11
Sami parked in the driveway at my house. On the phone I’d explained to him that it was urgent and he’d borrowed his father’s car—a large black company car whose sole raison d’être was to impress.
When I put on the seat belt Sami gave me a concerned look. His eyes went from gray to green to brown, depending on the light and angle. Now they were red from exhaustion. Sami started the car. I rolled down the window and turned the radio all the way up. The full moon shone.
I easily found the path along the narrow rows. Elisha’s marker was clean, with fresh flowers on top. I took a small marble from my pocket and put it on the gravestone. Sami stood back and didn’t let me out of his sight. Eventually he did go back to the car, though. “I’m sorry,” I said to Elisha. I lay down on the marker, reaching out for him.
I had photos with me: two that Elisha had taken of me and two mirror shots of myself that I had taken after his death. I dug a hole next to his gravestone, put the photos inside, and lit them on fire. The photo paper burned quickly and two minutes later it was all over. I shoveled dirt over the hole and flattened the soil.
A few hours must have passed. Sami took me in his arms and carried me to the car. I hugged him and immediately let him go again. We sat silently in the car for a while. Then he pulled the keys from the ignition. He turned toward me, reached out for my hands, turned the palms face up and put them on his cheeks. I remembered his smell and the feeling of kissing him. When our lips almost touched I pushed him away with full force. His head hit the side window. I got out and ran up the road. At some point I stopped and went back to the car. Sami sat on the hood. The hurt look on his face startled me.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he said.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“I know.”
I took his hand and hugged him, our mouths coming close again. Nothing happened.
We went for a walk through the village, wandering the streets in which Elisha had played as a child. Past the detached houses with closed shutters, past his parents’ restaurant, the post office. We crossed a schoolyard, stopping in front of a basketball hoop. No drunk teenage townies in sight. We looked out onto the dark water of the river that ran through the village, its name unknown to us. At the gas station we bought ice cream. The cashier asked Sami where he was from. Frankfurt, said Sami. No, where he was really from. I asked her what she meant. She smiled, a little lost. We tore the packaging off the ice cream. Mine was covered in dark chocolate and almonds, Sami’s was a hazelnut cone.
“Come on, tell her,” I teased. The cashier was ravenous for some exoticism.
“I’m from Madagascar,” Sami said. “We all live in tree houses there and eat nothing but bananas.”
“His first time trying ice cream,” I said. Sami grinned at me. At least things between us were good again.
The day began, the sky grew brighter, and the glowing neon sign for the autobahn rest stop was turned off. We shared the rest stop with a group of German soldiers. Their uniforms looked like oversized camouflage pajamas and they ate burgers. Entire meal deals with fries, chicken wings, and ice cream. Bellies hung over belts, and the thought crossed my mind that the uniform says a lot about the state of an army. Despite the fact that it was a German uniform, the soldiers looked like big, lazy animals. I couldn’t imagine that they had the license to kill and die somewhere, let alone by choice. I asked myself whether they in all seriousness expected me to respect them for that and I also asked myself whether they thought of African-Americans on their shooting ranges and yelled Motherf*cker.
“I have the visa,” Sami said.
“Oh,” was all I could think of as a reply.
Sami regarded me curiously. “After a year. Can you imagine that? I waited for an entire year.”
“You lost an entire year.”
He looked at me. “It was good that I was here. Because of you.” He took a little pause. “All I’m saying is that I’m no terrorist. There was no reason to sleep on my parents’ couch for an entire year. I’m writing my thesis on German idealism. I taught at the university. I had friends and something like a girlfriend.”
“Oh.”
“She dumped me when it became clear that I wouldn’t be back for a while.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“Have you heard anything from Neda?” I tried to say this as casually as possible, but my voice trembled.
“No. What makes you think that I would?” Sami asked, genuinely surprised.
“So, you’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“When?” I swallowed, trying to keep a businesslike tone, but the word shook.
“Next month. What are you going to do?”
“I got a fixed-term contract with the Tel Aviv office of a German foundation. I shouldn’t worry about Hebrew, they said.”
“But you know Hebrew.”
“No.”
“Why not? You’re Jewish. And your family lives in Israel.”
“Distant relatives. With the exception of one of my cousins. I never learned Hebrew.”
“First time that you admit to not being able to do something.” He smiled at me and then said: “Let’s go, I’m tired.”