Crickets chirp. Dogs bark. A father and son stand facing each other in the dark. They don’t know what to say to each other. The son is thinking: so this is why his father has been going to sleep so early and hardly speaks to his mother. This is why his eyes are so sad and you hardly ever hear him laugh. The father wonders whether it’s time to stop hiding. Or maybe he should say he’s doing a favour for a friend. But he decides to tell the truth in the end. The son doesn’t say a word, and he can feel his lower lip quiver. When his father has finished, he looks at the newspapers scattered on the street and asks, do you still have a lot more to deliver? It looks like we really ruined your morning. Maybe I can help you out. The father presses the light switch on his watch, and is upset to see how late it is. He really doesn’t need to get fired again. Getting fired from the factory caused him enough pain. When he hears what his son says, he hesitates: no, it’s too late. Go home to bed. You know your mother will be sitting up waiting for you. Don’t worry, the son insists, it’ll go faster if we do it together. He bends down and gathers the newspapers, one by one. The father picks up the scooter and opens the box on the back for his son. The boy arranges the newspapers neatly inside. The father locks the box and thinks: maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem. There they are — a team.
The dawn is hinting at its arrival as the first strips of light over the mountains begin to show. If there were roosters in the Castel, they’d be starting to crow. The son hugs his father from behind on the scooter, and the contact makes them both feel good. The wind blows through their hair and brings tears to their eyes. Sometimes they stop in front of a house and the father explains: we have to go around the garden and put it through the bars. Here, the lady of the house asked me to put the paper in a vase. Her neighbours steal it and sometimes she doesn’t see one for days. There’s a loose tile here. There’s a dog over there, so steer clear.
Towards the end, they reach the apartment where Noa and Amir live.
For these people, the father explains, you have to throw the paper on the roof. Why? Look at all those rocks. The guy I replaced broke his leg here in the dark. That I can do without. Besides, at first I saw that the papers were accumulating up there, but not now. They figured it out.
The son pulls a newspaper off the decreasing pile, takes aim and sends it flying through space. But he throws it too hard, and it lands in the wrong place.
*
Thwack. Moshe Zakian is woken up by a blunt object hitting his forehead. He opens his eyes in surprise. He’s not in his own bed. For a moment, it’s not clear how he got into this situation. What am I doing here? he asks himself in frustration. Suddenly, he notices a newspaper on the floor. He feels his forehead where it was struck a moment before. From where he’s lying, he can read the headlines, something about a security warning. Outside, it’s almost light. It’s cold, so he wraps the blanket around his body. Gradually, the morning clouds surrounding his thoughts disperse and Moshe Zakian is fully awake. What a shame. For a few days, his thoughts had given him a break. He’d fixed the dripping tap in the sink. Sima had baked a cake. He’d read bedtime stories to the children. She’d looked at him longingly from the living room. It had seemed that they were putting an end to their feud. But yesterday she went with Noa, the student, to the kindergarten on Elijah the Prophet Street and came back in a fighting mood. He sat in the living room, hugging a pillow, avoiding her eyes. He absorbed one volley. Then another. And he could feel his blood pressure rise. Finally, he answered her, still trying not to offend. But instead of focusing on the argument at hand, she’d attacked him for his pronunciation. The word’s dai-dactic, not dee-dactic, she’d said with a sneer, and he tightened his grip on the empty glass of juice and snapped, why can’t you stick to what we’re talking about, why do you keep trying to insult me? But she wouldn’t stop.
You don’t understand, Moshe, that’s exactly what it’s about. If you want him to talk that way too, send him to that kindergarten and he’ll turn out just like you.
If only — he thinks, counting the parts of himself that hurt — if only you’d stopped there, you’d be sleeping in a warm bed right now. If only he’d managed to get the conversation back on track in time, they could have reached an agreement somehow. But no. He insisted on charging through a bright red light with a bus full of rage. Like me? What do you mean, like me? It wouldn’t be so bad if he talks like me when he gets to be my age.
*
Talk to me, I say to Noa, I want to hear. But she scoots to the edge of the bed and curls up into a ball. She folds her long legs under her, and her black hair hides her face and twists around her neck. The brightly coloured top she wore to Bezalel today suddenly seems out of place. Her thighs, so white and delicious, are showing from under her dress, but this isn’t the time. She must have got a bad mark for something she handed in. I move closer and envelop her in a hug. More accurately, in the contours of a hug. She’s trembling in my arms. Probably crying. Like in Bob Dylan’s song, she acts just like a woman, but she breaks like a little girl. I hold her tight and whisper in her ear. Don’t worry, what do they know. What kind of people decide to be lecturers in Bezalel? The ones who don’t have enough talent. And then they take their frustration out on their students. She’s trembling harder. I try from another angle. You know I believe in you, don’t you? Don’t you? She nods slightly, almost imperceptibly, but it gives me hope. I kiss the part of her cheek that’s exposed. My lips linger on the salty skin. Noni, I really think your project was great. Your friends thought so too. So one lecturer didn’t like it, so what? In another five years, when he wants to see your exhibition in New York, tell him you’re sorry, but there are no more invitations, OK?