Amos Oz - Where the Jackals Howl

“Who said anything about you and Dinah? I’m talking in general terms. Now I can also tell you something from my personal experience. Put your arm around my shoulders. I’m cold. Yes. Don’t be so shy. Be a nice boy. Like this. I’m going to tell you something about Dinah and something about you, too.”

“But I already know.”

“No, my child, you don’t know everything. I think you should know, for example, that Dinah is in love with your outward appearance and not with you. She doesn’t think about you. She’s still a child. And so are you. I don’t suppose you have ever once been depressed. Don’t answer me now. No, I’m not saying that you’re a crude boy. Far from it. I just mean you’re strong. You’re straightforward and strong, as our young people should be. Here, give me your hand. Yes. Don’t ask so many questions. I asked for your hand. Yes. Like this. Now, squeeze my hand, please. Because I’m asking you, isn’t that reason enough? Squeeze. Not gently. Hard. Harder. Harder still. Don’t be afraid. You’re afraid of me. There, that’s good. You’re very strong. Have you noticed that your hand is cold and mine is warm? Soon you’ll understand why. But stop whining and trying to persuade me to go home all the time, or I’ll begin to think I came out for a walk with a spoiled toddler who just wants to go home and sleep. Look, child, look at the moon peeping out from behind the clouds. Do you see? Yes. Just relax completely for a few moments. Don’t say anything. Hush.”

The dim wailing of jackals is heard from far away. Words flee from him. Something other than words now strives to assert itself but finds no outlet. A sharp and mischievous wind rises from the desolation on the fringes of the town and comes to play in the stone-flagged side streets. Windows are shut. Shutters closed. Drains with iron gratings. A long procession of trash cans frozen on the sidewalk. Cats prowl on the mounds of Jerusalem stone. Lily Dannenberg is sure that the things that she has said to Yair Yarden are “educational.” She tries hard to keep to the rhythm of events, lest everything be wasted. But the blood is pounding in her temples, and some inner agitation urges her to go racing on without drawing breath. Here among the houses there is no acacia solving riddles. The two walkers emerge from the side streets and pass through the market of Mahaneh Yehuda toward Jaffa Road. Here Lily leads the young man to a cheap cafe that caters to the all-night taxi drivers.

Beneath the electric light the moths are singeing their wings in token of their love for the yellow bulb. Mrs. Dannenberg orders black coffee without sugar or saccharine. Yair asks for a cheese sandwich. He hesitates and asks for a small glass of brandy as well. She lays her hand on his broad brown hand and carefully counts his fingers. In a state of mild dizziness he responds with a smile. She takes his hand in hers and raises the fingers to her lips.

8

IN THIS taxi drivers’ cafe in the Mahaneh Yehuda district there was a certain driver, a giant named Abbu. All day he sleeps. At midnight, like a bear, he wakes up and goes out to prowl Jaffa Road, his kingdom. All the taxi drivers willingly defer to him, for he is strong and goodhearted, but a hard man, too. Now he was sitting at one of the tables with three or four of the younger members of the flock, showing them how to load the dice in the game of backgammon. When Yair and Lily came into the café, Abbu said to his young cronies:

“Here come the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon.”

And when Yair said nothing and Lily smiled, he added:

“Never mind. Health is what matters. Hey, lady, are you letting the kid drink brandy?”

His fellow drivers turned to look. The cafe proprietor, a tubercular and melancholic man, also turned to watch the approaching scene.

“And as for you, little boy, I’m damned if I understand what you’re playing at. What is this, is it Grandma’s Day today? Giving your grandma a treat? What are you doing going around at night with a vintage model like that?”

Yair leapt to his feet, his ears reddening, willing and ready to fight for his honor. But Lily motioned him back to his seat, and when she spoke her voice was warm and happy.

“There are some models that a man of experience and taste would sell his soul for — and not just his soul, but any number of these newfangled toys of today, all tin and glass.”

“Touché!” said Abbu, laughing. “So why not come over to my place and get a good hand on your wheel, an experienced hand with clever fingers, how about it? Why go around with that slip of a boy?”

Yair sprang up, his mustache bristling. But once again she got in first and snuffed out the quarrel before it began. A new light danced in her eyes.

“What’s the matter with you, Yair? This gentleman doesn’t mean to insult me but to make me happy. He and I think exactly the same thoughts. So don’t lose your temper, but sit down and learn how to make me happy. Now I am happy.” And in her happiness the divorcee pulled Yair toward her and kissed the dimple in the middle of his chin. Abbu said slowly, as if about to faint at the sweetness of the sight:

“Lord God of Hosts, where, oh, where have you been all this time, lady, and where have I been?”

Lily said:

“Today is Grandson’s Day. But maybe tomorrow or the day after, Grandma will need a taxi, and maybe Grandpa will be around, or he will discover where the Queen of Sheba is enthroned and bring her tribute of monkeys and parrots. Come on, Yair, let’s go. Good night, sir. It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”

As the couple passed the drivers’ table on their way to the door, Abbu murmured in a tone of reverent awe:

“Go home, young man, go home and sleep. By God, you’re not fit to touch the tip of her little finger.”

Lily smiled.

And outside Yair said angrily:

“They’re a gang of thugs. And savages.”

9

THE TIPS of her little fingers were pressed in the flesh of his arm.

“Now I’m cold, too,” she said, “and I want you to hold me. If you know by now how you should hold me.”

Yair embraced her around the shoulders in anger and shame, emotions that breathed violence into his movements.

Lily said, “Yes. Like that.”

“But… I think, anyway, it’s time we turned around and headed back. It’s late,” he said, unconsciously gripping the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger. What does she want from me? What’s the matter with her?

“It’s too late now to go home,” she whispered, “and the house is empty. What is there at home? There’s nothing at home. Armchairs. Disgusting armchairs. Erich Dannenberg’s chairs. Dr. Kleinberger’s. Your father’s. All the miserable people. There is nothing for us there at home. Here outside you can meet anything and feel anything. Owls are bewitching the moon. You’re not going to leave me now, outside in the night with those wild thugs of drivers and all the owls. You must stay and protect me. No, I’m not raving, I’m perfectly rational and I’m almost frozen to death; don’t leave me and don’t say a word, Hebrew is such a rhetorical language, nothing but Bible and commentaries. Don’t say another word to me in Hebrew, don’t say anything at all. Just hold me. To you. Close. Like this. Please, not politely, please, not gently, hold me as if I’m trying to get away from you, biting and scratching, and you’re not letting me go. Hush. And that wretched Eule can shut up as well, because I shall hear and see nothing more because you have covered my head and my ears and gagged my mouth and tied my hands behind my back because you are much stronger because I am a woman and you are a man.”

10