13
In the morning I found a letter from Elke in my mailbox. Her pedantic handwriting filled the floral white paper.
I tore the letter into small pieces and let them snow down into the trashcan. I considered setting the trashcan on fire, but it was light out and many people were on their way to work. And so I went off to work as well.
Kids’ pajamas and panties hung on clotheslines. White-and-blue flags fluttered. Commuters waited at the bus stops, cars honked, and I thought the asphalt was going to melt under my sandals. In front of the post office—where typically there would be a crowd of people pushing, elbowing, and yelling—there was only a small group of friendly-looking people and multiple police cars. I asked one of them what was going on. Nothing much, he said. Potentially a bomb. The squad was defusing a plastic bag and they’d probably be letting us back in soon.
When I arrived at the office I felt drained and sticky. On my desk were three folders to be translated. A Post-it was stuck to the one on top. Urgent. Reports from a few Israeli-Arab groups, each of which received major financial support from the foundation that employed me. They’d finally sent over the reports on their cultural activities. A Jewish-Arab celebration for senior citizens, attended by fifteen people. A writing group for Bedouin women—number of participants: five. The project coordinator delivered a rhapsodic report of the women’s meeting with an Israeli writer who wrote novellas about cats. Then the words dissolved into lines and dots and my shortage of breath was back, a hand tightening over my throat. I thought it belonged to Elias. I ran out and locked myself in a bathroom stall, swallowed a few benzodiazepines and calmed down again. I called Ori but he didn’t answer. I left a voicemail and asked him to pick me up from work. He called back an hour later and asked if it was urgent. I told him about Elke’s letter.
At six on the dot Ori was waiting for me in front of my office. He seemed tense. By way of greeting he kissed my cheek. Nothing had happened between us after that first night, but something had grown anyway. Maybe even friendship.
“Are you hungry?” I asked him.
“No,” he said gruffly.
“Would you mind keeping me company?”
“OK. I know something close by. Let’s go.”
We got on his Vespa and he drove us to a cafe on Allenby Street.
The cafe was part of a popular chain and in front of the counter was a long chaotic line of customers, all waiting to leave with their to-go cup of coffee.
Ori had spotted a free table in the far corner of the room and purposefully walked toward it. I would have preferred to go somewhere else but something in Ori’s face—a hardness I had never seen there before—made me sit down. The two men at the table next to us were having a loud conversation about Hapoel’s chances of moving up to the next soccer division. But I only understood bits and pieces and didn’t care at all about soccer anyway.
The waiter gave me a weird look when I asked for the Arabic menu. He considered my request a joke and continued speaking Hebrew with me. When I answered in broken Hebrew his expression turned condescending. There was no Arabic menu.
“I’ll translate for you,” Ori said.
“Nice, for a change!” I said.
Ori looked at me, irritated.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?” I asked.
Ori closed the menu and threw it down on the table. “You’re becoming more and more like Tal.”
“There are at least two hundred restaurants on this street.”
“And I guarantee you, none of them will have an Arabic menu. Can’t you pull yourself together, just for one night?”
“What’s up?” I asked.
Ori leaned on the table and fixed me with his gaze. “I was out with the guys from my unit today. We were invited for dinner.”
“Did the food disagree with you?” I asked.
“We were at one guy’s mother’s house. We’d served together. Before he got killed in Lebanon. I’d planned to have a drink with them, but then you called in that tone of yours. Like you’re about to burst into tears.”
My voice shook. “I’m sorry. If you want to go, you should.”
Ori took a bill from his pocket, put it under the ashtray, and stood up. I didn’t know what to do and remained seated.
“Come on,” said Ori. “Let’s go.”
We got onto Ori’s Vespa again and drove a few streets farther. A tall, gangly man opened the door, greeting Ori with a handshake. Then he led us to the balcony. Five guys were sitting on worn-out couches, all barefoot and in shorts. Three of them had guitars on their laps but only one was playing. Ori introduced me to each of them and I was promptly offered a beer and a joint. I took both, said thanks, and sat down next to Ori on a free couch.
We sat in silence. From time to time someone brought beer or rolled another joint.
After a few hours we said goodbye.
“You’re driving,” Ori said and threw the keys my way.
“Seriously?”
“I’m drunk,” Ori said. He had a point. I’d watched him down one beer after another on the balcony.
We put our helmets on. Ori sat behind me, his hands on my waist. I started the engine, revved it briefly, then drove out onto the beach promenade. On our right lay the sea, dark and calm. On our left shone the lights of the city. Only a few cars were on the road.
I accelerated, leaned forward, and we drove faster. Ori’s grip tightened. But I couldn’t resist speeding up even more, and only in the last second veered out of the way of cars that came toward us. Or just waited for them to do so.
When I slowed down and came to a halt at the edge of the road, Ori jumped off, yanked off his helmet, and yelled at me, “Were you trying to kill us?”
Maybe, I thought to myself.
Ori sat down on the curb and put his face in his palms. His shoulders were shivering. I sat down beside him, took his hand in mine and pressed it. But he didn’t react.