Authors: A.B. Yehoshua
The Lover (43 page)
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?”
“Special education. In a home for juvenile delinquents.”
“Really? An interesting profession.”
But he showed no inclination to prolong the conversation. And standing there beside me, as I was still fumbling for words, with one hand he unfastened his trouser buttons, took out his big erect dick and pissed straight ahead of him on the dry ground, standing there stiffly, legs wide apart. Drops fell on my boots.
On the truck in front of us, the soldiers were watching him. He’d attracted their attention too. They laughed and shouted jokes. He, quite unabashed, his dick still hanging out, rose to the challenge, and raised his hand like a priest blessing the
congregation
.
In the big canteen at Rafah I fainted, quite unexpectedly, without warning. It just happened, as I stood there in the line of soldiers by the counter, waiting my turn to get at the trays of sandwiches and the little containers of chocolate milk,
surrounded
by the smell of food and the racket of transistors. First I dropped the bazooka, then myself. It seems he was afraid they’d take me from him, he slipped away from the group of officers that he’d been talking to, dragged me outside to a water tap, laid my head in a pool of mud and poured a stream of water over my face. I heard him talking to the soldiers gathered around us. “It’s fear,” he said, and tried to move them aside.
But it was hunger. “I’m so hungry,” I croaked as I woke up, sitting on the ground, pale, with mud in my hair. “Since last night I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Again he took two hard-boiled eggs out of his map case and gave them to me.
And so at midday he brought me to the heart of the Sinai. I didn’t believe we’d make it. The little Morris ran beautifully. You did a fine job, Adam, she was starting up at the first touch. The battered old lady obeyed him, he hypnotized her too, and she made a hundred kilometres per hour.
There were military police roadblocks on the way, trying to stop all kinds of adventurers from entering the war zone. But he outwitted them all, pretending to ignore them, pressing on and passing them by. He wasn’t stopped once. And if they came after us, he’d stop the car some distance farther on, leap out of the little Morris like a long thin flame and stand waiting, wearing his red paratrooper’s beret, on his chest medals of previous wars. When the military police caught up with us, panting and cursing, he’d say calmly:
“Yes? What’s your problem?”
And they’d retreat.
But at Refidim we had to stop. Nobody was allowed to pass beyond that point. From far away came the echoes of explosions. The sounds were muffled as if they came from deep down inside the earth. Shrieking aircraft wheeled in the sky. We were directed to a wide-open space full of civilian cars, like the parking lot of a concert hall or a football stadium. Men were flocking to the war as if to some great spectacle. He told me to unload the equipment and I put on my harness, donned my helmet, picked up the bazooka and started to follow him, searching for a unit that would accept me.
We marched through a cloud of dust, all around us half-tracks and lumbering tanks. And the people in the sand, a nation sinking in the desert. Here it was born, here it shall perish.
And yet in spite of all the noise and confusion we were attracting attention. The one-handed major, tanned crimson by the sun, sweat gleaming on his bald scalp, leading me, his own personal soldier, as if I were a whole squad, marching behind laden with equipment, bound to him with an invisible rope. Men would pause for a moment to look at us.
Eventually he stopped beside a column of half-tracks parked at the roadside, stretching away to the horizon. He asked for the commander and they pointed to a short, lean youth making coffee on a camp stove.
“When are you moving?”
“Soon.”
“Are you short of a bazooka gunner?”
He was astonished. “A bazooka gunner? I don’t think so.”
But the officer was insistent.
“You mean your outfit is complete?”
“What do you mean?” The youth was utterly confused.
“Well then, take him into your unit.” He pointed at me.
“But … who is he?”
“No buts. This is an order,” he snapped, and signalled to me to climb aboard the nearest half-track.
And I began to strip off my equipment and pass it to the young soldiers, who tossed it up inside the vehicle, they were amused by the vast load that I’d dragged along with me. Then they held out their hands and pulled me up onto the steel car, which was all blistering hot from standing in the sun. Meanwhile the major was making a note of the unit commander’s name and the number of the unit. He even took the number of the half-track, making sure that I’d be taken into battle, that all avenues of escape had been blocked. Finally he made the commander sign for me as if he was taking delivery of a load of supplies.
“Make sure he fights properly,” he shouted. “He’s been out of the country ten years … he tried to run away.”
They looked at me.
“You must be crazy,” somebody whispered. “What a time to come back!”
But I didn’t answer, just whispered, “Have you got a piece of bread or something like that?” and somebody passed me a big slice of yeast cake, it was sweet and delicious and I bit into it at once, gobbling it up with great relish. Tears rose to my eyes. Suddenly I felt at ease. Perhaps it was because of that sweet home-baked cake. Perhaps it was because at last I’d got away from him. And so, perched on the half-track, surrounded by soldiers, leaning against the hot fuselage and swallowing cake, I looked down at the bald officer, who was still, standing there
cockily, grilling the young commander about the plans for the offensive. The latter was quite baffled, didn’t know how to answer. In the end the major sent him off, disappointed. For a while he hesitated, as if he found it hard to be parted from me, he stood there alone, looking about him with his empty, arrogant glance. Suddenly I was struck by the pathetic nature of his madness and I smiled down at him from my perch on the high vehicle, out of his clutches now.
Suddenly, decisively, he turned to go. I called out, “Hey, Shahar, goodbye.” He turned around. Even as he looked at me for the last time, there was hatred in his eyes, he raised his hand with a weary gesture, a sort of half salute, murmuring, “Yes, goodbye … goodbye …” and he set off towards the headquarters along the crumbling path, the path ground to dust by the endless stream of tanks. For a while I watched him, striding along with slow, measured, provocative gait, the tanks avoiding him carefully, right and left.
