Amos Oz - Don't Call It Night

I said that I couldn't remember. That we had been talking about something else. And again without noticing I laid a finger on his hand and at once removed it, and I said: I'm sorry, Avraham.

Avraham Orvieto said that he wanted to ask a small favour of me. He was sorry he had told me the story. If it's not too hard, Noa, please let it be as if I hadn't told it. Then he asked me if I would like another iced coffee, and if not he asked my permission to accompany me wherever I was going, that is to say, unless I felt like being alone right now? He smiled hastily, as though he already knew what I was going to reply, and as hastily wiped away his smile. We walked awkwardly, almost in silence and somewhat out of our way, along a deserted avenue of tipuana trees that were slowly dropping a fine rain of withered yellow blossom on the sidewalk. It was getting dark outside, and we may even have slowed down unconsciously between one street lamp and the next, not talking, until we parted twenty minutes later on the steps of my school, as I had remembered that I had a staff meeting of some sort that evening. The meeting was already over when I arrived, and I hurried out again after Avraham Orvieto — to my surprise I suddenly sensed that sometimes I, too, couldn't stop blinking — but of course he was no longer on the school steps. He must have gone to his room at the Kedar Hotel, or somewhere else.

THE school year will be ending in another week. In the early years she used to be smitten from the middle of April with the urge to migrate, and start putting her name down for summer activities, a conference in Jerusalem, a festival in Galilee, a nature lovers' ramble in the Carme! range, a refresher course for teachers in Beersheba. This year she is too caught up in this crusade of hers to think of putting herself down for any summer sortie. I asked her on Saturday, apropos of nothing, what plans she had for the long holidays. When she said, We'll see, I dropped the subject.

Most people are always busy with arrangements, preparations, leisure activities. I am happy with my home and the desert. Even my work is gradually becoming superfluous. I'll give it up soon. My pension, our savings, and the rent from the property in Herzliyya will be enough to keep us going to the end. What will I do all day? I'll examine the desert, for example, on long walks at dawn before everything starts to blaze. During the hot hours I'll sleep. In the evening I'll sit on the balcony or have a game of chess with Dubi Weitzman at the California Café. At night I'll listen to London. Those hills over there, the mouth of the wadi, the scudding clouds, two cypresses at the end of the garden, oleanders and that empty bench next to the bougainvillaea bower. At night you can see the stars; some of them change their positions after midnight according to the seasons of the year. Not according to the seasons, parallel to them. There is a field of golden stubble on the nearest part of the plain, just behind the garden wall. An old Bedouin sowed it with barley in the autumn and harvested it in the spring and now the goats come and chew the stubble. Beyond, there are barren wastes extending to the top of the hills and further, to the mountainous mass that sometimes looks like mist. The slopes are a jumble of brown-black lumps of flint and paler rocks of chalk that the Bedouin call hawar, between patches of sand erosion. All in black and white. Everything in its place. Forever. All present and silent. To be at peace means to be as much like the mountains as possible: silent and present. Vacant.

This morning on the news they broadcast an excerpt from a speech by the Foreign Minister, who talked about the hoped-for peace.

The phrase "hoped-for" is mistaken here. Either hope or peace: you can't have both.

Today she said she's going to Beersheba again after school. She promised to fill up with gasoline and to try to be back not too late. But I hadn't asked what time she was thinking of getting back, nor had I asked her to be back early. As if she'd flown into this room by mistake and now she's in such a panic she can't find the window. Which is open as it always has been. So she flutters from wall to wall, crashing into the lampshade, hitting the ceiling, bumping into the furniture, hurting herself. Just don't try to point her towards the door: you can't help her. Any movement from you makes her panic worse. If you're not careful, instead of guiding her outside to freedom you'll scare her into an inner room where she'll keep on beating her wings against the glass. The only way to help her is by not trying to help. Just shrink. Freeze. Blend into the wall. Don't move. Has the window really always been open? Am I really hoping she'll fly away? Or am I lurking in wait for her, motionless, fixing her with a blank immobile stare in the darkness, waiting for her to drop from exhaustion?

Because then I can bend over her and look after her the way I did at the beginning. From the beginning.

IT turned out in Beersheba that there had been some sort of misunderstanding about my appointment with Benizri. An obnoxious secretary with little earrings like drops of blood was delighted not to find my name in his diary: the woman who made my appointment is, according to her, a half-witted typist who comes in twice a week and does nothing, and has no authority to deal with the public. Mr. Benizri is in a meeting. All day. Okay so I heard you the first time, you've come specially all the way from Tel Kedar. What a pity. I'm sorry.

When I insisted, she agreed, with a gesture of vague loathing, to check on the intercom and see if he could spare me a quarter of an hour anyway. As she replaced the receiver with her crimson nails, she said, Not today, miss, try again in something like two-three weeks like, when Mr. Benizri gets back from the conference. And remember; give me a tinkle first, I'm Doris, if someone called Tikki answers, you're wasting your time. Poor kid, she had a child by a basketball player who doesn't want to know, and now it turns out her baby's a Mongolian. And She's religious too. If it was me that was religious, I'd be tempted to drive on Saturday. Who are you, then? What do you want Mr. Benizri for, maybe I can do something for you in the meantime?

At this point I gave in. I asked her to bother Benizri again and tell him that Theo's Noa is here.

A minute or two later he shot out of his office, all excited, oozing charm, waggling his hips, his paunch, Come in, wazzat, sure, and how's our dear friend? Healthwise? And workwise? Did he send you with the findings? That's nice. He's a great man.

And so forth.

But about your business, see here, Mrs. Noa, quite frankly, how should I put it: so you've got yourself a nice generous donor, the best thing you can do is send him to us. We'll put him on the right track. Never heard of any drugs in Tel Kedar. Insignificant. What, have we fallen on our heads? Are we going to attract all the you-know-whats of Greater Tel Aviv here? Better he should invest the money in, let's say, an old people's home. The Golden Age as they say. That's one thing we could really do with and it would work a treat. But as for importing a truckload of junkies… You know, drugs these days don't come on their own, they come with crime, with AIDS, with violence, with all sorts of kinkiness, if you'll excuse me. How does a nice girl like you come to get mixed up in a story like this anyway? You could even land Theo in the dirt too, heaven forbid. You know how it is these days, everything leads straight to the media, the local rags, in-depths, filth, God preserve us. Still, we can't waste a donor. Just you bring him to me. Generous givers don't grow on trees nowadays. It's because of the bad image of the State, which is thanks to the mess the Arabs in the territories have got us into, damn them. What does Theo have to say about the situation? He must be really teed off. The State is his life's blood. How long have you been with Theo now? Eight years? That's nothing. Insignificant. Just you listen to someone who knew Theo in the old days, when this country was nothing but sand dunes and fantasies. We still admire him from the times he used to blow up British police stations and radar installations. He's a really effective guy. More than effective: exemplary. If only he'd gone on running Development, we wouldn't have had all the foul-ups that have happened since. What a shame it's all gone up the spout. Just you remember you've got yourself a national treasure there, make sure you look after him like the gleam in your eye. Whatever happens, don't forget to give him a big hug from Benizri. And as for your junkies, just you drop them, before the dirty business starts. And your donor: send him to me and I'll put him on the right track. Goodbye.