Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

Tomer:

"Well, there may be the odd incident. But by and large…"

Siegfried:

"And you?"

"Me? I don't."

"Never mind. You don't owe me anything. I tried to ask you freely, as a man. But naturally you don't have to answer. Cigarette?"

Tomer hastily nodded. They smoked. They reached the swimming pool and changed. It was evening. The water reflected a distorted image of the pine trees. Slight ripples disturbed its surface and shattered the image. Tomer explained that the water was clear because it was changed every three days. It was linked to the irrigation system. Zechariah expressed exaggerated enthusiasm, as if this were an exciting technological innovation.

Silence. There were not many swimmers. High above there were signs of twilight, and in the west the sun was setting in a riot of colors. Soft light sparkled on the water. Some girls were playing opposite, jumping off the top diving board and splashing each other. The spray caught the light of the setting sun, like a string of pearls scattered through the air, or sparks from fireworks soaring and falling back into the water. The visitor rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"Ready?" Tomer said. "It'll be getting dark soon."

"How beautiful it is here. Such a pure silence. I almost feel an urge to pray."

"Yes. It's nice here."

The two men stepped forward and dived. Tomer, if the truth be told, was apprehensive. Could the old boy really swim, or was he just fooling? Better watch out.

Zechariah-Siegfried quickly allayed his nephew's doubts. He plowed through the water with precise, economical strokes. His white body capped with black hair cut a perfectly straight path through the ripples. Tomer swam the width of the pool, plunged, and surfaced in the opposite corner. He cast a glance at his uncle, either to calm his inner fears or to seek his admiration. Zechariah was floating almost motionless on his back, supporting himself with rapid, precise movements of his legs.

Tomer shook his head and said:

"You can swim."

Zechariah, still keeping his gaze fixed on the darkening sky, murmured:

"Some day your uncle will tell you a story about gypsies and a dog. Not now. Now we're swimming. Some other time. You don't look like your father, Tomer. You're an Israeli. Sculpted with a firm chisel. What were we talking about? Yes. Gypsies and a dog. I'll tell you some other time. We're going to make a fine pair of friends, my lad."

After a few moments he added:

"The water's marvelous. Warm and caressing like a woman. Swimming in water like this is like petting. It arouses one's desire."

Tomer said nothing. Disgusted, he swam away from the visitor. He struck out across the pool and climbed out. Logically, Zechariah ought to have followed his lead. But Zechariah did not act logically or take the hint. He slowed the movement of his legs. For a moment he lay motionless on the water, not breathing, corpselike. Suddenly his body began to sink. Tomer saw the water distort the lines of his strange head, the eyes unclosed. At first he thought he was just playing. But the motionless body continued to sink until it was lost in the murky depths. The young man was alarmed. His heart had told him from the start that the stranger would bring disaster. Now his heart beat violently. He tensed all his muscles, filled his lungs with air, dived into the water and plunged to the limit of his breath. In the dark depths he felt all around him, but his hands touched nothing solid. He returned to the surface. Panic overcame his presence of mind. Even on the night he was wounded he had not felt so frightened. He filled his lungs and prepared to dive again. Like a dark arrow at that moment at the other end of the pool the man shot out of the water, waving, breathing deeply, smiling at Tomer with his hideous smile, which displayed the inside of his lower lip.

"You frightened me," Tomer said.

"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

"It's time to go home. Let's get out."

"Just a little more," Zechariah pleaded. "Just a little longer."

There was a flirtatious pleading in his voice, like a woman or an obstinate child.

They swam for a little longer.

Zechariah did not repeat his earlier action. He swam slowly, rhythmically, savoring each stroke. He let the water wash over his face, then raised his head. He raised his head and spread out his legs. His legs moved like a pair of powerful pistons. Firm muscles rippled beneath the white skin of his back. Tomer was surprised: covered with clothes that body gave no hint of its true character.

Suddenly, in the center of the pool, his body rose, his back curved like a bow, his arms outstretched, and he turned an elegant and spectacular back somersault in the water.

At that moment, in the midst of the magical feat, as the setting sun softened the lines and brought out the massivity of the scenery, Noga Harish first caught sight of Zechariah-Siegfried Berger.

She was standing at the edge of the pine wood, which ran down to the pool. She had wandered here in the course of a pensive evening stroll. Gossip had informed her of the brother's arrival. But at first glance she mistook him for someone else. She saw Zechariah-Siegfried, and her thoughts were confused. So confused that for a split second she was on the point of dashing across to the edge of the pool to see and to be seen. But the urge died away at once. The girl stood without moving and looked at the man. Eventually, when the visitor, responding to Tomer's signals, climbed out of the water and toweled himself dry, Noga Harish turned and disappeared once more into the wood. She returned home by another route.

Tomer and his uncle set out for the Bergers' house. It was already night. The first crickets had started their mournful song. A breeze was stirring the tops of the pine trees, which, as usual, gave out a soft, sad moan.

"If we don't hurry, we'll miss supper. I don't usually stay in the pool longer than ten minutes."

Of course, of course, Zechariah did not want to upset the routine. He offered Tomer his heartfelt apologies for causing the delay. No one knew better than he did the importance of time. Every moment was precious. "Incidentally, when I got out of the water, there was a beautiful girl standing on the other side, looking at me. I can always sense it when a beautiful woman is looking at me. It's an instinct. Who was she? Didn't you see her? Pity. A real Oriental beauty. In my opinion, my dear Tomer, this land produces stunning beauties. They're not like the blonde, blue-eyed Nordic women. But, of course, that's a matter of taste. What do you think? What's your opinion?"

Tomer's opinion was very definite. He didn't approve of his uncle. Tomer's opinion of Zechariah-Siegfried Berger was adverse.

To clarify the true nature of what is to come, let us address ourselves briefly to Hasia Ramigolski. We might have turned to Esther Klieger — Esther Isarov, that is — or to Nina Goldring or to Gerda Zohar, or even to men such as Israel Tsitron or Mendel Morag, all hard-working people who eat their bread in the sweat of their brows and judge both themselves and others severely. We have chosen Hasia Ramigolski, not because her husband is the secretary of the kibbutz — a fact that counts neither for nor against her — but because we have seen her and exchanged words with her. Words, however, that any member of our kibbutz might have spoken at the time.

Hasia is no foolish young girl. Hard years have etched their mark on her face and in her heart. Experience has taught her simple truths, such as it is the exception that proves the rule. Life is not governed by rules. Life is made up of numerous small acts, and it is by these that even great men are to be judged. Hasia also knows that the hours of sadness, anxiety, and routine outnumber those of joy and pleasure, though life is not all bitterness, and there is also joy and contentment.