Some of my friends were also my customers, though I never encouraged them to come to me, even in the days when the garage was small and I had to fight for customers. I wasn’t interested in them, but they were interested in me.
In the early days there weren’t many of them who could afford cars. Teachers in primary schools, minor officials, students, former kibbutzniks, just weren’t in a position to possess their own cars. But after a few years the majority of our friends began buying cars, second-hand ones of course, which they used to bring to me for inspection, consulting me before buying. I had to be careful not to foster illusions, above all not to take any responsibility. Otherwise they’d have been at my door constantly, imposing the most awful obligations on me. I was forced to take a detached view of their cars.
Naturally I did some jobs for them.
For the headmaster, Mr. Shwartzy, I did an entire overhaul. For some old school friends I changed the shock absorbers and tuned the engines. For a charming couple that we met at a party, a middle-aged university lecturer and his young artist wife, I cleaned the temperature control and replaced the clutch. For the school secretary and her husband I rebuilt their car after an accident and fitted a new generator. For the gym instructor, a bachelor of thirty-five, I relined the generator and charged the battery.
I expect they all felt they’d got a bargain out of me, and in fact they hadn’t really got a bargain at all, their only advantage in coming to me was that I didn’t do unnecessary work and I didn’t keep their cars in the garage for longer than was necessary.
There were a few who came back to me, especially when they needed a quick job, but the garage grew larger, I was often absent for long periods and the foreman wasn’t prepared to give them preferential treatment. Erlich made a point of not giving discounts to anyone and they themselves got to understand their cars better, changed them for newer ones, found cheaper or more convenient garages.
There was one friend of ours, a woman whose husband had deserted her. At one time she was always turning up at the garage. She was scared out of her wits, she was always hearing strange noises from the eugine, she was afraid there was going to be an explosion. She used to stand aside waiting until I was free to go out with her for a drive, to hear and to feel the vibrations and the mysterious noises. I used to drive with her to the main road by the sea, breathing in the smell of cheap perfume, stealing a glance at the short fat legs beside me, while she sat there looking at me with longing and talking about her husband and weeping, all this to the accompaniment of my technical comments. She was really hooked on me. Finally I decided to get rid of her and I sent Hamid to deal with her. He went out to test the car, drove once around the block, came back and said scornfully, “There’s nothing wrong, lady, everything’s quite all right.” After that she left me alone.
So among our friends I really was only a friend. They had no ulterior motive for inviting us to their homes. I used to arrive, sit down and say nothing. In some houses they already knew about my passion for nuts and they used to put a big plate in front of me, as if I were a dog, and I’d sit there in silence all evening, nibbling slowly. I had a special method of cracking the shells quietly in my hands. After the boy was killed they were wary of us. For a long time they didn’t dare invite us but eventually they made cautious advances and we responded. But my silences became deeper. Asya on the contrary talked more and more, she was especially active in political discussions, getting into arguments, always coming up with little-known facts, going into detail. Her knowledge never ceased to amaze me. Was it just the professional ability of a history and geography teacher, or a quality inherited from her rather? She knew, for example, the population of Vietnam, the exact location of the Mekong River, the names of all the ministers of France, the principal clauses of the Geneva Convention, when the troubles began in Ireland and how the Protestants came to be there, the date of the persecution of the Huguenots in France, and who the Huguenots were, and she knew that there were Dutch units in the Wehrmacht. In fact it wasn’t always clear exactly what she was trying to say, but she was always putting others right, or clarifying some point. Not that anyone was prepared to change his mind because of the information that she poured out in such a constant stream, but I saw that the men were a little nervous around her, as she sat there in the middle, a cigarette between her fingers, not touching the food but only drinking coffee and more coffee, at an hour when all the others were prevented from drinking coffee by fear of insomnia.
And I listened to her and also to the other women, who, weary of these arguments, whispered about their own concerns. One of them had a lover and everybody knew about it, it was a source of great interest although the details weren’t clear. Only her husband knew nothing, sitting there proudly in a corner, a contentious bastard, every time a view was expressed he said the opposite.
But Asya, how to describe her, I’m still trying to describe her, in the early hours of the morning, when we’re still among our friends, time for us to go but we’ve not yet found the right moment. And I watch her, thinking only of her, noticing the bitter, combative tone in her voice, the strange self-confidence. Just occasionally, when someone forcibly contradicts her argument, is she at a loss for a moment, putting her fist to her mouth in her old childish sucking movement, the thumb quivers for a moment at her lips, and then she realizes what she’s doing, and hurriedly returns her hand to her lap.
Sabbath eves at friends’ houses, old friends, pointless, meaningless conversations, but the bond remains and it’s genuine and deep. I watch my wife all the time, studying her sideways, with a stranger’s eyes, thinking about her, her mind, her body. Is it still possible to fall in love with her, some stranger who would see her just as she is, in these clothes, in the grey dress with the faded embroidery, someone who would fall in love with her for my sake too?
DAFI
One day at supper he said suddenly, right out of the blue, “I’m going to shave this beard off tomorrow, I’m sick of it.” He looked at Mommy.
She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s up to you.”
But I leaped in at once. “Don’t you dare, it suits you so well.”
He smiled. “What are you shouting about?”
“Don’t shave it off,” I pleaded with him.
“What are you getting so excited about? What does it matter …”
But how could I explain to him why his beard was important to me, how could I tell him that without it he’d be feeble, he’d lose all his vigour, he’d just be a simple mechanic, a dull garage boss.
I mumbled something about his nose that would look too long, about his ears that would stick out, about his short neck, I ran and fetched a piece of paper and drew a picture to show him how ugly he’d look without a beard.
They were both amused, smiling at me, not understanding my agitation. But how could I explain that for me the beard was a symbol, a flag …
“Eat your supper.”
“Do you promise then?”
“I shall shave it off and grow another.”
“You won’t grow another one, I know.”
I couldn’t eat any more. They gathered up the plates, silent again. Why didn’t Mommy say something? Daddy sat down in front of the TV with his paper. Was it really that important? Mommy was washing the dishes but I paced around uneasily. After a while I went to him.
“Well, what have you decided?”
“What?”
“About your beard.”
“My beard? What about my beard?”
He’d forgotten, or maybe he was just teasing me and he never intended to shave it off.
“You must be mad. Haven’t you got anything else to worry about?”
“Then tell me.”
“You’ve never known me without a beard.”
“I don’t want to either.”
He laughed.
“So what have you decided?”
“Well, let’s wait and see.”