Amos Oz - The Same Sea

She took them both and placed them here and here, let's see which of them is more left-handed. They ended up playing at deflowering the virgin and seducing the monk, until they fell asleep. Later they showered and went down, famished, to look for a fish restaurant. In the evening they went for a swim. Now, remembering, she wanted him. She went to a film with Giggy Ben-Gal and they ate in a pub, and then went back to his place. When she got back it was nearly one o'clock, but she found the old man waiting up for her. Was he worried? Was he jealous? He made her a snack which she didn't eat because she wasn't hungry. But she sat in the kitchen with him for half an hour and he told her something about how drab life was in those days and even a little, in passing, about Rico's mother. Finally, filled with nocturnal courage, he revealed to her that he had a girlfriend, not exactly a girlfriend, a lady friend, who worked in the Property Tax Board, not a lady friend either really but an undefined sort of relationship. Dita was curious to know whether he had touched his "undefined relationship" yet, but she didn't feel she could ask. Interesting, why did he tell me? It came out as though he was writing a word, rubbing it out, and writing another one on top of it, and that reminded her of his son. And his way of putting his hand between his collar and his neck sometimes for no reason at all, or explaining things as though he were threading beads. Is he left-handed too, but still in the closet? Such a sensitive man. So sweet. I wonder when he ever sleeps.

One who has come through fire and water, his early promise

has come to nothing. It has not come easily to him. He has come to blows.

He has not come up in the world nor has he come into money.

He has come to grief, has come down to his last crust Now

he has come to judgment, and at last he

has come to terms.

Dear Dad and Dita. We were cut off yesterday while we were talking. I didn't

manage to tell you how pleased I am the two of you are together at home.

It's good that you're not alone either of you. It's a good solution for you both.

You look after her and you look after him, etc. Cooking and eating

and washing up and taking turns emptying the rubbish. I like this

father-daughter couple thing, this two-track relationship, as if you've gained

a daughter Dad and Mother and I have gained a double. Dad, I expect

you're the one who puts both your laundry in the machine, not sorting it

into his and hers but only into cotton and synthetics. And Dita, I imagine

you're the one who does the shopping for both of you and Dad you make

one of your salads, no mortal hand can chop vegetables finer than you. So

you've ended up with no money and no flat Dita, well Dad, you'll sort

that out for her. And as Mother used to say, every cloud has a silver lining,

and in this case the lining is also fun. Dita I can almost see you sleeping in

my bed, where Dad you come in every night as usual to cover her up, but

Dita you push and kick the covers off again. An anarchist in your sleep.

The opposite of Mother, who even on summer nights wrapped herself up

like a mummy. She wore a blue nightie trimmed with lace. You ought to

ask him if you can wear it one night. You won't refuse her, will you?

It's on the top shelf of the wardrobe, on the left. The little that Mother needs

now she can find with me: she, who could never stand long journeys, who

could never sleep in a strange bed, comes all the way here sometimes,

and naturally I don't tell her to go away.

A repulsive fellow with sweaty armpits, he is forty minutes late, he apologizes, Bat Yam is like Bombay to him, his brains dehydrated before he found it, and on top of everything else he's parked illegally. He is oozing good will and wants to settle the whole business in good faith, and even, lets say, make a fresh start. When all is said and done, its nothing more than a little misunderstanding: he will only use her money if and when there is a production, otherwise he'll return every last shekel (after deduction of expenses, etc.). What a pity she's not in: he was hoping to explain to her personally that bygones are bygones, his intentions were definitely honorable. Mr. Danon spoke sternly: the contract was crooked, and not entirely aboveboard from the tax point of view either. As he spoke the producer sat before him, worn-out, sweat-soaked and unkempt, a shamefaced, heavily panting dog, in his forties, his thinning red hair offset by Hapsburg sideburns going down to the angle of his jaw, a woebegone creature whom no woman except his mother had ever touched without an ulterior motive. Mr. Danon fetched a bottle of mineral water and poured a glass and then refilled it While the producer was drinking as though he was dying of thirst Mr. Danon pondered the expression benefit in kind, which contains a hint of corruption but also a touch of desperation. Likewise the word crafty.

Mr. Danon spoke in a tone of polite reprimand, like a pedantic father. The producer listened with his head to one side and his mouth wide open, as though his sense of hearing were located in his throat rather than his ears. At least three times he insisted that he was really an honest man and that Dombrov was a respectable company and that he was sorry to have given the impression. There and then he signed an agreement to return the money in full in two equal installments. Let's say there's a distinct possibility that the film will materialize; she's truly gifted and she's come up with a peach of a script, though not exactly what the market goes for these days. After signing he stayed on for half an hour or so and polished off another bottle of mineral water, talking about the state of the media, which is being ruined by commercialization, which in fact, lets be clear, is destroying everything here. Mr. Danon fetched another bottle, because Dombrov — call me Dubi — displayed a bottomless thirst He insisted on being pleasant and inspiring confidence, prepared to debase himself so long as he made a good impression. He began to expand on an idea he had conceived about the eternal conflict between genuine art and popular taste. So he gained some more time in the company of his paternal host, who appeared to be sensible, attentive, just the way he himself would be happy to appear on the stage of life but had never managed to. And besides, on another matter, tax, for some years now I've had an accountant, Mr. So-and-So, from whom I have never had an ounce of human warmth. Is it out of the question, lets say, for me to put myself in your hands? Be looked after by you personally? That is to say as a client who needs an occasional guiding hand? Actually "guiding hand" might seem to be a religious expression, whereas I am, lets be clear, an ardent secularist, even though there are moments — but that's nothing at all to do with what we were talking about I'm sorry, I've wandered off the point again. I need a guiding hand. Actually I've been like that ever since my wife left me for a well-known singer. And by the way my parents, both of them, were killed in the El Al disaster when I was a child. So that now, let's say at the present juncture in my life, I'm coming to terms the hard way with the fact that I'll probably never be the Israeli Steven Spielberg. A pig in a poke is an expression that generally denotes an unconsidered purchase, but in my case it describes my actual condition, both commercially and personally, or, let's say, existentially. But how did we get on to that? After all, we were only talking about the occasional tax advice and making up my annual accounts.