“Where’s Mommy?”
“Arguing with a traffic cop about a parking ticket.”
He smiled.
That calmness of his –
Mommy came back, furious.
“I haven’t the energy to cope with your daughter, you take her and buy her a skirt.”
She climbed into her Fiat and disappeared.
The calming influence that he always has over me. And having Tali with me as well. Both of them looked relaxed and beautiful in the darkening street.
“What kind of skirt do you want?”
“Actually it’s not a skirt I need but a blouse, I’ve just realized …”
And the three of us went to a shop that was about to close and there was a great blouse that cost hardly anything. And he took out his wallet, again I saw how swollen it was, and he handed over a hundred-pound note and said, “Perhaps we should buy one for Tali as well.”
And I hugged him, it’s wonderful when he’s so generous, and now the two of us will look like twins. And Tali blushed bright red.
And he bought one for Tali as well and we put them on right there. And then he bought falafel for the three of us. And we climbed into the truck and he switched on the flashing light on the roof so the other cars would treat us with respect. Sitting there like three Afghan chiefs, eating falafel and looking down at the people.
Mommy —
ADAM
The look she gave me when I bought a blouse for her like Dafi’s. A Russian blouse with old-style embroidery. Dafi hugged me affectionately, it’s so easy to make children happy. And Tali looked at me as if I’d confessed to her. And I looked at her as if I’d already made love to her. Did she understand?
And the next day at four-thirty when I left the garage after work I saw that she understood. She was waiting for me. Sitting on a big stone outside the gate, wearing shorts and the new blouse that I bought her, reading a book. Drawing attention, excitement almost, with her beauty, her silence, sitting there so passively. Workers waiting for the bus, from my garage and from other garages, can’t take their eyes off her, joking and whistling at her. And she doesn’t look up, absorbed in her reading, in a sort of serene abandon. I know this abandon of hers. She doesn’t even look to see if I’m coming out of the garage, she knows I’ll stop beside her.
And I do stop. She looks up, the book still open in her hand, gets up from her seat, climbs into the car in silence, not saying a word, sits down, glances at me solemnly and returns to her book.
The blood rushes to my head. The looks and the smiles of the workers, understanding what I still refuse to understand. I start to drive, not towards home but out of town, to the open road. Driving slowly, almost paralyzed with fear and excitement, saying nothing. It’s forbidden. It’s madness. Take her home at once, or put her down here, in the middle of the road. But I carry on driving along the shore road, looking for a quiet beach. In Atlit there’s a little bay where you can drive almost to the shore. I drive to the shore.
And she reading all the time, turning the last pages. I switch off the engine, get out and stand there, my face to the sea. A day of hamsin. The smell of the salt washes over me. My face is drenched with sweat, I bend down and wipe my hands in the sand. She’s still absorbed in her reading, motionless. Not even looking to see where we are. I stand watching the waves, the sun sinking in the west. I must cool off quickly, return to my senses, but I don’t want to. I look at her thin shoulders, her braids. So pretty. “Come here,” I say at last in a voice that even I don’t hear. I open the door. She steps out, the book still in her hand, reading the last page, suddenly moaning. Then she holds out the book to me with a movement that sets my head spinning, bending down to take off her sandals, if only I could come again without touching her.
The book is warm in my hand, I flick through it, a thin, worn volume. A tale of magic or witchcraft, a children’s book. I give the book back to her, but she drops it in the sand with a weary gesture. What can I say to her? How can I explain? How can I start to speak against the murmur of the sea? A girl fifteen years old, her head reaches my chest. What am I doing? To speak would be more ludicrous than to take her in my arms and kiss her. I take her. My trembling hands caress her hair, with a false fatherly movement I kiss her face, embrace her. She’s silent, a lifeless thing. I remove her blouse, stunned by the vision of purity that is revealed, the ungrown bosom of a girl just beginning to blossom. I close my eyes and bury them in this child flesh, move my lips over her hard little breasts, not believing that this is so, destroying myself. And she says nothing, she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t resist. The smallest shadow of resistance and I would leave her alone at once. She’s staring at my beard. I hurl her down on the sand, fierce with lust, whispering, “Tali, Tali,” and I see that she’s listening not to me but to other voices, she says nothing but I hear them too. The laughter of children, the engine of a launch, people talking, a car starting up. There are people nearby.
Hastily I pull her to her feet, put on her blouse and tie it up, and bend down and put her feet in her sandals, fastening them for her as if she’s a little girl. And all the while not daring to look her in the face. Bundling her into the car and driving inland, looking for a quiet place. But there is no quiet place. This crowded land. Roads, houses, bare fields or fenced orchards. Army units, tents, people in motion. Give up. From time to time I lead her from the car, beating a path among thorns, and she follows me obediently. Once again there is someone in my power. Once it was Gabriel, once an Arab boy, now it’s a girl. People put themselves so willingly into your hands.
Wait until dark –
I stop at a little roadhouse at a moshav. Order cake and fruit juice for her and coffee for me.
She sits facing me, eating slowly, sucking the juice from the glass. I swallow her with my stare, my desire stretches to the sky. Twilight. Like an animal I watch my prey, her white hands, her face. This silence is unbearable, must say something. But what?
“Have you done your homework?”
“Not yet.”
Silence. Again I ask her about her father. Again the same story. He disappeared years ago, they know nothing about him. I ask her about Dafi, what do they think about Dafi in the class. And she starts talking about Dafi with love, almost with admiration. A tough girl, awfully tough, the toughest. Tells everyone the truth, to his face, even the teachers. She isn’t afraid of anyone.
She talks slowly, something not quite developed, almost retarded, in her manner of speech. That vague disturbance, origins unknown. My redemption will come from her?
Twilight. We sit at a broken iron table in a diner, no, in a filthy general store in some remote moshav.
“Won’t they be worried about you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should call your mother, tell her you’ll be back late.”
“No, she doesn’t care anyway.”
“Even so, you should phone her.”
She doesn’t move. She looks lost.
I go to the phone and ring home. Dafi answers. Asya isn’t at home. I tell Dafi I’ll be home late, I’ve driven to Tel Aviv.
“Still looking for him?”
“No, this is something else.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’ll be back. What does it matter when? What are you doing now?”