And I began to tell her all that I knew. From the moment that the little Morris appeared in the garage to the morning of the second day of the war. About my search for him, about the army authorities who knew nothing about him, and more personal details, how he looked, how he dressed, what he used to say, how he spent his time. And she listened in silence, for a moment I thought she was asleep, I stood up and went closer to her. She was weeping quietly, clawing desperately at her hair, yearning for him, afraid he might be dead.
Meanwhile my eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom and I saw his possessions scattered about me, his clothes, his shirt and trousers, an open suitcase, illustrated newspapers, the cigarettes he used to smoke, all lying there just as he had left them. Again his presence seemed so poignant.
I said, “He hasn’t been killed, that’s impossible.”
“Then something frightened him. He is hiding. We must search for him. Especially at night.”
“At night?”
And then she began telling me about him, how she brought him up after his mother was killed and his father deserted him. A lonely, bewildered child who couldn’t sleep, a creature of the night. She remembered the names of some relations on his father’s side, an uncle living in Dimona, another uncle in Jerusalem, a friend or two with whom he had been in contact many years ago. It was five o’clock in the morning, my head felt dizzy from all these stories, but there had been a breakthrough in the quest for him.
The telephone in the house had been disconnected, I promised to have it restored. I gave her my phone number, we agreed to meet again.
Outside the rain had stopped, the sky was clearing. Time to leave. Na’im was asleep in the kitchen, I roused him, we said goodbye to the old lady and drove back up to Carmel. The streets were wet and deserted. The first signs of daylight. It was quiet in the house. Asya and Dafi were fast asleep. I put Na’im to bed in the study and went to the bedroom. I felt no weariness at all, watching Asya, who went on sleeping, the morning light falling on her face. I touched her lightly. She was dreaming again, I could tell by the movements of her eyes behind the closed lids. Strange, knowing that at that very moment she was engrossed in a dream, evidently a painful dream, because her face was twisted. My ageing wife, caught up in her dreams. I bent over her cautiously, almost on my knees, tugging at her gently. But she didn’t want to wake up, so strange, clutching at the pillow with a pathetic, almost desperate gesture, whimpering. I caressed her, smiling.
“Asya, wake up, there’s news. It’s incredible, but the grandmother, the old woman, she has come to life.”
NA’IM
And they went into one of the rooms really pleased with themselves and they put me in the kitchen among the tomatoes and the eggplants to wait for them. And the old woman gave me some old sweets, probably left over from the time before she went bananas, and I sat there until they finished chattering, chewing the sweets, half asleep in the chair. And after maybe two hours Adam came in to fetch me and we went back to his house through the empty streets and the sky was clear and the rain had stopped. There wasn’t any left, it had all fallen on me.
It was dark in the house and he put me back to bed and went to his bedroom, started talking to his wife, who’d woken up. They talked excitedly but I didn’t have the strength to listen. I went to sleep right away. I slept a lot. I was really tired and I didn’t mind just sleeping and sleeping. It was so nice in the soft bed in that lovely room with all the books, deep down among the Jews.
It must have been the end of the morning already and I began to wake up, stretching lazily in the bed. Once or twice the door opened and the girl’s pretty head peeped in at me. The phone rang and the radio was on at full blast. The girl was walking around the whole time. I heard her footsteps and she peeped into the room again, looks like she wanted me to wake up but I didn’t want to. I’d done a professional job that night and I deserved a bit of rest. Through the window I saw blue sky and heard the voices of children. On the radio it was the usual chatter, they never get tired of it, even on the Sabbath. The girl was standing at the door now and tapping softly. I closed my eyes in a hurry and she came in quietly and went to the bookcase pretending to look for a book, making little noises to wake me up. She was wearing jeans and a very tight sweater and I noticed that she had firm little tits, yesterday I was sure she hadn’t had any and here they were like they’d grown overnight.
In the end, when she saw I wasn’t moving, she came closer and touched my face with her warm hand. I was really pleased that she touched me and didn’t only talk. At last I decided to open my eyes so she wouldn’t think I was dead.
And she said quickly in her hoarse voice, “you must get up. Mommy and Daddy have gone out. It’s eleven o’clock already. I’ll make breakfast for you. How do you like your eggs?”
She was all flushed and very serious.
“I don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind either.”
“Whatever you make.”
“But I don’t mind … tell me what you want.”
“Whatever you’re eating.” I smiled.
“I’ve eaten already … do you like scrambled eggs?”
I didn’t know what scrambled eggs were but I didn’t mind trying, then suddenly with an audacity that surprised even me I said, “Fine, but no sugar, please.”
“Sugar?”
“I mean, like yesterday,” I mumbled. “I thought there was some sugar in the food.”
And suddenly she understood and burst out laughing, awfully amused.
And I smiled a bit too. And she went out, I got dressed quickly and tidied up the bed and went to the bathroom and washed my face and cleaned my teeth and combed my hair with their comb and cleaned the sink. And I went out to the kitchen and found the table covered with all sorts of things. You could see she’d taken everything out of the fridge and put it on the table. Maybe this was the first time she’d ever made breakfast for a guest. And she was wearing an apron and frying something on the stove in a great hurry and then she brought me a very messy half-burned egg and gave me toast and cereal. She sat tensely, opposite, watching me eat and all the time offering me something else. Cheese, salted fish, chocolate. She wanted me to finish off all the food in the house. She buttered the bread for me herself, changing plates the whole time, fussing around me like she was my wife or my mother, playing some part and enjoying it.
And I ate with my mouth closed, slowly. Sometimes refusing what she offered me and sometimes not. And she watching me closely like I was a baby or a puppy being fed. And I just now and then looked at her straight, seeing her all fresh, so different from yesterday, sort of brisk, not dreamy. Her hair tied up on top of her head, her eyes darting about, wide awake. She didn’t touch the food.
“Aren’t you eating?” I asked.
“No … I’m fat enough already.”
“Are you fat?”
“A bit.”
“I don’t think so.”
And again she burst out laughing. Really frightening the weird noises she can make, like a mare in heat. Something about me makes her laugh. Laughing and going quiet again. Getting serious. And then again, smiling a bit and without warning and for no reason breaking out into a great shriek of laughter.