The benches were all higgledy-piggledy, as if the pupils had been in so great a hurry to leave when the bell rang that they had simply pushed them aside. The geraniums in the window boxes looked sad and neglected. On the wall opposite the teacher's desk hung a large map of Israel with the village of Tel Ilan in the Manasseh Hills circled in green. A solitary pullover hung on the coat hooks. Benny Avni left the classroom and limped around the deserted corridors. Drops of blood from his scratched hand marked his passage. When he reached the toilets at the end of the first corridor, something drew him to the girls' toilets. He found the smell slightly different from that of boys' toilets. There were five cubicles, and Benny Avni checked to see what was behind each door. He even looked into the cleaning cupboard. Then he retraced his steps and took another corridor, and another, until he finally found the door to the teachers' common room. Here he paused for a moment, feeling the metal plate with the words Teachers' Common Room. No entry for pupils without special permission. For a moment he had a feeling that some sort of meeting was going on behind the closed door, and he was afraid of disturbing it, yet also eager to interrupt. But the common room was empty, and dark, too, its curtains drawn over the closed windows.
Bookcases lined two walls of the room, and in the middle was a large table with a couple of dozen chairs. Empty and half-empty tea and coffee cups littered the table, together with books, timetables, printed circulars and notebooks. Next to the far window was a large cabinet with a drawer for each teacher. He found Nava Avni's drawer, pulled it out and laid it on the table. It contained a pile of exercise books, a box of chalk, a packet of throat pastilles and an old sunglasses case with nothing in it. After a moment's thought he put the drawer back in its place.
On the back of one of the chairs Benny Avni noticed a checked scarf that looked familiar. But it was too dark for him to be sure if it was one of Nava's. Still, he picked it up, wiped the blood off his hand, folded it and put it in the pocket of his suede coat. Then he left the common room and limped along one corridor with several doors opening off it, and then along another. On his way he peered into each classroom, tried the door of the nurse's room, which was locked, glanced into the janitor's room and finally left the building through a different door from the one he had entered by. He limped across the playground, climbed the railing and pushed the barbed wire aside again, then jumped down into the street, this time ripping the sleeve of his coat.
He stood waiting, not knowing what he was waiting for, until he caught sight of the dog, sitting on the opposite pavement, staring at him earnestly from a distance of some thirty feet. It occurred to him to try to get closer and stroke the dog, but it stood up, stretched and walked slowly ahead, maintaining the established distance.
6
FOR A QUARTER of an hour or so he limped after the dog through the empty streets, his bleeding hand wrapped in the scarf he had taken from the common room, the checked scarf that might have been Nava's or might simply have looked like one of hers. The low gray sky was tangled in the tops of the trees, and banks of mist lay along the gardens. He thought he felt fine drops of rain on his face, but he was not sure and he didn't care. He glanced at a low wall where he thought he saw a bird, but it turned out to be nothing more than an empty tin can.
He went down a narrow lane bordered with high bougainvillea hedges. He had recently approved the repaving of this lane and had even come along one morning to inspect the work. From the lane they turned into Synagogue Street again, the dog leading the way, and this time the light was grayer still. He wondered if he should go straight home. She might have returned by now; she might be lying down, wondering where he had gone, and perhaps, who knew, worrying about him. But thinking about the empty house alarmed him and he continued to limp after the dog, which walked ahead of him without looking back, its muzzle held low as if sniffing the way. Soon, maybe before nightfall, heavy rain would fall, washing the dusty trees and all the roofs and pavements. He thought about what might have been and would now never come to pass, but his thoughts wandered. Nava used to like to sit with the two girls on the back veranda, which overlooked the lemon trees, chatting softly to them. What they talked about he had never known and had never taken the trouble to find out. Now he wondered, but had no clue. He had the feeling that he must make a decision, and though he was used to making many decisions every day, this time he was beset with uncertainty; in fact he had no idea what was being asked of him. Meanwhile, the dog had stopped and sat down on the pavement thirty feet away from him, so he too stopped, in front of the Memorial Garden, and sat down on the bench where apparently his wife had been sitting two or three hours earlier, when she asked Adel to look into his temporary office and give him her note. So he settled in the middle of the bench, his bleeding hand wrapped in the scarf, buttoned up his coat because of the light rain that had started to fall, and sat waiting for his wife.
Strangers
1
IT WAS EVENING. A bird called twice. What it meant there was no way of telling. A breeze stirred and stopped. Old folks brought chairs out and sat in their doorways watching the passersby. From time to time a car went past and disappeared around the bend in the road. A woman walked by slowly, carrying a shopping basket, on her way home from the grocer's. A crowd of children filled the street with noise, which died down as they moved away. Behind the hill a dog barked, and another dog answered. The sky was turning gray, and the glow of sunset could only be seen to the west, through the shadowy cypresses. The mountains in the distance were black.
Kobi Ezra, an unhappy seventeen-year-old, stood waiting behind a eucalyptus tree whose trunk was painted white. He was thin and frail-looking, with skinny legs, swarthy skin and a perpetual expression of sad wonderment, as if he had just had an unpleasant surprise. He was wearing dusty jeans and a T-shirt bearing the legend Three Giants Festival. He was desperately in love and confused: the woman he loved was almost twice his age, she already had a lover, and he suspected that all she felt for him was polite pity. He hoped that she would guess how he felt, but feared that if she did, she would reject him. This evening, if her boyfriend didn't come in his diesel tanker, he would offer to walk her from the post office, where she worked in the daytime, to the library, where she worked in the evenings. Maybe this time he would finally try to say something that would make her understand his feelings.
The postmistress, Ada Dvash, who was also the librarian, was a thirty-year-old divorcée. She was short, jolly, plump and smiley. Her shoulder-length fair hair fell more on her left shoulder than on the right. Her large wooden earrings swayed as she walked. Her eyes were warm and brown, and a slight squint enhanced her charm, as though she squinted on purpose, mischievously. She enjoyed her work at the post office and at the library, which she carried out painstakingly and precisely. She loved summer fruit and was fond of light music. At seven-thirty every morning she sorted the incoming mail and put the letters and packets in the residents' boxes. At half past eight she opened the post office for business. At one o'clock she closed and went home to eat and rest, then opened again from five to seven. At seven she closed the post office and, twice a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays, went straight off to open the library. She worked alone, handling packets, parcels, telegrams and registered letters, and offered a warm welcome to customers who came to buy stamps or aerograms, to pay their bills or fines, or to register the purchase or sale of a car. Everyone liked her easy manner, and if there was no line at the single counter, they lingered for a chat.
The village was small, so not many people came into the post office. Most simply checked their mail in the boxes that were fixed to the outside wall and went on their way. Sometimes an hour or an hour and a half went by without anyone coming inside. Ada Dvash sat at her counter sorting mail, filling in forms or arranging packets in a precise rectangular pile. Sometimes, people said in the village, she was visited by a man in his forties with bushy eyebrows joined in the middle, not from our village, a tall, heavily built man who always wore
blue overalls and work boots. He parked his diesel tanker opposite the post office and sat waiting for her on the bench in the entrance, amusing himself by throwing his bunch of keys in the air and catching it in one hand. Whenever his tanker was parked opposite the post office or in front of her house, people in the village said, "Ada Dvash's boyfriend has come for another honeymoon." This was not said maliciously but almost affectionately, because Ada Dvash was popular in the village. When her husband left her four years previously, most of the village sided with her rather than with him.
2
BY THE LAST LIGHT of day the boy found a stick at the foot of the eucalyptus tree and used it to scratch shapes of people in the dust while he waited for Ada Dvash to finish work at the post office. The figures came out distorted, as if they were drawn out of loathing. But the light was fading, so no one could see them; in fact he could hardly see them himself. Then he scuffed them all out with his sandal, raising a cloud of dust. He tried to find suitable words to speak to Ada Dvash as he walked her from the post office to the library. On the two previous occasions when he had accompanied her, he spoke with such fervor of his love of books and music that he did not manage to communicate any real emotion. Maybe this time he should talk to her about loneliness. But she might form the impression that he was referring to her divorce, and she might be offended or hurt. The last time, she had told him about her love for the Bible, and how she read a chapter every night before she went to sleep. So maybe this time he should start by talking about biblical love stories. About David, and his love for Saul's daughter Michal. Or about the Song of Songs. But his knowledge of the Bible was limited, and he was afraid that Ada might despise him if he started talking about a subject he did not understand. Better to talk to her about animals: he loved animals and felt an affinity with them. For example, he might talk about the mating habits of certain songbirds. Maybe he could use the songbirds to hint at his own feelings. But what chance did a seventeen-year-old boy have with a woman in her thirties? At best he might manage to stir a certain pity. And the distance from pity to love was like the distance from the moon reflected in a puddle to the moon itself.
Meanwhile, the light was fading. A few old folks were still sitting on their chairs in front of their doors, dozing or staring in front of them, but most had folded their chairs and gone indoors. The street was emptying. Jackals howled in the vineyards on the hills around the village, and the village dogs answered them with frenzied barking. A single, distant shot disturbed the darkness, followed by the sweeping torrent of the crickets' chirping. Just a few more minutes and she'll come out, lock the post office and set out for the library. You will appear out of the shadows and ask, like the two previous times, if you can walk with her.
He had not yet finished reading the book that she loaned him last time, Mrs. Dalloway, but he wanted to ask her for another one, because he planned to spend the whole weekend reading. "Haven't you got any friends? Don't you have plans to go out?" No, the plain truth was that he had no friends, and no plans. He preferred to stay in his room, reading or listening to music. His school friends enjoyed making noise, being surrounded by noise, whereas he preferred silence. That's what he'd tell her this time. And she'd see for herself that he was different. Special. "Why the hell do you always have to be different from everyone else?" his father kept saying to him. "You should get out, do some sports." His mother came into his room every evening to check if he had clean socks to put on. One evening he locked himself in. The next day his father confiscated the key.
He scratched at the whitewashed bark of the eucalyptus with his stick and then felt his chin to check how the shave administered two hours earlier was holding up. From his chin he passed his fingers over his cheek and forehead, imagining that his fingers were her fingers. The bus from Tel Aviv arrived shortly before seven and pulled up in front of the council offices. From his hiding place behind the eucalyptus Kobi saw people getting off carrying bags and packages. Among them he identified Dr. Steiner and also his teacher, Rachel Franco. They were talking about Rachel's old father, who had gone out to buy a newspaper and forgotten the way home. Their voices reached him, but he could not make out the thread of their conversation, nor did he want to. As the passengers dispersed, their voices faded in the distance. And the crickets' chirping could be heard again.
Ada Dvash came out of the post office at seven precisely. She locked the door, locked the heavy padlock too, checked that it was properly fixed and crossed the empty street. She was wearing a loose-fitting summer blouse and a full, light skirt. Kobi Ezra emerged from his hiding place and said softly, as if afraid to startle her:
"It's me again. Kobi. May I walk with you?"
"Good evening," said Ada Dvash. "How long have you been standing here?"
Kobi was about to lie, but for some reason the truth came out instead:
"I've been waiting for you for half an hour. Even a bit more."
"Why were you waiting for me?"
"No special reason."
"You could have come straight to the library."
"Sure. But I felt like waiting here."
"Have you brought back a book?"
"I haven't finished it yet. I came to ask you to let me have another book for the weekend. I'll finish them both." And so he started telling her, as they walked up Founders Street, that he was almost the only boy in his class who read books. The rest were addicted to computers or sports. The girls, yes, a few, there were some girls who read. Ada Dvash knew this but did not want to mention it, so as not to embarrass him. He walked along beside her, talking nonstop, as though he were scared that if he paused even for a moment she would be able to guess his secret. She guessed it anyway, and wondered how she could avoid hurting him while not giving him the wrong idea. She had to restrain herself forcibly from reaching out and stroking his hair, which was cut short apart from a little quiff that stuck up in front and gave him a childlike air.
"Haven't you got any friends?"
"The boys are childish, and the girls are not attracted to someone like me."
Then he added suddenly:
"You're not exactly like the others either."
She smiled in the dark and straightened the neckline of her blouse, which was askew. Her big wooden earrings swayed when she walked, as if they had a life of their own. Kobi went on talking nonstop. Now he was saying that society mistrusts and even despises people of true worth. As he talked he felt an urge to touch the woman who was walking beside him, however lightly or fleetingly. He reached out and nearly touched her shoulders with his fingertips, but at the last moment he drew back, clenched his fist and let his arm drop. Ada Dvash said:
"There's a dog in this yard that once chased me and bit my leg. Let's hurry past."
When Ada mentioned her leg the boy blushed, glad that it was too dark for her to notice. But she did notice something: not his blushing but his sudden silence. Tenderly she touched his back and asked what he thought of Mrs. Dalloway. Kobi started talking excitedly about the book, his voice unstable and strained, as though he were confessing his feelings. He spoke for a long time about Mrs. Dalloway and other books, maintaining that life has meaning only if it is devoted to some idea or emotion around which everything revolves. Ada Dvash liked his elaborate diction but wondered if it was not one of the reasons he was so lonely and had apparently never had a girlfriend. He was still talking when they reached the library, which occupied the ground floor of the rear extension to the Village Hall. They went in by a side entrance. Since there was ten minutes to go before opening time, which was seven-thirty, Ada suggested making them both a cup of coffee. Kobi began by murmuring, "No, thanks, there's no need, really," but then he changed his mind and said, "Actually, why not, yes please," and asked if he could help.
3
THE LIBRARY WAS LIT by bright white neon lighting. Ada switched on the air conditioning, which started with a soft gurgling sound. The library consisted of a smallish space lined with white-painted metal bookcases, and o
ff this three parallel aisles of shelves opened, lit slightly less glaringly by the neon lighting. Near the entrance there was a desk on which were a computer, a telephone, a pile of brochures and periodicals, two piles of books and an old radio.
She disappeared from view down one of the aisles, at the end of which was a sink and the entrance to the toilet. There she filled the kettle and switched it on. While waiting for the water to boil she turned on the computer and sat Kobi next to her behind the desk. Looking down, he observed that her lemon-colored skirt ended above her knees. His face turned red again at the sight of her knees, and he laid his arms on his lap, then thought better of it and crossed them on his chest, and finally placed his hands on the desk. As she looked at him, he thought the slight squint in her left eye was giving him a wink, as though to say, "It's not so bad, Kobi. So, you're blushing again."
The water boiled. Ada Dvash made two cups of black coffee and put sugar in both without asking him. She pushed one cup toward him. She looked at his T-shirt with the words Three Giants Festival and wondered what sort of festival it was, and who the Three Giants were. It was twenty to eight, and no one had come into the library. At one end of the desk was a pile of five or six new books that had been acquired during the previous week. Ada showed Kobi how new acquisitions are catalogued on the computer, how the books are stamped with the library's stamp, how they are covered with strong plastic film and how a label showing the number is stuck on the spine of the book.