Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

And kissed Lilach.

*

Moshe Zakian has been coming home earlier than usual this week. And before he can get his jacket off, Sima’s caressing him so passionately that he can hardly speak. I hope you’re in shape, she whispers to him, her voice hoarse. And he says, of course. His prick is already hard and his voice is thick. After they put the children to bed, she grabs his shirt and says: come on. Quick. But he likes to play with her a bit. Moving back a little, he says: but you always tell me that without a shower, there’s no way. She digs a nail into his right shoulder and says: it’s OK, baby, it’s OK. She drags him into the bedroom, climbs on top of him and has her way. Her skin is electric. Her body’s on fire, trembling with wave after wave of desire. He puts his hand on her mouth when she begins to shake, and whispers, shh, Sima, you don’t want to keep the whole neighbourhood awake. When they had finished sucking out all the sweetness of their lovemaking, she lies next to him, temporarily relieved of her aching. He says, wow. And she says, I know. What’s happened to you? he asks. I don’t know, maybe it’s my hormones, she replies and sighs. And he thinks, hormones, huh? Don’t I have eyes? She thinks I don’t know it’s because of that student next door. But I know the score. I hear her say his name in her sleep. I hear that little-girl excitement in her voice when she talks about him to Mirit. What are you thinking about? Sima asks, and for a minute he’s tempted to tell her, but he decides to retreat. What’s the point? She’ll deny it, he’ll get upset and they’ll be at war. That I’m crazy about you, he says at last. That you’re too wonderful to be true. She puts her warm hand on his thigh and says, I’m crazy about you too. Then she falls asleep at his side. He remembers her moaning and tries in vain to fall asleep: OK (he holds a conversation with the wall), let her dream about that guy. Outside in the street, doesn’t he undress women with his eyes when he sees them walking by? As long as it stays only in her mind — and it will, because he knows that Sima is not that kind — then it’s not something he should dwell upon.

In bed he says out loud to himself, trying in vain to subdue his fear: don’t be right. Be Don Juan.

*

I’m sorry. I can’t seem to fall in love with this city. All that Bauhaus doesn’t do it for me. The view of a valley or a mountain doesn’t leave me breathless, because there aren’t any. There’s no Upper and Lower Tel Aviv, there’s just Tel Aviv. And there’s no street called Valley of the Giants like there is in Jerusalem. There’s just Bograshov and Rokach. And no one here is hiding behind a wall that’s thousands of years old. At best, they’re hiding behind this morning’s façade. And you won’t see any Arabs here, or poor people or bereaved parents or kids Yotam’s age.

How different my first few days in Jerusalem were. I’d felt like it was Purim. Everyone looked as if they were in costume: the ultra-orthodox men with their penguin suits; the ultra-orthodox women, whose femininity burst through their buttoned-up dresses; the young Americans who flood the high street in the summer with their T-shirts that have English writing on them and legs that are too white; the Cinematheque nerds in their checked shirts and that serious look of theirs that just can’t be real; the tough guys with their gelled hair; the Border Guards with their tight uniforms; the old Yemenite from the Yemenite falafal stand.

And here — it’s all so homogeneous that you could die of boredom. Everyone tries to be special, but somehow they all come out looking the same. As if there’s a hidden code they’re adhering to. As if city inspectors will fine you if your clothes are a bit passé . And it isn’t just your clothes. Everywhere you go, you hear the same music coming from the same radio station. In the cafés, people talk about things they’ve read in the local papers and ask each other, ‘Did you hear that …?’ instead of ‘Did you read that …?’ Then the waitress — they all have the same look in their eyes — brings a menu and people concentrate so hard on it that you’d think it was a book of poetry. Then they order exactly what they ordered last time. And they’re all gay, or into their bisexuality. And left-wingers, of course. As if there were no other possibility. As if a political opinion were just another piece of clothing, another trend you had to get in step with and not something personal. (Amir would say now: as if your political opinions are so different.) True. There’s something comfortable about it. Like marrying your first love. No one here threatens you too much. Everything’s familiar and predictable. No one will throw a stone at you if you drive on Saturday or claim that the Oslo Accords were a gamble, and chances are that you won’t see any real Arabs, unless you insist on looking for them in Jaffa. But even then, they’ll sell you sambusek politely and would never even think about breaking into a Jew’s house in the middle of the day and making holes in his wall like Madmoni’s worker did.

It’s safe here in Tel Aviv. Safe. And fuzzy. And flat. I’ve been walking around the streets with my camera for a week already looking for something that’ll give me that yellow pepper feeling. And nothing.

(Amir would say now: maybe you’re not looking in the right places.)

Yesterday, coming back from one of my unproductive walks, I met the guy from the balcony at the entrance to the building.

Well, hello there, he said in a kind of sarcastic tone. And I thought: he barely knows me and he’s already using that tone?

Hi, I said, and to my amazement, my tone sounded just like his.

Did you take any pictures today? he asked, pointing to my camera.

No, I didn’t find anything interesting, I admitted and turned to go.

Do you have a flash? he suddenly asked in a different, nicer voice.

Sure. Why?

If you do, I could show you an interesting place tonight.

Ah … look … I was about to make up an excuse, but then I thought: why not? Maybe all I need to help me tune in to this city is a good guide. And the guy from the balcony looked pretty nice in the daylight. There was something about his shoulders that made you think you could trust him. I wasn’t attracted to him, because he was too short, which was great. And anyway how long could I sit in Aunt Ruthie’s apartment and look at albums?

OK, I said. What time?

I’ll call you from the balcony at around one.

One in the morning?

What do you think, in the afternoon? What planet are you from?

The planet Castel, I wanted to say. But didn’t.

*

Sima has stopped coming over since our almost-kiss. It scared her. And that wasn’t Yotam’s soft knock. So maybe it’s Noa, I thought. I put on a pair of trousers and a shirt, and a pounding heart, and opened the door. A teenage girl was standing there holding a pot. Are you Amir? she asked, shooting looks to the sides. Yes, I said. My mother made this for you, the girl said, handing me the pot. Your mother? I asked. Who … Who exactly is your mother? Ahuva Amadi, the girl said, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. We live at 43 HaGibor HaAlmoni Street. One house before the turn. You don’t want it? It’s kubeh metfunia . It’s very good. My mother will be insulted if you don’t take it. Yes, sure, thanks, I stammered and took the pot from her. The handles were still hot. Why are you standing outside? I asked, come in. She walked in and stood in the middle of the living room. She had the expression of someone who’d heard about this apartment, and now was comparing what she saw to the expectations she had. Why did your mother send this? I asked after coming back from the kitchen. The girl blushed and smiled, as if my question was funny. We thought, she started talking after she realised that I was waiting for an answer, I mean, my mother thought that you probably didn’t have much food now that … Now that what? I asked her, and the demon’s tail was already wagging inside me. Now that … the girl said, looking up at the ceiling, now that there’s no woman in the house, she finally said and sat down on the sofa with a sigh of relief.