Amos Oz - Where the Jackals Howl

3

A PERSON who comes from a broken home is likely to destroy the stability of other people’s homes. There is nothing fortuitous about this, although there is no way of formulating a rule. Yosef Yarden is a widower. Lily Dannenberg is a divorcee whose ex-husband died of a broken heart, or jaundice, less than three months after the divorce. Even Dr. Kleinberger, Egyptologist and stoic, a marginal figure, is an aging bachelor. Needless to say, he has no children. That leaves Yair Yarden and Dinah Dannenberg. Dinah has gone to Tel Aviv to pass the good news along to her relatives and to make a few purchases and arrangements, and she will not be back before midnight. As for Yair, he is sitting with his brother, a grammar-school student, in the pleasant living room of the Yarden household on Alfasi Street. He has decided to spend the evening grappling with a backlog of university work: three exercises, a tedious project, a whole mountain of bibliographical chores. Studying political economy may be important and profitable, but it can also be wearisome and depressing. If he had been able to choose, he might have chosen to study the Far East, China, Japan, mysterious Tibet, or perhaps Latin America. Rio. The Incas. Or black Africa. But what could a young man do with studies such as these? Build himself an igloo, marry a geisha? The trouble is that political economy is full of functions and calculations, words and figures that seem to disintegrate when you stare at them. Dinah is in Tel Aviv. When she comes back, perhaps she’ll forget that unnecessary quarrel that we had yesterday. Those things I said to her face. On the other hand, she started it. Dad has gone to see her mother, and he won’t be back before eleven. If only there was some way of persuading Uri to stop sitting there picking his nose. How disgusting. There’s a mystery program on the radio at a quarter past nine called Treasure Hunt, broadcast live. That’s the solution for an uncomfortable evening like this. We’ll listen to the program and then finish the third exercise. That should be enough.

The brothers switched on the radio.

The antics of the night birds do not abate until a quarter past nine. Even before the twilight is over, the owls and the other birds of darkness begin to move from the suburbs to the heart of the city. With their glassy dead eyes they stare at the birds of light, who rejoice with carefree song at the onset of the day’s last radiance. To the ears of the night birds, this sounds like utter madness, a festival of fools. On the edge of the suburb of Rehavia, where the farthest houses clutch at the rocks of the western slope, the rising birds meet the descending birds. In the light that is neither day nor night the two camps move past each other in opposite directions. No compromise ever lasts long in Jerusalem, and so the evening twilight flickers and fades rapidly, too. Darkness comes. The sun has fled, and the rear-guard forces are already in retreat.

At nine-thirty, Lily had meant to ring the doorbell of the Yardens’ house. But at the corner of Radak Street she saw a cat standing on a stone wall. His tail was swishing, and he was whining with lust. Lily decided to waste a few moments observing the feverish cat. Meanwhile the brothers were listening to the start of the mystery program. The first clue was given to the studio panel and the listeners by a jovial fellow; the beginning of the thread was contained in a song by Bialik:

Not by day and not by night

Quietly I set out and walk;

Not on the hill or in the vale,

Where stands an old acacia tree…

And at once Yair and Uri were on fire with detective zeal. An old acacia tree, that’s the vital point. Not on the hill or in the vale, that’s where it starts getting complicated. Yair had a bright idea: Maybe we should look the poem up in the big book of Bialik’s poetry and find the context, then we’ll know which way to turn. He pounced on the bookcase, rummaged around, found the book, and within three minutes had located the very poem. However, the lines that followed did not solve the puzzle, but only tantalized the hunters still further:

The acacia solves mysteries

And tells what lies ahead…

Yes. I see. But if the acacia itself is the mystery, how can it be expected to solve mysteries and even tell the future? How does it go on? The next stanza is irrelevant. The whole poem’s irrelevant. Bialik’s no use. We must try a different approach. Let’s think, now. I’ve got it: the Hebrew word shita isn’t only the name of a tree. It also means “method.” Shita is a system. These inquiries would do credit to that buffoon Kleinberger. Well, then, let’s think some more. Shut up, Uri, I’m trying to think. Well, my dear Watson, tell me what you make of the first words. I mean “Not by day and not by night.” Don’t you understand anything? Of course you don’t. Think for a while. Incidentally, I don’t understand it yet, either. But give me a moment, and you’ll see.

The doorbell rang.

An unexpected guest stood in the doorway. Her face was set, her lips nervous. She was a weird and beautiful woman.

An alley cat is a fickle creature; he will abandon anything for the caress of a human hand. Even at the height of rutting fever he will not turn away from the caress of a human hand. When Lily touched him, he began to shudder. With her left hand she stroked his back firmly, while the fingers of her right hand gently tickled the fur of his neck. Her combination of tenderness and strength filled the animal with pleasure. The cat turned over on his back and offered his stomach to the gentle fingers, purring loudly and contentedly. Lily tickled him as she spoke.

“You’re happy. Now you’re happy. Don’t deny it, you’re happy,” she said in German. The cat narrowed his eyes until two slits were all that was left, and continued purring.

“Relax,” she said, “you don’t need to do anything. Just enjoy yourself.”

The fur was soft and warm. Thin vibrations passed through it and ceased. Lily rubbed her ring against the cat’s ear.

“And what’s more, you’re stupid as well.”

Suddenly the cat shuddered and stirred uneasily. Perhaps he guessed or half-sensed what was coming. A yellow slit opened in his face, the wink of an eye, a fleeting glimmer. Then her fist rose, made a wide sweep in the air, and struck a violent blow at the belly of the cat. The creature took fright and leapt away into the darkness, collided with the trunk of a pine tree, and dug in his claws. From the murky height he hissed at her like a snake. All his fur stood on end. Lily turned and walked to the Yardens’ house.

“Good evening, Yair. It seems you’re free. And on your own.”

“Uri is here and we… but isn’t Dad on his way to see you?”

“Uri here, too. I’d forgotten about Uri. Good evening, Uri. How you’ve grown! I’m sure all the girls must be chasing you. No, you needn’t invite me inside. I just came to get something straight with you, Yair. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“But Mrs. .. but Lily, how can you say that. You’re always welcome. Come in. I was so sure that just now you’d be at your house drinking coffee with Dad, and suddenly…”

“Suddenly your dad will find the door locked and the windows dark, and he won’t understand what’s become of me. He’s disappointed and worried — which makes him look almost agreeable. Pity I’m not there among the trees in the garden, secretly watching him, enjoying the expression on his face. It doesn’t matter. I’ll explain everything. Come on, Yair, let’s go out, let’s go for a little walk outside, there’s something I need to straighten out with you. Yes. This very evening. Be patient.”