The Girl on the Fridge: Stories (9 page)

The bus stops, the driver smiles at you, the windows are gleaming, and you’ve got plenty of small change. In the row of single seats on the left, the last one is vacant as if it has your name on it, your favorite one. The bus pulls out, the lights turn green as it approaches, and the guy cracking sunflower seeds gathers up the shells in a brown paper bag.

The elderly inspector doesn’t ask to see your ticket, just tips his hat and, in a very pleasant voice, wishes you a nice day.

And it will be a nice day. Because it’s your birthday. You’re bright, you’re pretty, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Four more stops and you’ll pull the cord, and the driver will stop, just for you.

You’ll get off the bus, no one will jostle you, and the door won’t close till you’ve stepped down. And the bus will leave, the passengers will be happy for you, and the guy with the sunflower seeds will keep waving goodbye, for no reason at all, till he’s out of sight.

Who needs a reason, it’s a birthday, and on birthdays nice things happen. And the puppy running toward you now will wag its tail when you pet it. When it’s a really special date, even dogs can tell.

In your apartment, people will be waiting in the dark, behind the beautiful furniture the two of you chose yourselves. When you open the door, they’ll jump out and shout “Surprise!” And you’ll be perfectly surprised.

They’ll all be there, the people you’ve loved. Those closest to you, and the ones who mean the most. And they’ll bring presents that they bought or dreamed up themselves. Inspired presents, and useful things too.

The funny ones will entertain, the smart ones will edify, even the melancholy ones will smile and mean it. The food will be amazing, then they’ll serve strawberries and top it off with vanilla milk shakes from the best ice-cream parlor in town.

They’ll play a Keith Jarrett disc and everyone will listen, they’ll play a record and nobody will feel sad. And the ones who are on their own won’t feel alone tonight, and nobody will ask “Milk or cream?” because by now they’ll all know one another.

In the end they’ll leave, and the ones you wanted to kiss you will kiss you, and the ones you didn’t will just shake your hand. And he’ll be the only one who’ll stay behind, the man you live with, kinder and gentler than ever.

If you want to, you’ll make love or he’ll massage your body in oil, something he picked out just for you in an old Bedouin shop. He’ll dim the halogen light—all you have to do is ask—and you’ll sit there enfolded in his arms, waiting for dawn.

And on that magical night, I’ll be there too, drinking my vanilla milk shake and smiling a genuine smile. And before I go, if you want, I’ll kiss you. And if not, I’ll just shake your hand.

For Uzi, the greatest Ashkenazi backgammon player of all time

“Double,” the backgammon monster bellowed like a wounded animal, its voice thick with menace and imprecation. “Double,” it cried again. Passersby stopped in their tracks, and the heads of curious neighbors appeared at their windows. The entire street froze. The only sound to be heard was the rattle of dice. “Double,” the backgammon monster cried a third time, now in a whisper, then touched its clenched fist to the yarmulke on its head and cast the dice against the side of the board in total concentration, as if aiming at some invisible target. Even before the dice had settled on the board, Lior knew he’d lost. “Four-four,” the monster said. “You owe me a candy bar.” It got up and went to stack the tomatoes.

“I’m not at all happy that our Liori is spending his whole allowance gambling,” Lior’s mother complained. “Would it hurt him to go to an after-school activity? Sarah’s Yaniv plays the accordion, the Stein boy is learning computers. And my son has to spend his afternoons playing primitive games with a criminal who sells fruit and vegetables—”

“Ziva, you’re exaggerating,” said Lior’s father, interrupting her diatribe. “David’s a religious man, not a criminal, and I can’t see anything wrong with every now and then playing a game—”

“No?
Not a criminal?
To take a naïve little boy’s last penny? And that scar that covers half his face—what, you think he got that shaving?”

“Really, Ziva, it’s a fair and friendly game. For God’s sake, don’t blow it out of proportion. They only play for candy bars, after all.”

“If it’s so fair, then how come Lior never wins…”

And once again she was off.

To anyone else, it would have seemed an unremarkable day. Bright sun, light breeze, nothing out of the ordinary. But Lior knew the day was special. The dice in his hand kept whispering six-six, and the pieces aligned themselves on the board exactly the way he wanted. A woman came into the store and asked for cucumbers. “No cucumbers,” the backgammon monster told her. “We’re closed.”

“What do you mean? You have piles of cucumbers here, and it’s only five o’clock—”

“Lady,” the backgammon monster shouted, the vein in the middle of its sweaty forehead threatening to burst, “we’re playing now. The store is closed.”

“My son’s coming home from camp today,” the woman ventured, “and he loves his cucumber soup, especially in this heat—”

“Closed!” the monster repeated, staring hard at the board. As it did so, it unconsciously fell to stroking the handle of the watermelon knife at its left.

“You’re right, Mr. Zviti,” the woman conceded. “It won’t kill him for once to eat a schnitzel. These kids today are spoiled.”

She left. The dice rolled on, doing whatever Lior wanted, and a new smell wafted in the air above the fragrances of onions and kohlrabi. It was the smell of victory.

“Double,” Lior piped in his shrill voice, waving his fists in the monster’s scowling face. “Double,” he repeated, giving the obedient dice their command. For a second they spun irresolutely, as if contemplating rebellion, but thought better of it and came to rest. “Five-five. Triple win,” Lior said. “You owe me three candy bars.” Then he got up and went to eat a plum.

“Watch the store a minute,” the monster said and went out the door, its shoulders stooped. When it returned it was just plain David, holding three candy bars in his hand. “Today you got lucky. Don’t get used to it,” David said. But no vein-in-the-forehead or touching-the-yarmulke tricks would ever help again. The backgammon monster had been vanquished.

I woke up in the middle of the night, startled to find the Geshternak eating a dream I was having about you. Furious, I jumped out of bed and punched it in the nose as hard as I could. The Geshternak dropped what was left of the dream, but I didn’t stop hitting it. Even when it crawled under the bed and lost its shape, I kept punching that ungainly shadow. Finally I stopped. Exhausted and sweaty, I gathered up the remnants of the dream. It didn’t leave much, just the black sweatpants you were wearing, your effortless grin, and a certain contact between us, I don’t know what kind—maybe a hug. The Geshternak had eaten everything around it, leaving only that, naked. I was left sprawled on the floor, desolate and silent, in nothing but my boxers and a layer of sweat. Hours of patient sleep, waiting for the dream to come. And now—nothing, worse than nothing, just a single drop of the taste of a vanished ice pop dripping into my mouth. A faint whimper came from under the bed. It was the Geshternak. First I thought it might be in pain—after all, I’d really walloped the shadow—but there wasn’t an ounce of pain in the sobs. I tasted the Geshternak’s tears, which were flowing along the bedroom floor, and they were sweet on my tongue; the Geshternak was crying with joy, and its tears attested to the wonderful taste of the dream, which was making every bit of its nonexistent body tremble. Its sobs told me about those long nights it had waited under the bed, empty, feeding only on fragments of my dreams. Nauseating dreams of boredom and apathy it had no choice but to chew on slowly; dreams of pain, loss, and fear it tried to destroy so I could sleep; dreams that so often stuck painfully in its throat. Every night, the Geshternak swallowed hour after hour of indifference and suffering, leaving my sleep smooth and dark, and tonight, it finally got its reward. Its painful hunger was satisfied, and for a while, it had experienced the alternative to emptiness. Its body knew more than nothingness. It was almost sunrise, and my partner’s shadow hand slid out from under the bed and pointed to the middle of the room, to the bits of the dream I still had left—sweatpants, a smile, an intoxicating, elusive touch—and the fading fingers of the shadow seemed to be saying, “Here, my friend, there’s some good left for you, too.”

“Have a banana,” she begged. I don’t want to.

“Come on, sweetheart. Show the nice man how you eat a banana.” Let the nice man eat the banana. I’m through with this, for good.

“Excuse me, Dr. Gonen, but this is completely unacceptable. Dragging me all the way out from Sydney just to watch him sitting there in his cage with his eyes shut, shrugging his shoulders. My time is very precious, you know, and I won’t have it wasted on one pretext and ano—”

“I’m sorry, Professor Strum, I have no idea what’s gotten into him. It looks as if he may be upset by all this commotion. He’s not used to strangers. If you’d just please wait outside for a few minutes, I know I can get him to respond.”

Don’t be so sure, honeybunch. Don’t be so sure.

“Five minutes,” he says, and I hear him walking away. “Five minutes.” The door shuts, and a key turns in the lock.

“Please, lover,” she says, stroking my fur. “Talk to the man, show him how smart you are.” Her hand is touching my balls now, and my penis begins to stiffen. But I don’t open my eyes.

“Really, sweetheart,” she says and goes on stroking. “Do this for me. Otherwise they’ll close down the project…”

Silence.

“…and then we won’t be able to stay together anymore.”

So we won’t. I’ve got my pride, haven’t I? The strokes come faster now. It feels so good. But I don’t open my eyes, don’t say a word, don’t give in.

“The five minutes are up, Dr. Gonen,” comes the voice from behind the locked door. I open my eyes just a crack. She notices, stops stroking and brings her face up close.

“If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you’ll have it,” she whispers. She removes her barrette and lets her hair down. It falls to her shoulders. She runs her fingers through it. She’s an attractive woman.

“There are lots of professors around here who’d love a chance to saw your head open and look inside your brain,” she says. “I’m through with you. From now on, you’re all theirs.”

“Dr. Gonen,” comes the voice from outside again, and there’s a tug at the handle of the locked door.

“Professor Strum,” she whispers through the door and turns the key. “Please, call me Yael.”

Before she opens the door, she undoes the top button of her blouse.

“Yael,” the voice repeats from the other side of the door.

Her lips move, quietly, but I can hear her. “Stupid monkey,” she says.

On my first day, I was overcome with dread. It wasn’t even four in the afternoon and the sun had set long ago. They turn on the streetlamps here by two, two-thirty, and in the brief spell of sunshine, the colors are as dim as in an old photo.

For five months now I’ve been traveling on my own, just me and my knapsack, looking at snow and fjords and ice. The whole world is painted white, and at night—it’s black. Sometimes I have to remind myself this is just a trek. “Look, a lemming!” I tell myself, and I force myself to pull out a camera. But how many pictures can one guy take? In my heart, I feel like an exile.

I blow hot air into my thick gloves, steam that’s supposed to drive away the cold. But the cold that escapes lingers in the air, and as soon as the steam is gone, it’s back. The cold here isn’t like the cold back home. It’s a cold that goes beyond temperatures. A sneaky cold that works its way through every layer and freezes you from inside.

I keep walking down the street. There’s a small bookstore on the left, and the lights are on inside. It’s been six months since I’ve read a book. I go in. It’s nice and warm in there. “Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have any books in English?” The cashier shakes his head and goes back to reading his ugly-lettered newspaper. I’m in no hurry to leave. I stroll down the aisles. I study the covers and breathe in the smell of the crisp paper. There’s a nun standing next to one of the shelves. From behind, she looks for a moment like Death in the Bergman film. But I muster my courage and walk over to the shelf nearby to steal a glance at her. She has a thin and pretty face. Very pretty. I know the book she’s holding. I recognize it by the picture on the cover. She puts it back in its place and moves on to a different one. I pull it out quickly. It’s still warm as I hold it. It’s
Gulliver—Gulliver
in Icelandic, but still
Gulliver
. It has the same cover as the Hebrew edition. We had it at home. I think someone gave it to my brother as a present. I pay the cashier. He insists on gift-wrapping it for me. He sticks a pink ribbon on the colorful wrapping and curls it with one of the blades of his scissors. Why not, actually? It’s a gift for myself.

As soon as I leave the store, I tear off the wrapping, remove my knapsack and lean it against a streetlamp, then sit down on the snow-covered sidewalk and start to read. I know the book well, and even if I’ve forgotten something, the pictures are there to remind me. The book is the same one, and the words are the same too. Even if I’m the one who makes them up. And
Gulliver
in Icelandic is still
Gulliver
, a book I like a lot. I’m so worked up, I start to sweat. It’s the first time I’ve sweated since I got here. My bulky coat and damp gloves make it difficult for me to turn the pages, so I get rid of them. The first two books are terrific, and I enjoy the third one too. But one thing’s for sure: his last journey is the most impressive of all. I’ve always wanted to be like those noble Houyhnhnms. When Gulliver is forced to abandon them and return to the humans, I start crying and I can’t stop. I finish the book and notice that the streetlamp isn’t on anymore. In the headlights of a passing car, I see a figure in black beside me. The lights freeze, but the cold stopped bothering me long ago. The figure turns toward me. It’s him, there’s no mistaking that scythe, that skeleton face. For a moment, from behind, it looked just like a nun.