Where the Jackals Howl (16 page)

And surely even these opposites are not simple but complex; in fact, one draws the other out and one cannot exist without the other, et cetera, et cetera. Dr. Elhanan Kleinberger, a bachelor, is an Egyptologist with a modest reputation, particularly in the European state from which he escaped by the skin of his teeth some thirty years ago. Both his life and his views bear the mark of a brilliant stoicism. Yosef Yarden, an expert in the deciphering of ancient Hebrew manuscripts, is a widower who is shortly to marry off his eldest son, Yair, to a girl named Dinah Dannenberg, the daughter of an old friend. As for the birds of the night, they roost in the heart of the suburb, but the first fingers of light drive them away every morning to their hiding places in the rocks and woods outside the city.

 

The two elderly men continued their stroll without finding anything further to add to the harsh words they had heard and spoken before. They passed by the Prime Minister's office on the corner of Ibn Gabirol Street and Keren Kayemet Street, passed the buildings of the secondary school, and paused at the corner of Ussishkin Street. This crossroads is open to the west and exposed to the blasts of cold wind blowing in from the stony fields. Here Yosef Yarden took out another cigarette, and again Dr. Kleinberger gave him a light and shielded it with both his hands like a sailor: this time it would not go out.

“Well, next month we shall all be dancing at the wedding,” said the doctor playfully.

“I'm on my way now to see Lily Dannenberg. We have to sit down and draw up a list of guests,” said Yosef Yarden. “It will be a short list. His mother, may she rest in peace, always wanted our son to be married quietly, without a great show, and so it will be. Just a modest family ceremony. You will be there, of course, but, then, to us you are like a member of the family. There's no question about that.”

Dr. Kleinberger took off his glasses, breathed on them, wiped them with a handkerchief, and slowly replaced them.

“Yes. Of course. But the Dannenberg woman will not agree to that. Better not deceive yourself. She's certain to want her daughter's wedding to be a spectacular event, and the whole of Jerusalem will be invited to bow down and wonder. You will have to give in and do as she wishes.”

“It isn't that easy to make me change my mind,” replied Yosef Yarden. “Especially in a case where the wishes of my late wife are involved. Mrs. Dannenberg is a sensitive lady, and she is certainly aware of personal considerations.”

As Yosef Yarden said that it would not be easy to make him change his mind, he began inadvertently to squeeze the cigarette between his fingers. Bent and crushed, the cigarette still did not go out but continued to flicker. Dr. Kleinberger concluded:

“You're mistaken, my friend. The Dannenberg woman will not do without the big spectacle. Certainly she's a sensitive lady, as you so admirably express it, but she's also an obstinate lady. There is no contradiction between these two qualities. And you had better prepare yourself for a very tough argument. A vulgar argument.”

 

A mutual acquaintance, or perhaps one whose silhouette reminded the two friends of a mutual acquaintance, passed by the street corner. Both put their hands to their hats, and the stranger did the same but pressed on without stopping, hurrying, head bowed, against the wind. And he vanished in the darkness. Then a hooligan roared past on a motorcycle, shattering the peace of Rehavia.

“It's outrageous!” fumed Yosef Yarden. “That dirty gangster deliberately opened up his throttle, just to disturb the peace of ten thousand citizens. And why? Simply because he's not quite sure that he's real, that he exists, and this buffoonery gives him an inflated sense of importance: everybody can hear him. The professors. The President and the Prime Minister. The artists. The girls. This madness must be stopped before it's too late. Stopped forcibly.”

Dr. Kleinberger was in no hurry to reply. He pondered these words, turning them this way and that during a long moment of silence. Finally he commented:

“First, it's already too late.”

“I don't hold with such resignation. And second?”

“Second—yes, there is a second point, and please pardon my frankness—second, you're exaggerating. As always.”

“I'm not exaggerating,” said Yosef Yarden, teeth clenched in suppressed hatred. “I'm not exaggerating. I'm just calling the child by his name. That's all. I've got the cigarettes and you've got the matches, so we're tied to each other. A light, please. Thank you. A child should always be called by his name.”

“But really, Yosef, my very dear friend, but really,” drawled Dr. Kleinberger with forced didactic patience, “you know as well as I do that usually every child has more than one name. Now it's time to part. You must go to your son's future mother-in-law, and don't you be late or she'll scold you. She's a sensitive lady, no doubt about that, but she's hard as well. Call me tomorrow evening. We can finish that chess game that we left off in the middle. Good night. Take the matches with you. Yes. Don't mention it.”

 

As the two elderly men began to go their separate ways, the children's shouts rose from the Valley of the Cross. Evidently the boys of the Youth Movement had gathered there to play games of hide-and-seek in the dark. Old olive trees make good hiding places. Sounds and scents rise from the valley and penetrate to the heart of the affluent suburb. From the olive trees some hidden current passes to the barren trees, which were planted by the landscape gardeners of Rehavia. The night birds are responsible for this current. The weight of responsibility infuses them with a sense of deadly seriousness, and they save their shrieking for a moment of danger or a moment of truth. In contrast, the olive trees are doomed to grow in perpetual silence.

M
RS. LILY
Dannenberg's house lies in one of the quiet side streets between the suburb of Rehavia and her younger and taller sister, the suburb of Kiryat Shemuel. The hooligan who shattered the peace of the entire city with his motorcycle did not disturb the peace of Mrs. Dannenberg, because she had no peace. She paced around the house, arranging and adjusting, then changing her mind and putting everything back in its original place. As if she really intended to sit at home and quietly wait for her guest. At nine-thirty Yosef means to come over to discuss with her the list of wedding invitations. This whole business can bear postponement; there is no need for haste. The visit, the wedding, and the list of guests, too. What's the hurry? In any case, he will arrive at nine-thirty precisely—you can count on him not to be a second late—but the door will be closed, the house empty and in darkness. Life is full of surprises. It's nice to imagine the look on his face—surprised, offended, shocked as well. And nice to guess what will be written on the note that he will certainly leave on my door. There are some people, and Yosef is one of them, who when they are surprised, offended, and shocked become almost likable. It's a sort of spiritual alchemy. He's a decent man, and he always anticipates what is good and fears what is not.

These thoughts were whispered in German. Lily Dannenberg switched on the reading lamp, her face cold and calm. She sat in an armchair and filed her fingernails. At two minutes to nine her manicure was complete. Without leaving her chair she switched on the radio. The day's reading from the Bible had already finished, and the news broadcast had not yet begun. Some sentimental, nauseatingly trite piece of music was repeated four or five times without variation. Lily turned the tuning knob and passed hurriedly over the guttural voices of the Near East, skipped over Athens without stopping, and reached Radio Vienna in time for the evening news summary in German. Then there was a broadcast of Beethoven's
Eroica.
She turned the radio off and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

What do I care if he's offended or shocked? Why should I care what happens to that man and his son? There are some emotions that the Hebrew language isn't sufficiently developed to express. If I say that to Yosef or his friend Kleinberger, the pair of them will attack me, and there'll be a terrific argument about the merits of the Hebrew language, with all kinds of unpleasant digressions. Even the word “digression” does not exist in Hebrew. I must drink this coffee without a single grain of sugar. Bitter, of course it's bitter, but it keeps me awake. Am I allowed one biscuit? No, I'm not allowed to eat biscuits, and there's no room for compromise. And it's already a quarter past nine. Let's go, before he appears. The stove. The light. The key. Let's go.

 

Lily Dannenberg is a forty-two-year-old divorcee. She could easily claim to be seven or eight years younger, but that would be contrary to her moral principles, so she does not disguise her true age. Her body is tall and thin, her hair naturally blond, not a rich tint but deep and dense. Her nose is straight and strong. On her lips there is a permanent and fascinating unease, and her eyes are bright blue. A single, modest ring seems to accentuate the lonely and pensive quality of her long fingers.

Dinah won't be back from Tel Aviv before twelve. I've left her a little coffee in the pot for tomorrow morning. There's salad in the fridge and fresh bread in the basket. If the girl decides to have a bath at midnight, the water will still be hot. So everything is in order. And if everything's in order, why am I uneasy, as if I've left something burning or open? But nothing is burning and nothing's open and already I'm two streets away heading west, so that man Yosef isn't likely to meet me by chance on his way to the house. That would spoil everything. Most young Levantines are very attractive at first glance. But only a few of them stand up to a second look. A great spirit is always struggling and tormented, and this distorts the body from within and corrodes the face like a rainstorm eating limestone. That is why people of spiritual greatness have something written on their faces, sometimes in letters that resemble scars, and usually they find it hard to keep their bodies upright. By contrast, the handsome Levantines do not know the taste of suffering, and that is why their faces are symmetrical, their bodies strong and well proportioned. Twenty-two minutes after nine. An owl just said something complicated and raucous. That bird is called
Eule
in German, and in Hebrew, I think,
yanshuf.
Anyway, what difference does it make? In exactly seven minutes, Yosef will ring the doorbell of my house. His punctuality is beyond doubt. At that precise moment I shall ring the doorbell of his house on Alfasi Street. Shut up,
Eule,
I've heard everything you have to say more than once. And Yair will open the door to me.

A
PERSON
who comes from a broken home is likely to destroy the stability of other people's homes. There is nothing fortuitous about this, although there is no way of formulating a rule. Yosef Yarden is a widower. Lily Dannenberg is a divorcee whose ex-husband died of a broken heart, or jaundice, less than three months after the divorce. Even Dr. Kleinberger, Egyptologist and stoic, a marginal figure, is an aging bachelor. Needless to say, he has no children. That leaves Yair Yarden and Dinah Dannenberg. Dinah has gone to Tel Aviv to pass the good news along to her relatives and to make a few purchases and arrangements, and she will not be back before midnight. As for Yair, he is sitting with his brother, a grammar-school student, in the pleasant living room of the Yarden household on Alfasi Street. He has decided to spend the evening grappling with a backlog of university work: three exercises, a tedious project, a whole mountain of bibliographical chores. Studying political economy may be important and profitable, but it can also be wearisome and depressing. If he had been able to choose, he might have chosen to study the Far East, China, Japan, mysterious Tibet, or perhaps Latin America. Rio. The Incas. Or black Africa. But what could a young man do with studies such as these? Build himself an igloo, marry a geisha? The trouble is that political economy is full of functions and calculations, words and figures that seem to disintegrate when you stare at them. Dinah is in Tel Aviv. When she comes back, perhaps she'll forget that unnecessary quarrel that we had yesterday. Those things I said to her face. On the other hand, she started it. Dad has gone to see her mother, and he won't be back before eleven. If only there was some way of persuading Uri to stop sitting there picking his nose. How disgusting. There's a mystery program on the radio at a quarter past nine called
Treasure Hunt,
broadcast live. That's the solution for an uncomfortable evening like this. We'll listen to the program and then finish the third exercise. That should be enough.

The brothers switched on the radio.

The antics of the night birds do not abate until a quarter past nine. Even before the twilight is over, the owls and the other birds of darkness begin to move from the suburbs to the heart of the city. With their glassy dead eyes they stare at the birds of light, who rejoice with carefree song at the onset of the day's last radiance. To the ears of the night birds, this sounds like utter madness, a festival of fools. On the edge of the suburb of Rehavia, where the farthest houses clutch at the rocks of the western slope, the rising birds meet the descending birds. In the light that is neither day nor night the two camps move past each other in opposite directions. No compromise ever lasts long in Jerusalem, and so the evening twilight flickers and fades rapidly, too. Darkness comes. The sun has fled, and the rear-guard forces are already in retreat.

 

At nine-thirty, Lily had meant to ring the doorbell of the Yardens' house. But at the corner of Radak Street she saw a cat standing on a stone wall. His tail was swishing, and he was whining with lust. Lily decided to waste a few moments observing the feverish cat. Meanwhile the brothers were listening to the start of the mystery program. The first clue was given to the studio panel and the listeners by a jovial fellow; the beginning of the thread was contained in a song by Bialik: