One point that was impossible to convey in the translation: the name "Albert"
is pronounced as in French (with a silent t) by everyone except Bettine, who
pronounces it as it is written, with the stress on the second syllable.
Nicholas de Lange
Not far from the sea, Mr. Albert Danon
lives in Amirim Street, alone. He is fond
of olives and feta; a mild accountant, he lost
his wife not long ago. Nadia Danon died one morning
of ovarian cancer, leaving some clothes,
a dressing table, some finely embroidered
place mats. Their only son, Enrico David,
has gone off mountaineering in Tibet.
Here in Bat Yam the summer morning is hot and clammy
but on those mountains night is falling. Mist
is swirling low in the ravines. A needle-sharp wind
howls as though alive, and the fading light
looks more and more like a nasty dream.
At this point the path forks:
one way is steep, the other gently sloping.
Not a trace on the map of the fork in the path.
And as the evening darkens and the wind lashes him
with sharp hailstones, Rico has to guess
whether to take the shorter or the easier way down.
Either way, Mr. Danon will get up now
and switch off his computer. He will go
and stand by the window. Outside in the yard
on the wall is a cat It has spotted a lizard. It will not let go.
Nadia Danon. Not long before she died a bird
on a branch woke her.
At four in the morning, before it was light, narimi
narimi said the bird.
What will I be when I'm dead? A sound or a scent
or neither. I've started a mat.
I may still finish it. Dr. Pinto
is optimistic: the situation is stable. The left one
is a little less good. The right one is fine. The X-rays are clear. See
for yourself: no secondaries here.
At four in the morning, before it is light, Nadia Danon
begins to remember. Ewes' milk cheese. A glass of wine.
A bunch of grapes. A scent of slow evening on the Cretan hills,
the taste of cold water, the whispering of pines, the shadow
of the mountains spreading over the plain, narimi
narimi the bird sang there. I'll sit here and sew.
I'll be finished by morning.
Rico David was always reading. He thought the world
was in a bad way. The shelves are covered with piles of his books,
pamphlets, papers, publications, on all sorts
of wrongs: black studies, women's studies,
lesbians and gays, child abuse, drugs, race,
rain forests, the hole in the ozone layer, not to mention injustice
in the Middle East. Always reading. He read everything. He went
to a left-wing rally with his girlfriend Dita Inbar.
Left without saying a word. Forgot to call. Came home late. Played his guitar.
Your mother begs you, his father pleaded. She's not feeling too—
and you're making it worse. Rico said, OK, give me a break.
But how can anyone be so insensitive? Forgetting to switch off.
Forgetting to close. Forgetting to get back before three in the morning.
Dita said: Mr. Danon, try to see it his way.
It's painful for him too. Now you're making him feel guilty;
after all, it's not his fault she's dead. He has a right
to a life of his own. What did you expect him to do? Sit holding her hand?
Life goes on. One way or another everyone gets left
alone. I'm not much for this trip to Tibet
either, but still, he's entitled to try to find himself. Especially after
losing his mother. He'll be back, Mr. Danon, but don't hang around
waiting for him. Do some work, get some exercise, whatever. I'll drop by
sometime.
And since then he goes out to the garden at times. Prunes the roses.
Ties up the sweet peas. Inhales the smell of the sea from afar,
salt, seaweed, the warm dampness. He might
call her tomorrow. But Rico forgot to leave her number
and there are dozens of Inbars in the phone book.
One summer morning, when he was young, he and his mother took the bus
from Bat Yam to Jaffa, to see his Aunt Clara,
The night before he refused to sleep: he was afraid the alarm clock
would stop in the night, and he wouldn't wake. And what if
it rains, or if we are late.
Between Bat Yam and Jaffa a donkey cart
had overturned. Smashed watermelons on the asphalt,
a blood bath. Then the fat driver took offense
and shouted at another fat man, with greased hair. An old lady
yawned at his mother. Her mouth was a grave, empty and deep.
On a bench at a stop sat a man in a tie and white shirt, wearing
his jacket over his knees. He wouldn't board the bus.
Waved it on. Maybe he was waiting
for another bus. Then they saw a squashed cat. His mother
pressed his head to her tummy: don't look, you'll cry out again
in your sleep. Then a girl with her head shaved: lice? Her crossed leg
almost revealed a glimpse. And an unfinished building and dunes of sand.
An Arab coffee house. Wicker stools. Smoke,
acrid and thick. Two men bending forward, heads almost touching.
A ruin. A church. A fig tree. A bell,
A tower, A tiled roof. Wrought-iron grilles. A lemon tree.
The smell of fried fish. And between two walls
a sail and a sea rocking.
Then an orchard, a convent, palm trees,
date palms perhaps, and shattered buildings; if you continue
along this road you eventually reach
south Tel Aviv. Then the Yarkon.
Then citrus groves. Villages. And beyond
the mountains. And after that it is already
night. The uplands of Galilee. Syria. Russia.
Or Lapland. The tundra. Snowy steppes.
Later, in Tibet, more asleep than awake,
he remembers his mother. If we don't wake up
we've had it. We'll be late. In the snow in the tent in the sleeping-bag
he stretches to press his head to her tummy.
In Amirim Street Mr. Danon is still awake.
It's two in the morning. On the screen before him
the figures don't add up. Some company
or other. A mistake
or a fraud? He checks. Can't spot anything. On an embroidered mat
the tin clock ticks. He puts on his coat and goes out. Its six now
in Tibet. A smell of rain but no rain in the street in Bat Yam.
Which is empty. Silent. Blocks of flats. A mistake
or a fraud. Tomorrow we'll see.
Dita slept with a good friend
of Rico's, Giggy Ben-Gal. He got on her nerves
when he called screwing intercourse. He disgusted her
by asking her afterwards how good it had been
for her on a scale of zero to a hundred. He had an opinion
about everything. He started yammering on about the female orgasm
being less physical, more emotional. Then he discovered
a fat mosquito on her shoulder. He squashed it, brushed it off, rustled
die local paper and fell asleep
on his back. Arms spread out in a cross.
Leaving no room for her. His cock shrivelled too
and went to sleep with a mosquito on if blood vengeance.
She took a shower. Combed her hair. Put on a black T-shirt that Rico
had left in one of her drawers. Less. Or more. Emotional. Physical.
Sexy. Bullshit. Sensual. Sexual.
Opinions night and day. That's wrong. That's right. What's squashed
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