Amos Oz - The Same Sea

can't be unsquashed. I should go and see how the old man's doing.

With the first rays of dawn he opens his eyes. The mountain range looks like

a woman, powerful, serene, asleep on her side after a night of love.

A gentle breeze, satisfying itself, stirs the flap of his tent.

Swelling, billowing, like a warm belly. Rising and falling.

With the tip of his tongue he touches the dip in the middle of his left hand,

at the innermost point of his palm. It feels

like the touch of a nipple, soft and hard.

An arrow poised on a taut bow: he remembers the line

of the slope of her thigh. He guesses her hips' movement towards him.

He gathers himself. Crawls out of his sleeping-bag. Fills

his lungs with snowy air. A pale, opaline

mist is rolling slowly upwards: a filmy nightdress on the curve

of the mountain.

In Bostros Street in Jaffa there lives a Greek man who reads fortunes in cards.

A sort of clairvoyant. They say he even calls up the dead. Not

with glasses and Ouija boards

but visibly. Only for a moment, though, and in a dim light,

and you can't talk and you can't touch. Then death takes over again.

Bettine Carmel, a chartered accountant, told Albert. She is a deputy inspector

on the Property Tax Board. When she has a moment he is invited to her flat

for herbal tea and a chat, about the children, life,

things in general. He has been widowed since the early summer,

she has been a widow for twenty years now. She is sixty

and so is he. Since his wife died he has not looked

at another woman. But each time they talk

it brings them both a feeling of peace. Albert, she says, why don't you go

and see him some time. It really helped me. It's probably an illusion, but

just for a moment Avram came back. Its four hundred shekels and no

guarantee. If nothing happens, the money's gone. People pay even more

for experiences that touch them much less. No illusions

is a current catchphrase which in my view is just a cliché:

even if you live to be a hundred, you never stop searching

for those long dead.

A framed photograph stands on the sideboard: her chestnut hair

pinned up. Her eyes are a little too round, which is possibly why

her face expresses surprise or doubt, as though asking: What, really?

It's not in the picture, but Albert remembers what pinning

her hair up did to her. It let you observe, if you wished,

the soft, fine, fragrant down on the nape of her neck.

In the photograph hanging in their bedroom Nadia looks

different. More worldly. Fine earrings, a hint of a shy smile

which both promises and asks for

more time: not now. Later, whatever you want.

Kind-heartedness, bitterness, stamina, scorn — these are what Mr. Danon sees

on the face of his son in the photo. Like a double exposure: the clear, open brow and eyes are at odds with the wry,

almost cynical line of the lips. In the picture the uniform broadens the span

of his shoulders, transforming the boy into a tough man. For several years

its been almost impossible to talk to him. What's new? Nothing special.

How are you? Not too bad. Have you eaten? Have you

had a drink? Would you like

a piece of chicken? Give me a break, Dad. I'm all right.

And what do you think about the peace talks? He mumbles some wisecrack,

already halfway out the door. Bye. And don't work too hard.

But still there is a kind of affection, not in the words, not in the photo,

but in between or beside. His hand on my arm: its touch

is calm, intimate yet not really. And now in Tibet

it is almost twenty to three. Instead of investigating further

what's missing from the picture I'll make some toast, drink some tea,

and then get down to work. There's something wrong with this photo.

A postcard arrived, with a green stamp: Hi Dad, its nice here, high and bright,

the snow reminds me of Bulgaria in the bedtime stories Mom used to tell

about villages with wells and forests with goblins (though here there are

almost no trees; only shrubs grow at this altitude, and even they appear to do

so out of sheer stubbornness). I'm fine here, got my sweater and everything,

and some Dutch guys are with me — they're really safety-conscious. And by

the way, the thin air somehow

totally changes every sound. Even the most terrifying shout

doesn't break the silence but instead, how can I put this, joins it. Now

don't you sit up working too late. PS On the other side

you can see a picture of a ruined village. A thousand years or so ago

there was a civilisation here that was lost without trace. Nobody knows

what happened.

Early next evening Dita turned up. Light-footed, out of breath, unannounced

she rang his doorbell, waited. No use, he's not in, just my luck.

When she had given up and was on her way downstairs she met him coming up,

carrying a string bag full of shopping. She grabbed one handle

and so, embarrassed, hands touching, they stood on the stairs. At first

he was a little startled when she tried to take the bag away from him:

for a moment he didn't recognize her, with her

short hair, and her cheeky skirt that almost wasn't there. The reason

I came is that I got a postcard this morning.

He sat her down in the living room. He told her at once

that he too had had a postcard from Tibet. She showed him.

He showed her. They compared. Then she followed him into the kitchen.

Helped him unload the shopping, and put it away. Mr. Danon

put the kettle on. While they waited they sat facing one another

at the kitchen table. One knee over the other, in her orange skirt,

she seemed almost naked. But she's so young. Still a child. Quickly he

averted his gaze. He had trouble asking her whether she and Rico were still

or no longer. He chose his words carefully, tactfully evasive. Dita laughed: I'm

not his, I never was, and he isn't mine, and anyway, you see,

those are just labels. Everyone for themselves. I'm allergic

to anything permanent or fixed. It's better to just let everything flow. Trouble is,

that's a kind of fixed notion too. As soon as you define, it's a mess. Look,

the kettle's boiling. Don't get up, Albert, let me see to it. Coffee or tea?

She stood up, sat down, and saw he was blushing. She found it sweet. She

crossed her legs again, straightened her skirt, more or less. By the way, I need

your advice as a tax consultant. It's like this: I've written a screenplay,

it's going into production, and I've some papers to sign. Don't be mad at me

for taking the opportunity to ask you, just like that. You mustn't feel

obliged. On the contrary, I'll be delighted:

he started to give her a detailed explanation, not as to a client,

more to a daughter. As he clarified things from various angles, his docile body

began suddenly to strain at the bit.

Sometimes the taste of these strong olives cured slowly in oil,

with cloves of garlic, bay leaves and chillies and lemon and salt,

conjures a whiff of a bygone age: rocky crannies,

goats, shade and the sound of pipes,

the tune of the breath of primeval times. The chill of a cave, a hidden cottage