Eshkol Nevo - World Cup Wishes

Gila from the bank called, said we had to meet. I thought it might be amusing to call her and talk to her about real things, about the huge hole that had opened in my body, for example, or about futility. The futility of everything.

That was my last amusing thought.

Then I completely lost my sense of humour. I lost the crucial ability to look at my life objectively and laugh at it.

I was obsessed with the thought that everything happening to me now was delayed punishment for the sins I had committed in Nablus during the 1990 World Cup. A direct result of the old Arab woman’s curse. Proof that you can never truly rub out the stains of the past, only blur them, and that sins are like a virus, waiting for the moment you’re weak to attack and demand its pound of flesh.

I knew that it was all a bit weird, but I couldn’t get those thoughts out of my mind. So I disconnected the phone and stopped shaving and spent hours staring at direct broadcasts of the Australian Open golf tournament. I set up a mini-golf course in my living room. Instead of a golf ball — a ping-pong ball. Instead of a club — a squeegee mop. Instead of a hole — a soup bowl. My sense of taste became blunted. Spaghetti had the same taste as rice. Oranges had the same taste as apples. And it took five teaspoons of sugar to sweeten my coffee.

I think I started to worry the minute I noticed that my sense of taste was impaired. The minute that the line between body and soul is crossed like that, I thought, I won’t be able to stop it any more.

I told myself that I had to do something before my other senses began to betray me as well.

I called a psychologist that one of my clients had recommended, but as soon as I heard her voice, I hung up.

I knew exactly what would happen: whatever I said, she’d connect it to my relationship with my parents. And even if I protested, even if I claimed that she was forcing me to fit into her theories, she would hint that my protest was not actually directed against her, but against my parents. And besides, I still didn’t have an answer to the question of whether people, myself included, are capable of changing. And if they are, how? And before you pay 350 shekels an hour, you should have answers to those questions, right?

So I called Hani. We hadn’t spoken for more than a year, but it suddenly seemed to be the only thing left to do. I called the number I had, and a recorded message gave me her new number. And when I called the new number, a recorded message referred me to a third number. From one announcement to the next, my desire for her intensified. I remembered her honey hair. And the sneezing that shook her body right after she had an orgasm. And the time she danced in front of me, so happy, in the Coliseum. The only reason it didn’t work out between us was the shadow that Ya’ara cast over everything. And now that I’d finally thrown that red sock with the yellow stripe into the rubbish bin, who knows, perhaps we had a chance.

How are you? her voice asked, and I thought that it was a good sign that she still recognised my number on her display.

I, … ah … so-so. And you?

Thank God, she said. My son was born last month.

Wow … a son? A boy? Congratulations.

Yes, it is a great joy to us. My parents are thrilled too. It’s their first grandchild.

Your parents? Don’t tell me you went back to Bnei Brak?

Of course I did. You can’t live without family. Without roots. And this is where my family is. You know, I’m glad you called. I’ve … wanted to call you for a long time to thank you.

Thank me? For what?

It’s just that … you were so awful to me … and after you there was someone else who treated me the same way, and … What happened to me with both of you made me think that maybe all that secularism I wanted so much … When I got close to it … it was empty. Sad.

Sad?

It’s sad to always wonder if people are telling you the truth. Sad to have a relationship when the possibility of breaking up is hovering over it from the minute it begins. How can you devote yourself to someone that way? With Jacob …

Jacob?

My husband. From the first time we met, I knew he was serious about me. And if he was, then I could love him without being afraid. And I want you to know that he’s from Boston. He has an open mind. He isn’t frightened by questions the way my parents are. And he doesn’t think that a woman is a defective creature. You see, I did manage to take something from the two years I spent in the secular world. But it’s hard to live without God. Without a way of life. Do you understand?

It’s like living without a saxophone.

What?

Never mind. Go on.

Look, sooner or later I would have discovered all of this, but I think that you … brought me closer to redemption, as we say in our world. So thank you and … come and visit sometime. Really.

It sounds like you’re all very busy.

In the middle of the week, yes. But at the weekends, you’re more than welcome. Spend the Sabbath with us. Sing the Sabbath songs with us. Eat well. Rest. And maybe, with the doing of the deeds, you will grow to love them.

What do you mean? You want to make me re …

No … Of course not … Don’t be alarmed. I only meant that you’d have the chance to cleanse your soul. It sounds to me like you need it.

Yes, I thought, I need it. But not with the help of faith. Jewish culture might be in my blood, and the Bible might underlie every word I say in Hebrew, but faith, unfortunately, is not an option. God cannot save me when I’m at my lowest. Like Soren Kierkegaard, I’d like to wake up one morning and discover that during the night I had been filled with boundless, unconditional love for God. And perhaps I really could be filled with such love for God if I had grown up in the right home. But my parents planted in me a deep, secular suspicion of all things religious. And even if that suspicion was unjustified, I was no longer able to uproot it from inside me.

I’ll come over sometime, I said.

Wonderful, Hani said. There was no emotion in that ‘wonderful’ of hers. There had been no emotion in her voice during our entire conversation. Listen, she said, ending the conversation, I have to feed Benjamin now, so …

Bye, I said in an effort to save my self-respect and have the last word.

*

That’s just like you, I said to myself after hanging up the phone: have a whole relationship with a girl without including her in it, nurture the thought that one day, when you want her, she’ll want you back. And never bother to find out what reality has to say about it. You got what’s coming to you, I said, flogging myself. But not even the lashes of the whip managed to hurt me. Make me feel something. The darkness engulfed me in the days that followed. Every small action — going to the toilet, pouring a glass of water, turning off the TV — seemed like a huge boulder I had to roll up a mountain. Even though I was tempted, I didn’t call my friends because I had the feeling that I had to climb out of that hole myself. Bullshit. That’s my pride speaking in retrospect. I didn’t call my friends because I didn’t want them to see me like that. No, even that’s cover for the truth. I didn’t call my friends because, in a way that’s hard to explain, I’m a solitary person. A solitary person who has a lot of friends. A solitary person who learned how to function in the world as if he were sociable, but when he’s in pain, always withdraws to his original position. And perhaps that’s also a lie. In any case, I knew that I had to do something to get myself out of the mess I was in, but I was too tired to do it, or to think of anything. Actually, that isn’t accurate either. I’m putting a nice face on things again. Two extreme solutions did occur to me at the time, and I rejected them both out of hand. The first idea was to take mood-altering drugs. Clients had told me that there are great new drugs now that have no side effects, that that’s what helped them finish their degree. But, considering my tendency to become addicted, I was afraid that the minute I started taking them, I wouldn’t be able to stop. The second idea that occurred to me, and not for the first time, was to change my sexual orientation — to admit that the whole business with girls was too much for me and I always ended up lonely, so I would try homosexual relation ships. After all, I’ve always got along with men. So perhaps that’s a sign?