Ya’el’s half of the conversation is missing.
— But even if I disappeared, Mother, I didn’t disappear for very long. You needn’t have worried…
— But I did phone you, Mother. I most certainly did, on Wednesday evening from Jerusalem.
— Of course. I was still in Jerusalem Wednesday evening. Yesterday too.
— Yesterday too, Mother. And this morning too. But I left you a message.
— How could you not have gotten it?
— Oh, God, Mother, don’t tell me that another message of mine got lost!
— How should I know… whoever picked up the phone…
— Some volunteer from Germany.
— But what could I have done, Mother? It’s not my fault that no one in his right mind on the whole kibbutz will pick up the télé- phoné in the dining hall after supper, because no one wants to have to go out in the cold and run around looking for whoever it’s for. Why don’t you try getting the kibbutz some winter night, to say nothing of talking in English to a foreign volunteer who’s too spaced out to hold a pencil. If you did, you’d understand what a mistake you made when you led a crusade against private telephones as if the future of socialism depended on it. Lots of other kibbutzim have had private phones for years. They take them for granted as a necessity of life…
— I’ve yet to see the kibbutz that went bankrupt from its phone bills, Mother. That’s just your fantasy.
— But I didn’t disappear, Mother. I simply left Tel Aviv for three days.
— With him? Fat chance of that! He’s still with the army in Lebanon. But it was because of him that I went to Jerusalem to see his father, and I was stranded there until this morning.
— I stranded myself.
— But that’s the whole point, Mother. That’s the whole point of the story…
— No. It started snowing there Wednesday afternoon, but by yesterday it had all melted.
— No. That old coat was given me by his father. Mr. Mani.
— That’s how I think of him. Mr Mani. Don’t ask me why.
— But that’s the whole point of my story. That’s the only reason I came home today, because it’s crazy to be sitting here with you when I should be in Tel Aviv studying for an exam…
— I told you. I have an English exam on Monday, and the last thing I want is to flunk again.
— No. I left all my books and notebooks in Grandmother’s apartment in Tel Aviv. I didn’t take a thing with me to Jerusalem on Tuesday, certainly not any books. I thought I was only going for a few hours, to do Efi this favor. But once I was there I felt I couldn’t leave, and so I stayed for three whole days…
— No. I didn’t come via Tel Aviv. I came straight from Jerusalem. It was a last-minute decision. I was waiting in the bus station for the Tel Aviv bus when all of a sudden I saw this middle-aged redhead standing on the next platform. He was someone I recognized from around here, I think from Revivim, and it made me so homesick that I just couldn’t wait to get back to our own darling little boondocks and tell you everything, Mother. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I was always like that. Don’t you remember what you’ve told me about myself? I could be in the nursery, or at school, and if some child fell and hurt himself, or if the drawing I was working on tore, I had to tell you so badly that I would run outside to look for you and shout the minute I found you, “Hey, Ma, listen to this!”…
— Right. I always got away with it, because I had this knack for latching onto… how did you used to put it?
— Yes. Right. That’s it…
— Yes, that’s it. To some surrogate father who would do anything I asked, maybe — it’s a pet theory of mine you’re sure to like — because he felt guilty that it was my father and not him who was killed. And so everyone took me in tow and passed me on, from the dining hall to the laundry, from the chicken coops to the cowshed, from the stables to the fodder fields, and on to the orchards and to you, Mother, who I threw myself on and told everything. Which is just how it was in Jerusalem today, standing in line in that station among all those wintry, depressive Jerusalemites when suddenly the bus for Beersheba began pulling out and I saw that redhead looking out the window at me — maybe he was trying to guess who I was too — and suddenly I couldn’t stand it any longer, I missed you so badly that I jumped over the railing and was on the steps and inside the bus before I knew it. But the first thing tomorrow morning, Mother, I have to get back to Tel Aviv and to my books, or else it’s another F for sure. You’ll have to find me someone who is driving there, and if you can’t think of anyone, think again…
— All right.
— No, wait a minute. Take it easy. I didn’t mean this second…
— But what’s the rush? I feel so cold inside. Let me warm up a little first.
— It will take more than just hot water.
— Don’t be annoyed at me, Mother, but for my part I can skip the Sabbath meal in the dining hall.
— I’m not at all hungry. Whatever you have in the fridge will be fine.
— That’s okay. Whatever you have. I’m really not hungry.
— If you’re so starving that you must go, then go. I’m staying here. I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m just not up to sitting in the dining hall and smiling at everyone all evening. Followed by that New Year’s Eve party with all its phony revelry… I absolutely will not take any chances and dance…
— All right, all right. Go. What can I say? Go. What more can I say?
— Go…
— Go. I’m already sorry I came here instead of going straight home… I mean to Tel Aviv…
— Because I didn’t think of it as coming to the kibbutz tonight, Mother. I thought of it as coming home. To you. To tell you about what happened in Jerusalem…
— I’m not being mysterious. Stop being so critical…
— All right, fine, so I am a little mysterious… maybe mysterious is even the best word for it… but so what? What’s wrong with a mystery? Suppose you open the door of a strange house and are so horrified by what you see there that your soul, yes, your soul, Mother, is sucked right out of you… but the mystery, you see, isn’t the horrifying part, because anything really horrifying has to be obvious and isn’t mysterious at all. The mystery is in the encounter, even if it just seems like a coincidence. And that’s what happened to me, that’s what I went through in Jerusalem, even if you’re not going to believe it…
— Because you’re not, Mother. You’ve been educated all your life not to believe in mysteries, and you’re certainly not going to believe in mine. In the end I know you’ll tell me that I just imagined it all…
— But there isn’t any quick version. There’s no quick way to tell it, Mother.
— Because if I did, it really would sound like a figment of my imagination…
— You know something, it doesn’t matter. Let’s forget it, it’s not important. Go have dinner, and I’ll take a shower. The whole thing really doesn’t matter, Mother. I was wrong and now let’s forget it… Just do me a favor and ask around in the dining hall if anyone is driving to Tel Aviv in the morning and has room for me…