“Looking for something …?”
I don’t answer, take a look and walk on.
My movements become heavy. I’m attracting attention with my persistent patrolling of the religious quarter, with my big tousled beard, my uncovered head and dirty overalls. I decide to leave this area, to search in the streets nearby, finding myself turning towards the Old City, jostled in the crowd. I who have forgotten what walking is, walking on and on, following in the tracks of religious Jews, I never knew there were so many of them, young and old, a black river sweeping me along the streets. Sometimes I have to rest, leaning against a wall, take a break, looking at them full in the eyes, studying them closely, but they don’t seem to mind, staring back at me with a proud and empty look, passing me by hurriedly.
In the end I reach the square in front of the Wall. The place has changed a lot since I last visited it. White all around. The sun burning down ferociously. I go close to the great stones. Somebody stops me and thrusts a black paper skullcap into my hand. I go and stand by the Wall itself. Just standing there. Looking at the crevices. A piece of paper falls at my feet. I pick it up and read it. A prayer for the return of a faithless husband. I pocket it. Dazed by the heat, the commotion of prayers around me. Somebody starts to wail. Somebody shouts. A crazy thought occurs to me. The religious ones killed him and stole the car.
I leave the place, the light skullcap still on my head, forcing my way against a mad stream of people. I reach the New City, find a public phone and call Asya.
“I’m in Jerusalem.”
“Have you found him?”
Straight to the point, without unnecessary questions. My heart misses a beat.
“Not yet. But I think I’m close behind him.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“No … not yet.”
I return to the religious quarter, combing the streets in a wide circle. It seems there’s something special in the air, the shops are closing, people walking about in canvas shoes. As if there’s a festival or a fast. Towards evening I find myself outside the little restaurant again. I go in. Nobody there. The tables clean, the chairs upturned on them. The proprietor appears at an inner door. He’s surprised to see me.
“You haven’t found him yet?”
“No.”
He says nothing, embarrassed.
“Could you serve me the same meal … as at lunchtime?”
He hesitates, looks at his watch, then goes to the kitchen and brings me a full plate and a slice of bread. I start to eat, almost falling asleep, my head bowed over the plate. He touches me.
“Sir, you must hurry … before the fast …”
“Fast?”
“Tomorrow is the seventeenth of Tammuz … you must hurry …”
“Seventeenth of Tammuz? What’s that?”
“The day they breached the wall.”
“The wall?”
“The wall of the Temple.”
I touch my head, the skullcap is still there, stuck to my head, I take it off, put it back, carry on eating, but my eyes close again. I’ve never known such a deep weariness.
“Do you wish to sleep, sir …?” I hear him say. It turns out he’s willing to let me sleep at his house. I go up the stairs with him. It’s six o’clock, the day is fading. The house is full of blond-haired children, he clears them out of one of the rooms and leads me in there, goes away to fetch clean sheets but I’m already lying on the bed fully clothed, on a threadbare silk blanket. He tries to rouse me, touches me, but I don’t move.
I sleep in the daylight, a fitful sleep, hearing the sounds of the street, the chatter of children, seeing the light turn to a limpid darkness. Dirges rise from a nearby house of prayer.
At about midnight I wake up. A small light burning in the house. People talking, the voices of children. I go out into the corridor, my clothes crumpled, an attractive young woman sits calmly on the floor, reciting dirges in a low voice. Still murmuring the prayer, she points the way to the bathroom, I turn on the tap and drink water.
Evidently her husband is in the synagogue. I stand in the dark corridor waiting for her to finish, but she doesn’t look up from the book. I take out a hundred pounds from my wallet, go into the room and lay the money on the top of the cupboard, she shakes her head as if to say, there’s no need. “Give it to somebody who needs it,” I whisper, and leave the house.
I resume the search, revived. Religious Jews pass through the streets, passing from one synagogue to another. I’ve noticed that these people are constantly, restlessly in motion. Again I comb the streets thoroughly, examining the cars. Strange, how sure I am that I’ll find it, this stubborn search looks a bit like a sort of madness.
About three in the morning and all is quiet. The houses of prayer are silent, the streets deserted. I start exploring the courtyards of the houses, the inner courtyards of big yeshivas, inspecting car after car. At four o’clock I find it. Parked in a corner. The engine still warm, apparently it has only recently returned from a journey. Part of the front bumper is missing. With my fingernail I scrape some paint off one of the doors. In the clear night light the original blue beneath is soon revealed. Inside is a black hat and some newspapers. I take a small screwdriver from my pocket and pry the window open, looking for clearer signs of him but finding nothing. The kilometre gauge shows thousands more than before. I find a hiding place nearby and sit down to wait.
With the first signs of dawn, once more the religious people begin to emerge from the houses. From the synagogues rises a plaintive, monotonous chant. Church bells ring softly. At five-thirty a party of young boys arrives, chattering excitedly, and stands waiting beside the Morris. A few minutes later he arrives, walking slowly, a religious Jew with long side curls, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and stands beside the car, running his hand over the damaged bumper.
The lover transformed into something unlike a lover –
I leave my hiding place and approach him. He sees me, smiles sadly, as if to apologize. I stare at his changed face, at his black side curls. He’s very fat, a big paunch flops over his belt.
“Hello …”
A faint reek of onions.
I touch him.
“So you didn’t make it to the front.”
GABRIEL
But I did get to the front. Hardly twenty-four hours had passed since you sent me away, and there I was in the middle of the desert. They pushed me out there so fast I couldn’t think straight, and not because they needed me, but because they wanted to kill me. I tell you, they wanted to kill me. Just that. It had nothing to do with the war. And they really did kill me, and this is somebody else.
I thought — it’s nothing more than a formality. Is there anyone to whom I’ll be of any use in this war? I shall present myself at some office and say, “Well, here I am. I belong here too. Include me in the list of volunteers and don’t say I didn’t close ranks in time of trouble.” I had no wish to be a partner in victory, much less in defeat, but if my presence was so important to them, I didn’t mind standing for a day or two beside a roadblock, guarding an office, even carrying equipment. Something symbolic, for the sake of history, as they say…