Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

The next day, another girl appeared at my door. With a different kind of kubeh . Who spread the rumours about my being alone? I wondered. Sima? Moshe? It wasn’t clear. In any case, I gradually learned that there were a lot more kinds of kubeh than I had thought. Red kubeh metfunia , with tomato paste, okra, parsley and sour lemon. Yellow kubeh mesluha with turmeric and marrow. Sour-green kubeh hamusta , which comes in soup with beet leaves, turnips and marrow. Kubeh hemo , which is shaped like a flying saucer and comes in soup with onion and hummus. And the most delicious, at least for me: kubeh nabelsia , which is fried with onions and chopped meat. You eat five or six pieces and you’re still not tired of it.

The kubeh always came with a girl as a side dish, and it was always ‘her mother’ who sent her. It took me a while to realise that this was actually a parade of candidates to replace Noa. It was all done very delicately, tacitly. None of the girls actually offered herself, but they were all dressed too well for a short walk in the neighbourhood. Most of them wore make-up, and one or two had been daring enough to spray perfume on themselves. Girls’ perfume. Two or three days after they brought me the full pot, they would come back to get the empty pot. There were so many pots that I was getting confused, and they had to come into the kitchen and pick theirs out of the pile. Then they’d sit in the living room, give brief answers to my questions, check out the walls curiously and run away after two or three minutes, not longer.

I was able to get into a proper conversation with only one of them. She was a soldier on leave who had sincere eyes. A random question about what it’s like serving on a base she couldn’t leave every day pressed the right button. It turned out that on her base there was a group of girls who always laughed together, and she didn’t understand what was funny. It seems that she was always getting the worst shifts because she wasn’t one of the in-group. Not that she minded about the shifts. She minded that the other girls knew they could step on her because she was alone. And she minded that she didn’t have anyone she could borrow shampoo from when she ran out. And she minded that when she came home, no one cared that she was tired and her mother made her do laundry and clean and cook.

… and bring food to people you don’t know, I continued.

Yes! she agreed enthusiastically, then immediately caught herself and laughed: no, that’s something I don’t mind doing.

She took off one shoe, then the other, which — Modi taught me this once — is a sure sign that the girl intends to stay, and maybe remove other articles of clothing.

*

People were sitting at the bar with large spaces between them. The guy from the balcony gave me a quick, cold goodbye and went to sit at the far end, on a brown armchair. Pictures of naked body parts glittered on the walls. You couldn’t always tell if they were male or female. Bottles filled with golden liquid stood on long shelves. Air conditioner pipes were stuck on the ceiling like magnets on a horizontal refrigerator door. The light was dim, very dim. Even with a flash, pictures would come out dark here, I thought. But maybe that’s good. You don’t have to do anything, the guy from the balcony had told me before we came in, they’ll come to you.

In the background, the female singer of Portishead was singing ‘Nobody loves me’, and I thought it was a little cruel to play a song like that here. I sat down on a high stool and ordered a Guinness from the barman with a Popeye tattoo on his shoulder. I knew I needed a little alcohol to get through this night. The Guinness arrived with a man. May I? he asked and pointed to the empty stool next to me. I nodded. I asked the barman if I could bring your order, he said and smoothed his hair. Is that OK? Fine, I said and took a sip. I haven’t seen you here before, he said, and stroked his cheek. Is this your first time? Yes, I admitted. Do you want to go somewhere quieter? he asked, putting out his cigarette. Already? I said in surprise, maybe we could just talk a bit first. Usually a few seconds are enough to know whether it’s yes or no, he said. I didn’t know that, I said. So now you do. Great. So what do you say, he asked, rubbing a long finger around the rim of his glass, yes or no? Do I have to decide now? Yes. Or no.

There were others after him. Men on a platter. One was a wise guy. One was a shy guy. One smelt good. And another had the name of a street in my old neighbourhood. One couldn’t look me in the eye. Another tried to put his hand on my thigh. I have no idea why I’m saying this in rhyme. Maybe because I was drunk. Maybe because everything seemed a little fake, kind of glittery, like an Alterman poem. In the background, Portishead was repeating itself in metallic loops and the sound seemed to be getting louder and louder all the time. Couples walked past me on their way home. The girls actually looked nice. Like students. One of them probably went to school with Amir. Why can’t I be like them? I asked myself. Wham bam thank you ma’am. Why not? Because of the camera. No. Because of Amir. Wait. What’s that all about? How did Amir get into my thoughts twice in one minute? And where’s the guy from the balcony who brought me here? Has he gone? And left me here alone? How will I get home by myself?

Hi, he said, surprising me from the direction of the bathroom as if he’d picked up on my anxiety.

Hi, I said, as glad to see him as if we’d known each other for years.

You drink a lot, he said, pointing to my half-empty glass.

Yes, maybe we should really go.

Don’t you want to take pictures?

Not today.

So come on.

After we left, he said, we could hop over to the supermarket on Ben Yehuda.

The supermarket? Now?

Not to shop, silly. To hunt.

I think that bar was enough for me, I said, swallowing the bile that had risen into my throat.

There’s a new place that opened not far from here, with a DJ who only plays film soundtracks. Maybe you’d like that better.

Forget it. Let’s go home.

The air outside was dripping. I was slightly dizzy, but I didn’t want to lean on the guy from the balcony in case he got any ideas. A short female parking attendant was putting tickets on cars parked in no-parking zones. At this time of night? I asked. Any time, he said. They get a percentage. I didn’t know, I said and he said, be careful, pointing at the dog shit lying in wait on the pavement. I walked around it at the last moment and almost lost my balance.

You were really doing great there, in the bar, he said and grabbed my arm to steady me.

Yes, I admitted, wriggling gently out of his grasp. But they all had such cold eyes. And they were curt. It was like …

Like what? he demanded.

Like none of them believed in love any more, I said. And regretted it right away. Why am I dumping these perceptions on him in the middle of the night?

It’s not that they don’t believe in love, he said, and judging from how offended his voice sounded, it was clear that the ‘they’ could easily have been ‘I’.

So what is it? I asked, looking at him as we walked. He was quiet for a while, as if he were about to say something crucial and his words had to be precise. I started to feel the bile rising in my throat again, but I also felt that there was a real moment in the air and I shouldn’t miss it, so I took a deep breath and leaned against a tree.

It’s not that they don’t believe in love, he repeated. It’s just that sometimes love is too much of an effort.

Wait a second, I said. And went to vomit in the front yard of a building.

*

I didn’t want to make that girl soldier my own. The one and only desire I felt was to make her feel better. So I told her about my basic training, how I’d been so lonely that I didn’t sleep for nights on end. How everyone around me snored peacefully and I’d lie there in my bed with my eyes open, thinking what’s-wrong-with-me, why-is-everyone-adjusted-but-me, how-will-I-survive-two-or-three-years-of-this?