I’m looking at that picture now. The first thing that jumps out at me, of course, are the flaws. The little spot on my left cheek. The small mark on the bottom of my right cheek. The black rings under my eyes. That’s how it is with close-ups. They show everything. Still, maybe it’s the forehead that tells the story. Yes. There’s something more serene about the forehead. More open. And the eyebrows, as opposed to almost all the other pictures I have of me, aren’t contracted. There isn’t even one wrinkle in the space between them or above them, in the centre of the forehead. As if Hila and her hands had pulled tight the sheet of my forehead and smoothed out the wrinkles.
After Hila took the picture, she looked at her watch and said, sorry dear, I have someone coming in five minutes. Oh, I said, of course, and I quickly put on all the clothes I’d left on the chair earlier. Shirt, jumper, coat. There were a lot of things I wanted to apologise for. Neglecting our friendship, ridiculing what she did, not taking this appointment seriously and cancelling it three times at the last minute. But I could tell from her eyes that she was in a hurry, so I just said thank you again and hugged her tightly, more tightly than I usually hugged her. Then I backed away slightly, still holding her around the waist, and said, right into her almond eyes, I’m so glad I have you. That you didn’t give up on me. And she laughed, completely relaxed in my arms. Give up on you? Never.
Without really wanting to, I let go of her waist, one hand after the other, and walked towards the door. She said, don’t forget your hat, and handed me my woollen hat. I took it and blew her a kiss. Before I left, I gave a long bye — I don’t think I’ve ever drawn out that short word so much — and went out into the street.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t cold. A light wind tickled the trees of Rehavia, a pleasant sun cast its twilight rays and I suddenly started to skip instead of walk. Two ultra-orthodox men gave me a frightened look of disapproval, but that only made me want to keep skipping. So I skipped down Metudella Street and turned on to Ben-Serok Street. I skipped all the way down the odd-numbered side of Hatibonim Street, shedding my worries as I went. So there have been fewer customers in the café lately, so what. You’d think I was Rothschild before. So I won’t hand in a final project this year, what’ll happen? Will the world come to an end? No. I’ll hand it in next year. I skipped a bit more and remembered Forrest Gump, who starts running one day without knowing where. At first, he runs alone, and then all kinds of admirers start running with him until gradually there is a whole cult of people running behind him through the streets of America. We’ll start a movement like that here, but of skippers, I thought, skipping toward Aza Street, and we’ll tie it in with some kind of important cause. Let’s say, ‘Skipping for Peace’. Yes, ‘Skipping for Peace’ is good. Jews and Arabs skipping together along the green line, demanding that their leaders skip the unnecessary killing and go straight to peace.
When I saw the bus stop in the distance, I started walking normally. I’d got a bit cold, maybe because the sun had disappeared and maybe because, after all, this was Jerusalem. And it always gets cold here in the end.
I sat down on the bench. An old woman with a colourful little girl’s hairband holding her grey hair was sitting on my left. On my right was a man who looked like a watchmaker. But I wasn’t really focused on them. I was looking inward. My thoughts were relaxed and clear, like they are after a good after-lunch nap. As if, along with the wrinkles on my forehead, Hila had removed the wrinkles in my soul and now I could see clearly the things I’d been hiding from myself for the last few months.
By the time the bus came, I’d outlined out for myself what I wanted to do.
During the ride on the bus, I added the small details — when, how, for how long.
And when I reached the apartment, I took down my travelling bag and started packing.
*
A bus winds its way down Sha’ar HaGai.
On the sides of the road, spring dances.
Rusted tanks on purple expanses.
The dead on the living.
Election signs
scream candidates’ names on high.
A bus
is
winding
its
way
down
Sha’ar
HaGai.
That’s Noa inside
unravelling the knot,
Thinking, it’s worth a shot.
Chorus
You can make a mistake, man
Leave something undone
Not finish something you’ve begun
Do only what you can
You can cry, man
Be full of regret
Make promises to yourself
And then forget
It’s time to land
Superman
Time to tell your mama
That you’re not the next Messiah.
You can make a mistake, man
Make a wrong move
There’s nothing to prove
You can get close, man
Go all the way
without being afraid
Of being betrayed
There’s a woman out there
Somewhere
Just waiting for you to appear.
She’ll open her arms,
She’ll open her heart
And you’ll go to her without fear.
It’s time to land
Superman
Time to tell your mama
That you’re not the next Messiah.
Music and lyrics: David Batsri
From the Licorice album, Love As I Explained it to My Wife
Produced independently, 1996
5
WHERE’S NOA? YOTAM sailed through the rooms as if Noa were a tennis ball you’ll find in the end if you look hard enough.
I already told you, she went to Tel Aviv.
But I thought she was only going for a short time.
She went for a long time.
How long?
I don’t know, Yotam. Why are you being such a pest?
Because it was nicer when she was here. And anyway, I saw something on the way home from school today and thought that maybe she’d want to take a picture of it.
What did you see?
Two Ethiopians from the new immigrant centre painted their faces white and were standing at the entrance to the shopping centre.
With signs, like at a demonstration?
Without signs.
That really is the kind of thing Noa looks for.
So you’ll tell her? Maybe they’ll be standing there tomorrow.
I promised him I’d tell her. What could I say? That Noa and I weren’t talking? That I had no idea where she was?
So why’d she go? Yotam kept interrogating me.
Because sometimes people need to go away, I said, in the hope that would satisfy him.
Yes, but why? Yotam persisted. That boy is growing up right in front of my eyes, I thought. And sometimes it’s a pain.
Look, I said, trying to explain, it’s like when you sit down to do your homework — I know you haven’t done that in a while, but try to remember — first you’re concentrating and all the answers flow right out of your head into the notebook. But after a while, you get tired and bored, and you start making spelling mistakes, and all of a sudden you see that you’ve skipped a whole question. So then you know that you have to take a break for a few minutes, to get recharged.