Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Where the Jackals Howl
Nomad and Viper
The Way of the Wind*
Before His Time
The Trappist Monastery
Strange Fire
A Hollow Stone
Upon This Evil Earth
Footnotes
First Mariner Books edition 2012
Copyright © 1965 by Amos Oz and Massada Ltd.
Copyright © 1980, 1976 by Amos Oz and Am Oved Publishers Ltd.
English translation copyright © 1981, 1976, 1973 by Amos Oz
Revised translation of Artsot ha-tan
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Oz, Amos.
[Artsot ha-tan. English]
Where the jackals howl and other stories / Amos Oz ; translated from the Hebrew by Nicholas de Lange and Philip Simpson.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-547-74718-7
1. Jews—Social life and customs—Fiction. 2. Short stories, Hebrew—Translations into English. I. De Lange, N. R. M. (Nicholas Robert Michael), date. II. Simpson, Philip. III. Title.
PJ5054.O9A8713 2012
892.4'36—dc23 2012015524
Book design by Melissa Lotfy
Printed in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
“Nomad and Viper,” “The Way of the Wind,” “A Hollow Stone,” and “Upon This Evil Earth” were translated by Nicholas de Lange. The other stories were translated by Philip Simpson.
The translations are based on a revised edition published 1976 in Hebrew. The dates given at the end of each story refer to the year when they were first written. The author revised them extensively for this volume.
Where the Jackals Howl
1
AT LAST the heat wave abated.
A blast of wind from the sea pierced the massive density of the khamsin, opening up cracks to let in the cold. First came light, hesitant breezes, and the tops of the cypresses shuddered lasciviously, as if a current had passed through them, rising from the roots and shaking the trunk.
Toward evening the wind freshened from the west. The khamsin fled eastward, from the coastal plain to the Judean hills and from the Judean hills to the rift of Jericho, from there to the deserts of the scorpion that lie to the east of Jordan. It seemed that we had seen the last khamsin. Autumn was drawing near.
Yelling stridently, the children of the kibbutz came streaming out onto the lawns. Their parents carried deck chairs from the verandas to the gardens. “It is the exception that proves the rule,” Sashka is fond of saying. This time it was Sashka who made himself the exception, sitting alone in his room and adding a new chapter to his book about problems facing the kibbutz in times of change.
Sashka is one of the founders of our kibbutz and an active, prominent member. Squarely built, florid and bespectacled, with a handsome and sensitive face and an expression of fatherly assurance. A man of bustling energy. So fresh was the evening breeze passing through the room that he was obliged to lay a heavy ashtray on a pile of rebellious papers. A spirited straightforwardness animated him, giving a trim edge to his sentences. Changing times, said Sashka to himself, changing times require changing ideas. Above all, let us not mark time, let us not turn back upon ourselves, let us be vigorous and alert.
The walls of the houses, the tin roofs of the huts, the stack of steel pipes beside the smithy, all began to exhale the heat accumulated in them during the days of the khamsin.
Galila, daughter of Sashka and Tanya, stood under the cold shower, her hands clasped behind her neck, her elbows pushed back. It was dark in the shower room. Even the blond hair lying wet and heavy on her shoulders looked dark. If there was a big mirror here, I could stand in front of it and look myself over. Slowly, calmly. Like watching the sea wind that’s blowing outside.
But the cubicle was small, like a square cell, and there was no big mirror, nor could there have been. So her movements were hasty and irritable. Impatiently she dried herself and put on clean clothes. What does Matityahu Damkov want of me? He asked me to go to his room after supper. When we were children we used to love watching him and his horses. But to waste the evening in some sweaty bachelor’s room, that’s asking too much. True, he did promise to give me some paints from abroad. On the other hand, the evening is short and we don’t have any other free time. We are working girls.
How awkward and confused Matityahu Damkov looked when he stopped me on the path and told me I should come to his room after supper. And that hand in the air, waving, gesticulating, trying to pluck words out of the hot wind, gasping like a fish out of water, not finding the words he was looking for. “This evening. Worth your while to drop in for a few minutes,” he said. “Just wait and see, it will be interesting. Just for a while. And quite . . . er . . . important. You won’t regret it. Real canvases and the kind of paints professional artists use, as well. Actually, I got all these things from my cousin Leon who lives in South America. I don’t need paints or canvases. I . . . er . . . and there’s a pattern as well. It’s all for you, just make sure that you come.”
As she remembered these words, Galila was filled with nausea and amusement. She thought of the fascinating ugliness of Matityahu Damkov, who had chosen to order canvases and paints for her. Well, I suppose I should go along and see what happens and discover why I am the one. But I won’t stay in his room more than five minutes.
2
IN THE mountains the sunset is sudden and decisive. Our kibbutz lies on the plain, and the plain reduces the sunset, lessens its impact. Slowly, like a tired bird of passage, darkness descends on the land surface. First to grow dark are the barns and the windowless storerooms. The coming of the darkness does not hurt them, for it has never really left them. Next it is the turn of the houses. A timer sets the generator in motion. Its throbbing echoes down the slope like a beating heart, a distant drum. Veins of electricity awake into life and a hidden current passes through our thin walls. At that moment the lights spring up in all the windows of the veterans’ quarters. The metal fittings on the top of the water tower catch the fading rays of daylight, hold them for a long moment. Last to be hidden in the darkness is the iron rod of the lightning conductor on the summit of the tower.
The old people of the kibbutz are still at rest in their deck chairs. They are like lifeless objects, allowing the darkness to cover them and offering no resistance.
Shortly before seven o’clock the kibbutz begins to stir, a slow movement toward the dining hall. Some are discussing what has happened today, others discuss what is to be done tomorrow, and there are a few who are silent. It is time for Matityahu Damkov to emerge from his lair and become a part of society. He locks the door of his room, leaving behind him the sterile silence, and goes to join the bustling life of the dining hall.
3
MATITYAHU DAMKOV is a small man, thin and dark, all bone and sinew. His eyes are narrow and sunken, his cheekbones slightly curved, an expression of “I told you so” is fixed upon his face. He joined our kibbutz immediately after World War II. Originally he was from Bulgaria. Where he has been and what he has done, Damkov does not tell. And we do not demand chapter and verse. However, we know that he has spent some time in South America. He has a mustache as well.
Matityahu Damkov’s body is a cunning piece of craftsmanship. His torso is lean, boyish, strong, almost unnaturally agile. Wh
at impression does such a body make on women? In men it arouses a sense of nervous discomfort.
His left hand shows a thumb and a little finger. Between them is an empty space. “In time of war,” says Matityahu Damkov, “men have suffered greater losses than three fingers.”
In the daytime he works in the smithy, stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat, muscles dancing beneath the taut skin like steel springs. He solders together metal fittings, welds pipes, hammers out bent tools, beats worn-out implements into scrap metal. His right hand or his left, each by itself is strong enough to lift the heavy sledgehammer and bring it down with controlled ferocity on the face of the unprotesting metal.
Many years ago Matityahu Damkov used to shoe the kibbutz horses, with fascinating skill. When he lived in Bulgaria it seems that his business was horsebreeding. Sometimes he would speak solemnly of some hazy distinction between stud horses and work horses, and tell the children gathered around him that he and his partner or his cousin Leon used to raise the most valuable horses between the Danube and the Aegean.
Once the kibbutz stopped using horses, Matityahu Damkov’s craftsmanship was forgotten. Some of the girls collected redundant horseshoes and used them to decorate their rooms. Only the children who used to watch the shoeing, only they remember sometimes. The skill. The pain. The intoxicating smell. The agility. Galila used to chew a lock of blond hair and stare at him from a distance with gray, wide-open eyes, her mother’s eyes, not her father’s.
She won’t come.
I don’t believe her promises.
She’s afraid of me. She’s as wary as her father and as clever as her mother. She won’t come. And if she does come, I won’t tell her. If I tell her, she won’t believe me. She’ll go and tell Sashka everything. Words achieve nothing. But here there are people and light: supper time.
On every table gleamed cutlery, steel jugs and trays of bread.
“This knife needs sharpening,” Matityahu Damkov said to his neighbors at the table. He cut his onions and tomatoes into thin slices and sprinkled them with salt, vinegar and olive oil. “In the winter, when there’s not so much work to be done, I shall sharpen all the dining-room knives and repair the gutter as well. In fact, the winter isn’t so far away. This khamsin was the last, I think. So there it is. The winter will catch us this year before we’re ready for it.”
At the end of the dining room, next to the boiler room and the kitchen, a group of bony veterans, some bald, some white-haired, are gathered around an evening paper. The paper is taken apart and the sections passed around in turn to the readers who have “reserved” them. Meanwhile there are some who offer interpretations of their own and there are others who stare at the pundits with the eyes of weary, good-humored old age. And there are those who listen in silence, with quiet sadness on their faces. These, according to Sashka, are the truest of the true. It is they who have endured the true suffering of the labor movement.
While the men are gathered around the paper discussing politics, the women are besieging the work organizer’s table. Tanya is raising her voice in protest. Her face is wrinkled, her eyes harassed and weary. She is clutching a tin ashtray, beating it against the table to the rhythm of her complaints. She leans over the work sheets as if bending beneath the burden of injustice that has been laid or is about to be laid on her. Her hair is gray. Matityahu Damkov hears her voice but misses her words. Apparently the work organizer is trying to retreat with dignity in the face of Tanya’s anger. And now she casually picks up the fruits of victory, straightens up and makes her way to Matityahu Damkov’s table.
“Now it’s your turn. You know I’ve got a lot of patience, but there are limits to everything. And if that lock isn’t welded by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I shall raise the roof. There is a limit, Matityahu Damkov. Well?”
The man contorted the muscles of his face so that his ugliness intensified and became repulsive beyond bearing, like a clown’s mask, a nightmare figure.
“Really,” he said mildly, “there’s no need to get so excited. Your lock has been welded for days now, and you haven’t come to collect it. Come tomorrow. Come whenever you like. There’s no need to hurry me along.”
“Hurry you? Me? Never in my life have I dared harass a working man. Forgive me. I’m sure you’re not offended.”
“I’m not offended,” said Matityahu. “On the contrary. I’m an easygoing type. Good night to you.”
With these words the business of the dining room is concluded. Time to go back to the room, to put on the light, to sit on the bed and wait quietly. And what else do I need? Yes. Cigarettes. Matches. Ashtray.
4
THE ELE CTRIC current pulses in twining veins and sheds a weary light upon everything: our little red-roofed houses, our gardens, the pitted concrete paths, the fences and the scrap iron, the silence. Dim, weak puddles of light. An elderly light.
Searchlights are mounted on wooden posts set out at regular intervals along the perimeter fence. These beacons strive to light up the fields and the valleys that stretch away to the foothills of the mountains. A small circle of plowed land is swamped by the lights on the fence. Beyond this circle lies the night and the silence. Autumn nights are not black. Not here. Our nights are gray. A gray radiance rising over the fields, the plantations, and the orchards. The orchards have already begun to turn yellow. The soft gray light embraces the treetops with great tenderness, blurring their sharp edges, bridging the gap between lifeless and living. It is the way of the night light to distort the appearance of inanimate things and to infuse them with life, cold and sinister, vibrant with venom. At the same time it slows down the living things of the night, softening their movements, disguising their elusive presence. Thus it is that we cannot see the jackals as they spring out from their hiding places. Inevitably we miss the sight of their soft noses sniffing the air, their paws gliding over the turf, scarcely touching the ground.
The dogs of the kibbutz, they alone understand this enchanted motion. That is why they howl at night in jealousy, menace, and rage. That is why they paw at the ground, straining at their chains till their necks are on the point of breaking.
An adult jackal would have kept clear of the trap. This one was a cub, sleek, soft, and bristling, and he was drawn to the smell of blood and flesh. True, it was not outright folly that led him into the trap. He simply followed the scent and glided to his destruction with careful, mincing steps. At times he stopped, feeling some obscure warning signal in his veins. Beside the snare he paused, froze where he stood, silent, as gray as the earth and as patient. He pricked up his ears in vague apprehension and heard not a sound. The smells got the better of him.
Was it really a matter of chance? It is commonly said that chance is blind; we say that chance peers out at us with a thousand eyes. The jackal was young, and if he felt the thousand eyes fixed upon him, he could not understand their meaning.
A wall of old, dusty cypresses surrounds the plantation. What is it, the hidden thread that joins the lifeless to the living? In despair, rage, and contortion we search for the end of this thread, biting lips till we draw blood, eyes contorted in frenzy. The jackals know this thread. Sensuous, pulsating currents are alive in it, flowing from body to body, being to being, vibration to vibration. And rest and peace are there.
At last the creature bowed his head and brought his nose close to the flesh of the bait. There was the smell of blood and the smell of sap. The tip of his muzzle was moist and twitching, his saliva was running, his hide bristling, his delicate sinews throbbed. Soft as a vapor, his paw approached the forbidden fruit.
Then came the moment of cold steel. With a metallic click, light and precise, the trap snapped shut.
The animal froze like stone. Perhaps he thought he could outwit the trap, pretending to be lifeless. No sound, no movement. For a long moment jackal and trap lay still, testing each other’s strength. Slowly, painfully, the living awoke and came back to life.
And silently the cypresses swayed, b
owing and rising, bending and floating. He opened his muzzle wide, baring little teeth that dripped foam.
Suddenly despair seized him.
With a frantic leap he tried to tear himself free, to cheat the hangman.
Pain ripped through his body.
He lay flat upon the earth and panted.
Then the child opened his mouth and began to cry. The sound of his wailing rose and filled the night.
5
AT THIS twilight hour our world is made up of circles within circles. On the outside is the circle of the autumn darkness, far from here, in the mountains and the great deserts. Sealed and enclosed within it is the circle of our night landscape, vineyards and orchards and plantations. A dim lake astir with whispering voices. Our lands betray us in the night. Now they are no longer familiar and submissive, crisscrossed with irrigation pipes and dirt tracks. Now our fields have gone over to the enemy’s camp. They send out to us waves of alien scents. At night we see them bristling in a miasma of threat and hostility and returning to their former state, as they were before we came to this place.
The inner circle, the circle of lights, keeps guard over our houses and over us, against the accumulated menace outside. But it is an ineffective wall, it cannot keep out the smells of the foe and his voices. At night the voices and the smells touch our skin like tooth and claw.
And inside, in the innermost circle of all, in the heart of our illuminated world, stands Sashka’s writing desk. The table lamp sheds a calm circle of brightness and banishes the shadows from the stacks of papers. The pen in his hand darts to and fro and the words take shape. “There is no stand more noble than that of the few against the many,” Sashka is fond of saying. His daughter stares wide-eyed and curious at the face of Matityahu Damkov. You’re ugly and you’re not one of us. It’s good that you have no children and one day those dull mongoloid eyes will close and you’ll be dead. And you won’t leave behind anyone like you. I wish I wasn’t here, but before I go I want to know what it is you want of me and why you told me to come. It’s so stuffy in your room and there’s an old bachelor smell that’s like the smell of oil used for frying too many times.