Eshkol Nevo - World Cup Wishes

OK, I said. And left him alone.

But the women didn’t. They kept calling him and sending letters and pictures and sad songs. And he kept dodging them. To the ones who sounded particularly desperate, he mentioned his best friend, a fantastic guy, very serious, from a British family. He’s writing his philosophy thesis now.

I even went out with one of them. In principle, I thought it was dishonest, very dishonest, to exploit the NPO for personal gain, but –

Her name was Ya’ara.

And I really loved rolling the name around on my tongue when we spoke. Ya’-a-ra, I’d say slowly, lingering on every syllable, feeling as if I were sitting in a rocking chair that someone was tilting further and further back. So where do you live, Ya’-a-ra? And where are you from originally, Ya’-a-ra? And isn’t it amazing that you like the Chamelons, Ya’-a-ra, and what do you think about skipping the first date, Ya’-a-ra, and starting with the second? What does that mean? It means that we ask all the usual questions now, on the phone. So on the second date, we can really talk. Great. So let’s start. What do you do?

Coach.

I thought she meant she was a personal fitness coach, and was already picturing myself running my finger slowly along her calf muscle, but when we met, she explained that she was a mental coach. What they call a life coach. She meets privately with executives and helps them:

To define their vision.

To identify the obstacles blocking their way to fulfilling that vision.

To achieve significant breakthroughs.

That’s it in a nutshell, she said, and cut her mushroom pie into small squares of exactly the same size.

I nodded. My inner oracle prophesised bad things, but nevertheless I told her almost personal things about myself, and at the end of the evening, I said I’d like to see her again. Her upper lip curled upward slightly, the sort of curl you feel like kissing. Her self-control, evident in every movement, made me want to know what happened when she lost control, and more than anything, I was thrilled by the idea that while I made passionate love to her, I could whisper Ya’-a-ra, Ya’-a-ra.

It didn’t happen. Even though, at first, everything went according to plan. As I always do on the second date, at some point I mentioned that I was colour blind. So what colour is my dress? she asked, the way girls always do, and, as always, I hesitated in order to intensify the suspense, then said: red. And explained that it’s not that I can’t identify each colour separately, it’s just hard for me to differentiate between them when they’re next to each other. For example, if she were standing in the middle of a green field in her pretty dress, I might not see her. That’s so weird, she said, as expected, and I was already preparing myself for the next stage, where I usually ask the girl sitting across from me something personal about herself, and she, influenced by my blind openness, tells me a lot more than she’d intended, and then, to justify herself in her own eyes, agrees to come up to my flat, or is silent and looks intently at my lips as if to say: let’s kiss. But a tenth of a second before I bent to kiss Ya’ara II, she said there was something she wanted to tell me, had to tell me, and I straightened up and said, go for it.

You have no vision, she said. From everything you told me about yourself, you live your life blindly. Without mapping out your wishes and your opportunities.

So … so what do you suggest?

Create a vision for yourself, she said: I wouldn’t mind if we did it together. I don’t usually mix work with my private life, but in your case, I can make an exception.

Look, I said, moving to the far end of the sofa, I’m sure you’re a great coach, and that your method has helped a great many people, but for me … it won’t work …

Why not?

Just that word, vision, gives me a chill. Not of excitement. Of the flu.

That’s a real shame, she said, placing a large cushion between us, because that’s not something I can live with. In the long-term.

So maybe we can console each other in the meantime? I said, and put my hand on the cushion.

Console each other? For what?

For being alone. For the coldness of an untouched body. For the heat trapped in a cold, untouched body.

She shook her head and said, heat, cold, I don’t do things like that any more. My vision is to find a serious life partner. And things that don’t lead to that are a waste of my time. And by the way, she added when she’d already gone to the door, if you ask me, what’s blocking you is your friends.

My friends?!

I’ve never met a person who talks so much about his friends, shows albums of their pictures to the women he’s dating, and hangs framed photos of them in his flat instead of paintings. If I were your coach, I’d say you were a classic case of the parallel-train paradigm.

Parallel train?

When your train is standing in the station and a train on a parallel track starts to move, you think that your train is also moving. But it isn’t really moving. It’s just an optical illusion.

What exactly are you trying to tell me?

Nothing. Just that if I were your coach, I’d say that you might be living your friends’ lives instead of your own.

But you’re not, I said.

Not what?

Not my coach, I said and slammed the door in her face, trying as hard as I could, without success, to feel satisfaction for having had the last word, and the standard responses to her claim rang in my head, responses I could have made but didn’t: let’s say that I may not have a vision at the moment, but the whole NPO thing actually gave me the desire to do something with myself soon. Really soon. And as far as my friends are concerned, she’s completely wrong. I talk about them a lot only because I love them, and to say that I’m living their lives instead of my own is a load of crap.

*

Towards the end of the year, the country’s leading newspaper published the names of its nominees for Man of the Year. Among those listed in the category, ‘Man of the Year in Society’ was Amichai Tanuri. And this is how the judges explained his nomination (I cut that part of the article out of the paper and pinned it on my kitchen noticeboard): ‘In a short period of time, Amichai Tanuri has succeeded in turning the discourse on human rights in the health system into a common subject of discussion among patients and doctors alike. The Our Right NPO, led by Mr Tanuri, is still in its infancy but has already borne fruit and influenced the daily lives of the citizens of this country. The story of Amichai Tanuri and Our Right is one of a private initiative that grew out of personal tragedy, but attracted many other people because of the human, universal idea it is based on. For that reason, in our view, Amichai Tanuri merits inclusion in our list of nominees for ‘Man of the Year in Society’.

*

The nomination brought with it further media exposure. Amichai’s face appeared occasionally on evening programmes (all of them, by the way, had to meet his terms: to tape the interview in the morning because he had to be home with his children by five at the latest).

The questions were always the same questions, and Amichai — the same Amichai. He always spoke heavily, and in the plural. He always scratched his upper chest, the part closest to his neck, while considering what to say. And he always trembled slightly when the interviewer interrupted him.

One of those times, an interviewer interrupted him because of a special report from the programme’s law correspondent, Michaela Raz. A surprising turn of events in the case that has been rocking the country for several months, she said, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets. Yoav Alimi, the chief prosecutor and the person who has been heading up the case for a year and half, was forced to resign today due to what the district prosecutor’s office was calling ‘embarrassing personal circumstances’.