Eshkol Nevo - World Cup Wishes

*

At the conclusion of the hearing, the judge read the following words:

‘Legally speaking, the evidence before me leaves me no choice but to rule that the suspect cannot stand trial. Nevertheless, it should be stressed that this ruling in no way makes light of the specific act committed by the suspect, or of violence in general. A slow, subliminal change has taken place in our country over the last several years, and Mr Kliger’s outburst is merely the tip of the iceberg informing us that the iceberg does in fact exist, or is the indication of a generation that has gone to the …’

While the judge’s mouth was producing the bland legal jargon, my thoughts wandered to Yuval, who was lying in the hospital now, and this entire trial was of no use to him at all. I thought about his great desire to achieve the ‘Bahai symmetry’, and about the fact that ultimately there had been a point to what his creative writing tutor had said in the workshop, and perhaps the wish to achieve the symmetry and harmony of the Bahai Gardens here, in this place, is a bit like the Israeli team’s wish to be in the World Cup: unfortunately, it always remains only a wish.

‘It is not merely disturbed people who display this sort of contempt for others, but sin is crouching at the door …’ the judge continued to intone his admonishments from the bench, and I remembered the absolutely final performance of the Chameleons. After the group had given their always-sure-to-please encores, the audience demanded one final song. The musicians had a short argument (short and loud, in the best tradition of the band), and then we heard the first notes of ‘Prophet’. Few people apart from Ofir recognised the poem, written by Yehuda Amichai, that was the last track on the group’s CD of songs by poets.

I am the prophet of what was, I read the past

On the palm of the woman I love

I am the forecaster of winter rains that have fallen

I am the expert on the snows of yesteryear

I dredge up from the deep things that have been

I prophesise about yesterday and the day before

I am the prophet of what was

The prophet of what was

They sang the last line several more times, weaker each time, further away from the microphone each time, then walked off the stage. The audience was dumbstruck for a few seconds, then responded with quiet, scattered applause. What a weird song to end their last performance with, Amichai said when we’d gone out of the club into the night air. You don’t understand anything, man! Ofir said, it was brilliant! ‘The Prophet of What Was’ is exactly … it. Exactly … them … Exactly their story!

*

I hope that when he opens his eyes, Yuval won’t be angry about that Yehuda Amichai poem I felt should be quoted here, or about the other changes I made.

These last several weeks, from the moment I received the manuscript, I have worked day and night to complete the editing and proofreading so that the book would be ready for Yuval’s target date: the World Cup final.

As I mentioned, reading the text was not at all easy for me. In many cases, I had to put the pages aside and let my overflowing emotion subside, and I had to stop myself from making too many changes (after some changes, does the text lose its original essence? I don’t know. And that’s why I was especially careful).

In his real, non-literary life, Yuval Freed was even more withdrawn and silent than he portrays himself in the book. Most of the remarks he attributes to himself in the book never came out of his mouth. Usually, it was only his pensive eyes that spoke. And sometimes, his actions: like that night he helped me survive after I drank the San Pedro. Or the way he helped Amichai set up the NPO. And we got used to his quiet restraint, just as we got used to Ofir’s exaggerations and Amichai’s puzzles. That restraint was convenient for us. It was convenient that the group consisting of earth, wind and fire also included an element that burbles around the rocks like water, one that doesn’t initiate any bizarre schemes and doesn’t change its character every other day and doesn’t demand absolute justice from everyone, but merely stays silent and smiles that wise smile of his (that smile, Ya’ara once told me, was what made girls fall in love with him).

I think that through all the years of our friendship, I never heard Yuval say more than three sentences at one time, and perhaps that’s why this book, which is all one long monologue of his, surprised me so much. And embarrassed me. And infuriated me.

And made me feel close to him. Closer than ever.

Come back, I ask him when it’s my shift (I speak to him out loud and I don’t care if the other patients in the room hear). Come back, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. You taught me what being a friend means. And without you, I’m afraid I might forget. You know me from before I changed for the worse. And every time I’m with you, I feel I’ve become a slightly better person. You see through all my masks and hear in my words exactly what I manage, through them, to hide from the rest of the world. Come back, it’s so sad here without you. Ya’ara is very sad too. I want you to know that. She’s suffering from prenatal depression because of what happened to you. She loves you, do you even know that? And the fact that she loves you is a big problem now. Because she’s so sad that she’s almost stopped eating. And she needs to eat a lot, for our little girl. So come back, Bro. You have to come back. You’re the glue. You were always the glue. There’s one place in the book where you wonder what happened during those six months you boycotted us. What happened is that we hardly ever saw each other. And when we did, it was empty. Cold. And that’s the truth: without you, we’re a random collection of people. With you, we’re friends. Without you, the big city is all the bad things Ofir says about it. With you, it’s home.

So come on, Baba , wake up. That’s the only wish I have now.

If you wake up, we’ll read our World Cup wishes.

If you wake up, this book won’t be a requiem. Not for you and not for our friendship.

If you wake up, I promise not to shield myself with protective armour or poke fun at you with ‘glittering legal arguments’. Look, I promised myself to write this epilogue with restrained formality, as befits a copy-editor and attorney. But I simply can’t any more.

*

These last few nights, we’ve all stood around your bed in the rehabilitation hospital to watch the deciding rounds of the World Cup.

The timid girl from your workshop has joined us, and she sits on the side, silently, occasionally getting up to feed the two birds sitting on the ledge of the window near your bed.

They’ve been here since the first day they brought you. Sometimes they spread their wings and fly off to another place, but they always come back. Ofir claims that Ilana’s soul has been reincarnated in one of them and Yoram Mendelsohn’s in the other. Because they want to be at your side too.

Amichai says that Ofir is full of crap (so what else is new?).

Shahar Cohen is here from Slovenia, with his partner. He’s selling properties in Eastern Europe to Israelis now, and between goals and misses, he tries to convince us to buy flats in Budapest and Prague because ‘what happened to Yuval shows that our country is sick, and any reasonable person has to prepare an escape hatch for himself now, and if you all make the move together, it’ll be easier for you’.

He’s been trying to sell you a place too, by the way. And every few hours, he lowers the price in the hope that that’s what’ll wake you up.

Amichai claims that it would be most fitting for you to wake up when Brazil scores a goal, and insists that we practise shouting our ‘Ye-e-e-s!’ together.