Homesick

Yes, Dad said and sighed. Then they were both quiet. My neck itched, but I forced myself not to scratch it, so they wouldn’t know I was awake.

So let’s leave, Dad finally said, and the bed squeaked on his side.

I knew right away what he meant, and I think Mum did too, but she still asked: What do you mean?

And Dad said: We’ll leave the country. I’ll sell my part of the business. We’ll sell the house. And go.

And Mum said: What? To another country? To live? Are you mad? Just what country did you have in mind?

The bed squeaked again on Dad’s side. He said: I don’t know. There are all kinds of possibilities. I haven’t thought it out yet. Maybe we could go to your sister in Australia.

And Mum said in a too-loud voice: My sister? What are you talking about? She didn’t say anything else. The bed squeaked on my mother’s side now. And a few seconds later, in a voice that was both surprised and angry, she said: Have you been walking around a long time with this idea in your head?

And Dad said: A week, two. And I’m not ‘walking around with this idea.’ It just crossed my mind a few times.

And Mum said: But why didn’t you say anything to me?

And Dad said: I’m telling you that I myself didn’t … That it’s just … And besides, I was afraid you’d get upset. I was afraid you’d say that I want to run away, that I am running away.

And Mum said: I would never say such a thing. Besides, when did you become such a coward?

And Dad said: It’s not that … But …

And they were both quiet.

Then Mum said, quietly: It’s too bad you didn’t tell me, Reuven. It’s too bad you always keep everything to yourself.

And Dad said: So now I’ve told you.

Mum shifted a little on the bed and said: Yes, now (and from the way she said it, it was clear that now wasn’t good enough any more). Then she was quiet again. A few seconds later, she said: What are you talking about. Absolutely not. Did you stop to think that it means dragging Yotam to a foreign country? And it’s not like everything will disappear if we get up and go, Reuven. It’s not that the minute we land in Australia, everything will be fine. Because if that’s what you think will happen, then forget it. With me, that lump is inside. Do you understand? Inside my body.

And Dad said: It’s in mine too, but … Then he gave a little cough, the kind that comes before an attack.

And Mum said. I don’t know, and gave the mattress a small smack. I don’t think it’ll work. That kind of hocus pocus. Australia. What will we do in Australia? And we have to talk to Miriam too. Did you even think about that? Who says they’re ready for this?

I wanted to say: Don’t you think that before you talk to Miriam, you should talk to me?! Maybe I don’t want to go? Maybe I’m not ready for this? But I couldn’t just include myself in the conversation after pretending to be asleep the whole time. So I just let out a kind of croak, like a nervous dog.

And Mum said: We’re disturbing his sleep.

And Dad said: Yes. Maybe we should go to the living room.

Mum leaned over — I could smell her breath — and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

Then there were steps. Four feet walking. The door creaked, then closed. I waited a few more seconds, just to be sure, and opened my eyes in the dark.

*

I saw him in the street, slipping a ticket under a windscreen wiper and then typing something on the machine hanging around his neck. What grabbed me, I think, was the hair. Lovely, soft white hair, the kind old people have, even though he was young. Excuse me, I said, going up to him, and he, used to people attacking him, started defending himself right away: I’m sorry, miss, I can’t do anything now. After the machine prints out a ticket, you can’t cancel it. Write a letter to the council if you want, maybe they’ll cancel it for you. But that’s not my car, I said, and he looked me in the eye for the first time and said in surprise, not your car? So what … What do you want from me? I wanted — I said and delayed the rest of the sentence, enjoying his suspense, and my own — I wanted to ask if I could take a picture of you. Of me?! he said, and smoothed down his white hair with a quick, almost invisible movement. Yes, of you. I’m sorry, he said, looking at my camera with interest, we’re not allowed to have our pictures in the newspaper. There’s an order from the unit manager saying we can’t have our pictures taken for the newspaper or TV without permission. But it’s not for a newspaper, I explained. Then what is it for? It’s a project that I’m doing for college, and I thought I’d take your picture as part of the project. My picture? Why mine?! I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. I just have a feeling it would fit. What are you studying? Photography. Is that a profession, photography? I thought it was a hobby. Not exactly. Some people actually make their living from it. Ah, he said, a new light flashing in his eyes, you get paid money for this project? No, it’s a project I have to hand in. I get a grade for it, not money. No money?! he said, his shoulders drooping in disappointment, so why should I let you take my picture? Look, I said, taking a quick look at the ticket sitting on the windscreen behind him, they say that if a person does one good deed a day, it makes up for ten bad deeds. Is that what they say?! he said, half surprised and half jesting, and looked at the ticket too. Yes, I said. And it would really help me if you let me take your picture. He studied my face for a few seconds, then said, you know what? OK. That’s great, I said happily, thank you very much. You’re welcome, he said, tucked his shirt into his trousers and leaned on the car, posing like a model. Just a second, I said. Before we take the picture, I have to ask you a few questions. Go ahead, he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt.

What’s your name?

Kobi, Kobi Goldman.

How old are you?

Thirty-nine.

How long have you been a parking attendant?

Six months. Ever since I got fired from Tevel, the cable TV company. I worked in the stockroom there.

Do you miss working at Tevel?

Miss it? I wouldn’t say that. Did you ever work in a stockroom? You know what it’s like not to see the light of day from seven in the morning until seven in the evening?

So what do you miss?

In the stockroom, or in general?

In general.

Is this question connected to your project?

Yeah, it is. It’s all connected to the project.

So what can I tell you. In general, I’m a person who tries to look ahead in life. Not back. How will missing things help? You can’t change what happened.

But even so?

Kobi the parking attendant scratched his chin, then stroked his cheek with one finger, as if there were stubble on it, even though there wasn’t, and finally put his hand on his chest the way you put your hand on the Bible in court and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So? I said, urging him a little.

I once had a dog, he said.

What was its name?

Snow, he said, pronouncing the name gently, as if the dog were right beside him, and the first signs of longing began to appear on his face: swollen cheeks, moist eyes.

I called her Snow because she was completely white. She was the most beautiful dog you’ve ever seen in your life. The kind of dog they put in ads. And she was so good-natured. If I came home from the stockroom feeling down, she’d sense it and start to lick my face.