Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

Two voices argued inside me. One wanted to satisfy her, to pretend I was an expert, to console her, and the other called out for me to be careful.

They sent us a social worker from the Ministry of Defence, she said and turned her face to me again as if she’d decided to ignore the new information I’d given her. Maybe you know her, Ricky Be’eri? No? Never mind. She sat with us a few times. Here, in the living room. She said it was important for us to talk about things and not keep them inside. But Reuven didn’t want to keep having the meetings. He told her that after every time we sit with her, he feels a lot worse, so what’s it good for? He said it just like that, right to her face. No shame. And she said to him: maybe you’re afraid that if you look into your heart, you’ll find things you don’t like. And I thought that was true, what she said, and I even nodded my head so she’d see that I wanted her to continue. But it just made Reuven mad. He said to her, who are you to tell me what I have in my heart? Then he got up angrily and started pacing around the room. Did you ever have a child die? Do you even know what it’s like? You think you can come here with your nice clothes and the car your father bought you and tell us what to do? Listen carefully, Miss Social Worker — he could never remember her name — I’m asking you nicely, don’t come here any more, we don’t need your help.

What did she say?

She wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to me, not to Reuven, and said that we could set up a different arrangement for our talks. And that was it. She left.

Did you call her?

I wanted to. Here, look, I still have her number.

So why didn’t you?

I didn’t have the strength. I started dialling the number so many times, but I got tired in the middle. As if in my heart I didn’t believe any more that anything good could come out of trying. And that’s how I am all the time, I have no patience with anything, I can’t read a book, can’t watch a film to the end. I can’t believe how Reuven goes to work every morning, and two nights a week he runs to those meetings of the Parents’ Forum for Security. How can he? I can hardly do the laundry. Only Gidi’s clothes. I washed them three times, like an idiot, and folded them and put them in his wardrobe, as if he only went to sleep and he’ll get up in another minute and put them on.

Yotam’s shirts really do smell mouldy, I said to myself, and then was immediately ashamed of the thought.

But why am I telling you all this? Yotam’s mother said with real amazement in her voice, as if another woman had been talking the last few minutes, not her. You poor man, what did you do to deserve this?

It’s all right, I said, then kept quiet. I didn’t know what else to say.

You probably have to get back to your studies, right? she said, getting up and taking the cups and the plate. Psychology is hard, isn’t it? Pretty hard, I admitted, still looking for something clever and sensitive to say. Go back and study, she said, so you can finish college and help people.

Finish? I thought, I still have at least seven years to go. I waited for her to come back from the kitchen. The window was slightly open, and the draught coming through it made the candle flames dance. Some of them went out. Some kept twisting until they straightened out and went back to doing their job. I shifted my position on the sofa. I bit a nail, even though I don’t bite my nails. Gidi watched me from four different angles. I looked down.

She came back from the kitchen holding a piece of paper in one hand and a fridge magnet in the other. Look, she said, I got this from school yesterday. I looked. Written at the top of the page was, Re: Complaints About Your Son’s Behaviour . Then came the details of a few instances when Yotam ignored teachers’ requests or talked back or missed lessons without permission, but the zinger came at the end: We are all aware of the tragedy that struck your family a few months ago, and we are doing everything we can to take these special circumstances into consideration, but we cannot accept this kind of behaviour on a long-term basis since it has an adverse effect on other pupils .

If they’re being so considerate, they should leave him alone, I said, handing back the letter. I think so too, but this is the second letter already, she said and put the paper on the table between us. The magnet she kept, switching it from one hand to the other.

Can you talk to him? she asked suddenly, looking straight at me.

Me?

You’re the only one he seems to listen to.

He doesn’t want me to talk to him, I thought. He wants you to talk to him. To give him attention.

OK, I said, and her body, which had been waiting tensely for my answer, suddenly relaxed. OK, I’ll try.

*

Noa and Amir’s word of the month: scene. Noa had a bad scene during her shift on Sunday. Amir had a strange scene in the club on Monday. And there’s also a good scene. And a dangerous scene. And a wild scene. Sometimes they run through a series of scenes (though lately, this hasn’t been part of their regular routine). Then one day, Noa announces that the word ‘scene’ was annoying and she’d never use it again. Right after that, she blurted out, what a weird scene! when she saw someone from her school on TV in a commercial for an exercise machine. And a few days later, she whispers to Hila on the phone: lately, Amir and I have been having a bad scene. And Hila says: amazing! Lately, a lot of couples I know have been going through the same thing. I wonder how it’ll end? And Noa thinks: why does she always think that everything has to be part of a mysterious, general trend? While Amir, in bed, is filled with suspicion and doubt: why is she whispering? What’s she hiding? What’s this all about? Noa listens patiently to Hila, who needs to explain. Then she gets quietly under the covers again. She turns her back. Can’t fall asleep. And Amir is busy thinking and doesn’t know what to say: if all these are scenes, when do they turn into a play?

Rami the contractor’s word of the month is heideh . Which means ‘let’s go’ in Romanian. And he also knows how to say ‘money’ in Romanian ( badeh ). And tomorrow ( mineh ). That’s how it is — new workers, new words. But you can’t say he’s a happy man. He waited three weeks for his Arabs. But the border closure was as tight as the day it began. Employers who smuggled their workers out had to pay fines, so what could he do? Romanian workers were better than none. Without them, work on Madmoni’s house would never be done. And sometimes, when he sees a crooked iron rod, he says out loud, ya Saddiq, why did you Arabs have to make this mess and then disappear? Where are you now that I need you here?

In prison. Learning Hebrew with Mustafa A’alem. Mustafa is an old man, but he recognises Saddiq right away. He remembers all his outstanding students as if he’d seen them just yesterday. Saddiq A’adana, you still have a lot to learn, he tells him when he’s in the tent that serves as their cell. We still haven’t done any grammar. And you don’t know how to spell. I know, that’s why I came back, Saddiq says and kisses Mustafa on the cheek. After they smile at each other, Saddiq bends his head, humble and meek. That’s how it is. Mustafa A’alem is a famous hero of the Intifada and the young prisoners treat him with great respect. They wait months for the chance to become his students, hoping to be the ones he’ll select. You’re not a boy any more, are you? Mustafa A’alem says. Come to me tomorrow at three. We’ll see what we can do. Then Saddiq remembers to call out Mustafa’s famous slogan: Know your enemy! Ta’aref el ado! When he’s said those words, he can turn around and go.