Amos Oz - The Same Sea

night at Giggy Ben-Gal's in Melchett Street. You dragged me out of the party

onto the balcony and at the window opposite a beefy man wearing nothing

but an undershirt and his loneliness was polishing his glasses

against the light, he put them on, saw us watching and shut

his shutters. And then because of him you told me what it is

about a man that attracts you: the Charles Aznavour type, or Yevgeny

Yevtushenko. From them you went on to King David. It attracts

you when there is a needy side, a rascally side and a side

that plays the fool. And you also showed me from the balcony that night

what a ragged sexy city this Tel Aviv is.

You don't see a sunset or a star, you see how the plaster

peels from an excess of adrenaline smells of sweat and diesel fuel a tired

city that doesn't want to sleep at the end of the day it wants to go out wants it

to happen wants it to end and then wants more. But David, you said,

reigned for thirty years in Jerusalem the ultra-Orthodox City of David

which he could not stand and which could not stand him

with his leaping and dancing and his one-night stands.

It would have been more fitting for him to reign in Tel Aviv,

to roam the city like a General (Retd.) who is both a grieving parent

and a well-known philanderer, a loaded high-liver and a king

who composes music and writes poetry and sometimes gives a recital,

"The Sweet Psalmist," in a trendy venue then goes

off to the pub to drink with young fans and groupies.

She has made him some tea and brought him some crackers and olives

and goat cheese on a tray and now here she is barefoot in the doorway

of his room, feeling partly like a daughter and partly like a waitress,

waiting for him to turn his tired head. But he has not noticed. He

is hunched over a document, absorbed in checking the details

of the rotten agreement she has so incautiously signed. She has been

taken for a ride. She had such high hopes. He finds that all she gets

in return for the money is not a commitment but, at best, only

a conditional intent. It is a contemptible contract, yet so full of holes

that even without lawyers there is a fair chance of rescuing her

and putting pressure on him to pay back the money.

Barefoot with her tray she waits for him to notice her. If she calls him

he will start and his voice will tremble. Yesterday evening she said Albert

and he jumped, almost shuddered. What will happen if she touches

his hand, not like a woman but like a child asking

When are you going to stop being busy?

He glances at his watch: ten to five. Ten to nine out in Nepal. He'll

pay it back, and how: we'll scare him. At the meeting

tomorrow we'll point out, here and here, how we'll nail him if he tries

to get clever. On the other hand, if he admits his errors and makes amends,

our side may consider taking no further action on this occasion.

While he is still making notes, the tray arrives with the touch of her hand,

not like a daughter but like a bold schoolgirl, deliberately

teasing a middle-aged teacher who is shy but endearing.

Crystalline silence, transparent and blue.

The wind has died. Over deserted plains

a veil of glassy frost descends.

Cold and empty. Vast. Just over the horizon

according to the map there is a little village.

There is no sign of the village. Perhaps he is lost.

He will press on a little further. If he is lost

never mind: he will give up and go back

silently. The way he came.

The road is level. The frost is fine and bright

Beside the sea his father is waiting

and beyond, in the depths, his mother.

His father is waiting and so is his mother and Dita is with them

in a strange shack and the woman Maria and the mountain shadows

and the roar of the sea and David and Michal and Jonathan too,

and there is no limit to their passionate longing many waters cannot quench

and mighty rivers cannot drown. See, he is returning to them filled.

But what is the Narrator trying to say? Is he resentful? Is his blood pounding

or his heart aching or his flesh bristling on the threshold? Here he has made

a list of words: in the word woods there is a vague dread. In the word hills is

a world of lust. If you say shack, or meadow, or wayfarer, rain, compassion,

at once he lights up like a miser who has sniffed a rumor of gold. Or if,

for instance, the evening paper prints the phrase "new horizons," at once

I am on my way to bathe twice in the same river.

A miser who has sniffed a rumor of gold should wrap himself in dark robes.

Mr. Danon is working as usual compiling balance sheets on his computer

screen. Next screen previous screen. Checking every entry. His heart is not

in it. In vain he clears his mind, he has no refuge from her smell. Her smell

on her towel her smell on her sheets whom did she call whom did she talk to.

Her smell in the kitchen where has she gone where has she gone when

will she be back in the hall her smell in the living room her smell who

has she gone out with what is there between them. Her smell in the bathroom

where has she gone and what if she is taken for a ride again. The smell

of her shampoo. Her smell in the laundry basket. Where has she gone. When

will she be back. She'll be back late. In the Himalayas it's already tomorrow.

Where can I hide from her smell.

He lies in the dark with his life in his hands. Her breasts are so soft, her juice

running over the down of her thighs but he is alone. With half of his pleasure

still warm in his hand he shuffles to the washbasin, shattered. A man

of his age. His son's girlfriend. He should wrap himself in dark robes

but where can he take his disgrace. Tomorrow night he should get out of here

and seek sleep in some hotel. Perhaps Bettine would take him in?

It would be interesting to know what she is thinking about now, what is the source of that secret smile, like a drowsy, satisfied cat She is remembering a morning of love in a hotel in Eilat in the springtime. She didn't feel like a swim and she didn't feel like getting up. They stayed in bed with the air-conditioning on, sated with night games, she in half a bikini and he stark naked, their skin still pink and hot from the beach yesterday. Breakfast in bed and a game of rummy, laughing at nothing at all, looking for a rhyme for stowaway. Throwaway. Go away. I stow away, you stowed away, he has stown away. Then, with pencil and paper, listing palindromes. Collapsing with laughter at this too. Noon. Boob. Poop. Toot (As in, toot if you've pooped.) Whoever found a new word could demand a forfeit In the course of this game Dita discovered something she had never noticed before, that Rico could write with either hand. I've never seen anything like that before; let's see now if you can write with your toes. He tried and scribbled and made her laugh. He explained that he was not born ambidextrous, he was actually born left-handed, but his parents made him write with his right hand and even punished him if he didn't Especially his mother, because where she came from left-handedness was considered a handicap, a sign of poor upbringing, the mark of a bad family background. They forced me to be right-handed, and the result is that now I can write with either.