*
The book of books in Noa and Amir’s apartment: One Hundred Years of Solitude. Amir started reading it first, but Noa commandeered it. Ever since, they’ve been arguing, half jokingly, half seriously, about who has the right to read it. Unhand that book, Jose Arcadio Buendia, Noa says and throws a pillow at Amir. Sorry, Amir replies, but it’s too late, Remedios Moscote, my dear. When he informs her one day on the phone from Tel Aviv that he might be late, she tells him to hurry up, but she’s really thinking, this is great. Now she can dive into the pages of the book without worrying he’s about to come back. It isn’t nice to say, but lately, she has to admit that she has a much better time when he isn’t here. She can sit quietly at her light table. She can spend hours choosing negatives. She can just rest and play around with ideas without worrying that he’ll interrupt. And screw things up.
For Liron, the book of the year is Atlantis, the Kingdom under the Sea. Moshe suggests to him gently, over and over again, how about trying a different book today? But Liron’s soul is bound to Atlantis, and he won’t agree. His eyes gleaming with excitement, as if this were the first time, he listens to Moshe read to him once again about the lost kingdom. About dragons breathing fire so hot that even water can’t put it out. About knights talking together at the bottom of the sea, with no bubbles coming through their lips. About whales that live in wrecked ships. And more. So much more. From her cot, Lilach the baby is also listening to the adventures of the deep. It’s not clear whether she understands, but the story helps her fall asleep. And Sima, the mother, is enjoying a few rare moments of rest. She glances at Moshe and the children and, despite herself, a feeling of warmth surges through her breast. It’s not easy to be angry at a father like him. On the other hand, she hardens her heart. Which kindergarten Liron goes to is a matter of principle because it will determine his future. She can’t give in. She has to fight for the boy and she has to win.
Yotam’s parents, for their part, aren’t thinking about the future. For them, the future has no meaning. Every night, before she goes to bed, Yotam’s mother prays that she’ll wake up in the morning and discover she’s been dreaming. So how can she think about the future. Or the present. Before Gidi died, they used to go out on Saturday trips with friends, the Lundys. Before Gidi died, she used to take Yotam’s father ballroom dancing in the community centre on Sundays. Now his head is always down. He can barely drag himself around. He comes to life only when the newspapers call. Or that damned Forum for Peace and Security. And she can barely move from place to place. She can hardly get through the days. She’d been a bookworm once. The people at the bookshop used to put aside selected titles they thought she’d need. But now she finds she just can’t read. She puts on her glasses, she tries, God knows. But thoughts slip away from her. Like shadows.
At the Madmonis’, there isn’t much reading going on either. Sometimes Nayim brings a Jewish newspaper with him. Saddiq already knows that he shouldn’t read the front page. It give him bad dreams. Since Itzhak Rabin died, everything seems to be coming apart at the seams. (And fate laughs: the Jews always said they couldn’t make peace with the Arab countries because too much depended on a single dictator who might suddenly be forced to flee.) So Saddiq leaves the headlines and takes the sports pages. He checks the English football scores, to see how his team, Liverpool, did that day.
And he peers over the top of the newspaper at the house across the way.
*
I climbed up the ramp that Amin built so I could read the sports pages where no one would bother me. And then, all of a sudden, I saw the door. I couldn’t see it before because we hadn’t built that high yet, but now, standing at the height of the electric wires and looking down, it stood out between the branches and leaves of the tree. A heavy door, made of iron, with engravings on the sides. Just like I remembered it. When we lived there, the door was at the front, naturally. With the Jews who live across from Madmoni, it’s the back door that leads nowhere. I slapped my forehead, why didn’t I think of that? I remembered the house from a different direction, and whenever I looked at it these last few months it was from the wrong direction. That’s why I couldn’t decide. I was so excited that I finally understood, I almost fell off the ramp; it’s a good thing I didn’t, because we don’t have insurance. I grabbed one of the iron bars, wiped my forehead with my shirt and looked at the house and the street. I tried to picture how the house looked when you saw it from the other side. And then, all of a sudden, while I was stretching myself to see better, I saw the old Jewish lady, the one who lives in the house, walking down the street carrying bags full of shopping. Without thinking too much, I jumped off the ramp, squeezed through the concrete pillars, crossed the street and ran up to her. I wanted to ask her to let me in, just for a minute, to see what was inside, to be sure, but my running scared her and she dropped all her bags on the pavement.
I was ashamed of myself, the way I scared a lady my mother’s age, so I bent down and started picking up all her stuff to put it back in the bags — cottage cheese, oranges, onions — but she started yelling thief! thief! and she hit me on the head with a baguette. I put my hands on my head and she kept on hitting my fingers, the way Ali Ahvis, the arithmetic teacher, used to hit us with a ruler. Stop, madam, stop, I’m helping you, I’m giving you a free delivery, I said, trying to explain to her, but she kept on hitting me with a baguette in one hand and a carrot in the other, and meanwhile, people started looking out of windows all around us. So I left her — who needs trouble like that? — and ran back to Madmoni. Luckily, the pickup had just come to drive us home before the neighbours had a chance to come outside and kick up a fuss. I even saw the old lady’s daughter — I think that’s her daughter, the one with the tiger eyes — come running over to her, before the pickup turned the corner. Ya Saddiq, inta majnoon, are you crazy? Amin asked and twisted his finger in the air like a screw. You want to get us all in trouble? And Nayim said, dahil allah, God help us if Rami the contractor hears about this, we’re finished. They were sitting across from me in the pickup and their eyes were red from the dust that gets into them every day. Allah satr, I reassured them. Nothing happened. All I did was help an old lady carry her bags. Is it my fault that she’s crazy? And besides, Rami needs us. To finish the building. Who else can finish the building? Angels?
*
The paper boy isn’t an angel or a cherub or a Beitar fan. He’s an older man. A factory manager who was fired two months ago and would rather deliver papers than be unemployed. And, besides, the early mornings when he doesn’t have to reveal his shame to the world are a time he enjoys. His wife is the only person to whom he told the truth. To his son he explained that the factory had a big order and he had to go in early because there was a lot of work to do. His voice shook when he lied, but the son — his mobile pressed to his ear — didn’t even hear.
Four-thirty in the morning. The sun is still only a rumour in the sky. The father is chugging along the street on his scooter tossing newspapers at the houses as he passes by. On the corner of Victory and Convoy Streets, a speeding car comes hurtling towards him out of the blue. He veers away and avoids a collision at the last moment. That’s the only thing he can do. But the street is slick and the scooter is old, and before he realises what’s happening, he’s sprawled face down on the ground, which is wet and cold. The car screeches to a halt. Three young men get out and walk tentatively towards him. He gets to his feet and waves his finger at them, ready to tell them it’s all their fault. What do you think you’re doing! In the middle of a residential street! You’re lucky I don’t call the police! But before he begins to speak, he sees through blurry eyes that one of the three is his oldest son. What are you doing here? he shouts, why aren’t you at home? The boy goes up to him, clasps his hands behind his back, and replies with some questions of his own. Are you OK? Are you hurt? Are you OK? I think so, the father says, feeling a bruised thigh, I just got knocked around a little. I’ll be all right. But why are you riding around at this time of night? We were at a party, is the son’s stammered reply, we just didn’t notice the time. You just didn’t notice … just didn’t notice … The father repeats his son’s words and one of the boys, probably the driver, lowers his eyes. But Dad, what are you doing here at four in the morning? the son asks, his voice full of surprise. And what are all those newspapers for? He picks a paper up off the street, looks at it and then gives his father a look he can’t ignore. Now it’s the father’s turn to be silent, to become reacquainted with his shoes. He steals a glance at his son’s friends in the hope they’ll understand that the answer won’t be given while they’re there. And after a few moments of silence (four people standing in the middle of the street, awkwardness filling the air) the friends say a polite excuse-us, and disappear into the darkness in their car.