At two o’clock, when he’d given up hope of getting there, he remembered my car and decided to commandeer it.
I leaped to my feet, suddenly alert.
“But the car isn’t mine.”
“So why should you care?”
And he sent the clerk away to fetch new forms. I watched as he took the documents and without a moment’s hesitation signed each one, easily and with complete self-assurance. He gave me a receipt and took the keys.
“After the war, if you return, you can reclaim what’s left of it.”
And he went to the parking lot to fetch it. Old though it was, he took an immediate liking to it. He treated it as if it was his own, lifting the hood, checking the oil and water, kicking the tyres. He was as awake as the devil. He sent the clerk, who was already collapsing from exhaustion, to find paint and a brush to dim the headlights, and she, efficient as always, brought a large tin of black paint. He began enthusiastically smearing the lights, front and back, then adjusted the driver’s seat, moving it back from the wheel to make room for his long legs. Then he watched as I loaded my equipment into the back. We set off.
He was driving with one hand, but with absolute control. I’d never seen such an enthusiastic driver. It was as if he owned the car, the road and all the transports he was overtaking right and left, manoeuvering adroitly in the dark, in the weak light that filtered from the headlights, accelerating among the long convoys of tank transports and ammunition trucks. The Morris dared much in his hands. And I sat beside him, exhausted, as if I’d already been at war for days, looking at the melonlike head, my own personal major, all the time absorbing his own personal news bulletins, his face contorting from time to time.
“But what’s happening there?”
“They’re fighting,” he replied laconically.
“But how’s it going?”
“It’s hard, very hard.”
“But what’s happening exactly?”
“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” He was trying to shake me off.
“Have they fixed us?”
“Now you’re starting to squeal as well. Go to sleep.” And he broke off contact.
I was suddenly alone, on the road to war, resting my head on the windowpane, looking out at the dry, sun-scorched fields, the sweat already dry on my face, breathing in the cool autumn air, gradually falling asleep, dreaming dreams to the hum of the engine, dreams that led me to Paris, home, walking late at night in the bustling streets beside the Seine, little alleyways, brightly lit cafés, chestnut stalls. Going down to the Odéon station. The authentic smell of the Métro, a sweet tang of electricity mingling with the stench of the crowds that have passed through these tunnels during the day. I walk about on the empty platform in the bright neon light, hearing the roar of trains from distant stations, drawing nearer, dying away. The train arrives. Immediately I leap into a red first-class compartment, as if somebody has pushed me there. And at once, among the few passengers, I recognize my grandmother, sitting in the corner, on her knees a basket of crisp, fresh-baked croissants. She eats them delicately, picking up the crumbs that fall on her printed dress, her old best dress. I’m filled with joy, the joy of meeting. So she’s regained consciousness at last. I go and sit beside her. I know she won’t recognize me immediately, and quietly, speaking softly so as not to alarm her, I say with a smile, “Hello, Grandma.” She stops eating, turns to face me, smiling absently. And I realize, suddenly I know it instinctively, she’s already divided the inheritance, she’s run away, travelling incognito in Paris. “Hello, Grandma,” I repeat and she sits there, looking confused, mumbling, “Pardon?” as if she doesn’t understand Hebrew. I decide to speak in French, but suddenly I’ve forgotten the language, even the simplest words. I feel a longing to take one of the golden croissants. I say again, almost in despair, “Hello, Grandma, don’t you remember me? I’m Gabriel.” She stops eating, a little alarmed, it’s obvious she doesn’t understand a single word. The language is quite strange to her. The train slows, approaching a station, I look at the signs. The Odéon again. The station that we started from.
And she stands up quickly, wrapping up the croissants in the basket. The doors open automatically, she steps out onto the platform, trying to slip away from me. But there are only a few people around us, and I walk close behind her, doggedly, patiently waiting for my memory of French to return. Opening the glass doors in front of her, climbing the stairs, pushing aside for her the low iron turnstiles. She’s smiling to herself, a smile of tolerant old age, constantly mumbling, “Merci, merci.” She doesn’t understand what this young stranger wants of her. We come out into the street. Already it’s first light. Paris at dawn, moist, misty. It’s as if we’ve been travelling on the Métro all night.
And there, parked at the roadside, is the blue Morris, just as it is, the headlights dimmed, only the Israeli licence plate has changed to French. Grandma fumbles in her bag for the keys. And I stand beside her, still waiting for my French to return, searching for some first words of communication. I’m desperately hungry, real spittle at the corners of my mouth. She opens the car door, puts the basket of croissants down beside her, sits at the wheel. It’s obvious she’s impatient to break off contact. She’s smiling now like a young girl, enjoying the attention. She says “Merci” again and starts the engine. I catch hold of the car as it moves away, putting my head inside, leaning on the window-pane, saying, “But just a moment … wait a moment …” As if detached, my head starts to move with the car.
My head against the windowpane, leaning out. In the sky the first light of day. No longer were there fields around us but sand dunes, palm trees and white Arab houses. We were standing still, the engine switched off, bogged down in a giant multiple convoy. Trucks, armoured troop carriers, staff cars and civilian vehicles. The noise was deafening. The officer stood outside, wiping the dew from the front windscreen. He didn’t seem tired from the long drive. There was only a hint of red in his eyes. I wanted to get up and out of the car but something held me back. I found that in my sleep he’d tied me to my seat with the seat belt. He came and released me.
“You really go wild in your sleep … falling against the wheel all the time.”
I stepped outside, my clothes crumpled. I stood beside him, shivering in the cold. My stomach was turning over, I was so hungry. The third day of the war and I had no idea what was going on. More than ten hours since I’d last heard a news bulletin. I looked at the earplug still in his ear.
How mean of him, keeping the news from me as well.
“What are they saying now?”
“Nothing. Now it’s music.”
“Where are we?”
“Near Rafah.”
“What’s going on? What’s new?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“We’re going to smash them.”
Short, self-assured answers. That arrogant look in his eyes, glancing over the convoy that stretched from horizon to horizon as if it was he who was leading it. Now that I was already his prisoner, I wanted to know at least a little about him, to try breaking through this blown-up shell.
“Excuse me,” I said with a smile, “I still have no idea what your name is …”
He looked at me angrily.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious …”
“Call me Shahar.”
“Shahar … what’s your job, Shahar? … I mean in civilian life …”
He was annoyed.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just … Just curious …”
“I work in education.”
I was so surprised I nearly fell over.
“Education? What kind of education?”