Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

Two thousand years later, a hand touched my arm and her voice, right up against my ear, said, we’re done, Noa, you can keep lying here if you want. Steps moved away towards the bathroom and I pulled the thin sheet over me. I felt it fluttering on me with every breath, and I remembered how, when I was little, I could lie that way for hours on summer evenings, raise the sheet in the air and feel it land on me, very slowly, caressing first my chest, then my legs, then my stomach. Then I’d raise it again. And again feel it land and land on me.

Drink a little. Hila was standing next to me with some water. I took the transparent plastic cup from her, and it was only after I’d taken the first sip that I realised how thirsty I was. She went to get me another cupful, which I also drank quickly. Your treatment really makes a person thirsty, I said, smiling at her. And she said, yes. I sat up and she supported my back and said, easy does it. Your body is very vulnerable now. You shouldn’t make any sudden movements. Thanks, I said. You’re welcome, she said. I meant thank you for everything, I said, touching her elbow. She gave me a big smile, as if the whole time she’d thought I wasn’t enjoying it, and now she was relieved. It was fantastic, I said. And she said, too bad there’s no mirror here. You should see your face now. What about it? I asked, and when I touched my cheek, I could feel how soft and smooth it was. It looks beautiful, Hila said. And laughed. So take my picture, I said, a plan suddenly taking shape in my mind. No, I don’t know how to take pictures, Hila said, suddenly talking in her old voice. There’s nothing to know, I urged her. Just click the button.

I’m looking at that picture now. The first thing that jumps out at me, of course, are the flaws. The little spot on my left cheek. The small mark on the bottom of my right cheek. The black rings under my eyes. That’s how it is with close-ups. They show everything. Still, maybe it’s the forehead that tells the story. Yes. There’s something more serene about the forehead. More open. And the eyebrows, as opposed to almost all the other pictures I have of me, aren’t contracted. There isn’t even one wrinkle in the space between them or above them, in the centre of the forehead. As if Hila and her hands had pulled tight the sheet of my forehead and smoothed out the wrinkles.

After Hila took the picture, she looked at her watch and said, sorry dear, I have someone coming in five minutes. Oh, I said, of course, and I quickly put on all the clothes I’d left on the chair earlier. Shirt, jumper, coat. There were a lot of things I wanted to apologise for. Neglecting our friendship, ridiculing what she did, not taking this appointment seriously and cancelling it three times at the last minute. But I could tell from her eyes that she was in a hurry, so I just said thank you again and hugged her tightly, more tightly than I usually hugged her. Then I backed away slightly, still holding her around the waist, and said, right into her almond eyes, I’m so glad I have you. That you didn’t give up on me. And she laughed, completely relaxed in my arms. Give up on you? Never.

Without really wanting to, I let go of her waist, one hand after the other, and walked towards the door. She said, don’t forget your hat, and handed me my woollen hat. I took it and blew her a kiss. Before I left, I gave a long bye — I don’t think I’ve ever drawn out that short word so much — and went out into the street.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t cold. A light wind tickled the trees of Rehavia, a pleasant sun cast its twilight rays and I suddenly started to skip instead of walk. Two ultra-orthodox men gave me a frightened look of disapproval, but that only made me want to keep skipping. So I skipped down Metudella Street and turned on to Ben-Serok Street. I skipped all the way down the odd-numbered side of Hatibonim Street, shedding my worries as I went. So there have been fewer customers in the café lately, so what. You’d think I was Rothschild before. So I won’t hand in a final project this year, what’ll happen? Will the world come to an end? No. I’ll hand it in next year. I skipped a bit more and remembered Forrest Gump, who starts running one day without knowing where. At first, he runs alone, and then all kinds of admirers start running with him until gradually there is a whole cult of people running behind him through the streets of America. We’ll start a movement like that here, but of skippers, I thought, skipping toward Aza Street, and we’ll tie it in with some kind of important cause. Let’s say, ‘Skipping for Peace’. Yes, ‘Skipping for Peace’ is good. Jews and Arabs skipping together along the green line, demanding that their leaders skip the unnecessary killing and go straight to peace.

When I saw the bus stop in the distance, I started walking normally. I’d got a bit cold, maybe because the sun had disappeared and maybe because, after all, this was Jerusalem. And it always gets cold here in the end.

I sat down on the bench. An old woman with a colourful little girl’s hairband holding her grey hair was sitting on my left. On my right was a man who looked like a watchmaker. But I wasn’t really focused on them. I was looking inward. My thoughts were relaxed and clear, like they are after a good after-lunch nap. As if, along with the wrinkles on my forehead, Hila had removed the wrinkles in my soul and now I could see clearly the things I’d been hiding from myself for the last few months.

By the time the bus came, I’d outlined out for myself what I wanted to do.

During the ride on the bus, I added the small details — when, how, for how long.

And when I reached the apartment, I took down my travelling bag and started packing.

*

A bus winds its way down Sha’ar HaGai.

On the sides of the road, spring dances.

Rusted tanks on purple expanses.

The dead on the living.

Election signs

scream candidates’ names on high.

A bus

is

winding

its

way

down

Sha’ar

HaGai.

That’s Noa inside

unravelling the knot,

Thinking, it’s worth a shot.

Chorus

You can make a mistake, man

Leave something undone

Not finish something you’ve begun

Do only what you can

You can cry, man

Be full of regret

Make promises to yourself

And then forget

It’s time to land

Superman

Time to tell your mama

That you’re not the next Messiah.

You can make a mistake, man

Make a wrong move

There’s nothing to prove

You can get close, man

Go all the way

without being afraid

Of being betrayed

There’s a woman out there

Somewhere

Just waiting for you to appear.

She’ll open her arms,

She’ll open her heart

And you’ll go to her without fear.

It’s time to land

Superman

Time to tell your mama

That you’re not the next Messiah.

Music and lyrics: David Batsri

From the Licorice album, Love As I Explained it to My Wife

Produced independently, 1996

WHERE’S NOA? YOTAM sailed through the rooms as if Noa were a tennis ball you’ll find in the end if you look hard enough.

I already told you, she went to Tel Aviv.

But I thought she was only going for a short time.

She went for a long time.

How long?

I don’t know, Yotam. Why are you being such a pest?

Because it was nicer when she was here. And anyway, I saw something on the way home from school today and thought that maybe she’d want to take a picture of it.

What did you see?

Two Ethiopians from the new immigrant centre painted their faces white and were standing at the entrance to the shopping centre.