Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

"Good morning, Ezra. I'm glad to see you."

"Feel like a drink, Harismann?"

"Perhaps… if you…"

"Just the ticket; let's act first and hear the explanations later. You see before you, my good woman, two thirsty peasants. Fruit juice. Iced."

"Ezra."

"At your service."

"Are you driving home now?"

"'And no one to take them home,' as it says in the Book of Judges. But I, Berger, shall take you home, my dear Harismann. My truck shall be your truck. I still haven't discovered what a good man like you is doing in a filthy hole like this."

The two men were sitting opposite each other, one slightly built in his filthy best clothes, the other massively built in an overall that was presumably gray. Ezra had come in here by chance, in search of a cold drink. He was rather amused by the chance encounter. Reuven, for his part, was pleased to see Ezra and did not try to analyze the reason why. It had not escaped the truck driver's attention that something had happened to his companion. He had a nasty wound on his cheek, and he was covered with mud all over. But Ezra was not one to pry. The conversation died out. Both men drank in silence. A little blue vein stood out on the back of Reuven's hand and beat with a rapid, unhealthy pulse. Ezra rolled a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. It had gone out, but he did not try to relight it. Funny thing. Here we are, Harismann and I, and yet I don't. Something's happened to him. I mustn't look at him. If I look at him, he'll shut up. But he wants to tell me. And I want him to.

"Ezra," Reuven began, but stopped without finishing his sentence.

"I'm listening. Speak on."

"I… Are you in a hurry?"

Ezra shook his head without answering. His expression radiated sympathy, even though his eyes were still surrounded by fine wrinkles of amusement. Reuven fixed his glance on his empty glass and spoke in a monotone. Logically he ought to be laughing at my misfortune. But no. He's listening without gloating. What is he.

"They insulted me." Reuven came to the conclusion of his story. "They insulted me terribly. I might have sat here all day. If you hadn't come along. You think I'm exaggerating. You do, don't you? You think one ought to laugh off an incident like this, treat it as a joke. But…"

"You know what I'm going to say to you, Harismann?"

Reuven raised his eyes and looked for the first time into the other's.

"I say: come on. Let's get in the truck and go home. I've had one of those days, anyway. First I had a blockage in the fuel supply. Wasted time at a garage. And meanwhile my battery went flat. Out of the frying pan into the fire, as they say. Never mind. I'm not making another trip today. The truck will have to do without that pleasure for once."

"We've got used to traveling at night, haven't we?" Ezra said to his truck, as he put his foot on the running board and opened the door for his guest. "Open the window, Harismann. Why swelter in this heat? No, man, not that handle, that's the door handle. Are you trying to do the leap of death? The other one. That's it. She's not so young any more, this buggy. Once every handle had a label saying what it was, so there was no chance of making a mistake. Over the years they've worn off. Be careful next time."

"I'm sorry," Reuven apologized with a wan smile. "Forgive me. I'm tired. I didn't do it on purpose."

Ezra released the hand brake and maneuvered his way out of the narrow street. Reuven stared blankly ahead. Laboriously the truck made its way through one crowded street after another, halted from time to time by the threatening glare of a traffic light. Both men were silent, the one concentrating on driving, the other pressing his slight body against the door, trailing his arm out of the window. A greasy, sticky stench filled the cab. Now and again there came a welcome gust of cool sea air, which vanished almost as soon as it arrived. Ezra stuck his head out and swore at another driver. Reuven let the oath pass, out of fatigue. Once the brakes squeaked too sharply. The passenger's head hit the windshield. He let out a low groan. Ezra did not look round, too absorbed in the complicated journey through the crowded outskirts of the city. Eventually, the truck escaped and settled down to roaring in an even rate along the wide, flat road. It was Ezra who opened the conversation, a point we must note to his credit.

"Listen, Harismann, if you want a drink of coffee, there's a yellow thermos on the left. Your left, not mine. Have a look, there's a thermos wrapped up in newspaper. Go on, drink some, you'll feel better. By the way, exactly a week ago I happened to go into that very same cafe, and found — are you listening? — Friedrich. Funny, eh? Drink some coffee, go on. It's Nina Goldring's. Excellent coffee. Have some."

Reuven refused with a shrug of the shoulders. Ezra, not surprisingly, failed to catch the answer. It is a natural mistake of someone who has never driven to answer a driver's question with a gesture.

"Are you asleep, Harismann?"

"No, no, I'm wide awake. Thanks all the same, I don't want a drink."

Through the roar of the engine the driver misheard his reply.

"If you don't want to think, you can talk. I'm listening."

"What? Oh, no, I didn't say 'think,' I said 'drink.'"

"Go on, drink some. Why not."

"I'm sorry, we're talking at cross-purposes. I said I don't want anything to drink, thank you."

Ezra gave him a sideways look and said in a surprised tone of voice:

"Well don't, then, if you don't want to. I'm not trying to force you."

Reuven Harish said nothing. He tried to read his paper. The swaying of the truck made it difficult. And he felt sick again. He eyed the thickset driver and felt a sadness rising in him, which gave way at once to a different feeling, one of shy affection, such as thinkers sometimes experience in the company of men of action. To be more precise, he felt a kind of need to be liked.

The peaceful scenery of the plain of Sharon sped past the window. Neatly tended fields, new villages with their red roofs, fenced pasture lands, avenues of trees shading the road, water towers on the hilltops. Well-kept orchards, white-carpeted flower beds with their network of gleaming metal pipes. It should have been a soothing sight. But the harsh sun, the glass-blue sky, the fierce early-afternoon light, the straight road like a gash in the flesh of the green fields, for once all these depressed Reuven Harish. A man born in the gentle light of northern climes can never resign himself to the stark bright glare of this country. Even patriotic poems merely betray the poet's continual longing to come to terms with this cruel light.

For half an hour neither man broke the silence. Ezra Berger's heavy arms rested on the steering wheel. His body pressed almost lifelessly on the worn leather seat, giving off a smell of sweat. His cap covered half his face. Only his gnarled jaws were visible to the covert sideways gaze of his passenger. His face looked like a half-completed sculpture. His mouth hung slightly open. By the Netanya junction, Ezra drew two cigarettes out of his over-all pocket, put one to his mouth and offered the other to Reuven.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," Reuven replied, raising his voice to avoid another misunderstanding. Ezra grinned. After a moment or two he threw his cigarette out of the window.

"You're right," he said. "It's no good smoking when you're driving. It tastes funny, and you get no enjoyment out of it. And if you don't enjoy it, why smoke, as the sages would have said if smoking had been invented in their day."

Reuven had said nothing of the sort, but he did not trouble to explain. He was afraid that the noise of the engine would distort his words yet again. It was only as they were approaching Hedera that he felt a resurgence of that feeling of shy affection, or the shy need to be liked, and he tried to start a simple conversation.