Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

It took Yonatan a while to take all this in. He was dumbfounded but managed to stammer at last, "What border? What are you talking about? I was just—"

" Nu, chudak. It's no business of mine. You want to mislead me? So tell me lies. They say a lie has clay feet. Idiots! It has wings! And I can see, zolotoy partsufchik, that you had a gay old time last night, no? It's written all over your face. Never mind. You want to deny it? Deny! To lie? Lie to your heart's content! Who was it? Little Yvonne? Michal? Rafa'ella? Well, it's no business of mine. Between their legs they've all, heh, heh, got the same honeypot. Come in, please. We have tea, we have dates, and we have vodka. I'm strictly a vegetarian. A vegetarian cannibal, that is. You are my guest now. Sit! We'll talk. Eat. Drink. And then— chort evo znayet. God be with you! Or the Devil. Come on now. Let Burlak and me drop you off near Bir-Meliha, and from there you can go straight to hell, if that's where you're bound for."

Yonatan followed the old man into a dilapidated trailer at one end of the camp, near the perimeter fence. Its tires had gone flat long ago, leaving the rubber to fell apart and the metal hubs sunk halfway into the sand. The cool, dimly lit interior had a faintly disagreeable smell. It was furnished with two mattresses — one of them stuffed with rags, the other spilling wisps of dirty straw through a hole in its lining — and a peeling table on which stood a great many empty beer bottles, half-empty wine bottles, and a mélange of tin plates and cups, canned foods, piles of books, bread crusts, and eggs in a cardboard box. On a shelf tied by ropes to the ceiling, among numerous colorful rock samples, Yonatan made out a kerosene stove, a heater, a tin of tea, a broken accordion, an oil lamp, a blackened frying pan, a sooted-over Turkish-coffee beaker and an ancient Parabellum revolver.

"Step right in, krasavits of mine. My home is your home. My bed is your bed. You can throw down all your junk wherever you like. Sit, malchik. Make yourself comfortable. Relax. I'm not going to steal any of your treasures. You can hand me that rifle, though. There you go, we'll lay it down so it can take a rest too. Tlallim Alexander's the name. Certified surveyor, desert rat, devil of a fellow, geologist, lover, and lush. Life has he loved and its reprobates hated with the fury of a wild beast. To numerous frightful temptations has he his own soul subjected. Peace of body or of mind has he never found. Women has he worshiped above all things, and all his sufferings has he bravely endured. So much for me! And you, my boy, what are you? A desperado? A babe in arms? A poet? Here, have a shot of gin. I'm sorry, but I'm out of ice and soda. In fact, I never stock any and never will. But a warm, true heart, that I can give you. Drink up, krasavits, and then get it all off your chest. Ay, mama, just look at the tears this child is choking back. You chudak-durak, you! What bloody devils, I'd like to know, seduced you suddenly to go to Petra?"

The old man broke into a childish guffaw and wiped tears of laughter from his face. Just as suddenly he grew angry. Pounding so hard on the table that all the bottles jumped, he roared furiously, "Live, you bastard! Live and go on living! Ty smarkatch! You spoiled brat! You little snot! Have a good cry and live! Crawl on your belly and live! Suffer, you bastard, I say! Suffer!"

Yonatan winced. He hesitated, cringed, reached for the battered tin cup he had been offered, gulped some gin, felt it sear his throat, coughed, wiped his eyes with the back of his grimy hand, and decided to try to defend himself.

"Excuse me, friend."

"Friend?" roared the old man. "Have you no sense of shame? Bite your tongue! How dare you? The nerve! What friend am I of yours? The Devil is your friend! I'm Tlallim to you! Or Sasha! Not friend. Here, eat some figs. Eat! And some dates. And olives. There's bread too. And under those socks over there might be a tomato. You ate already? So eat again. Paskudniak! Eat, I said!"

All of a sudden, in a totally different tone of voice, his palms pressed against his cheeks, his head and torso swaying from side to side like a distraught mourner's, he wailed bitterly, "My child! Zolotoy mine! What have the bastards done to you?"

"Excuse me… but it's the furthest thing from my mind, what you were saying. The only reason I'm down here is because I was sent by my kibbutz to look for a fellow named Udi who disappeared a few days ago."

"Misery, krasavitsl Misery and lies! There's no Udi and there's no Gudi. Listen. Sasha Tlallim is going to speak now about a matter of principle. If you want to, you can listen. If you don't you can go straight to the bottom pit of hell. Dayosh! "

"I'll have to go soon anyway."

"I said quiet! Tlallim has the floor now and krasavits will listen politely. What kind of education have you had? Where are your manners?"

Yonatan kept quiet.

"See here, my charmer. Let me explain a thing or two to you. Death is disgusting! Revolting! Abomination! It stinks! Not to mention that it will not run away. You're going to walk all night up that black wadi, yes, sir, and all night long you'll be pleased with yourself — ho ho ho, have I screwed them, have I given those bastards what they deserve, ho ho, they sure will cry for me when I'm dead, they'll rue the day they were so mean to me, they'll never forgive themselves for as long as they live. I'll be dead and they'll be sorry, eh? You damn fool! Next time they'll be especially nice to you, eh? Next time they'll love you properly, eh? And in the morning, you genius, in the morning you plan on hiding out there in the rocks? On going to sleep there like one big happy durak ? You poor idiot slob, you! You'll be asleep and the Atallah will be following your fresh tracks up the wadi like the wind. No one's ever going to find better trackers than the Atallah in the whole of the desert. Though once they've got a whiff of you from afar, they won't even need tracks. And then what? You'll play at being a martyr? You'll play Custer's last stand? You'll regret that you have only one life to give for your country? Let Sasha teach you a thing or two. No life is worth giving for anything. Life is worth saving. Especially from the Atallah. If those demons get hold of a krasavits like you, a real peaches-and-cream kibbutz sweetheart, they'll fall on you like darkness. Before you can reach for your gun, they'll be ass-fucking away like mad. Ten, twenty, thirty Atallah, all with their pricks up your ass. And then down your throat. How does that grab you, malchik ? And when they've fucked you fair and square, they'll kill you. But not all at once. They'll kill you piece by piece. First they'll slice off your ears. Then they'll slit open your belly. Then they'll chop off your cock. And maybe then they'll get around at last to cutting your throat. And you, O best beloved, will be screaming your guts out. Will you ever scream to high heaven. Like an animal you'll scream: Mother, Father, help! And when you can't scream any more, my dear child, you'll gurgle like a camel. Tell me, a slaughtered camel you've maybe seen once in your life? No? Khhhhhrrrr! Like that!"

The old man rose to his full height. His eyes rolled. His face was contorted. The gray curls on his naked chest bristled like porcupine quills. Unwashed, insane, berserk, his wild beard glistening like snow on a mountaintop, a hideous froth on his lips, he bent low over Yonatan, stinking of garlic, alcohol, and sweat, his face close enough to kiss him on the mouth. Then, from the depths, he gave vent to a horrible, bloodcurdling roar: "Khhhhhrrrr!"

Yonatan retreated to the end of the mattress and hid his face in his hands like a child bracing for a blow.