Don't Call It Night (6 page)

I said that I couldn't remember. That we had been talking about something else. And again without noticing I laid a finger on his hand and at once removed it, and I said: I'm sorry, Avraham.

Avraham Orvieto said that he wanted to ask a small favour of me. He was sorry he had told me the story. If it's not too hard, Noa, please let it be as if I hadn't told it. Then he asked me if I would like another iced coffee, and if not he asked my permission to accompany me wherever I was going, that is to say, unless I felt like being alone right now? He smiled hastily, as though he already knew what I was going to reply, and as hastily wiped away his smile. We walked awkwardly, almost in silence and somewhat out of our way, along a deserted avenue of tipuana trees that were slowly dropping a fine rain of withered yellow blossom on the sidewalk. It was getting dark outside, and we may even have slowed down unconsciously between one street lamp and the next, not talking, until we parted twenty minutes later on the steps of my school, as I had remembered that I had a staff meeting of some sort that evening. The meeting was already over when I arrived, and I hurried out again after Avraham Orvieto—to my surprise I suddenly sensed that sometimes I, too, couldn't stop blinking—but of course he was no longer on the school steps. He must have gone to his room at the Kedar Hotel, or somewhere else.

T
HE
school year will be ending in another week. In the early years she used to be smitten from the middle of April with the urge to migrate, and start putting her name down for summer activities, a conference in Jerusalem, a festival in Galilee, a nature lovers' ramble in the Carme! range, a refresher course for teachers in Beersheba. This year she is too caught up in this crusade of hers to think of putting herself down for any summer sortie. I asked her on Saturday, apropos of nothing, what plans she had for the long holidays. When she said, We'll see, I dropped the subject.

Most people are always busy with arrangements, preparations, leisure activities. I am happy with my home and the desert. Even my work is gradually becoming superfluous. I'll give it up soon. My pension, our savings, and the rent from the property in Herzliyya will be enough to keep us going to the end. What will I do all day? I'll examine the desert, for example, on long walks at dawn before everything starts to blaze. During the hot hours I'll sleep. In the evening I'll sit on the balcony or have a game of chess with Dubi Weitzman at the California Café. At night I'll listen to London. Those hills over there, the mouth of the wadi, the scudding clouds, two cypresses at the end of the garden, oleanders and that empty bench next to the bougainvillaea bower. At night you can see the stars; some of them change their positions after midnight according to the seasons of the year. Not according to the seasons, parallel to them. There is a field of golden stubble on the nearest part of the plain, just behind the garden wall. An old Bedouin sowed it with barley in the autumn and harvested it in the spring and now the goats come and chew the stubble. Beyond, there are barren wastes extending to the top of the hills and further, to the mountainous mass that sometimes looks like mist. The slopes are a jumble of brown-black lumps of flint and paler rocks of chalk that the Bedouin call
hawar,
between patches of sand erosion. All in black and white. Everything in its place. Forever. All present and silent. To be at peace means to be as much like the mountains as possible: silent and present. Vacant.

This morning on the news they broadcast an excerpt from a speech by the Foreign Minister, who talked about the hoped-for peace.

The phrase "hoped-for" is mistaken here. Either hope or peace: you can't have both.

Today she said she's going to Beersheba again after school. She promised to fill up with gasoline and to try to be back not too late. But I hadn't asked what time she was thinking of getting back, nor had I asked her to be back early. As if she'd flown into this room by mistake and now she's in such a panic she can't find the window. Which is open as it always has been. So she flutters from wall to wall, crashing into the lampshade, hitting the ceiling, bumping into the furniture, hurting herself. Just don't try to point her towards the door: you can't help her. Any movement from you makes her panic worse. If you're not careful, instead of guiding her outside to freedom you'll scare her into an inner room where she'll keep on beating her wings against the glass. The only way to help her is by not trying to help. Just shrink. Freeze. Blend into the wall. Don't move. Has the window really always been open? Am I really hoping she'll fly away? Or am I lurking in wait for her, motionless, fixing her with a blank immobile stare in the darkness, waiting for her to drop from exhaustion?

Because then I can bend over her and look after her the way I did at the beginning. From the beginning.

I
T
turned out in Beersheba that there had been some sort of misunderstanding about my appointment with Benizri. An obnoxious secretary with little earrings like drops of blood was delighted not to find my name in his diary: the woman who made my appointment is, according to her, a half-witted typist who comes in twice a week and does nothing, and has no authority to deal with the public. Mr. Benizri is in a meeting. All day. Okay so I heard you the first time, you've come specially all the way from Tel Kedar. What a pity. I'm sorry.

When I insisted, she agreed, with a gesture of vague loathing, to check on the intercom and see if he could spare me a quarter of an hour anyway. As she replaced the receiver with her crimson nails, she said, Not today, miss, try again in something like two-three weeks like, when Mr. Benizri gets back from the conference. And remember; give me a tinkle first, I'm Doris, if someone called Tikki answers, you're wasting your time. Poor kid, she had a child by a basketball player who doesn't want to know, and now it turns out her baby's a Mongolian. And She's religious too. If it was me that was religious, I'd be tempted to drive on Saturday. Who are you, then? What do you want Mr. Benizri for, maybe I can do something for you in the meantime?

At this point I gave in. I asked her to bother Benizri again and tell him that Theo's Noa is here.

A minute or two later he shot out of his office, all excited, oozing charm, waggling his hips, his paunch, Come in, wazzat, sure, and how's our dear friend? Healthwise? And workwise? Did he send you with the findings? That's nice. He's a great man.

And so forth.

But about your business, see here, Mrs. Noa, quite frankly, how should I put it: so you've got yourself a nice generous donor, the best thing you can do is send him to us. We'll put him on the right track. Never heard of any drugs in Tel Kedar. Insignificant. What, have we fallen on our heads? Are we going to attract all the you-know-whats of Greater Tel Aviv here? Better he should invest the money in, let's say, an old people's home. The Golden Age as they say. That's one thing we could really do with and it would work a treat. But as for importing a truckload of junkies ... You know, drugs these days don't come on their own, they come with crime, with AIDS, with violence, with all sorts of kinkiness, if you'll excuse me. How does a nice girl like you come to get mixed up in a story like this anyway? You could even land Theo in the dirt too, heaven forbid. You know how it is these days, everything leads straight to the media, the local rags, in-depths, filth, God preserve us. Still, we can't waste a donor. Just you bring him to me. Generous givers don't grow on trees nowadays. It's because of the bad image of the State, which is thanks to the mess the Arabs in the territories have got us into, damn them. What does Theo have to say about the situation? He must be really teed off. The State is his life's blood. How long have you been with Theo now? Eight years? That's nothing. Insignificant. Just you listen to someone who knew Theo in the old days, when this country was nothing but sand dunes and fantasies. We still admire him from the times he used to blow up British police stations and radar installations. He's a really effective guy. More than effective: exemplary. If only he'd gone on running Development, we wouldn't have had all the foul-ups that have happened since. What a shame it's all gone up the spout. Just you remember you've got yourself a national treasure there, make sure you look after him like the gleam in your eye. Whatever happens, don't forget to give him a big hug from Benizri. And as for your junkies, just you drop them, before the dirty business starts. And your donor: send him to me and I'll put him on the right track. Goodbye.

I drove back from Beersheba to Tel Kedar in the wide old Chevrolet like a terrorist, hooting madly as I passed, cutting corners, all tense inside, seething with a cold rage that beat with a pulse of triumph. As if I'd already had my revenge. Drive straight to Muki Peleg's instead of going home, sit down with crossed knees on his low bed, a record, dim lights, shoes, a glass of wine, blouse, bra, without desire or any feeling except a destructive throbbing. Lips, shoulders, breast, then gradually southwards, by the book, twenty minutes more or less, without any passion on his part either, just collecting points in a catalogue of achievements that will never be full. Afterwards I'll have to hand him his points—sweetheart, how was I, you were great, sensational—and have for myself the satisfaction of getting the better of old "Gleam in Your Eye". I'll have a shower at his place and while I'm buttoning up my blouse he won't be able to resist asking me again, how was it, and I'll reply with Benizri's favourite phrase, Insignificant, thanks. I'll start the car and drive home with my terrorist rage defused. I'll say to Theo that tonight I'm doing the cooking. No reason. Just because I feel like it. With a white tablecloth and wine. In honour of what? In honour of Noa, who has decided to reconsider and climb down. In honour of her belated return to her natural dimensions. And tonight there'll be no jackal padding in the hall and no BBC from London. Tonight I'll put him to bed in my bed and I'll settle myself in his lookout post on the balcony. My turn now to sit facing the dark. In the morning, before going off to teach the poetry of Bialik, I'll write to Avraham Orvieto and tell him to find another sucker. Ezra Zussman's posthumous poems are entitled
Footprints Lost in the Sand
—they finally found me the book in the University Library in Beersheba—and on
[>]
I came across a poem that I liked the first half of. Instead of creating refuges I'll volunteer to collect warm winter clothing for immigrants. Or gift parcels for soldiers. I'll find some minor good cause within the limits of my ability, without biting off more than I can chew. Maybe I'll take it upon myself to edit a memorial volume for Immanuel Orvieto on behalf of the school, try to collect some material, though it'll probably turn out that no one has anything to say because who actually knew him—not even his class teacher or his counsellor.

I find it pathetic the way good people tend to volunteer to do good things for sentimental reasons. The right way is to serve the Good like that overworked middle-aged policeman, with an undistinguished round face and a small pot belly, whom I saw at the Ashkelon junction crawling on all fours to help the injured people trapped in an overturned truck while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. It was several years ago but I remember every detail: he was lying on the ground, giving the kiss of life to an unconscious woman through the crushed door. But the moment the rescue team arrived on the scene and a doctor or paramedic crawled up and took over, the policeman stood up, turned his back—there was nothing he could do now to help the injured so he set to work getting the traffic moving again: That's right, straight ahead, miss, keep moving please, the show's over.

Drily. Gruffly even. In a smoke-roughened voice. Oblivious of his mud-caked hair, his flattened cap and the rivulet of grimy blood trickling from his nose. He had sweat patches at his armpits and dusty sweat running down his face. Several years have passed, but I have not forgotten that peculiar combination of gruffness and grace. It is still my ambition to serve the Good in the way I learned from that policeman: not with gushing emotion but with supreme precision. With that air of just doing a job that verges on callousness. Confidently. Surgically. "And where are we meant to be shining, and by whom is our shining required," as Ezra Zussman wrote in the opening poem of his collection.

By the time I reached the traffic lights in the centre of Tel Kedar the poem and the policeman had helped me to get over my humiliation and dispense with revenge. Muki Peleg must find himself someone else. He would have to make do with Linda Danino. What would it achieve if yet another humiliated woman offered herself, between seven o'clock and twenty past, on a hot, damp evening in a small town in the desert, to the music of Ravel's
Bolero,
on a bed still covered with its dusty counterpane, to a boastful, rather shabby lecher, drenched in loud aftershave, so as to punish a man who meant her no harm and who would never discover what she had done? What good would it do? What benefit would it bring her?

None at all. Insignificant.

Muki Peleg once said to me, after his usual perfunctory spate of compliments and endearments, that actually he rather likes the pair of us. Theo and me. Not likes: admires. That's not it either. He never quite manages to say what he really means.

That's his problem. Over the years, he said, Theo and I had come to resemble each other in some indefinable way. Not in our characters, or outward appearance, or gestures, but something else, if I could only understand what he was getting at. You often notice that a sort of resemblance gradually appears in a couple who can't have children. Never mind. Forget it. He'd put his foot in it again. And I was blushing, all because of him, prattling on without sense or sensitivity. Sorry. He always ended up saying the opposite of what he meant. Similar vibes, maybe. No. What the hell. That wasn't it either.

I drove slowly past Muki's office, estate agents and investment consultants, did a U-turn at the lights and returned towards President Ben Zvi Avenue. I stopped there for a moment, trying to remember what I hid forgotten, and made up my mind that Noa was not going to climb down after all but would continue working to set up the Immanuel Orvieto Remedial Centre. At least until someone better qualified turned up who was willing to take over from her. That's right, straight ahead, miss, keep moving please, the show's over.