I hope I’m not disturbing you, Rabbi Zakian, he says, and his brother replies, laughing to reassure him: heaven forbid, you caught me between lessons and besides, dear brother, I always have time for you. For you, anything. Moshe begins to tell him, first in half-sentences, as if he were hesitating, and then it flows out of him like a spring. All the words that he didn’t have the day before with Sima are miraculously there and he tells his brother everything. For me, God is home, he says, and for Sima, a prison. For me, God is peace, and for her, it’s like having someone watch her every move. Menachem listens patiently for a long time, hmming every once in a while so Moshe will know he’s still on the line. He lets his brother finish telling the whole story before he sighs and says: I am here for you. Then Moshe asks: but tell me what you think I should do. And Menachem replies: What I think is of no importance, and this is all I will say — the way will be illuminated for the righteous and joy will come to the upright. Moshe, not sure that he understands the meaning of the verse, persists and asks again: but what exactly should I do so things don’t get worse? Before Menachem has time to answer, someone knocks on the phone booth glass. The soldier, his eyes still red, is trying to tell him something. He uncovers his watch, presses it against the glass and shows Moshe the time. Moshe looks and is horrified. The break ended long ago. Shivers of shame run down his spine. He has to end the conversation right now. He thanks his brother, says goodbye and hurries after the soldier to the bus. The passengers are already waiting there, and one of them shouts at him: what a disgrace. How could you forget about us, the passengers on your bus? Someone else says: it’s because Egged’s a monopoly, so they do whatever they want. Mortified, Moshe makes his way through the crowd to the bus door. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before.
*
So, what do you think? I ask Noa a few mornings later, when she comes over for coffee again. Her eyes are wandering over the walls as if they are cameras and I feel bad that I didn’t have time to tidy up before she came. The only pictures we have on the walls are paintings of vases we got as gifts from some distant uncle of Moshe’s who thinks he’s Van Gogh, and giant photos of Moshe’s brothers and his parents at our wedding. So the place should at least be neat. Nu, I push her, I’m the one who talks the whole time. So what about you? What do you think? I lean on my elbows and wait for her verdict. She starts talking. Stops. Starts talking. Stops. What are you afraid of, I say and laugh at her. Tell me what you feel, from your guts, don’t think too much. But who am I to express an opinion, I’m not … she protests. I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. Don’t worry, I won’t take it like the Torah from Mount Sinai. All I want is another opinion. OK, she says, giving in, and she takes a toothpick and holds it between her fingers like a cigarette. First of all — she starts taking puffs of the toothpick — I think you should go and see that kindergarten before you decide about it. By the way, I wouldn’t mind going with you. We have a project to do on religion and God, and the truth is that we’ve already handed it in. I took pictures full of shoes in display windows to symbolise the western world’s worship of brand names, but the lecturer said I was running away from an emotional confrontation with the subject. And second of all? I ask, urging her on, and I take a toothpick too. Second of all, I think that this whole thing is deeper than whether you choose this kindergarten or a different one. Which means …? I’m still pulling her opinion out of her like you pull a tissue out of a box with an opening that’s too small. It means, she says, chewing on the toothpick, based on how strongly you feel about it, that this is all about … About a principle and you have to see whether you’re ready to give up on it. Whether you’re really ready to give up on it. Because if you’re not really ready and you give up on it anyway, it’ll keep on eating you up inside. Ow! The toothpick stabbed her tongue.
Thanks, I say. Feel like something sweet? She stares at me, surprised by the quick change of subject. She doesn’t know me yet. With me, there’s no going on and on about nothing. Once I get it, I get it. We both put our smoked toothpicks in the ashtray and I get up to empty it and bring a few biscuits. How’s things with you and Amir, I ask on the way, do you feel good in our apartment? Yes, she says, sure. You know, I tell her, that’s the first place we lived in. Right after we got married. It’s our first apartment together too, she says. There’s something strange about the way she says that. Her tone gets lower towards the end of the sentence, like lips that open up to smile and then drop at the corners. No, more like a smile that disappears too fast. I go back to the table with a full plate. She eats a biscuit and it knocks her off her feet. How … what … what is this incredible thing, she asks and takes another one from the plate and brings it up to her nose. It’s baba, I explain. Moshe’s mother taught me how to make it. Dough with a thick layer of date spread and nuts and all kinds of spices. I just have to take some for Amir, he loves sweets, she says. But again, instead of saying it happily, she says it as if she should take him some biscuits but she doesn’t really feel like it. She wets a finger and picks a few baba crumbs off the plate with it, puts the finger in her mouth and gives me a different kind of look, like she’s sizing me up, the look of a personnel manager. I fill Lilach’s bottle and wait. If she wants to, she’ll tell me. She keeps on picking up crumbs and doesn’t say anything. What’s her problem, I ask myself, insulted, I’m not good enough for her? I didn’t pass the test? So I don’t have a degree, so what. You don’t need a degree to understand people. And besides, why should I tell her about myself and about Moshe if she doesn’t tell me anything? I shush myself and put the teat into Lilach’s mouth. A minute ago you said she’d decide whether to tell you or not, so what’s your problem? I scold myself. Calm down. Just don’t blurt out some nasty remark, like you do sometimes when you feel insulted. Sharona hasn’t talked to you for two years because you told her that her little boy was fat, after she had the nerve to say something about Liron’s haircut. Better change the subject.
Do you remember that Arab who came to ask for water, I ask. Noa nods. So listen to this, I say. Day before yesterday, Gina, Moshe’s mother, comes back from Doga with bags full of food, and that worker jumps out from behind her, asks her if she needs help and offers to carry her bags to the house. She says no, thank you. But he insists. Free delivery, lady, free delivery, he says. Then he grabs the handle of a bag and starts pulling it. But she doesn’t let him. I don’t need delivery. I don’t need any help. So the two of them keep tugging at the bag till it tears, and everything in it — oranges, pears, onions, a box of eggs — falls out all over the pavement. The minute the Arab sees that, he gets scared, does an about-face and disappears, leaving Grandma Gina standing there in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, with one shoe covered in egg yolk and oranges all around as if she was the tree and they all fell off her. Lucky I was home. I heard her screaming hutmani! hutmani! — which is oh my God in Kurdish. I went outside, helped her pick up everything — not that she said thank you — put it all away in the fridge and then I went right to Madmoni to complain. Naturally, he wasn’t there. Or the workers either, because they have some kind of holiday and they knocked off early. His wife said they’d take care of it right away, but today I saw that worker get out of the pickup. How do you like that? He has a lot of nerve, don’t you think? All the dust on the windows and the hammers banging in the morning isn’t enough, now this?