The girl jumped up from the rug like a dog following its master and the three of them stepped outside. There was a sharp, dawnlike chill in the air, so that Molkho, setting out for his car with his two escorts following him, imagined for a moment that the dying evening light would soon begin to grow brighter. The cow mooed sadly in its shed, and he remembered hearing the same sound in his sleep. It was a perfect spring evening, free of all dross of day. Refreshed and rested, he arrived in the shopping center, which was now full of life; in fact, such a crowd was gathered around his car, in its midst many children, that it almost seemed as if the whole village had been waiting for him to awake from his prodigious slumber, which had produced in them an uneasy, though by no means unhopeful, expectancy. “What, you’re going?” they asked, pressing around him. “Of course,” he smiled. “But he’s coming! We’ll find him! If you’ve already gone to the trouble...” Yet Molkho just went on smiling at the crowd, which did all it could to detain him, afraid of what he might say about the council manager, whom it wanted so badly to protect. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he promised. “I’ll put off writing the report a little longer. Tell him to call me for an appointment in the morning.” And stepping into his car, he unlocked the gear shift, reconnected the ignition, fastened the seat belt, started the engine, and sat there letting it warm up, the beam of the headlights sweeping over the mass of children, among them the strange, tall girl. Can I really be in love with her? wondered Molkho.
He was given directions to reach the main road and drove off. After a few kilometers he stopped to wipe the front windshield. Back in the driver’s seat, with the ceiling light switched off, he suddenly imagined his wife sitting next to him in her seat belt, leaning against the headrest as she had done last spring, when the vertebrae in her neck were already rotted by her illness and he had to drive with great care to keep from jarring her. It can’t go on like this, he told himself, not daring to glance at her, laying his head hopelessly on the steering wheel. It’s not my fault. This loneliness will be the death of me.
THE TRIP HOME took less time than he thought, because he knew the way and drove quickly on the empty roads without stopping. Within forty minutes he was on the Safed-Acre highway with the lights of Haifa Bay twinkling in the distance, speeding by the Karmiel turnoff without giving a lift to the lone soldier who tried desperately to flag him down, for he had not yet bought seat covers and was afraid the man’s rifle might poke a hole in the upholstery. For a change, he arrived home to find his youngest son doing homework rather than sprawled in a stupor before the television. The boy, so it seemed, was getting used to spending long hours at home by himself. Better yet, not a single new can had been opened in the kitchen and the leftovers had been eaten from the pots. He’s beginning to shape up, Molkho thought; he even talked freely to his father about school and friends, and later got out of bed because he had forgotten to give him the message that his grandmother had called. “What about?” asked Molkho anxiously. About whether Molkho knew anyone in the immigration department of the Jewish Agency, his son told him. “The immigration department?” repeated Molkho in a puzzled voice. “What on earth does she want with them?”
He walked about the dark, quiet house, patiently carrying his wakefulness around with him. The stew he had eaten for lunch was a distant memory now, but the delicious afternoon nap tingled on in the cells of his body, which felt as if rubbed down with liniment. Going to bed was out of the question. He drew up a list of the day’s expenses to present to the office in the morning and then began leafing through the family albums, looking at pictures of his children when they were little, at his wedding pictures, at pictures of himself as a young man, at pictures of his parents and cousins, and finally, with a sense of incredulity, at himself as a baby lying on a white sheet. It was 1 A.M. when he got into bed, and even then, he lay for a long while without shutting his eyes before falling asleep.
Upon arriving in the office the next morning, he was told by his secretary that the council manager of Zeru’a had called and wished to speak to him. Swearing under his breath, he called back and once again heard children singing to the strains of an accordion at the other end of the line, over which the quickly summoned music teacher informed him that Mr. Ben-Ya’ish had arrived half an hour after his departure and had been very sorry to miss him. “I’m very sorry too,” said Molkho quietly. “He wants to explain everything,” said the music teacher. “Then he can do it right here in my office,” answered Molkho dryly. “No, he can’t,” said the music teacher. “He wants to show you what the money has been spent on. You have to see it yourself.” “Where is he?” asked Molkho after a moment’s hesitation. “Let me speak to him.” The council manager, however, was not available just then, though the music teacher promised that he would be there whenever Molkho wished to come, and would even send a car for him. “He’ll send a car for me?” “Yes, that’s a promise!” “In that case,” said Molkho over the phone, calculating the profit he could make by still claiming car expenses, “call me again tomorrow.”
He hung up and put the file aside. Later that morning he was buzzed by the director’s office. Had he gone to the village? What was the story there? He phrased his answer carefully. The case indeed looked suspicious, just as they had thought: the council manager, a young student of questionable experience, had apparently diverted funds earmarked for public projects to the inhabitants of the village, using the money to buy them food and clothing at wholesale prices. There was no indication that he had bothered collecting taxes either. But the fellow himself hadn’t been there, and perhaps he deserved a chance to clear himself.
Several days went by without a call from the village. That weekend, daylight saving time began, and the days seemed suddenly endless. One evening, just as Molkho had decided to hand the file over to the legal department, the music teacher called him at home. She was sorry for the late hour, but could he tell her what his answer was? “You know what?” said Molkho. “If he wants me up there so badly, let him send that car for me.” And so it was decided that on Thursday, between 10 and 11 A.M., the car would pick him up at home. He had already hung up and was wandering distractedly about the house, excited by the thought of revisiting the village, when he realized that he had forgotten to ask if there would be a ride back to Haifa too.
THE NEXT DAY he informed the office that he was making one more trip to the Galilee and received permission and authorization for expenses. On Thursday morning, which proved to be muggy and overcast, he went to do some shopping, returning home to find the cleaning woman, whom he had not encountered in weeks. At first, he tried keeping out of her way by shutting himself in his room, but she seemed in a particularly gay mood, singing while she beat the rugs and coming in to talk to him, pleased to find him at home. “You’re looking better, Mr. Molkho,” she said in the end. “Much better.” When she finally departed, leaving a silent, sparkling house, it was already twelve o’clock. The promised car had not arrived. At one he went to the kitchen to make himself something to eat. If I want to claim lunch expenses, he thought gloomily, I’ll have to write myself out my own receipt. As soon as he finished eating, he decided, he would summarize the file and get rid of it.
At two the doorbell rang. It was the driver, a burly Arab of about Molkho’s age who came from a village near Zeru’a. “How come you’re so late?” Molkho scolded him. Despite the man’s explanation that he had lost his way for two hours and couldn’t find the address, he debated whether to go; but in the end, the thought of the girl and the car expenses prevailed. “You’ll have to bring me back, though,” he warned the driver, who, however, disclaimed all knowledge of any such responsibility. His job was to drive Molkho to Zeru’a; perhaps someone else would return him. Again Molkho hesitated; then he went to get the file, put it in his briefcase, added a pair of pajamas and some slippers wrapped in a newspaper just in case, and put on some old, heavy shoes. “Let’s go,” he grumpily said to the Arab, locking the door of the house.