Eshkol Nevo - World Cup Wishes

So I said, congratulations, Bro, Churchill continued — speaking to me for the first time, but not looking me in the eye — but it would be nice if you told me what for. And then he said to me, like he was really proud of himself, you’re speaking to the new creative director of Sheratzki-Shidlatzki.

That’s Ofir for you, I said.

Churchill and Amichai nodded in agreement.

Wait a minute, I said, so when did he have a breakdown? And what is a breakdown anyway? What does it mean?

In professional jargon, they call it ‘a psychotic episode’, Ilana the Weeper said. Almost five per cent of men in the United States experience breakdown at least once in their lives. And you have to remember that we’re talking about men here, so there are an awful lot more who don’t report it.

That’s actually your field, isn’t it? I said, turning to her. Her eyes lit up. A flush spread across her cheeks. I thought that even her breasts rose slightly.

Look, she said with quiet authority, there’s been a lot of pressure on Ofir recently. And when you add that to an unstable emotional make-up that stems from his childhood, it’s only logical that this would happen to him.

Of course, we all agreed. Except I saw that Churchill was actually taking a breath to object, and I knew exactly what he was going to say, that ‘every petty criminal blames childhood abuse for his actions, and that’s how determinism has become the last refuge of every bad guy, and if you take Australia, for example, which was settled by prisoners and the children of prisoners, then contrary to what you would expect based on the deterministic theory, crime rates are actually lower than the average —’

But he held back on his usual rant and let her keep talking.

The good news, she said, is that the kind of breakdown Ofir had is over in most cases after only a few days of rest. There’s no reason it should be any different with him.

Ofir’s mother came out of his room, straight over to me, to me, of all people. A year ago, after years of working as a medical secretary, she decided to take a course in facilitation. The man she was living with tried to put her down, he laughed at her, claimed there was no point in starting something new at her age, and there were no jobs to be had in that field anyway. But she didn’t give up. Not even when she found out that the only course opening then was all the way in Tel Aviv. At Ofir’s request, I helped her make her way through the bureaucratic labyrinth of academia, and ever since, she has been particularly fond of me.

It was nice of you all to come, she said.

We’re worried about him, I said (how quickly you’re back to saying ‘we’, the thought flashed through my mind).

You can go in, she said. He’s waiting for you.

*

Ofir was lying in his bed, as white as the penalty spot in the eighteen-yard box. His feet, as flat and long as fins, were sticking out from the under the blanket. Those light-brown curls of his, which always made girls think he was a moshavnik who was going to inherit his parents’ farm, were drooping. There was a new sadness in his cheeks.

I bent down to hug him. The last time his bones had stabbed me like that was at his father’s funeral.

I’m a mess, he said when I let him go.

A little bit, I said and smiled.

Something in me is fucked up. Something basic in me is fucked up.

That’s crap, Amichai said.

Don’t be an arsehole, Churchill joined in.

We’re all a bit fucked up, aren’t we? I said. Just because we’re human beings.

I missed those remarks of yours, Ofir said and gave me a tired smile.

I missed you too, I said.

You know, he said quietly to me, you went a little too far. It’s OK to be angry with us, but six months?

I nodded in surrender.

It’s a shame you don’t really appreciate what you have, he continued rebuking me, and he seemed to be talking about himself too. It’s a real shame, because you have no idea … he said, and then, a second before he could finish that trademark sentence of his, he fell asleep.

There’s nothing new about people falling asleep while listening to other people talk. Once I myself fell asleep in the middle of lecture in the army on ‘Working in Parallel’, and because of that little doze, I was automatically kicked out of the officer training course, putting an end to the brilliant army career my father, and only my father, had predicted for me. But I never saw anyone fall asleep while his mouth was still forming words.

The nurse, a tall woman, skinny as a test tube, explained that he was exhausted. And that more than anything, he needed rest now.

Amichai put the tape recorder on the bedside table and asked her if it was OK for him to play something for Ofir.

I don’t think that’s a good idea, the nurse said, giving the tape recorder a hostile look.

Maybe just this once, Amichai pleaded. It’s something we put together especially for him. To cheer him up.

No, I’m sorry, the nurse stuck to her guns, it’s against hospital policy.

Amichai took the tape recorder off the table, looking very embittered. Perhaps that’s where the seed was planted for what, in less than two years, would turn him into a familiar face in every Israeli home. It’s hard to know.

But Ilana the Weeper and Churchill looked enormously relieved.

Only later, in the café in the hospital basement, did they explain what the nurse had saved us from. In a box he kept stored away in the house, Amichai had found an old tape recording of songs from our high school graduation play, and he had the idea that we’d all stand next to Ofir’s bed in the hospital and sing the ballad he’d written to the chemistry teacher to the tune of that year’s hit song, ‘Big in Japan’ (Oh, Shimon my man, tonight, Shimon my man, all right, Shimon my man, give me oxygen?).

We’ll do it after he’s discharged, I said (only because Ilana the Weeper was there and I didn’t feel comfortable laughing at the idea).

Two weeks later, Amichai called me. Ofir was home. The four of us would get together on Thursday to watch the Maccabi game. Oh, and he was sending me an email with the words to ‘Shimon My Man’, in case I didn’t remember them. And I should practise it once or twice alone. So there won’t be any slip-ups.

There were no slip-ups.

Because, in the end, we didn’t sing to Ofir on Thursday.

On Tuesday, he handed in his resignation, took out all the money he’d saved over the seven years he’d been working in advertising, bought a plane ticket, borrowed a big rucksack from Churchill and called to reserve a place in a hostel for the first night.

In the airport terminal in Lod, he checked out the adverts to see if they were effective.

In the Amman terminal, he did it less.

And in the Delhi terminal, almost not at all.

He told us all that excitedly, on the phone. But on the other hand, he said, India is full of Israelis high on weed. And it reeks of cow shit. And fried food. And the noise. You can’t believe how much noise there is here. Listen, he said, and held the receiver out towards the street. The rumble of motor scooters reached us from across the ocean. Hear that? It’s nothing. You should hear the cows. And there are children here that they raise inside urns, can you believe it? They raise children here in urns so their pelvises get twisted and they can earn more begging. Isn’t that horrible?

Horrible.

For the life of me, I can’t see anything spiritual in that, or in diarrhoea, he said, and that if it keeps on like that, he’ll go to the Thai islands. Or come home. He had no idea. But it was very important for him to keep in touch with us in the meantime. Because actually, we were the closest thing to family he had. So he promised to call every first Thursday of the month as soon as the Maccabi game was over. And it would really mean a lot to him if all three of us were there.