Eshkol Nevo - World Cup Wishes

I’m almost positive that the one on the right is Noam and Nimrod is on the left. But perhaps I’m wrong. Noam’s forehead is broader, but you can only see it when he has a certain kind of haircut. And on each small head, there’s a concealing, festive crown of leaves.

Amichai took that picture on their last birthday, when Ilana was still alive. They pursued Maria’s daughter subtly then. Shyly. But as soon as their mother died, it was as if some inner restraint was released, and the war for the heart of their beloved became totally uninhibited. And we, who at first had watched that threesome with smiles of amusement (ah, the sweet love of children), now had an expression of concern on our faces (what, can the sweet love of children be that intense?).

When Noam was brought home after his flight to the university, Nimrod was not happy. You’re such a baby, you did that just to get attention, he said. And it was clear whose attention he was talking about.

When Nimrod competed in the district judo championship, Noam sat next to her in the stands and tried to dampen her enthusiasm. He’s the biggest boy in his age group, he whispered in her ear, that’s why he beats everyone.

They competed in front of her in all sorts of weird contests: who could remember a nine-digit number by heart? A ten-digit number? Who could hold his breath longer? Who could eat the most strawberries without throwing up?

She was the judge in those contests. And she decided who the winner was. But she kept delaying the biggest, most crucial decision.

You’re being mean, Maria rebuked her in the end at home (Ofir told us about this conversation like a father talking about his daughter).

But why, Mor ? the girl asked her mother, looking up at her, and in a characteristic gesture, tucked some unruly hairs back into the yellow bun on the top of her head.

Because you enjoy the two of them showering attention on you, and you don’t care that you’re hurting them, her mother said firmly.

But Mor , I really love them both, the girl protested. Really!

Perhaps she’s right. Who says that we have to love only one person? Ofir ended the story on a contemplative note, and Ya’ara flashed me a look (or was I only imagining that she flashed me a look?).

*

In the end, Amichai showed up for the meeting with the donor.

Unshaven. Wearing once-white trainers.

Before we went inside, he asked us to handle the presentation because he was still recovering from yesterday. But the minute Ofir showed the first slide, he interrupted him.

Stop, he said. I can’t bear those slides any more.

Listen, he said to the shocked millionaire, and began to tell him about Ilana. Ofir and I exchanged looks that screamed ‘help!’. We hoped that he would at least explain the connection between Ilana and our plans to set up the NPO, but no. He simply told the man about Ilana. How he went into the army office and it was full of girls laughing together and one girl sitting on the side with a mangy cat on her lap. How his heart went out to her at that moment, but it took three months for him to work up the courage to talk to her, to ask her for some form. And later on, for another form. And later on, he asked her if she wanted to go to the canteen with him for a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar. Then it turned out that she had wanted him secretly for three months. That she was yearning for him too. And that was exactly what he always loved about her, that under her cold, despairing surface, hidden springs of warmth flowed, and only he knew about them. He and the abandoned cats. And then he and her weakest students. And then he and the Palestinians at the checkpoints. The rest of the world — his family and friends — thought she was just another depressive girl. His mother even warned him before the wedding that ‘he should think hard about what he’s doing. That if she’s like that now, who knows what the hormones will do to her after she gives birth.’ But he didn’t care. And he didn’t care that he was the first of his friends to get married. And have children. And he didn’t care that she really was a bit depressive. Which meant that he was fated to bear sole responsibility for the joy of life in their relationship. And doomed to live in constant fear that one day he’d come home and find that she’d given up.

You know what it’s like to come home every day afraid that you’ll find your wife hanging from a rope or lying next to a bottle of pills? Amichai asked the millionaire.

I watched him as he spoke and thought about all the times over the last few months that he’d sat on my sofa never saying a word about those things.

The millionaire didn’t answer. From the look on his face it was hard to tell whether he was shocked, curious, or just waiting impatiently for Amichai to stop babbling.

Amichai, for his part, kept talking. It wasn’t till our twins were born, he said, that I could relax a little because she was so involved with them that I was sure she wouldn’t give up. And I didn’t care about letting her win the hidden competition between parents for their children’s love, I didn’t care if they loved her a bit more than me, just as long as she was happy. Because when she wasn’t — I wasn’t either. Even if I had to give up my dreams because of the children. You know, I always wanted to be a therapist. To study alternative medicine. Three years ago, during the World Cup, when we each wrote down our … OK, we won’t go into that now. What I wanted to say is that I didn’t care about giving it up. I didn’t care about working like a dog so there’d be money for nappies and wipes, then go home and work like a dog at being a parent. The main thing was that, at the end of the day, Ilana and I got into the same bed and talked. Even for just a few minutes. And her wisdom would shine a different light on everything that had happened to me that day. And now? Now I get into bed alone. And there’s no point to anything. No point.

Amichai stopped talking. As if he suddenly sensed that if there was no point to anything, there was no point in talking either.

The millionaire looked at his watch. He was suntanned and small, smaller even than me, and he had an almost completely round face, the face of a man who smiled a lot. But he hadn’t smiled even once since we came into the room.

Ofir looked at me for the OK, then turned on the presentation again and explained the structure of the NPO. And why we wanted to establish it.

During the explanation, the millionaire looked at his watch twice.

When we reached the question stage, which I was in charge of, he didn’t have a single question.

Is there something that’s important for you to know? I said, trying to pull him into a dialogue.

No, thank you, he said, and stood up.

*

Sorry I ruined everything, Amichai said after we left the hotel.

You didn’t ruin anything, I hurried to reassure him.

You said what you felt, Ofir said.

Yes, but I didn’t say it to the right person, Amichai said, his forehead wrinkled with pain. There are psychologists for monologues like that.

Who knows, I joked, perhaps he’s a psychologist too.

No, Ofir said knowingly, he’s too tanned to be a psychologist.

Amichai was silent. He didn’t laugh. He stared for a while at the flock of birds flying from north to south in a formation that resembled a question mark, and then said, you’re such good friends. I feel bad, you invested so much in that presentation.

Don’t be stupid, I said. I didn’t have anything better to do anyway.

My teacher in India always said that good energies never go to waste, Ofir said and put his hand on Amichai’s shoulder. How about a walk along the seafront?

Great idea, I said. I’m in no hurry to go anywhere.