Edeet Ravel: Look for Me

The second door, closer to the entrance, was a two-paneled folding door with horizontal slits, painted white; beyond it lay the kitchen. The toilet and bath were adjacent to the hal way, also on our right. The at smel ed of a hundred years of chicken soup; I was sure no amount of paint and plaster and detergent could remove that smel , and who would want to? This way you’d always know where you were.

“Cute place,” I said. “Where’s your room?”

“O the kitchen. It was a balcony—I turned it into a bedroom. I thought I would have to chop o my feet in order to sleep there, but in the end it worked out fine, I got to keep my feet.”

“Don’t say things like that. I visualize everything.”

“That must be hard.”

“Sometimes. How come al the lights are on?”

“It’s the only way my grandmother can see anything. Even with the lights on she can just make out the outlines of objects.”

“Do you read to her?”

“I’l make cof ee and then I’l answer al your questions.”

I fol owed him into the kitchen and sat down at what appeared to be a bridge table. Daniel struck a match and lit the stove, put on water to boil. “What did you say your name was?” he asked.

“Dana.”

“Dana, Dana, Dana. I don’t know how I’m going to remember that name. I might get it wrong the rst few times, don’t get o ended. I might cal you Lana by mistake, or Tina.”

I laughed. “How am I going to know when you’re joking about things?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we could have a code. I could pul my earlobe, for example.”

He made regular co ee for me and café et lait for himself, then sat down facing me at the bridge table. I asked to taste the café et lait, and I liked it, so he spil ed my cof ee into the sink, handed me his mug, and made himself another cup. “You’re my first convert,” he said.

“What’s in it?”

“Cheap instant cof ee, cinnamon, cocoa powder, hot milk, honey.”

“This is a bridge table.”

“Yes, my grandparents were obsessive bridge players, it was their whole life, practical y. They got tired of folding up the table al the time, so they decided to sel their kitchen table and use this for everything. Would you like cookies? Pastries? Pretzels?”

“Don’t even mention food. I’m absolutely stu ed from the wedding. I may never be able to eat again. I like al this fties furniture. It’s touching, you know? Those horse-head lamps! They’re funny,” I said.

“I think in my last nightmare the horses came to life and began reciting passages from Proust.”

“I think they’re nice.”

Suddenly we were both embarrassed. We had no idea what we were doing there, sit ing at Daniel’s grandmother’s bridge table, drinking café et lait and discussing furniture.

“I hope you don’t think I’m crazy,” I said. “I just …liked you.”

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked, worried.

“No.”

“Maybe you should cal your base, tel them at least that you’re sick.”

“No, I can’t, they’d never believe me. I’d have to bring a let er from a doctor saying I was in a coma or something before they’d believe me.”

“You’re going to get into huge trouble.”

“It can’t get any worse.”

“It can always get worse. What’s going on there?”

“Oh, I’m not get ing on too wel . I’l tel you about it another time.”

“More mysteries. Another time as in …?”

“As in, after …”

“After you know me bet er?”

“After you know me bet er?”

“Yes.” I rose from the table, opened the door that led to his room. Daniel’s bed took up nearly al the available space in the converted balcony. The upper third of the wal s consisted of sliding glass panels; the sky was visible through the glass and I was reminded of a medieval triptych, except that here the scene changed al the time. Now, against a black background tinged with the yel ow glow of city lights, a single white star or satel ite shone like a jeweled bel y but on. The only decoration in the room was a movie poster for Stranger Than Paradise.

“I loved that movie!” I said. “I saw it a mil ion times. You’re the only person I know who also saw it.”

Daniel made a noncommit al sound, something between “mmm” and “huh.”

“‘I am the winner,’” I said, in English with a Hungarian accent.

“‘He is my main man,’” Daniel said, also in English.

“‘Poor guy, can you imagine working in a factory?’”

I pul ed of my uniform, then my underwear, and lay down on the bed.

Odelia always looked neat and delicate. She was wearing a beige knee-length skirt and she’d tied her hair back with an elastic band. She was the only one who came to these demonstrations wearing a skirt; it was a disguise. “The soldiers have a di erent at itude if they think you’re religious,” she would tel people.

There were no traf ic jams on the highway because it was the weekend. “What’s happening today, do you know?” I asked her.

“I’m not sure. I heard three towns were put under curfew, Mejwan and the two towns next to it.”

“Three towns? Last I heard it was two.”

“I heard three. Some people went down there to stay the night, in case they don’t let us in. Bet er than nothing.”

“I forgot to bring an onion.”

“The organizers are bringing a whole crate. Don’t worry!” She smiled at me. She was a calm person, though her permanently wrinkled brow made her look like a high school student trying to work out a complicated math problem she’d been assigned for homework.

“How are you, Dana?” she asked.

“I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“How’s your father?” When my father comes to visit, he stays with Odelia, in her guest room.

“Happy. He sends his regards, by the way. How are things with you?”

“Another lay-of at work, someone we real y liked. We’ve been depressed about it al week. I think I’m next …How’s Vronsky?”

“Same as always.” Odelia was convinced that my friend Vronsky, a bone specialist with whom I had dinner every Wednesday, was in love with me and that we should get married.

We drove for an hour. As we approached the capital, the landscape widened into mute green hil s and incongruous sprinklings of smal , distant neighborhoods, sterile and symmetrical, which had sprouted on the hil s in recent years. We entered the city and headed for Liberty Bel Park, our usual meeting place. Odelia tried to remember the way and her wrinkled brow became slightly more furrowed than usual. The streets were ful of Hassidic families, the men brisk and determined in their long black coats, the women strol ing leisurely amidst broods of children. I tried to repress my hostility toward them; I knew it was wrong and irrational. Our problems were not their fault.

After a few uncertain turns and a phone cal to a friend who lived nearby, we found the park. We were a lit le late, but these activities always started later than planned. Odelia parked her car on the street and we walked to the graveled parking lot. Five sturdy-looking tour buses stood side by side at one end of the parking lot and two minimalist army Jeeps were stationed on the other. Between them, a large crowd of demonstrators mul ed around, waiting for instructions: they al looked scrubbed and relaxed, as if they’d just stepped out of a shower and discovered that while they were soaping themselves the conflict had nearly resolved itself, and only needed this one last push.

The soldiers had deserted their Jeeps and were talking to the organizers, trying to persuade them to cancel the demonstration: the towns were under curfew, the entire area was sealed o . It was the usual ritual, the army on one side, the demonstrators on the other. No one expected a new and startling outcome:—Yes, you’re right, we’l cancel the demonstration, we’l change our plans and go home, because you’ve asked us to.—Yes, go ahead, we’l lift the curfew and let you through, good for you that you’re making these e orts. We boarded the buses and set of .