Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

There is a peculiar charm in Ezra's remarks. They are spiced with sayings and proverbs. That is why you never know whether he is talking seriously or only pretending to be serious. He is a withdrawn man. His affected gravity is a barrier between him and us. He surprises us by joking without smiling or smiling when it is not right to smile.

A man like Ezra Berger does not collapse because of a woman's unfaithfulness. True, he suffers. But his suffering is restrained. Fruma says he is restrained because he is coarse. We maintain that there is something noble about his restraint, if you can call moderation and self-control noble.

***

First of all, he ties a thick rope to the base of the side of the truck and expertly winds it round a bracket. Taking three steps backward, he raises his arm and hurls the coiled rope over the top of the cab. Then he walks round to the other side of the truck, where the end of the rope is waiting for him. He takes hold of it and pulls with all his weight until the wooden sides groan submission. When it is quite taut, he winds it round the iron hook again and repeats the process three times, until the sides of the lorry are well tied with three loops of rope. Finally, Ezra spits into his big hands, rubs them together, spits again on the ground in a vaguely angry way, and places a cigarette between his lips. He lights it with a gold-plated lighter, a present from his brother (his brother Zechariah Siegfried, in Munich, not his brother Nehemiah, who lives in Jerusalem). After taking a few phlegmatic puffs, he plants his foot on the running board and uses his knee as a desk while filling in the docket.

What next? To the kitchen to collect coffee and sandwiches. Ezra will be on the road until after midnight. We have a saying: Ezra without coffee is like a Leyland without fuel. It may be a trite saying, but it expresses an undeniable truth. Nina Goldring, the kitchen supervisor, pours the boiling coffee into the yellow thermos flask just as Ezra, in his thick rubber soles, comes creeping up behind her. He puts his hand on her shoulder and says in his deep voice:

"Your coffee is like a soothing balm, Nina."

Nina Goldring is frightened by the rough touch and the rough voice. A burning black drop falls onto her arm. She lets out a loud, startled cry.

"I frightened you," Ezra says, stating, not asking.

"You… you took me by surprise, Ezra. But that wasn't what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to say something important. You made me forget what it was. Oh, yes, now I remember. You've been looking very bad these last few days. I've meant to tell you several times. With such bloodshot eyes you drive at night. For drivers, lack of sleep is very dangerous, especially for a man like you, who…"

"A man like me, Nina, does not fall asleep at the wheel. Never. With the help of Him who gives strength to the weary, as they say. I think about selected subjects or drink some of your coffee, or else I sleep and my engine gallops home like a horse who can smell his stable. I can do the last stretch of the journey with my eyes shut."

"You just remember what I'm telling you, Ezra. I say it's dangerous and…"

"What does it say in the Bible?…God favors fools. According to that, I should come out of any trouble all right. If I'm a fool, nothing can happen to me. And if anything does happen to me, that'll prove that I wasn't a fool. They can carve my name next to Ramigolski's — he and I were friends, you know — and Harismann can write an elegy about us, dear departed friends, et cetera. What's the time? My watch is always slow — is it three yet?"

"Yes, it's five past," said Nina Goldring. "Here, smell this coffee. Strong, eh? Don't you rely too much on those sayings. Charms and promises don't do any good. Take care."

"You're a good woman, Nina. It's very kind of you to spare a thought for others, as they say, but there's no need to worry about me."

"Yes there is. A man can't live without someone to worry about him."

Good-hearted Nina regrets her words almost before they are out of her mouth. They may not have been very tactful. Goodness knows what conclusions he might have drawn.

Ezra Berger puts the thermos, the sandwiches, and the triangles of cheese down on the empty seat beside him and puts his head out of the cab window to maneuver his machine backward out of the loading bay and onto the road. She's a good woman, Nina Goldring. Only rather short and plump, like a goose. A feast fit for a king for Herzl Goldring. There is a kind of order in the world, as the philosophers say, a kind of logic: intelligence doesn't go with kindness, and kindness and good works do not walk together. Otherwise, one person would be perfect in every way, and another would be a swine's snout, as they say. That's why it is ordained that a beautiful woman should be vulgar. Now, that one is going to be a beautiful woman some day. But there's another side to the coin. She's the poet's daughter. "Yes, young lady, what can I do for you?"

Noga Harish is a girl of sixteen, tall and slender^ like a boy. Long, thin legs, narrow hips, and slim thighs half-covered by a large man's shirt. Her thick, fine hair streams down over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her build is sharp and angular, which gives the faintly showing signs of womanhood an untamed air. Her face is tiny, lost in the cascades of hair. Noga's hair is dull black. It frames her cheeks and forehead like the ring of soft shadow round a candle flame. Her eyebrows are fine, as in old pictures of the Madonna. Only the eyes are so large that they break the essential harmony, and in them there lurks a flash of green. The eyes of Reuven Harish set in Eva's beautiful face. Ezra Berger looks down on her from his cab window, and nods his head as if he has just been made aware of some secret truth. A moment later he shifts his gaze to the windshield and lets out an abrupt "Well?"

"Tel Aviv, Ezra?"

"Tel Aviv," he answers, still not looking at her.

"Will you be back late?"

"Why?"

"Will you have time to do me a favor?"

Ezra plants his elbows on the steering wheel and rests his chin on his shoulder. He throws her a tired, slightly amused look, empty of sympathy. A warm, flattering smile widens Noga's fine lips. She is not certain that Ezra has quite understood her question. She leaps up onto the running board, presses her body to the scorching metal door, and smiles her coaxing smile into the man's face.

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Fortune favors the fair. What do you want?"

"Will you be a dear and buy me some embroidery thread in Tel Aviv? One reel of turquoise."

"What's turquoise?"

This was not what Ezra had meant to say, but for once he let the words out without thinking. He looked away from her again, like a foolish schoolchild.

"It's a color. Turquoise is a pretty color halfway between blue and green. I'll explain to you where to get it. They're open till eight o'clock. Take this bit of thread with you as a sample. That's turquoise."

Noga's feet are not still. They perform an inner dance on the running board, without changing positions. Ezra can sense her body clinging to the outside of the cab door. How often I've seen this girl before. But now what. Noga interprets his silence as a sign of refusal. She tries to win him round by pleading:

"Ezra, be a dear."

Her voice trails off into a whisper. Since Ezra Berger is the father of two sons, both older than this little thing, he allows himself to rest his rough hand on her head and stroke her hair. Normally he doesn't like girls who act like little women. This time he feels a certain affection. He removes his hand from her head, takes her tiny chin between his thumb and forefinger, and announces with good-humored solemnity:

"All right, young lady. Your wish is my command. Turquoise it is." The girl, in return, places two dark fingers on his hairy, sweaty hand and states: