where the girl was. Hopelessly he looked around the room full of books and at the kitchen table with its unwashed lunch dishes, hearing the wind whistle behind him. “I don’t want to impose,” he said. “But it’s no imposition at all,” said the Indian. “I’ll be keeping you from your work,” explained Molkho, still in the doorway. “You won’t be keeping me from anything,” insisted the Indian. “Perhaps I could lie down in another room,” suggested Molkho; it could even be the girl’s. “Right here in the living room will be fine,” said the Indian. “I was just arranging some books I brought home.” But seeing that Molkho was unyielding, he said, “All right, come on in. I’ll find you someplace else.” Entering the girl’s room, he emerged a minute later with her, still in her leotard and big glasses, her books and homework in her arms. “Come this way. You’ll have all the quiet you want,” he cajoled, pointing to the girl’s bedroom, though Molkho was disappointed to see that it did not look like a schoolgirl’s room at all and was full of heavy old furniture, even a fourposter bed.
The Indian laid a gentle hand on his arm, as one might do to a tired old man. “But I don’t want to impose on your daughter either,” murmured Molkho weakly, already sinking into the soft bed. Dismissing the objection out of hand, the Indian brought a pillow and a blanket, lowered the blinds, and declared, “Now you wait for him here. He’ll feel bad if you don’t,” as if making clear that what mattered most was not the accounts or even the pains taken by Molkho, but rather the tender feelings of the young council manager. “But it’s totally inconsiderate of him,” said Molkho, smiling wryly from the bed, on which he sat with an air of noblesse oblige, though in fact it surprised him how happy and peaceful he felt. “He had an appointment with me!” “Why don’t you take your shoes off,” said the Indian.
But Molkho left them on, remaining seated on the bed until the man had left and shut the door behind him. She wouldn’t have liked this one bit, he reflected, thinking of his wife, who was always careful to observe the proprieties, of which imposing on strangers was not one. Taking a volume of a children’s encyclopedia from the girl’s desk, he placed it on the blanket, lay down with his shoes on it, and shut his eyes, abandoning himself to the wind that shrieked and stopped, shrieked and stopped, like some infernal machine. It’s a rockaby-baby wind, he thought happily, dozing off, only to awake with a start ten minutes later to discover that he had been in a deep sleep. The only sound in the house was the purr of the refrigerator through the kitchen wall. He rose, went to the window, raised the blinds, and stood looking out at the mountains and the cowshed, inhaling the clean country air. What am I doing here? he wondered. You’d think I had no house or children of my own. But his tiredness welled irresistibly inside him, like a firm but gentle hand that wrestled him down, and taking off his shoes, he plumped the pillow and lay deliciously down again on the honey-sweet bed. Just look where you’ve landed me this time, he whispered mournfully to his wife, falling asleep in an instant.
Several times he sought to rouse himself, yet each time he only plunged deeper into sleep, wetting the pillow slightly with his drool, so that when he awoke at last, the room was dark. Water was dripping somewhere in the house, and the reddish tongues of the sunset licked at the slats of the blinds. It was six o’clock; he had been sleeping for over three hours. Aghast, he sat up, yet at once sank exhaustedly back onto the pillow. Then, more slowly, he sat up again, put on his shoes, folded the blanket, returned the book to the desk, donned his jacket, smoothed his hair, and cautiously opened the door.
There, crouched at his feet and mopping the floor with a rag, was a young and very pregnant woman of Middle Eastern appearance—the mother who worked in the shoe factory. Molkho reddened. She looked up at him suspiciously, almost hostilely, as if his sleep were an act of impertinence. Behind her, in the kitchen, the Indian was cooking in an apron, while the girl knelt on the living room rug doing homework with ink-stained fingers, her glasses tinted a smoky color as if by virtue of the effort she was making. All three of them had apparently been doing their best to let him sleep. But before he could apologize for his thoughtlessly long nap or blame it on the mountain air, the Indian announced dolefully, “He still isn’t back from Tel Aviv, he wasn’t on the last bus, and we don’t know where he is. Maybe he got the date wrong.” “More likely he’s just scared of me,” said Molkho, standing there grumpily unkempt, as if his sleep had been a particularly strenuous form of exercise. “And I don’t blame him either.” The girl’s mouth dropped and suddenly it struck him that these people were scared of him too. “If you could just wait a little longer,” said the Indian. “He may have caught a ride with someone.” Molkho smiled at him sardonically. “Only the Messiah is worth waiting that long for. But it’s not your fault, and I see your wife’s tired,” he said, “so I won’t disturb you anymore.” In fact, the woman, who was standing in a corner, seemed less tired than alarmed; despite her youth, she looked rather worn and remote from her husband and daughter. “I’ll be off, then,” said Molkho. “It’s dark out already, and I’m running in a new car and can’t drive fast.” “All right, I’ll walk you to it,” said the Indian, wiping his hands on his apron.