The Inbetween People (11 page)

He turns back to the door of his cell, peers at me through the bars. One minute he was running through the crowd, he says, and then he was dead. I think of him, he says, but mostly I think of her. After that, he says, after that I couldn’t go back to serve, couldn’t search another house or stand at another checkpoint. When the letter came, I told them I won’t go, I told them it is impossible for me to go. I presented myself at the base and told them that I am a conscientious objector. That’s why I’m here, he says. That’s why. His life was not worth less than mine.

The prison is silent. There is nothing but me and David, regarding each other through the doors of our cells.

T
HE
SUN
was high in the sky when we said goodbye. Saleem disappeared suddenly, evaporating into the humid July air. Take care of your foot, he said, and then, I’m here most weekends, come back some time, he waved his hand to indicate the grey water, the rushes, the last slips of mist disappearing into the blue sky. Already the sun was casting white flares of light across the lake. And then he was gone and the beach seemed lesser for his absence. I did go back, though at the time I thought I wouldn’t, I went back and he was fishing on a black rock. He was often there when I went; there came to be a certain stability about his presence, the certainty that we would meet on the beach, and fish and talk, eat barbequed fish, smoke cigarettes; and other times we sipped strong whisky and discussed what was happening in our lives and in the country. He was always the same: easy, relaxed, occupying very little of the world around him, existing completely and wholly within that world. And other times, he brought the girl with him, Sahar, so that later she too became part of the place and our meeting there.

T
HE
RAIN
has stopped, it’s quieter outside now, the water drips from the trees. I listen to the sound of water receding, flowing into deep cracks in the earth, so that it slowly retreats, disappears until silence descends on the desert again, and I hear the first bird of dawn. I sit at my desk and think about writing; the night warden is sleeping somewhere, I’m too tired, I put my head in my hands. After a time I walk to the window and look up at the sky—there is a gleam of light there, a softer light after the rain, and the world smells clean.

Thank you, David, another voice calls. Thank you for sharing your story.

David is quiet now, the pen is before me, I pick it up and I begin to write, and the first warmth of the sun descends upon the desert, touching the world with faltering rays of light; it finds the tiny opening that is the window of my cell, spreads shy rays across my floor, onto the desk, onto the page that lies before me. I remember.

C
HAPTER
14

I
t is winter, you travel through the evening in your friend Lafi’s car. He works the night shift in the village factory at weekends and he lends it to you when you are on army leave, so that you can go fishing. The evening is full of rain, gusts of wind rattle the car, plastering dashes of water across the windscreen. There are no cars on the roads, you drive with the window open so that the rain streams against your jaw. You like to drive with the window open in winter, the feel of the cool air against your face. The car is low on petrol; you navigate through the evening as it descends into night, the road is slick with water, through the wet mountains of Galilee, until you see the gleam of a distant petrol station through the gathering darkness. The beam of light glistens brighter as you approach, the petrol station rises at you through the night.

She steps out from the small shop into the wet yard, and approaches the car. The hood on her jacket is pulled up against the rain and she glances upwards at the long sheets of rain that reach upwards to the sky.

She leans in the window, there are drops of rain across her cheeks, yes, she says, and her voice is sparkling, soft and rich, what can I get you; you don’t speak for a moment. She raises her eyebrows. You can fill it up, you say. She has a delicate face, and her black eyes are warm, her dark hair curls out from under the hood of her jacket, and there is a streak of it across her face. It is too late when you realise that you don’t have much money, that you didn’t want a full tank, she is already filling it. You open your wallet and count your money, and you see you will have enough, just about enough.

It’s wet, she says. It’s a wet January. She gazes up at the sky again and a dart of joy appears to descend upon her and rush through her, she holds her small hands out to the rain. Yes, you say, and you notice an older man, peering out through the shop’s window, wiping away the steam that comes from his breath, frowning through the night. She follows your gaze, turns to him and waves, the gesture coming from deep inside her; he frowns back at her, raises his hand but drops it again.

She returns to the car window, tells you how much money it costs and you hand her the money—your allowance for the next month gone on petrol for Lafi’s car. I’ll bring you the change, she says, and she is serious again, her fleeting moment of joy has evaporated into the night, towards the stars that you cannot see but that are there, obscured by thick walls of clouds. She runs through the puddles, into the shop and when she appears again she is walking.

Your change, she says, and she looks right at you, your eyes meet, she averts her gaze, glances back at the man who stands at the window, arm raised against the glass. Thank you, she says. You drive away from her; her back is turned to you and she walks towards the doorway and the light, halting to brush the rain from her face.

You discover the beach that night, it is dark, everywhere is dark, and there is no light from the sky; but when you find it you shine the torch around you, and you like its smallness and its symmetrical shape. You know that in the summer it will be hard to find, it will be quiet, not many will come across it, not many will have the patience to find it, placed as it is at the end of an immense drive of rushes.

That night you sleep in the car, the rain lashes at the window, and you think of the girl, the rain on her skin, the hooded face, and the smile. You hear her voice, the smile in her voice, and when dawn comes, you rise and you fish, the lake is black and angry; and later you sleep again, a real sleep this time, the sleep that did not come in the night descends upon you. You sleep in the midst of the thunder and lightning and the mountains, stretching around you, eternally.

You stop at the petrol station on your way back that evening. You don’t have much money, just enough for cigarettes. The man is there, he tosses the cigarettes onto the counter and there is no sign of the girl, just a vague odour that suggests her earlier presence. You place the money on the counter, the exact amount, he drops it into the till; you linger there, look around, perhaps she will appear around the door, affirming her existence, but there is nothing, only the dripping of the rain outside, and the man begins to wipe the window again, maintaining his lonely vigil, gazing at the wet Galilee mountains.

C
HAPTER
15

November 15th, 1994

D
ear Sareet,

Autumn again, it is often autumn when I communicate with you! What a magnificent autumn this year, the temperatures pleasant, and the hot Arabian winds, though unkind, have not contained their usual ferocity. Already I dread the winter, the rain and wind have caused me great trouble with rheumatism in the last few years, last year was particularly painful—I learnt to plan my gardens around what my body could manage, and this was a new experience for me, the years had not taught me to deal with my own body letting me down! People noticed of course and spoke about it; I overheard Hilda Rosenfeld complaining about weeds amongst the paving stones outside the dining room, and Yitzhak Levy made it his business to approach me one evening and inform me that he felt the roses outside the community clubhouse (an impressive building that was built after you left) could do with a more extensive pruning.

Never mind. The summer months were generous to me and I caught up with my work, though I am feeling a little exhausted this autumn; autumn is a tired season you used to say, but I never felt that until now. Dr. Cohen says that I am very young to be so afflicted with this rheumatism—perhaps it was those early years by the lake, the poverty of my childhood—who knows, he said, but life comes back to haunt us in many ways.

And indeed, after all these years, I have come back to haunt you once again.

As you may have guessed, none of the above is the reason for my letter today, I am merely rambling as always. I realise that the last time you wrote to me, after I refused your offer to return, you asked me not to contact you again, that in future any contact within our family will take place between you and Avi alone (amongst the many insults you hurled at me!). I have respected your wishes until now, but I want to share today with you. I realise that you probably still feel nothing towards me, only a dull contempt at my unwillingness to take a chance as you call it, though then again I like to think that the years between then and now might have softened you, you may have found your own peace.

I am writing to you today because I believe we need to put the past behind us, Sareet, and once we do so it is behind us forever. Because our son, Avi—yes, I am calling him your son despite the many ways you failed him—was sworn in to the Israeli Defence Forces this evening. As it happens I am just back from the ceremony, and I wanted to take the time to write to you about Avi’s day, though I confess that in many ways I feel that it was my day too: for Avi is officially no longer my responsibility, Sareet; for the first time in eighteen years he is now fully the responsibility of another party.

I want to thank you for writing to him diligently over the years, in response to my request some years ago now, and for continuing to write, even after I decided you should not come back. Part of me believed then that you would cease to write to him at that time. Your continued letters have meant a lot to both of us, and it has meant that Avi has gained some sense of family, something other than me and his kibbutz peers (who of course are a family of sorts). I believe that your letters are very much part of the reason as to why he is such a strong, confident young man, and to why he was sworn in to an elite army unit this evening, in accordance with my aspirations all these years. He looked smart in his uniform: youthful, eager and ready to serve his people, and at the same time vulnerable and far too young to be undertaking such an adventure. I took some photographs and will send one on to you as soon as they are developed.