She’s more shocked than I am, she clutches at my hand, as if she’s afraid I’m going to hit her back.
“I said, enough,” she almost whimpers.
“Will he expel me from the school?” I ask quietly, not saying a word about the slap, feeling quiet, relaxed and tired, a sweet tiredness, the tiredness of immediate sleep.
She’s still holding my hand.
“I don’t know.”
“But what do you think?”
She starts thinking.
“Do you deserve it?”
“I deserve it a bit …”
“What do you mean, a bit?”
“I deserve it.”
“Then it looks as if he will expel you. It’s not so bad, we’ll find you another school.”
And I stand up, tired, I’ve never felt so tired before, yawning a big yawn … so drowsy … my other cheek is burning as if it’s been slapped as well, I go stumbling to my room and Mommy comes with me, supporting me. She puts me to bed, covers me up, puts out the light. My room is dark and the rest of the house lit up, as it always used to be, as it should be. She sits on the bed beside me, as she used to years ago, and I say to myself, a pity to sleep now, and with this thought, as I’m still thinking it, I go to sleep.
VEDUCHA
Is this how it will end? For weeks now I’ve seen my body depart from me. There’s no taste in food, it’s like putting plaster or absorbent cotton in my mouth. I cover my food with salt and black pepper and red pepper and it makes no difference. All the taste has gone. And Na’im is a fool, he burns the food. Much too hot. “Are you in love with somebody?” Little swine. And I’m afraid to tell him that I’m going to die because if he thinks this is the end he’ll run away and I can’t be left alone any longer.
He’s so jittery. Impatient. They’ve forgotten him, it’s true. He’s become a real delinquent. His bed in a mess, socks thrown on the floor, chain-smoking the whole time, I run around after him checking the ashtrays. I must sniff them to make sure there’s no hashish there. You never know, anything is possible.
He doesn’t even want to read the newspapers. He just tells me what the headlines are and says it’s all lies, all nonsense, you shouldn’t believe what they say. What is this? We’ve gone back to Turkish rule. He does as he pleases. Once I thought of phoning the police, telling them to keep an eye on him.
Adam has forgotten him, but apparently he’s giving him money, otherwise how could he go out to the movies every evening, two movies in an evening. I say to him, “At least tell me what you’ve seen, tell me the story. I’m so bored here. And I know about films, when I had a good pair of legs I used to go to the movies in the afternoon.” But he refuses — “What is there to tell? Leave me alone, these movies aren’t your kind, all kissing and cuddling and guns, you wouldn’t understand.”
He’s learned how to talk –
Hooligan, bastard –
Fatah –
Sits in the armchair, pretty boy, all sweet and laughing.
What can I do?
I’m completely dependent on him, I can’t move much now, just go from chair to chair. If he wasn’t buying the food and taking out the garbage, things would be very bad here.
I bring out old clothes and give them to him, emptying the wardrobe, and he takes them and says nothing. He’s bought himself an old wardrobe and he’s started filling it. And already I’m forgetting that I have toes on my feet, they’ve disappeared. It’s a sign of the end. I can’t stand up from my seat any longer. He has to pull me to my feet.
In the middle of the night Adam phones to call him out on a tow job. At first I thought it was news of Gabriel but I was wrong. Sometimes I say to myself, Gabriel did not return, not he, and if he did return then he really is dead.
The Arab puts on working clothes, clothes that he hasn’t touched for a long time. I said, “These clothes suit you better than those silly clothes you buy. Now you only need a haircut and you’ll look like a human being again.” But he didn’t answer, he just scowled at me and left, leaving me in the armchair.
And so I’m stuck here all night, unable to stand. My legs are like torn absorbent cotton. And outside it slowly becomes light. They don’t come back. Must be a difficult job. I try to stand and sink back again. All the windows are open, he forgot to close them. Suddenly it’s cold. I’m in a thin nightdress, as if I’ve just got out of bed. The cold enters the dry bones. I bend down, start picking up the newspapers scattered around me, papers that I haven’t read, papers that I so much wanted to read, stories about this unfortunate government, I start covering myself with them, stuffing them behind my head, behind my back, at my sides, no longer knowing which is Yediot Aharonot, which is Ma’ariv, tucking in here and tucking in there, a little comfort and warmth for the grieving body.
And at the window — the sun rising. Hands slowly sinking. No feeling in the fingers, as if the wires inside have burned out.
This time it’s the opposite … the body perishes and only the mind remains.
ADAM
And I’m still standing there, on the road, deep in thought, smoking cigarette after cigarette. The piece of metal has turned blue in my hands. An endless flow of traffic passing on the road, the first planes taking off with a roar from the airport. The tow truck at the side of the road, the headmaster’s car covered with leaves hanging on the back. Na’im sits on the dust-bank, his eyes closed, his head in his hands, waiting for me in silence.
So the Morris exists. It hasn’t been dumped in a wadi, or buried in the sand. They painted it to conceal its identity. Perhaps they stole it. But who? The religious Jews?
At last I make a move, climb into the truck and drive to the first gas station. I phone Erlich, getting him out of bed and telling him to send Hamid to pick up the truck from here. I tell Na’im to wait for him, giving him fifty pounds so he can eat at the diner nearby. I cross the road to the bus stop and take the local bus to Jerusalem. I’ve forgotten what a bus looks like from inside, it’s thirty years perhaps since I’ve travelled by bus. I sit by the window, the torn piece of metal on my knees, convinced now that I’m going to find him.
I’m shown the way to the religious quarter and I begin slowly combing the streets, studying the parked and passing cars. No sign of the little Morris but I have a vivid feeling that I’m close to it, that it’s only a matter of time. I choose a busy intersection in the heart of the religious quarter and stand there watching the passing traffic. Before long a crowd of children with long side locks gather and stand watching me. Suddenly somebody touches me, a religious Jew with a broad felt hat.
“You are waiting for somebody, sir?”
“Yes.”
But I say nothing more. I decide not to ask any questions about the car, if word gets around that I’m looking for it it may vanish again.
At midday I go to a little restaurant at the corner of the street and order lunch. I’m the only non-religious one in the place, and the proprietor discreetly lays a skullcap beside my plate. I put the cap on my head and eat, my eyes straying all the time through the window to the street outside. The proprietor realizes that I’m looking for somebody.
“You are looking for somebody, sir?”
“Yes.”
“May I be of assistance?”
I want to ask him, his face inspires confidence, but I stop myself, they all belong to one sect here.
“No, thank you.”
For some reason I’m absolutely sure I’m going to find him. I have no doubt. I don’t know where this certainty comes from. I pay and leave. Exhausted. I’ve been awake since two in the morning and excitement is sapping my energy. A blazing hot day in Jerusalem and I walk around the dirty little side streets, already feeling dizzy. I start looking for garages, perhaps they’ve left the car to be repaired somewhere. There are several small garages there, or rather shops converted into garages. Workshops really, men repairing ovens, children’s carriages, bicycles, and a car standing there in the middle, beside it a mechanic with long side curls arguing with somebody. I approach and look to see if the Morris is hidden there behind the rusty scrap metal and the junk.