It’s not so good now, I’m not enjoying it anymore. They’ve forgotten me. So what am I supposed to do? I go and wander about in the crowd. Not looking in the shop windows anymore, just watching the people, getting pushed around by them, studying them. Sometimes I follow a man or a boy or a little girl, walking behind them, just to see what happens to them. Sometimes I follow somebody who’s following somebody else. Like today, when I started following a girl with soft legs and after a few minutes I realize — it’s Dafi, she’s following somebody. I hurry after her and catch up with her by a street crossing. I touch her gently. A wild sort of happiness takes hold of me.
At first she doesn’t notice that I’ve touched her, standing there waiting for the light to change. Then she’s confused, like I’ve wakened her from a dream. She’s grown a bit taller, got very thin, her face is pale, black rings under her eyes.
“Na’im” — she grabs my hand — “what are you doing here?” I don’t want to say I’m just wandering about.
“I’m going to visit somebody.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
“You’ve got friends here already?”
“Yes.”
The light changes to green but she hesitates to cross, a stream of people pushes us aside. Suddenly we’ve got nothing to talk about, we’re staring at each other, you wouldn’t think we’d travelled together at night and been friends. The light changes to red.
“Are you still living with the old woman?”
“Your father asked me to …”
“You two are in love.”
Mocking, unpleasant, her eyes glaring at me strangely. People crowding together beside us, waiting for the light to change. She seems distant, proud. My heart sinks.
The light changes to green, but she doesn’t cross. People crush us hard against the iron railing at the side. No manners. She scowls at me.
“You’ve changed a lot.”
And she doesn’t say if the change is good or bad. She isn’t friendly, isn’t laughing. Serious.
I light a cigarette, so many things I want to say to her but I don’t know how to begin. We stand there in this strange place, opposite the changing light, pushed around by the crowd crossing from side to side. I don’t want to scare her, to look like I’m trying to put the make on her, though I could invite her to have something to drink, to sit quietly and talk. She’s pressed hard against the railings, sad and pale. I feel dizzy with love. I’m afraid she’ll go away and leave me.
“And are you still in school?” I smile.
“What can I do?” she says angrily, like I’ve insulted her. “I can’t wander around free like you … without any worries … they’ve forgotten you, you’re lucky …”
Talking so bitterly, like she wants to hurt me. What have I done to her? Why am I to blame? I feel helpless.
A taxi stops by the crossing, she grabs my hand.
“Come on, I’ll take you to your friend’s house.”
And without asking, like I’m a baby, she opens the door and pushes me inside. I have to think quickly, make up an address, stammering a bit as I tell the driver where to go, I’ve never ridden in a taxi before. In the end I stop the taxi outside a house, get out, wanting to say something to her, I can see she wants to say something too, she’s sorry she was so hard on me, wants to go on being with me but the taxi’s starting to move, it can’t stop here, and she pulls the door shut, nodding her head to say goodbye. I’m left standing on the pavement. Miserable. I’ve lost her.
DAFI
I clutch at his hand, as if at freedom itself.
“Na’im, what are you doing here?”
That mysterious smile on his face, full of confidence. Not the same Na’im, he’s taller, wearing new clothes, his shoes shiny. A handsome hustler. Pleased with himself, free of worries. No longer that awkward country boy. A different person, unbelievable, standing there by the crossing, hands in his pockets, in a hurry, going to visit a friend, he’s made friends already, settled down well. Suddenly, I don’t know why, I feel so sad.
He doesn’t really do anything. Living with that old woman, he’s got himself a meal ticket. A strange kind of work for a healthy boy. He walks around town all day. No worries. They’re not throwing him out of school. He’s lucky. They’ve forgotten him. I feel sorry for myself. He leans up against the railings, looks me up and down. I must look like a child to him now. Where’s the little wet boy who came to our house that Friday night? And I was sure he was in love with me. Poor Dafi.
“You’ve changed …” I can’t resist saying.
And he doesn’t reply. He knows he’s changed, of course. He holds his head high. He’s got nothing to say to me now. He’s climbed so high. He’s learned a lot these last months, prowling about in dark corners, smoking earnestly. They’re all of them breaking out of their shells and coming to life, to freedom, and I’m left stumbling along at the end of the line.
And what a silly place to stand, impossible to talk here, with the light changing and rude people pushing against us. I want to say to him — take me with you to your friend’s house, but I bite my tongue, I don’t want him to think I’m trying to put the make on him. And already he wants to get away from me, he’s got nothing to say. He asks coolly, in a mocking tone, “And are you still in school?”
That really annoyed me, he found just the place to dig, my weak spot.
“What can I do? I can’t wander about free like you … they’ve forgotten you … you’re lucky …”
He knows he’s lucky. Bows his head, wants to break off contact. And suddenly I begin to wish this silly meeting never happened, why’s he so proud and puffed up? I’d take him with me, if he could forget about his friend for a bit. His freedom fascinates me. A taxi stops at the crossing and straightaway I grab his hand — “Come on, I’ll take you to your friend’s house” — and I push him inside. He’s a bit stunned at first but he recovers himself quickly, sitting there on the edge of the seat, all excited, explaining to the driver where to go. Seems it isn’t a friend but a girl friend, he’s got himself a little Arab chick. We drive down a few streets and then he asks the driver to stop. He looks at me, blushing. He’s hiding something. But there’s something gentle about his eyes. He wants to say something, he’s not proud and mysterious anymore. But the taxi can’t stop there, he gets out, stands on the pavement, staring at me, looking sorry about something, maybe he doesn’t want to leave me, but the taxi moves off. I’ve lost him.
VEDUCHA
They’ve forgotten him. They’ve forgotten me too. I’m alone here with a little Arab and that’s how it will end. Strange. No family, no relations, no husband, and this is the last face I shall see before I die. For this is death, I know. A heaviness such as there has never been before. Standing is difficult, walking is difficult. Hardly eating but swelling all the time. Only the mind is clear and lucid. The body is a rag.
Na’im is a good boy. A real stroke of luck. Cleaning the floor, washing the dishes, taking out the rubbish, going shopping, helping with the cooking. That’s what the Arabs are really good at — housework. And the men are better than the women. They don’t make a lot of noise, they’re clean workers. In the days of the Turks we had a servant in the house, an old sheik, a real sheik, Masiloan. The whole house, all ten of us, he held together. But Hebrew newspapers he didn’t read, no, that he didn’t do.
But this little fellow reads newspapers too, entertains me. I can no longer go to the movies, he tells me about the ones that he sees. Through him I see the films. But it’s not really the same thing because he doesn’t understand. He gets confused, you can tell. What interests him most are the gun fights, who killed whom, who drew a gun on whom, who came up from behind, who jumped down from the tree, who fired back, and all the love interest in the film he forgets. Sometimes I listen as he tells the story and when he comes to the end I take five pounds from my purse and send him out to see the film again, this time at my expense and for my sake, so he’ll get it right, who loved and who betrayed, who kissed and who disappointed, and who married in the end.