The Inbetween People (13 page)

That place still lives inside you, you said, that night and the long walk and the gradual coming of the dawn, and the young man, he lives inside you too, you said. You don’t know what became of him, but you remember his dark hair, and his brown eyes and the unique way he had of walking, the way he held himself erect, you said, the way he walked straight and proud, though he faced prison, captivity, the darkness of a cell for years; he walked tall and straight in the night, and you decided as you walked behind him, your hand against his back, you decided that you would ask the girl in the petrol station to marry you.

C
HAPTER
17

December 4th, 2000

D
ear Sareet,

I am writing to follow-up on our phone conversation of last night, now that it seems certain that Avi will live. The last few days have been exceedingly difficult. I would like to thank you for your help and support at this time, and for your willingness, and indeed enthusiasm, to drop everything immediately and rush to Avi’s side.

I understand your need to come and visit, that you intend to come anyway, even now that Avi will live, and I understand the delicate nature of the decisions you need to make, whether or not you should bring your other children. That decision must be yours alone, you must do what you feel is best, both for you and the children, though often, in times like this, the interests of the children are overlooked. I am not sure how old they are now, nor what they know of Avi.

I must advise you that Avi is deeply traumatised and perhaps I should explain to you, now that I have the time, the exact events of that evening. It was a Saturday, he came to visit that morning, we sat on the patio for a time and I smoked a cigarette, it was a mild day for early December and the sun was pleasant. I hadn’t seen him for a month; he has lived in Tel Aviv for some time now, a different life from what we have here. Nevertheless he has adapted well to city life.

He did some chores for me, as you know I’ve had some trouble with the gardens over the past few winters. I brought him round the gardens and he climbed ladders that I find hard to negotiate, pruned my wisteria, the roses and honeysuckle (you will appreciate how unruly and out of control they become), and he did great work with the bougainvillea, though it’s an extremely tough plant to prune. We ate lunch together before he left, he spoke about his work in Tel Aviv, his plans to travel next year, to the Far East, and then on to Australia. I told him that it’s a good time to go as far as I’m concerned, for there is no denying that life is hard here, and people feel under siege, particularly in cities such as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Indeed I urged him to return to the safety of the kibbutz, I told him that he could have his pick of work: in the cotton fields, the orchards, or the factory. It’s what you know, I said, you belong here, and besides it is safer, you’ll earn a good wage, you’re a good worker; but he shook his head and said that he likes Tel Aviv and city life, and though he feels the need to be careful, he does not feel under siege.

Well, who am I to stand in the way of Avi and his youthful plans. Why I was just a young man when I left my family, England, and all that I knew behind me, the forests and lakes of my youth, and left for a war in a country I had never glimpsed. You surely remember those times, Sareet, the hopes and dreams of our country weighed heavily on the shoulders of our armed forces, I know you felt it too: I remember the plane trip, touching down, the autumn heat—I had never before felt a hot breeze on my skin; the journey to the kibbutz, the volunteering, and finally the going to war, the victory, the coming back.

And I remember you, an orphan from Tel Aviv, adopted by the kibbutz after the death of your parents, our immediate connection, as if we already knew each other you said, the awe in your grey eyes, the pride and the desire, and the sadness, for it was a tough war with many losses, and the kibbutz lost too. Those young names, read out each year on the day cast aside for remembering, those names became a part of all of our lives in the years that followed, but for you they were already a part, for you knew them, the people who owned those names, you knew the loss of them. The comradery of that time still grips my heart! The never say die attitude of my comrades, the hot, endlessly long, never-ending autumn days, and the nights, the whispered plans, the waiting for dawn, and the cold that can descend on the desert at night.

Indeed, Avi’s words brought that time back to me, vividly, as if it was yesterday. I don’t feel under siege, he said, and when he spoke he faced the gardens of his youth, beyond them the sea he once made his own, and I watched his hand clench, he had placed it against the table, hard and brown, a hand that knew the sun, he clenched it into a tight fist. He didn’t look at me. I must be going, he said, the roads will be busy.

The next time I saw him was in the hospital, in Tel Aviv. You will come here, see him for yourself, and yet I must prepare you somewhat for what you will find. Avi returned to Tel Aviv that Saturday, he met a girl, a friend from his time in the army, Hagar was her name. He met Hagar and they went to a restaurant, to drink coffee—it seems that this is a popular thing to do in Tel Aviv.

It was a busy night, Saturday is a busy night here in the towns and cities. It’s only now as I write this that I remember that you, Sareet, are not a kibbutznik, indeed are from the city of Tel Aviv, you are familiar with the Saturday night ritual of “drinking coffee.” Avi and Hagar went to drink coffee last Saturday night, they could have had no inkling of what was to come.

He does not remember much—don’t worry I am not going to bombard you with gruesome images—what he felt at a particular moment, the red hot ball bearings searing into his flesh. I have not asked him and he turns away at the memory. I will merely give you the facts, unpleasant as they are: there was a bomb on the street next to where Avi and Hagar sat drinking coffee, they were sitting outside, that is important to note, for the fact that they sat outside saved Avi’s life. There is no doubt about it, a bomb has much greater effect in an enclosed area, those who chose to sit inside that night are now dead. After the explosion people panicked, rose to their feet, called out to each other, what was that, was it a bomb, it has to be a bomb, what direction did it come from, and already there was screaming and the sky was bright. Avi says there was a siren very quickly, how quickly I asked, I don’t know he said, but it surprised him just the same for it seemed to be straight after the noise.

The noise. That’s what he calls it, he doesn’t call it a bomb, or an explosion or any of the terms we use to describe such an event. The noise, he says, and then he turns away and fixes his eyes on the wall, on something he sees there, what I don’t know, but he stares at the wall, and it is some time before he turns to me again.

So Avi and Hagar got to their feet, she was frightened this girl, she called out to passersby. What is it, she shouted, and Avi reached out to her but she continued to shout, what is it, is it a bomb?

People started to run, phoned the emergency services, their friends, parents, who knows what occurs to people in such moments. Others poured out of the surrounding restaurants and stood in the streets, calling to each other, but it quickly became clear what had happened, for the air was full of screaming, howls of agony, and sirens were ringing out through the December night. Which way should we go, Hagar asked Avi, she turned to him, clutched his wrist, which way should we go, Avi, she shouted, and in that moment another person entered the restaurant, a young man, moving against the people who were crowded around the door of the restaurant. Avi saw him, he looked at him, registered something but ultimately nothing, there was a child that he saw there, he had dropped his teddy bear and was reaching back to it, but his parents were pushing towards the door, and then there was nothing, nothing that Avi remembers, only that any last remaining person in the restaurant—those people who were making their way towards the door, gathering their belongings as people do in such moments, the boy reaching for his teddy bear, the boys’ parents, the young man with the bomb strapped to his chest—was blown apart, the window blasted outwards, towards him, towards Hagar, and dozens, hundreds, thousands, who knows, who has a quantity for these things (other than the person who assembled the device, of course) of ball bearings and nails were streaking through the open space that once was a window, piercing his body at various entry points, weaving a path through his body, blazing through his flesh.

How easily the human flesh succumbs to these burning weapons. He remembers nothing after that.

After that, there is only what I’ve seen on the news, read in the newspapers, in the time I’ve had to watch the news and read the newspapers. After that, Hagar died, immediately, she never had a chance—her vital organs were severely damaged, and she went immediately into a deep sleep, out of which she never came; in fact she was buried two days ago.

I have not told him.

What do you say? Perhaps when you come you will help me to find the words and the manner, or perhaps I will already have found the courage to tell him by then, after all, he is conscious more often now, and he has started asking for her. I’m afraid I have not been particularly noble in this instance, I’ve turned away and pretended that I don’t understand what it is he is trying to say. He tires easily, these conversations do not last for long.

I did not know her; she is a part of his life of which I know nothing. I do not know what she was, what they were, and therefore I do not know what he has lost.

If you could perhaps call prior to your arrival and let me know of your expected arrival time, I shall try to meet you at the airport. In the meantime, I have booked a guest accommodation for you on the kibbutz, an entire apartment in case you decide to bring the children. I wish you a safe journey and I will do my best to assist you upon your arrival here.

Daniel

C
HAPTER
18

I
t is your next army leave, the final one, for soon you will finish your three years with the army. Evening and, because summer is coming, the heat of the day lingers in the air, and the smell of jasmine is all around the yard. They have moved the chairs from the kitchen outside: Grandmother, Father, and Uncle Sabri, who is older now, his hair is white, his jawline thicker than you remember. They sit on the plastic chairs, and there is only the noise of your grandmother cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth. None of them speak. Occasionally Uncle Sabri springs up and examines one of the pieces of machinery in the yard, turning it up to the light, for the ground is covered with rusty instruments, parts of old cars, cracked flowerpots, a dirty sink. Your father nods at you and you stand there for a time.

Your father lights a cigarette, he looks at you, gestures at you to sit, your eyes meet briefly, and you have an impulse to tell him that you are on your way to ask a man if you can marry his daughter, and perhaps he would like to accompany you. Somewhere inside you there is the awareness that other families would handle a situation like this in such a manner, and with your father by your side your request might appear more valid. It could one day be important to them, your people, this day, this moment, this very evening with the streaks of cloud trailing across the sky like tattered flags, surrounded by a blaze of red light. You recognise something of yourself in your father at that moment. You want to sit with him, light a cigarette, and talk about the petrol station on the road to the lake, the man at the window, the right way to approach him, did he already guess at your intentions. Grandmother cracks another sunflower seed between her teeth, spitting the shell in your direction, are you sitting or going, she says, and the moment is gone then. Father turns away from you, turns away towards a rusty hubcap that Uncle Sabri is holding in the air. He stands to examine it, then sits back down on the plastic chair so that it heaves beneath his weight. In the end you travel there alone.