A Wall of Light (11 page)

N
OAH’S DIARY
, A
PRIL
13, 1985.

In the news: who cares!

T
wo weeks now since Ilanit wrote me that letter. Every time I see her with Guy I feel like vomiting. If at least she’d dumped me for someone who is semi-human. But Guy is the sort of person who will go around his whole life cheating people. He’ll sell them his broken car and he’ll hire Arabs and not pay them and he’ll bribe inspectors to overlook whatever crooked thing he’s doing. He’s been through three girls already—doesn’t Ilanit see that she’s just the next one in line until he gets bored? Why doesn’t she talk to those girls? But he’s a con artist and Ilanit is too naïve, that’s her problem. I miss her, though. I really really miss her. I understand a lot of those songs now, I understand how you can feel like dying when someone leaves you and you’re never going to touch her boobs again or kiss her or feel her all shivery under you.

Oren says just forget it. He says the new American girl likes me but I’m not interested. I don’t like the way she corrects Caroline, our English teacher. It’s mean, and she does it to show off. Sonya is a million times smarter than this girl and she would never correct a teacher; it wouldn’t even occur to her. She tells us at home about all kinds of funny mistakes her teachers make but she’d never correct them in public or even tell anyone outside the family.

Oh, I forgot, we have a dog now, because apparently this house was just not quite crowded and insane enough for Sonya. She found this mutt half-dead on the road—someone ran him over—so she took him to the vet and saved his life, and now she wants to keep him. He’s pretty shaggy and a very quiet dog, probably quite old, and he limps because of his accident. No one else wants him around. Dad says dogs are too much work, Mom says dogs are dirty, Gran says dogs belong on farms and as for me I think we have enough problems already but Sonya always gets her own way. She asked me to think of a name for him. I suggested Limpy but she said it would hurt his feelings and remind him of his handicap. So I said well why did you ask me then so she said how about Lumpy and I said it made no difference to me she could call him King Kong for all I care. She liked that, so that’s what he’s called now. King Kong. He sleeps on my bed at night and I guess he’s okay.

It’s midnight now in our crazy house. Gran’s in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate. She’s been trying to write her memoirs but it’s not going very well. Poor Gran. Sonya’s asleep. Sometimes she talks in her sleep but she’s quiet tonight. Mom’s making notes in bed. She looks really exhausted and stressed lately. She’s got a million cases and they’re wearing her down.

L
ETTER TO
H
EINRICH
, M
ARCH
11, 1957

D
ear Heinrich, I have not heard from Andrei for so long! I don’t want to trouble you, and I am so very grateful to you for carrying our letters back and forth with you on your visits. But I am nearly losing my mind with worry. Please send me a note and let me know what is happening. When will you be seeing Andrei again? When were you there last? We will never forget your kindness. Hoping you are well,

Anna

S
ONYA

M
y brother, who had consulted his map, drove uncertainly down the narrow streets of Jaffa. In this landscape of frail, indestructible windows and ancient walls, a car seemed intrusive—even one as old and creaky as ours. Suddenly I saw the taxi. “That’s it!” I exclaimed.

My brother asked, without signing, “Where?”

“There, parked next to that building.” Even before I saw the license plate I had recognized the make of the car and the silver-and blue-pendants dangling from the rearview mirror.

“Well, the driver could be anywhere. We’re nowhere near his home, if my map’s accurate.”

“He’s probably inside that building,” I said. The taxi was stationed in front of a three-story house that appeared to be some sort of community center or hall. “I’ll go look,” I said.

“I’ll circle meanwhile,” my brother signed nervously. Someone was honking impatiently behind us—I could tell by the flashes of tense distraction that shot through Kostya’s body as he looked in his rearview mirror.

I let myself out quickly, walked over to the parked taxi, and peeked inside, hoping for clues. There were none, of course. If anything, the interior of the cab looked somehow aloof, as though deliberately rejecting any connection to my lover.

I pushed open the gate of a wrought-iron fence and walked down a short path of uneven flagstones set among bits of pale grass. A bronze plaque next to the door informed visitors in three languages that they were entering an institution devoted to culture and social development. Carefully, I opened the door and stepped into a spacious lobby. The tiled floor of the lobby was a complex weave of intertwining ribbons and loops and diamonds, but the colors—black, ivory, copper red, indigo, and orange—were faded now, and the floor was as unassuming as the bare walls. On my left, a wide stone staircase rose invitingly to the upper floors. Each stair dipped slightly at the center, where years of use had indented the stone. A white-haired man with watery dark blue eyes passed me on his way out. “Excuse me,” I said, wishing I could address him in Arabic, “I’m looking for Nazim Sharif—he drives the taxi that’s parked outside. Do you know him?”

The man nodded and pointed to the staircase. I thanked him in phrase-book Arabic and climbed the stairs. I would call my lover aside, I would speak to him: this would be a second chance. One does not often get second chances in life, but this would be the exception. And who knew where things might lead? Maybe he’d ask me to come down to his car for a ride, maybe he’d take me to his home, or to a cove somewhere …

There were five rooms upstairs. Two were deserted offices and the doors of the other three were shut. I knocked on one of the doors, and since I had no way of knowing whether anyone had replied, I cautiously opened it and peeked in. A man was sitting at a large desk, talking on the phone. He was surrounded by a jumble of office paraphernalia: computer, printer, fax, photocopier, paper cutter, overhead projector, coffeemaker—one on top of the other. Between the machines, on every available surface, tall piles of file folders were precariously stacked. A potted plant wrapped in gold foil was perched so unevenly on one of the stacks that I marveled it had not yet crashed to the floor, spilling earth everywhere. The man at the desk was absorbed in his phone conversation and didn’t take any notice of me.

I had more success on the next floor, where I found a lounge. Its double doors were drawn open like curtains pulled aside to reveal a stage set. The room was filled with smoke and male bodies. The men sat at tables or on worn easy chairs; some were playing backgammon while others socialized over plates of food and soft drinks, purchased at a minimalist snack bar in the corner of the room. Twenty-seven bodies, but not one of them belonged to my lover. I approached the table nearest to the door. Immediately all the men at the table gave me their attention.

“I’m looking for Nazim Sharif,” I said, “but I see he’s not here.” They grinned, delighted at the novelty of this mysterious summons. Just like my students, I thought: eager for entertainment, eager for any little morsel of gossip that might break the monotony of their day. They raised their arms and called out, “Nazim, Nazim.” A well-dressed young man rose from a sofa by the window and came over. He was wearing a fuchsia shirt and black trousers, both very fine and expensive, and looked as if he’d just walked out of a photo shoot for a fashion magazine, or was perhaps himself the photographer. “Yes, can I help you?” he asked. The men were watching us with anticipation.

“I’m looking for the person who drives the taxi down below on the street,” I said. “The white Volkswagen with the medallions.”

“That’s me,” he said.

“Was there someone else driving this morning?”

I couldn’t make out his answer—I only gathered that it had something to do with Jerusalem, and possibly with someone’s mother.

I said, signing, “I’m deaf, could you please write down what you said?” I handed him my notebook.

He wasn’t sure of his Hebrew and passed the notebook to an older man at the table. As he dictated his reply I could see the deflation of interest, the turning away. The men were disappointed; the mystique of the situation had evaporated. A deaf woman: clearly there was no glamorous story here. I was hurt, of course. It’s hard to be demoted, even if the position you were assigned was imaginary to begin with.

The well-dressed man handed me the notebook and I read in Hebrew cursive:
That’s my cousin Khalid. He was here to fill a prescription for his mother. He lives in Jerusalem.
The spelling was Arabic, with extra vowel-letters generously inserted at every opportunity.

“Do you have his address?”

But now Nazim became suspicious. He couldn’t give his brother’s address to a stranger, and he was also worried suddenly, and afraid. He seemed to shrink inside his lovely fuschia shirt and designer trousers.

“He gave me a ride this morning,” I said. “My brother is a doctor, maybe he can help his mother.” And this was true: my brother would be more than happy to look at Khalid’s mother. It was something I could offer Khalid, along with my explanation.

Nazim’s face brightened immediately and all the men looked at me enthusiastically. I was back in their good books, deaf or not. “Yes, yes, a doctor,” they were all saying, nodding. “Thank you, God bless you. She’s very sick, poor woman.”

Nazim wrote down the address for me; his Hebrew was fine after all. Probably a perfectionist, as one might guess from his clothes. He didn’t want to make mistakes.

I thanked them and hurried downstairs. I saw my brother’s sturdy body in the distance: his car was blocking an alley, and he was standing anxiously beside it, hoping no one would need to get through. I waved and he waved back. He kept his eyes on me as I walked toward him, as if worried I might otherwise vanish into thin air.

“His name is Khalid, he lives in Jerusalem,” I said. “The taxi belongs to his cousin—he just borrowed it.”

“So, what now?” my brother asked.

“Jerusalem,” I said.

N
OAH’S DIARY
, J
ULY
31, 1985.

In the news: mayhem in Afula.

T
his gay thing is hard to sort out. I saw this German movie at the Cinemathèque that I couldn’t get out of my mind and I was telling Oren about it and he said maybe I’m gay. I said what about Ilanit and he said maybe I’m part gay or maybe I’m hidden gay. I don’t know who came up with the idea but finally we decided to do an experiment to see whether I’m gay or not. We’d pretend to be gay (except for kissing) and if I liked it I was gay, if I didn’t I wasn’t. I never thought in a million years that Oren would consider such a thing, but that’s his personality—he’ll try anything. He even snorted cocaine twice. The first time was just last Thursday at the Boy George concert and the second time was two days later at the Joan Armatrading concert—she did an amazing “I Am Not in Love”—though he didn’t tell me until later. I thought he was acting a bit strange.

But the experiment didn’t work, because the results are inconclusive and unclear. I’ve decided not to think about it too much. The strange thing is that Oren has been hinting that he wants another round. He’s definitely not gay, but he said he kept his eyes shut and pretended I was Ariella (who won’t let him do that sort of thing, she almost broke up with him when he suggested it) and that it was physically pleasurable like you wouldn’t believe so he’d like to do it again. But I’m not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t get into the habit. Girls turn me on. But, to be perfectly honest, so do certain guys. During that German movie, I have to admit, I had a hard-on a lot of the time. Maybe I should talk to Dad. He’s open-minded. He might have some insights.

Things are really crazy in Afula. It all started when this little kid from Haifa got lost and this Palestinian teenager from Jenin found him and looked after him, and he got honored by the mayor of Afula. Then this teenager started getting tormented by all his friends that he was a collaborator. They have a lot of resentment.

I guess to get everyone off his back, he and two friends of his killed these two teachers from Afula who were driving home. Talk about peer pressure. Mom says no one would be surprised if they knew more about the lives of Palestinians, but no one cares. She
always
sticks up for them, she really has no balance at all.

Then all the Kahane people went crazy—it took 100 police officers to control them. Actually even before the bodies were found they were already standing outside the police station shouting, “Kahane! Kahane!” and attacking Arabs. I can’t believe this Kahane guy is actually in our Knesset, even people on the right say he’s a lunatic.

Anyway, the Arabs were afraid to leave their houses or go to work. They interviewed one guy who runs a falafel stand in Afula right opposite the police station. He said he’d be lynched if he went to work. Then the homes of those three boys from Jenin were demolished by the army, even though the mayor of Jenin risked his life to make statements against the murder and offer his help, etc. Then one of the Kahanist rioters who was arrested and released went to get some good deals in Nablus and he got shot in the back, and now the Kahanists are rioting again and attacking journalists because they say it’s their fault for putting a picture of the rioter in the paper.

I’m glad I don’t live in Afula.

Come to think of it, I don’t actually know any Arabs. I
hear
about them all the time from Mom, but I never see them except once in a blue moon on TV. Oren does—his family goes shopping all the time in Palestinian towns and they’ve become friends with a few of the storekeepers and their families. Also, an Arab woman from Jaffa cleans their flat. But Dad cleans our place himself and he’s not into scouting for better prices. He never checks the price of anything. “If I want it, I buy it,” he says at the supermarket, loading our cart with all these expensive jams and cheeses and things. “This is why I work.”