After a sermon lasting a quarter of an hour the old devil comes to the point at last — since there are only a few days left before the end of the school year, and this business has gone on quite long enough … and there’s a suspicion that all this has come about as a result of there being close relatives in the school … and the injured party is seeking damages … therefore an immediate, even a symbolic, expulsion is essential, otherwise the whole business will lose its point … it will look as if I’m simply leaving…
He mumbles towards the end, a bit embarrassed, still not daring to look at me in the face.
Throwing me out just a few days before the end of the year –
“Of course, there will be a report,” he adds.
To hell with the report. Tears rise in my throat but I hold them back … I mustn’t cry, mustn’t cry.
“When must I leave the school?” I ask quietly.
He still doesn’t look at me straight.
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, from this moment.”
An icy chill in my heart. I stare at him with all my strength. Goodbye, Solveig. But no pleading, mustn’t demean myself. I pick up the satchel, walk up to his desk, deciding to change the subject.
“Did my father arrive to rescue you in the end?”
This time he’s taken aback, he blushes, recoiling.
“Yes, your father is a wonderful man … a quiet man … he helped me a lot …”
“And your car was pretty well smashed up?”
“What?”
“Anyone killed?”
“What? What are you saying? Enough!”
He’s almost shouting.
“Then you can have this …”
And I hurl the satchel down on his desk and hurry out of the room, seeing the secretary sitting there, all attention, and in a corner, somehow I didn’t notice him before, little fat Baby Face blushing bright red. I run to the gate and away from the school, the bell ringing behind me. I don’t want to see anybody. I stop a taxi and say to the driver, a fat man with a funny yellow beret on his head, “Drive to the university, or rather, above the university.”
And he’s a bit dumb, a new immigrant from Russia, he doesn’t know the way, I have to explain it to him. We go up and up, to the top of the mountain, driving along little forest tracks. I stop the car, get out, walk among the pines, crying a bit. The driver stares at me. In a moment he’ll start crying too. I go back to him, give him fifty pounds and ask him to return here at four.
“Yes, madam,” he says.
Madam –
I stay in the woods for a long time. Lying down on the dry ground and getting up again, walking about and going back to the little road. My eyes already dry, relaxed, just beginning to feel hungry, forgetting the headmaster, the school, Peer Gynt, Daddy and Mommy, and just thinking about food. At a quarter to four the taxi arrives. Unbelievable. The fat, bald driver stands waiting, quietly cleaning the front windscreen. He sees me running to him through the trees, laughs, smiles at me.
At four-thirty I’m already home. The satchel lies there beside the front door. Mommy’s very tense.
“Where have you been?”
“Just walking about …”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been expelled from school.”
“I know … they told me. Where have you been?”
“Just walking, I cried a bit … but it’s over now … I’ve calmed down.”
“Tali and Osnat were here.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That they should leave you alone today.”
“Good. You did the right thing.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“No … nothing … I’m awfully hungry.”
“Then come and sit down.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“In Jerusalem.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“He went straight there … it seems he’s getting close to him…”
“Close to whom?”
“Him …”
Ah … that’s why she’s so tense. The light in her eyes. An ageing woman. I feel empty and depressed.
I sit down to eat, she cooks french fries and meatballs, these are the things she cooks best. I eat and eat, a sort of lunch and supper combined. She walks about nervously. Every time the phone rings she rushes to it. But it’s always friends of mine, expressing sympathy, and Mommy answers for me, I don’t mind.
“Dafi’s not at home, she’ll be back later, phone tomorrow. I’ll give her the message.” My secretary. And I go on eating and eating, chocolate pudding and fruit cake, with Mommy all the time reporting the phone calls to me, surprised herself at this show of solidarity from the children in the class.
At nine o’clock I run a hot bath, lie down in the bubbly water and sing to myself. Going to bed, finding the satchel already in my bedroom, it’s been following me around all day, without me touching it. I open it, take out Peer Gynt, open the book at the place where I was interrupted and quietly go on reading to myself:
And I put out the light –
Mommy’s still pacing, wandering around the house, after a while she goes to bed, but she can’t sleep, I’m an expert on insomnia, she tosses about in her bed, gets up to go to the bathroom, comes back, the light goes on and off. At eleven o’clock the phone suddenly rings, but it isn’t Daddy. Sounds like it’s Na’im. They’re talking about the old lady, Mommy’s asking him not to leave her, since it’s possible Gabriel’s been found, he should stay put till Daddy gets back from Jerusalem.
I’m already hearing this through a dream. Asleep and not asleep, but I don’t get out of bed. A whole night passes in sleep and short wakings and then sleep again.
Early in the morning the phone rings again … Mommy’s talking, a few minutes later she’s standing by my bed, already dressed, talking to me. She’s going to Jerusalem, I must phone the headmaster and tell him she won’t be coming to school today. I nod my head and go back to sleep. Waking up at eight. The house is empty. I get up, pull down all the blinds, take the phone off the hook. No school, no parents, no nothing … I go back to bed and sleep again. Sleep has come back to me. Good morning.
ADAM
This slow movement. It seems to me I’m hearing soft music. I just begin walking slowly to get him away from there and he trails along behind me, his hat slung back, talking and telling his story, and I’m still afraid he may suddenly pick up his heels and run. I keep close to him, touching his shoulder lightly and leading him away. Full daylight already, in the streets people hurrying to pray. More than anything I’m careful not to scare him. Three children trail along behind us, disappointed, anxious about the morning trip that’s been interrupted, but it’s as if he’s forgotten them, carried away by the current of his words, and already we’re outside the religious quarter, walking through the New City, in old Mamilla Street, beside the ancient Muslim cemetery, and the children are afraid to leave their quarter, they stop and call out to him and he waves his hand to shake them off — “Later, not now” — and he walks on with me.