When will we be finished here? Why doesn’t he take this bit of metal home with him and think about it there? Why waste all this time? The smashed-up car is hanging on the winch all covered with leaves. No wonder they’re all slowing down on the road and staring at it, looking for blood.
“How many killed?” somebody shouts.
That’s all they’re interested in. Corpses. I don’t answer, I’m not getting involved with anyone here. The car’s no loss to anyone. The insurance company will pay, why should anyone worry? And they’ll repair it. I’ve seen cars in the garage in a worse state than this one, seen them cutting them in half like a cake, getting a complete half from another wrecked car and stitching the two halves together and making a new car. It’s like a real ceremony in the garage, everyone standing around and watching them weld the two halves together, slap on a fresh coat of paint and there’s a new car ready to be sent to the dealers in Tel Aviv.
I shall sleep here on this bank. I wish now I hadn’t given him that bit of metal that I asked him about. Now he’s whispering to himself, the man’s gone bananas, he’s asking for a small screwdriver.
What does he want with a screwdriver?
Here take this screwdriver, I hope it makes you happy, just make up your mind and move.
He starts scraping paint off the metal. He’s gone right off his head. I’m going to have to leave him, I’ll have trouble from him yet. Maybe I should go back to the village, persuade Father to send me back to school. I’ve missed only a year.
A twig fell on …
On what?
Sometimes I wish I was dead.
The piece of metal isn’t black anymore but blue. Big deal. But this scraping of his has got him all excited. He jumps into the truck and shouts at me.
“Hey, let’s go, what are you waiting for?”
Go fuck yourself, it’s not me who’s holding things up.
I’m getting out —
DAFI
What’s this? She’s not going straight back to bed. What’s the matter with her? Sitting in the kitchen beside the empty coffee cup and losing her sleep. Mommy’s wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. Incredible. The house is full of light, Daddy’s gone to rescue Shwartzy, poor man, all for my sake. And Mommy’s in no hurry, not tired, giving me an understanding look, studying me as if she hasn’t seen me for a long time. Touching me, trying to start a conversation, smiling.
A wild happiness takes hold of me.
“You woke me in the middle of a dream …”
Strange to think of her having dreams, but, I suppose, why not?
“What was the dream?” I ask politely.
“A real nightmare. I dreamed about you.”
“A nightmare? What was it?”
“A strange dream, awfully confused, we had gone to some far-off country and you were sick there.”
And suddenly she pulls me to her and hugs me. I really like this dream of hers, about me being sick. I hug her in return. Her stale old smell. She’s not turned completely to stone after all.
“A serious illness?” I ask.
“No,” she says hastily, hiding something, “what does it matter … it was just nonsense … were you awake when the headmaster called?”
“Yes.”
She shifts out of the embrace, very slowly.
“Still can’t sleep at night? What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I just can’t sleep.”
“Are you in love with somebody?”
“No. Why do you say that?”
“Nobody?” She smiles at me so sweetly. “That’s impossible …”
“Why’s it impossible?”
“Because there are some very nice boys in your class.” “How do you know?”
“I taught in your class once, didn’t I? I saw some … really charming boys.”
That’s what she thinks –
“Who?”
“I can’t remember … I was just struck by some of the faces.”
“But who?”
She’s still stroking me, absently.
“It doesn’t matter. I just said … I was joking … so what do you do when you can’t sleep, do you read in bed?”
“No. I walk about, eat something, listen to music …”
“Music? In the night? I never hear anything.”
“You and Daddy sleep like a pair of corpses, if somebody blew up the house you wouldn’t notice.”
“That’s odd. In the daytime I don’t notice that you’re particularly tired. It amazes me how you get through the night, all alone like that. I wish I could do with less sleep … but don’t you get bored by yourself in the dark house … time creeping by so slowly …”
“It’s not that bad … sometimes when I go out for a little walk it’s really very nice …”
“What?”
“You heard me …”
“You go out of the house at night? Are you crazy? You know what can happen to a girl walking the streets at midnight …”
“Two o’clock in the morning, not midnight. There’s nobody around then …”
“Dafi, you must stop this …”
“But why all the fuss? What can happen? Everything’s quiet … and there’s the civil patrol … nice old men …”
“Dafi, that’s enough, no arguments …”
“What can happen to me? I don’t go far. Down to the corner where Yigal was killed and back again …”
She goes pale. The hand lying on the table clenches to a fist … she wants to say something but the words don’t come. I shall have to help her.
“But you told me …”
“Who told you?” she snaps.
“Daddy.”
“When did he tell you?” She’s all on fire. “A long time ago.”
She starts biting her nails, in agony, bewildered. I carry on in an innocent, patient tone.
“But what is there to hide … why am I not allowed to know? Daddy said he was killed at once and didn’t suffer.”
She doesn’t answer, looks at her watch, groans, doesn’t want to answer. I’ve ruined everything.
“Do you think he did suffer?” in a soft, distant voice. Sometimes I can be dreadful, unbearable, I know.
“What does it matter now … enough, Dafi.” She won’t be drawn –
Silence. A clock ticking. A clear summer night. The house all lit up. Bread crumbs on the table. Mommy sits there frozen, her eyes hard. Tense as a spring. Now and then she looks at me, her sweet smile has gone. Night crickets. Poor Daddy, driving with Na’im to Lod. He was so tired, he didn’t want to wake up, I really dragged him out of his sleep.
“I wish he’d been killed,” I say quietly, thoughtfully.
“Who?”
“Shwartzy.”
“That’s enough, Dafi …”
“Why not? He isn’t a young man.”
“Enough, Dafi …”
She’s pleading –
“All right then, not killed, just badly hurt, a few months in the hospital.”
“Enough!”
“O.K. then, no blood even, just concussion, paralysis from the neck upwards, so he won’t be able to talk …”
And then I get a hard slap on the cheek. She hits me, the first time she’s hit me in seven years maybe. And I fall silent, it’s easier now. My cheek burns, tears spring to my eyes, but this blow has cracked something inside me, weariness, something dissolves in me. A stupefying sort of blow. I don’t move, don’t jump up, just slowly put a hand to my cheek to feel if the skin’s been torn.