— It is a light, Father, in which two different lights contend, a tawny, free-flowing one from the desert and a bluish one born from the sea that slowly ascends the mountains, gathering the light of the rocks and the olive trees on its way. They meet in Jerusalem — imbibe each other there — subsume each other there — and conjoin at evening into a clear, winy glow that settles through the treetops branch by branch and turns to a coppery red, which — reaching the tip of the window — inspires the worshipers to leap to their feet and bellow the closing prayer in a great wave of supplication that washes over the frozen world. Meanwhile, Mani was seeking to outdo the cantor — to outsing him — to outshout him — while little Mani and all the children joined in with loud cries, working themselves up to a fever pitch that abated only with the sounding of the ram’s horn — which made me most happy, because I knew that as of that moment my homeward journey had begun. Are you listening?
— The prayer ended and large watermelons were carried into the synagogue and sliced and handed out to the worshipers to assuage their thirst. In the courtyard outside we met the womenfolk and wished one another a good year, after which we started slowly home, where we had a light dinner that filled us at once. People were already knocking on the door — women come to give birth after waiting for the holy day to end — and the Swede hurried below to admit them while Linka changed out of her white dress and went down to mop the floor and be of help. I went over the next morning’s travel arrangements with Mani, who made some remark and added with a laugh, “But you will not go — I will have the Turkish army arrest you — I have come to like you too much.” His making a joke of it made me feel better, as if he had already come to terms with our departure. Are you listening?
— In the morning a wagon came to pick me up at Jaffa Gate. Linka was sitting in it. I saw that her belongings had dwindled drastically. She had left most of her clothes with the Swede to give away to charity. She was pale and her eyes glistened redly as though after a big cry. Mani, on the other hand, seemed quite content with himself. He sat calmly by the driver, a heavy winter overcoat on his knees. If I had had my wits about me, I would have know what to make of that coat instead of simply staring at it blankly.
— Because since Beirut I have kept going over the clues, real and imaginary, that he gave us, until there is nothing that does not now seem a clue: the way he looked at the wheels of the train in the station — his asking the stoker how fast it could go — the seat he chose for himself…
— Yes, Papa dear, that was the first surprise. Instead of saying good-bye at the station, he boarded the train and informed us that he meant to see us off at the ship. In my innocence I assumed that he planned to take a carriage back that same night, which was the reason for the overcoat. I was actually glad that he was coming along, because I too found it hard to part from him and from Jerusalem, which vanished all at once behind the first downhill bend. Are you listening to me, Papa?
— No. But your head was nodding a bit — I thought that perhaps you had dozed off. I know that this has been wearisome for you, but I am nearing the end now — in fact, that is what I began with. Are you listening?
— We pulled into the station in Jaffa, where a crowd was rushing noisily about, and set out immediately for the port. Once again he began scolding our haste to depart. “But you have seen nothing yet,” he said. “Do you think Jerusalem is Palestine?” We could spy our ship in the distance — I must say that this time my little consumptive from the gare had outdone herself and ordered us a big Austrian steamship. The three of us were rowed out to it in a lighter manned by singing Arabs who flung us on deck with heave-hos. We were received there graciously and shown to two most pleasant cabins, from which we proceeded to the dining room for a late lunch, elegantly served us by a galley crew that plied us with great quantities of wine. Linka was wan and silent — rather withdrawn — and Mani and I had to joke with each other by ourselves. “What will you do on the waves without me?” he asked. “Who will see to your tranquillity pills?” The overcoat lay on a chair beside us like a big, hairy, faithful pet. We went on deck to have a smoke and a look at the white houses of Jaffa with their great minaret. The waves lapped at the ship. More lighters kept coming all the time, and the boatmen sang and heave-hoed their frightened passengers onto the deck while Mani looked on with an ironic, slightly mocking expression that I had never noticed in him before — that made me think of a first Mani slowly bursting open and discharging a second one from its midst. We sat for a long while, enjoying the cool, moist breeze and letting the afternoon hours slip languidly by while the last of the passengers arrived. We discussed the recent days — the clinic — the big Swede — young Mani. All of a sudden I took some coins from my pocket and asked him to buy his children gifts from us, especially the boy. He listened with a preoccupied air as I told him about our excursions together — about how his son worshiped him and craved his presence — about how fortunate it was that he would now have some time for him. At last he said: “He at least will know what he is craving for; I crave a father I never had and of whose existence I know so little that each time I seek to catch a glimpse of him in my son, I see not the young man who was killed in a brawl before my birth in the walled city, but the wily old face of my grandfather, standing before me in his black rabbinical clothes.” Linka sat there half-listening, as if she knew our talk was but a masquerade; she kept gazing out to sea, where the sun was now being punished with a fiery death. She was still very pale; she never touched the glass in front of her. She was waiting — without a word — for the farewells. Are you listening? Are you?
— But there were no farewells, that much you know. When the last call rang for the last lighter taking visitors back to shore, his movements grew suddenly lethargic; he cocked his head as if he had not heard, spread his coat out on the seat beside him, and said, “You have chosen a fine ship, but the waves are the same waves; I had better sail as far as Haifa with you to see how Efrayim makes out with them. This overcoat of mine will keep me warm on deck at night, but have no fear — I won’t be going all the way to Europe with you.” I saw Linka’s eyes open wide with horror; Mani beckoned to one of the deckhands, gave him the coins I had handed him, and looked down just in time to see the last lighter slip away from the ship and head back for the shore, which now began to wobble slightly. The houses of Jaffa shook a bit as if struck by a mild earthquake, and the green orange groves on the hills staggered backward. You see, Father, that ship was so quiet — its motion was so imperceptible — that we appeared to be standing still while an invisible hand tugged Palestine to the south, so that the land — now cloaked in darkness — floated slowly away as we observed its extraordinary motion. “Well, then,” said Mani, regarding me with a melancholy smile, “how is your stomach?” More to himself than to me, though, he whispered without waiting for an answer: “But what should be wrong with it? The fear, after all, has left you.” Are you listening, Father? Are you?
— You are fading out, Father. I can’t see your face. No, don’t fall asleep on me; don’t leave me all alone. Wait… wait… We sat silently on deck, wrapped in our blankets, watching the black land drift slowly by. The moon set. The stars flared up. Linka fell into a deep sleep and began slipping out of her chair, so that we had to take her down to her cabin. Mani helped me. Suddenly, feeling his hand against mine, I knew we were engaged in a wordless struggle for her…