Light Fell (14 page)

“It is generally believed,” he says, pointing to the valley beneath them, “that this is the route the Patriarch Abraham took from his home in Beersheva to Mount Moriah, where he went to sacrifice his son Isaac. And Jacob would have used this same route when he left his father-in-law’s house and returned to the homeland from which he’d run away, now with his wives and—who knows how many sons?”

The middle daughter, plump and giggly, shouts, “Twelve!” Gavriel looks to the parents and the other children for confirmation. The eldest daughter puckers her lips and blows him a secret kiss from behind her father’s back. She has been licking her lips or fondling herself or winking or making some other lewd gesture all afternoon. Each time, she catches his attention but not that of her parents or sisters and by now Gavriel is almost accustomed to it. He hopes to take the father aside before they part to warn him of his daughter’s highly unsuitable behavior.

“Ah, but not yet,” he corrects. The middle daughter’s smile droops while the eldest daughter hugs herself suggestively. “The Matriarch Rachel is about to give birth to number twelve, little Benjamin, but only when the family reaches Efrat, just up the road.” The father, obese and unshaven, nods knowingly. The mother pats the middle daughter’s shoulder in consolation.

This family is slower than most, Gavriel thinks. They look properly religious—the father’s
tzitzit
fringes dangle freely from his waist to his knees; the girls’ skirts reach the bottom of their shoes, sweeping and collecting the dirt of the Holy Land—but they are not taking a real interest in his stories the way most of his tourists do. And the eldest daughter! There is clearly something not quite right in this house-hold. He checks his watch again. There will be no time to visit the site of the battle between David and Goliath. They will have to head straight north to Rachel’s Tomb if they want to finish before
minha
. Anyway, he has accomplished the most important part of the tour, showing them the settlement he helped found: Har Baruch, not so surreptitiously named for the man who gunned down fifty-two Muslims in prayer exactly two years ago this month. Temporarily comprising several caravans and a few tin shacks on a wind-blasted slope in a lonely corner of the hills south of Hebron, Har Baruch has become the home of a few sturdy individuals— five bachelors and two newly married couples—devoted to a life of austerity and commitment to reclaiming every inch of Judea and Samaria from Arabs. They raise sheep, grow many of their own crops, and offer tours in reinforced vehicles to tourists like this family who may, on a good day, be persuaded to leave behind some American cash for the cause.

Gavriel fears his commitment is weaker than his friends’, his resolve thinner, so he has taken on roles that will not push him to the edge, like tending sheep and washing dishes in the communal dining hall. They need his English—which is better than that of the others at Har Baruch because he spoke it as a child—for tourists from America. But it is Shilo, the driving force behind Har Baruch, who acts as community spokesman, even with foreign reporters in his own battered English. Indeed, it was Shilo who brought Gavriel to Har Baruch in the first place.

When Gavriel finished the army in October he had given no thought at all to what he wanted to do next. He could not imagine a backpacking trek in Nepal or Botswana or the Andes like those taken by so many other post-army Israelis, and he had no idea what, if anything, he might like to study. During his second week at home, as feelings of deep dissatisfaction and worry began to slither through him, he got a call from Shilo, a friend of a friend he had met on several occasions.

Tall and lean, Shilo was the twelfth of sixteen children of a pair of fanatic settlers who had helped found several of the most controversial settlements in the territories. His parents had sent him to an ultra-Orthodox yeshiva in Jerusalem because he was constantly involved in trouble and had been stabbed twice by angry Arabs in the Hebron farmers’ market. They thought intense, focused study would settle him down. Instead it provided him with the philosophical and religious underpinnings for what he wanted to pursue (his parents did not object to that) and got him more riled up than ever.

Less than two minutes into Shilo’s pitch, Gavriel had decided to join him. He was skeptical about their chances for survival and recognized the madness and folly in being so few among a multitude of Arabs. But it was Shilo’s special scent, which seemed to waft right through the phone lines, that made Gavriel know he would follow him—that odd mix of smoke, earth, sweat, and mint (from the chewing gum he always had in his mouth). Gavriel felt some unfinished business with Shilo, some reason it would be futile for him to refuse Shilo, as if he would be denying his own fate and future. He tried to focus on the words but sank into his senses instead.

“Fine,” he said after Shilo’s tirade came to a halt.

“Fine what?” was Shilo’s response.

“Fine, I’ll join. Count me in.”

Now, at Har Baruch, Gavriel finds himself with small, hard obsessions. He watches the two married couples constantly for signs of what their intimate life is really like. He theorizes that one couple is still very shy but that the other seems unable to stand being with their fellow settlers for too long, intent on cloistering themselves in their tiny single room for as many hours as possible. He has noticed Shilo watching them, too. Worse, he has watched Shilo scan the wife’s body when he thinks no one is noticing.

Shilo and Gavriel swim alone sometimes at a natural spring in a valley near their settlement. The water is black and cold even on the hottest summer days. Shilo is not shy about his body like other religious men and he likes to dry slowly in the sun. Gavriel finds these moments intensely painful. He wonders if the smile on Shilo’s face comes from thoughts of their friend’s wife back at the settlement. He thinks Shilo seeks out a prostitute in Tel Aviv now and again, but he cannot be sure about this.

Har Baruch has become a whole world for Gavriel. He has been sucked into the tiniest nuances of the place. He notices everything, but most especially the people, all nine of them. He knows all their idiosyncrasies, their quirks, their tics. He feels he could write books about each of them, and indeed he takes notes in an alphabet only he can read, but he will never betray what he has learned about them. He knows already that he will have to leave this place, even leave Shilo, but he is not ready and is almost hopeful that something large and dramatic and fateful will take place. However, he will never willingly be the catalyst.

Gavriel is too busy to return home to the moshav—that part of Israel seems like a different country to him—but he tries to speak with his mother once a week. He rarely contacts his father and has never asked him for anything. He maintains good relations with his brothers, but mostly they refuse to visit him at Har Baruch, which upsets him.

Rachel’s Tomb is swarming with busloads of Israeli tourists, mostly older women in mismatched clothing and head scarves. To Gavriel it looks like a convention of cleaning ladies. His American tourists have tired of his wordy explanations; they have gone missing in the tangle of biblical verses he’s quoted and are confused by modern Israeli politics, so many Shimons and Yitzhaks and Haims who have signed this or that accord. They are more interested in tying thin red strings to their wrists like all the women who have come to Rachel’s Tomb in hopes of blessings: good health, sturdy and sober husbands for their daughters, honest jobs for their sons. Gavriel sputters, his prolixity cut to shreds by constant interruptions. Soon only the father is paying attention to him at all. Even the eldest daughter has given up on him and is flirting with the soldiers guarding the tomb’s entrance.

Gavriel heads Har Baruch’s attack-proof vehicle back toward the town of Efrat, where the family’s car is parked and where they will find a minyan for afternoon prayers. While the women stop for coffee and a pastry, Gavriel and the father walk up the hill toward the synagogue.

“You have a very nice family,” Gavriel begins diplomatically, in search of a gentle way to broach this difficult subject. “But I must tell you that your eldest daughter has been making inappropriate advances toward me all afternoon.” He holds his breath after the last word, convinced he is right for having mentioned her but jittery nonetheless.

It is only two uphill blocks from the coffee shop to the synagogue, but the overweight father stops, winded. “You think I don’t notice what she’s up to? It makes me sick! At least here in Israel she picks on Jews mostly, except for the Arab waiters.” He jabs Gavriel hard in the forearm. He is shouting now, and Gavriel is relieved that no one else is on the street at the moment. “The bitch needs a man, fast!” the father bellows. “I’d marry her off tomorrow if I could. Big wedding, I’ll set you up in business, put you in a nice clean house in Brooklyn.” He is nearly purple with exertion and anger, the stubble standing out from his face. Then he checks his rage. “She flirts,” he winks, “but she’s still a virgin.”

Gavriel is shocked into silence. He stares open mouthed at this coarse and corpulent American. The man pulls his arm. “Come on; we’ll be late for
minha
.” He continues up the hill. “Cool off, I didn’t think you’d bite but I had to try, didn’t I? Father’s obligation.
May the good lord free me from this punishment!
” he recites in Hebrew, paraphrasing a prayer. “You impress me as a real innocent and you’re probably looking for a quiet little girl. You won’t marry for money either, will you? I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I’ve got you pegged for an idealist. Right? How else could you live in that pigsty you took us to? Why else would you turn your nose up at a perfectly good marriage proposal, with a job and a house for a dowry?”

They have reached the synagogue and the American puffs his way through the door ahead of Gavriel and sits in a corner, clearly signaling his desire to be left alone. Gavriel spots Shilo in an instant. He has been selected to lead the prayers and is making his way forward to the pulpit. Gavriel threads his way through the small crowd to the front, where few people have taken seats, and stands just feet away from Shilo.

Happy are those who dwell in your house. They will sing your
praises.
The congregation comes to attention, echoing Shilo’s call to prayers. Gavriel recites the psalm, enunciating and pondering each holy word He closes his eyes and sways.
Open your hand
, he intones with intensity,
and satisfy the desire
of all creatures.
Shilo has reached the Half-Kaddish, which will launch them into the silent benedictions. Gavriel breathes in Shilo’s voice as if it were smoke. It spreads through his body, dense and husky. His eyes still closed, he pictures Shilo swaying, the slow forward thrust of his hips. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tilts his chin toward heaven.
Forgive us our sins. . . . Look down upon our misery. . . .
We are guilty. . . . We have lusted. . . . You know our evil inclinations,
remember that we are merely dust. . . . Save us and forgive
our sins for your sake.

When Gavriel opens his eyes he sees Shilo leaning over a podium, engrossed in a book. The prayers have ended and only a few men remain in the synagogue. He is surprised he has managed to lose himself in prayer, escaping the torture of his obsession so completely. As a fatherless boy Gavriel spent years choosing fathers from among the men of the moshav. He would decide that one man or another was really his father—Joseph, in his rare appearances, seemed more like a distant, dignified city uncle—and he would devise ways to spend time with him. He learned to milk cows when he chose Shimon Altman during the summer holidays when he was almost nine, and he spent every afternoon for one whole winter in the metalworking shop of Avi Epelbaum. He was especially happy when they tousled his hair or winked and whispered that their own sons weren’t half the help he was. Gavriel learned to be more circumspect after his grandfather upbraided him for jumping onto Mordechai Zeeman’s lap during a Torah study group, but he loved nothing better than inhaling the smells and touching the rough clothes and work-worn bodies of these rugged moshav men. He knows now to bury his passion under layers of indifference, but the crafty smile Shilo is flashing his way disarms him. Not for the first time he fears that Shilo knows exactly what is on his mind.

Shilo puts down his book. “Your brother Ethan called. He wants to know what time you’ll be arriving at your father’s this evening.” He is still grinning with mischief.

Gavriel hangs his head, caught in a lie. He told Shilo and all the others he would be at his mother’s for Shabbat, hoping to avoid their harangues: “He’s loaded, your father. Why can’t you get him to make a donation?” “Let Shilo pay him a visit; then we’ll see some money.” “Tell your father this is the real Israel, not Tel Aviv.” They do not let him forget Joseph’s one visit to Har Baruch, how one of his black leather Bally boots had sunk in the deep mud, how he kept smoothing down his hair, blown out of place by the strong winds. They would probably leave the topic alone if they knew about his father’s relationship with Pepe, would treat Gavriel as an orphan, but the silent recriminations would be more than he could bear so he has told no one, not even Shilo.

“All right, pal, I’ll let you off the hook. I won’t hassle you this time and I won’t even tell the others. But next time don’t lie to me. We’re too close for that bullshit.”

Gavriel’s gratitude and relief win out over his skepticism. He feels himself filling up, flooding with something. He thinks it is love, but he cannot know for sure. He beams at Shilo, shines his inner light at him, feels his heart jump toward him, but Shilo is buried in his book, and Gavriel’s love and light and energy, once again, have nowhere to go.

* * *

The cake is on the cooling rack, the casseroles in the oven, and the mousse has settled in to its place in the refrigerator. The Jaffa port is suddenly ablaze in a spotlight of sun, odd for late winter but comforting to Joseph in his large, quiet flat. The houses at Sde Hirsch crouch to the earth every one, shunning skyward aspirations—second stories, chimneys, peaked roofs—paying homage instead to the dirt that provides their occupants’ living, the soil of Eretz Israel that sustains their souls, too. Since leaving the moshav, Joseph has always chosen to live on the top floor of every building, including a sixth-floor walk-up, in order to be as high above the settled dust, crawling insects, and squabbling humans as possible. At fifty he is no longer bitter about the simple folks of Sde Hirsch. They work hard, live frugally, and offer prayers to God with astonishing regularity. He no longer agonizes about their mindless devotion, and in weak moments wonders if that isn’t what God intended for mortals all along.