Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

"Don't be frightened, there's a good boy. Have you lost your mummy? Your daddy? Tell me. I want to help you. Don't be frightened."

Reuven overcomes a feeling of repulsion for a moment and stretches out his hand to stroke the boy's head. The child, baring his teeth like a little wolf cub, kicks him in the shin and turns to run away. Reuven grabs hold of his arm and stops him.

"Perhaps he can't talk," Reuven addresses his words to no one in particular. "Perhaps he's dumb, or an imbecile."

This last thought shakes him. He grips the boy, who struggles as hard as he can to escape. Reuven blinks and tightens his hold. If I let him go, hell rush straight onto the road and get rim over. On the other hand, what can I do? A policeman, perhaps. I won't leave him until his parents turn up.

Reuven pulls the child toward him and lifts him up. The boy howls and kicks, and dirties Reuven's white shirt front. He clasps him forcefully to his breast. Sharp little teeth bite his cheeks and hurt him terribly. He lets out an involuntary gasp and pulls the child's hair to get the teeth away from his face. The boy, released from his hold, falls to the ground and gives a loud shriek. Suddenly our poet feels a hard blow on the back of his neck and another in his ribs.

"Are you mad, damn you! Leave my son alone!"

"Who… who are you, friend? Are you the…"

"I'm going to break every bone in his body. Lunatic. Look, look what you've done to my little boy," the juice seller shouts, his large mustache quivering with rage. His hard fist thuds into Reuven's ribs a second time. A curious crowd of grimacing, unfriendly watchers gathers in a tight ring around the quarrel.

"This madman picked up my little boy and threw him on the ground. The boy hadn't done anything to him, nothing at all. He almost killed him. This madman."

"My friend," Reuven stammers, "the boy seemed… I only thought…"

"You thought no one was looking, eh, you scum? You thought you could get away with anything here, huh?"

"No, I didn't… I just saw a little boy without any…" Reuven tried to gain the sympathy of the mocking crowd. "I wanted to…"

"Next time you mind your own business. Stay at home with your wife. Don't stick your nose in other people's affairs or you may get it punched in. Don't cry, Tsion, don't cry, sweetheart, Daddy'll kill the bastard on the spot if he's broken a bone in your body. Daddy'll kill him."

Briskly the man set to work feeling his son's body. The boy, though hurt by his parent's rough squeezing, did not dare make a sound, but yielded his body obediently to his hands, looking at Reuven Harish the while, calmly, curiously, almost amicably.

"Lucky for you there's no damage done," said the juice seller, concluding his hasty examination. "If I'd found anything broken I'd tear you limb from limb, so help me, as sure as my name's Alfonse. Spit at the nasty man, Tsion darling, spit at him, that's right."

Reuven Harish walked slowly on and turned into one of the many gloomy cafés in the narrow streets around the bus station. He staggered over to the filthy washbasin in the corner. He wetted his handkerchief, and tried to sponge the muddy stains off his crumpled shirt. Then he sat down, exhausted, at a table. He hid behind his newspaper and ordered a coffee without sugar. "Scum," he muttered to himself, biting his lip. "Dregs of humanity." The black coffee made him feel a little better. He was evidently agitated. His face was white as death. The hand holding the coffee cup was shaking. What should you do? You should take it calmly. Be composed. Be calm. Laugh at the man, my darling, my sweetheart, laugh at the beaten, kicked man. It hurts. It hurts here. And here.

He put his left hand to his chest. Tried to stifle the pain. Fierce spasms stabbed his chest. With no rhythm, no regularity. No fixed place. A wild orgy seemed to be breaking out in his body. His fingers felt numb and heavy; they were reluctant to obey his orders. Rebelliously they clenched themselves, relaxed, clenched again. In his left leg, too, in the ankle, he could feel a light, rapid pulse, as if the ankle were trying to tell him: I'm not attacking you yet, but remember that I'm alive, too, and that I hate you.

His vision was clouded, his throat felt strangled. His whole body was rebelling against him, giving vent to its base, treacherous hatred.

Reuven licked his lips: tongue and lips seemed alien. He instinctively wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. The mist did not clear. He remembered the mud on the handkerchief; he had probably rubbed it into his face now. Nausea gripped his stomach. A sickening lump rose in his gullet, caught there. He belched, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. The pain was still there, but far away, as if a thick screen separated the man from his pain. His head dropped with a thud onto the table, both hands clasping his temples.

A short, freckled waitress rushed over and asked if he felt ill. Reuven raised his head slowly, and stared at her like a child who wakes in the night and finds a strange face where he expected to see his mother.

"Another cup of coffee, please," he said in a strangely soft voice.

The waitress nodded, but stayed where she was, looking at him as if she expected him to say something else. Reuven said:

"No. I'm sorry. Not coffee. A glass of water, please. Tap water, not from the refrigerator. Yes, I'm all right. It's nothing serious. Thank you."

The pain was passing. The nausea remained. A strong feeling of gratitude washed like a hot wave through every fiber in his body. The waitress's concern affected him so powerfully that it was all he could do to hold back his tears. They're not all wolves. A powerful urge to kneel. To say a prayer. To be solemn.

What was it? What happened to me? The pain — mustn't, no, mustn't call it that terrible name. Just a rather powerful physical reaction. That's all.

When the waitress returned holding a lipstick-stained glass of water, Reuven turned towards her and said with a forced smile:

"So kind of you. Thank you very much indeed."

Have a bit of a nap. People come. And go. Live their lives. And then go far away. Pretty country. Dams, canals, lots of flowers, windmills on the chocolate boxes, clouds, rain, white headdresses, bicycles. Far, far away. Gott im Himmel, how tired I am. It's terrible. A real man wouldn't behave like this. He'd behave differently. He'd have smashed that lecher Hamburger's face in. A fist. A knife. An alley. At night. Alfonse. Stella Maris will tell me why. My little daughter. Why isn't your father like a knife? Why isn't he Alfonse? Stella Maris because I'm not. Bronka because Stella. Ezra because Bronka. There's a formula, an equation. Very close. Written up behind a paper-thin wall. Lean on it. You'll break through it. Like a hero in a film. It all fits together somehow. Let's try again. From Eva to Bronka, then Noga. Bronka and Ezra. God, it's like a nightmare. Noga, Eva, Ezra, what. Where am I? Here. Mein Gott, why am I so calm, it was my heart. Why pretend? Aber was. how silly.

A deep, familiar voice, a voice from somewhere else, interrupted his reverie. Could it be? Yes, it was.

"Incredible. Who'd believe it — Harismann himself, in person. Fancy seeing a man like you in a place like this."

Reuven stood up. It was a meaningless gesture, politeness from another world. He greeted Ezra with exaggerated cordiality, as if (how absurd), as if he was the headwaiter of the place.

"Well, well, look who it isn't. Our Ezra. What a small world. This is quite a…" He hesitated for a moment. "This is quite a meeting. Truly."

"Amazing!" said the truck driver. "A week ago I came in here at this sort of time, and who d'you think I suddenly saw? Yitzhak Friedrich. Over there, at that table. And now today I come in, and who do I find sitting here? Harismann. Good morning, Harismann," Ezra suddenly added in a different voice, as if to cancel everything that had been said so far and start the conversation afresh. Reuven showed no surprise; he accepted the change and simply said: