Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

When Yoni can't hold it in any more and starts to come, he beats his fist on the sheet and bites my shoulder. And makes an animal sound in a hoarse bass voice like an echo in an empty house. Zaro gives a quick yelp like a dog that's been wounded. Then his mouth and nose drool and then there are tears. Their sleep comes from me. I accept them both. They are mine. The antelope is asleep. And the spear and the black warrior. When you sleep you are weak and good. I will wear my blue corduroy pants and red sweater and my hair is clean and light and I smell of almond soap and shampoo.

What is Damascus threatening? I can't hear because little Assaf is playing his toy xylophone. He taps his stick. Tin-tin. He stops to listen. Tin-tin-tin. He stops again. And yet another time. It must be a cold rainy windy night in Damascus too.

Something with wings is flying around. Maybe it's a moth. Around and around the overhead light. Burning itself each time and flying away. But each time wanting or having to come back. And burning itself again. Wanting what it does not have or need. Its shadow keeps flitting over the marble counter. Over the cabinet. Over me. Pretty little moth by the light, why don't you listen to me and take a rest.

The cut on my finger smarts from the grapefruit. When I suck it, it feels better. Saliva disinfects. And heals. I read in a book that white scientists in Mozambique learned from village doctors to treat wounds with saliva. Once I saw Yoni's mother sitting on her porch at the end of a blue summer day, sucking her thumb. Like Efrat. Sleep, Efrat. Mommy is here, watching you.

He's talking in his sleep in that cave of his. Saying something like rrrrrrrr. Tia is saying rrrrrrrr too. Be quiet, Tia. It's nothing.

What's funny is that now the turtle has started scratching in his box. Maybe he finished the cucumber I gave him this morning and wants to leave. Don't be afraid, little turtle. You're as snug as a bug in a rug. And so are you, little Efrat. Because I am.

There's a wind but no rain now. Telling us to be good. And we will be, so we can rest. It's so cold and wet out there. And so good that we're all in here. Except for the cypress trees bending in the wind. There's no way for them to come in. As soon as they have straightened up, along comes the wind and forces them back down. It's the wounded antelope again. That won't give in till it's reached home.

In winter we're shut up indoors. But soon it will be summer again. Whoever wants can lie in the grass. Whoever wants can swim in the pool. And then Yoni will go to play chess in the tournament. And to serve in the army. And tell me new things when he comes back. And Zaro will write me a poem. And go into politics and become famous and important.

It's so sad and cold to be young and a man, especially in the winter. They have this thing inside that's always hungry and thirsty. Always gnawing at them. And making them suffer. It's not just wanting to have sex. It's something else too. Something harder and more lonely. Because the sex part is simple. It's over with the minute they come, like a wound you heal with saliva. But this other thing is cruel. It hardly ever leaves them alone. Maybe only when they fall asleep. Or when there are grave developments and they smell a whiff of war. The smell of death makes up for what they're missing. It gives them some kind of pleasure. But what can it be that is always so hungry and thirsty. That has to spear antelopes over and over again. As though they had been given a promise that was never kept. A promise by an evil wizard who won't and can't keep it. And it's not just Zaro or Udi or Yoni. It's Yolek too. And my father when he was alive. And Ben-Gurion shouting over the radio.

And even Bach, the tears in whose music I love. How bad, how sad he feels because he coo was made that promise that wasn't kept. When I listen to Cantata 106, it's like being a child alone in a dark, deserted house without its mother. In a forest. In a wilderness. In the taiga, in the tundra, as Yoni says. First begging, come back, how could you leave me, then ashamed to be begging and boastful. What do I care, if I have to be alone, then I will be, I'm big and strong enough to spear an antelope. Just at the end there's that part where he almost seems to touch himself, where he murmurs, don't cry, don't cry, everything has a reason, soon pa will come to explain, soon ma will be home.

I brought kerosene. I lit the heater. And now it's burning with a lovely blue flame in the room where Zaro is sleeping. It has a nice crackle too. Just as the ad said. The Whispering Stove, it was called.

Azariah's hands are digging deeper into the cave beneath his pillow. He likes it when he's called Zaro. But there isn't any heater in the bedroom where Yoni is sleeping. I'd better cover him with another blanket. And feel his head. It's hot. And dry. And Zaro's nose is all stuffed. I'm a little chilly myself. I have this habit of pulling my hands into my sleeves to keep them warm. If Efrat loses her bottle and looks for it in her sleep, a black sorceress will come and put it ever so gently back in her mouth. Go back to sleep, my little Efrat.

I pour the juice into two tall glasses, and cover each glass with a saucer, and slice the yeast cake I baked yesterday. Whoever wakes and wants can eat and drink. Because there's plenty.

And there will be tomorrow too. I take out a glass bowl and pour a cup of sugar. Quietly, so as not to wake them. And crack four eggs and stir them into it. And slowly add half a cup of flour, stirring all the time, and half a cup of sour cream from the refrigerator, stirring all the time, and a grated lemon rind, stirring all the time. And all the time purring to myself. And now, but not all at once, two-and-a-half cups of flour, still stirring strongly to break up the lumps. And pour it out slowly so that it doesn't spatter into the electric baker that I greased with margarine and plugged in with the heat on medium. I have forty minutes to wait for it to brown.

I fixed Yoni's brown jacket while he told me about the taiga and the tundra. And then he said he was going away. But he never went. Yoni, I said, I can listen while I embroider. And there's a concert on the radio too. And I told them both what I read about the Kikuyu, who put out jugs of water when the moon is full to catch and save its reflection for the dark nights to come.

I've washed and dried the dishes and put everything away in the closet. The match I stuck in the cake didn't come out dry, so I'll let it bake some more. Meanwhile I'll see who needs to be covered. It's good that they're both down with fever. It's high time. And have to stay in bed. And put up with some peace and quiet. And stop climbing walls like little turtles. Because when we went on that hike two days ago with Udi and Anat, and they attacked the village on the hill and captured that mosque with no one in it, they all came down with the flu.

Now the cake is done. Anat told me that Udi's sick too. I'll sit down to embroider. And play a record softly so they don't wake up. If they do, there's cake and juice. Whoever wants can eat and drink. Maybe Albinoni? No, not him. Maybe Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Or else more Bach.

Yesterday was Arbor Day. Yoni's mother came by, all upset. What's the matter with you, you haven't even come to see how Yolek is, he's had these terrible pains. The doctor gave him two shots. The first was mild but the second knocked him out. She saw Azariah. And that made her even madder. What would people say? He's ill, I said. Just like Yoni. And if people talk, they talk about you, too. About things that happened before we were born. That tragic love of yours. You're a little cuckoo, Rimona, she said. I'm sorry, Hava, but it's so cold and damp in that shack of his, and there's no one to take care of him there. And the barber is supposed to come after Arbor Day, and whenever he comes he stays in that room next to Bolognesi. And it's raining, so Yoni asked Azariah to stay because Azariah gave him a little turtle. I swear you're a little cuckoo, Rimona. And she left and slammed the door. And the turtle is scratching again in his box. What does he want, want, want?