Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

What’s your name?

Kobi, Kobi Goldman.

How old are you?

Thirty-nine.

How long have you been a parking attendant?

Six months. Ever since I got fired from Tevel, the cable TV company. I worked in the stockroom there.

Do you miss working at Tevel?

Miss it? I wouldn’t say that. Did you ever work in a stockroom? You know what it’s like not to see the light of day from seven in the morning until seven in the evening?

So what do you miss?

In the stockroom, or in general?

In general.

Is this question connected to your project?

Yeah, it is. It’s all connected to the project.

So what can I tell you. In general, I’m a person who tries to look ahead in life. Not back. How will missing things help? You can’t change what happened.

But even so?

Kobi the parking attendant scratched his chin, then stroked his cheek with one finger, as if there were stubble on it, even though there wasn’t, and finally put his hand on his chest the way you put your hand on the Bible in court and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So? I said, urging him a little.

I once had a dog, he said.

What was its name?

Snow, he said, pronouncing the name gently, as if the dog were right beside him, and the first signs of longing began to appear on his face: swollen cheeks, moist eyes.

I called her Snow because she was completely white. She was the most beautiful dog you’ve ever seen in your life. The kind of dog they put in ads. And she was so good-natured. If I came home from the stockroom feeling down, she’d sense it and start to lick my face.

What happened to her? I asked, and Kobi showed another sign of longing: his shoulders drooped.

We lost her, he said quietly, and his right hand clenched into a fist. My wife went out to walk her in the grove of trees near the house and came back without her.

From his tone, I could tell that he thought if he’d gone out to walk her, it wouldn’t have happened.

We did everything to find her, he went on. We put notices on trees. We went looking for her at night. I even called that woman who has that all-night radio programme and asked her to announce that we’d give a reward to the finder.

And nothing helped?

Nothing. Someone must have dragged her into his van and sold her for a lot of money. She was pedigree, with papers.

And you didn’t want another dog?

Are you crazy?! Kobi said angrily, as if I’d parked in a handicapped spot and would have to pay a huge fine. How could we, after such a thing happened?

You’re right, I agreed quickly, so he wouldn’t get really angry and walk off. And … Tell me, do you have anything left of Snow’s, a memento?

I have a few pictures at home, he said, pulling a bunch of keys out of his pocket. And I have her tag.

He separated the tag from the rest of the keys and handed it to me. It had the Tel Aviv/Jaffa logo on it, along with a small drawing of a dog and a serial number. If it had been a little larger, it would have been perfect. But the way it was, I’d have to close the frame to get him and the tag in it. And a closed frame wouldn’t be right for the feeling.

A tall guy with a short dog turned into the street. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to walk up to a total stranger, but when I take pictures, I become shameless. Wait a second, I asked the parking attendant. I don’t have all day, miss, he protested, but his tone was more complaining than angry. I ran over to the tall guy, ignored his dog’s barking, smiled my number two smile and asked if I could borrow his leash just for a minute. With the leash in my hand, I ran back to the parking attendant and asked him to hold it. How, like I’m walking a dog? he asked, and I grabbed my camera and said, however you want. Hold it any way you feel like. He moved to the right a little and wound the leash around his neck, like a scarf.

Is that what you used to do with the leash when you walked Snow? I asked.

Yes, he said, and gave a small, nostalgic smile.

I clicked the shutter. That was exactly the smile I’d been hoping for.

*

I hope you realise that this will influence the reference I give you, Nava said. You can’t just disappear for a month and expect it to go unnoticed.

I never thought it would, I replied, looking at the picture on the calendar hanging behind her — two tiger cubs fighting playfully.

Do you have other people to give you references? she asked, and before I could answer, she continued: because if you do, you should probably go to them instead of coming to me.

It’s OK, I reassured her: for the time being, I’m not planning to register for a Master’s.

You’re not?!! she cried, as if such a thing — someone who wasn’t dying to be a psychologist — were impossible.

No, I repeated, stretching my legs comfortably. That was the first time I’d spoken my decision out loud, and I liked the sound of it.

But why, Nava said, surprising me by removing the black ponytail band that held her hair, why, if I may ask?

Lots of reasons.

It would be a shame if it’s because of what happened in your crossword puzzle group. Things like that happen, and with time and experience, we learn how to handle them. How to set limits.

I raised an inner eyebrow — am I imagining it, or did this woman just show some real caring for me? I looked at her and thought that with her hair loose, she actually looked nice. She felt my eyes on her and pulled her hair back into a ponytail again. That’s just it, I said. I don’t think I can set limits. How can I explain it to you … Did you ever have a talk with Shmuel?

Nava nodded.

He probably told you that he didn’t have a protective layer of skin, I said, and that’s why he feels everyone’s unhappiness penetrating his body, and when he told you that, you obviously thought he was crazy, that he was talking nonsense. But here’s the thing: I’m just like him. I feel other people, especially their inner pain, at full volume. And I’m not sure I want to turn that into a profession. It makes my personal life complicated enough as it is.

I understand, Nava said, and unlike the hundreds of time she’d said ‘I understand’ before, this time it felt real. So I raised the barrier and told her some even more secret things: that I was sick of the sensitive psychologist image I’d been selling to the public for so long that I’d forgotten it was just an image; that I wanted to talk, not just to listen; that since the time I was a child, I’ve always listened, taken an interest, learned how everyone behaved, and then I talked, and I was sick of that, sick of trying to make myself fit in because I was the new kid in the building, in the neighbourhood, at school; I was sick of keeping all my thoughts to myself because it was too dangerous to expose my true, ugly, jealous, nervous self, the one only my family knew, the one Noa had begun scratching the silver coating off and maybe that’s why, that’s why …

That’s why what? Nava asked.

Never mind, I said. And thought: enough. You’ve opened up too much already.

So what you’re really saying, Nava said, is that you want to remove yourself from playing the role of a psychologist and keep yourself out of it permanently.

Yes, I admitted. Even though I hate it when people mirror me.

Are you sure that’s the real reason you don’t want to continue studying?

You know, I shot back at her, that’s exactly what annoys me, your thinking that there’s another, truer reason and you have to guide me to it. I’m not sure that there are absolute reasons for things. For me, the lines between right and wrong are very thin. Sometimes, only an asterisk separates them. And the really important things that happen between people are hidden and can’t be broken down into words. So how can I pretend to tell people what’s good and what’s bad?