ordered drinks; Anderson asked for beer, Cohen had orange juice.
'You don't drink beer, Dr Cohen?' asked Anderson.
'I don't touch alcohol.'
Anderson could see that the prospect of fun-filled nights with Cohen in downtown Tel Aviv should be filed under 'remote'. He asked a few polite questions and received polite but curt answers in reply, so, deciding that he was running in mud, he did not launch any more initiatives and drank his beer in silence.
'Shall we go?' asked Cohen, eyeing his watch. Anderson nodded.
The car picked up speed as they left the town traffic and headed towards the northern suburb of Ramat Aviv. Anderson paid scant attention until they slowed and turned off into a broad, tree-lined avenue marked 'Einstein'.
The university is at the top of Einstein,' said Cohen, 'and this . . . ' he continued as they turned right into a wide compound surrounded by high concrete buildings, 'is where you will be staying.'
Anderson was told that he was to have the roof apartment in the French Building, each block having been named after countries whose governments had been sympathetic to the establishment of the Israeli state, and who had backed up their sympathy with hard cash. The term 'apartment', as it turned out, referred to a single room furnished with the bare necessities of civilized life, a small bed, a table, a chair, a cooking stove and a sink. It did, however, have a toilet and shower cabin and it was the prospect of a shower that held Anderson's complete attention.
As he put down his bags, two large cockroaches scuttled across the floor forcing him to make an involuntary sound of disgust. He looked at Cohen and saw the amusement in his eyes.
'Stand on them,' said Cohen, turning to go. 'Someone will come for you in the morning.'
The door clicked shut and Anderson tore at his clothes in his haste to get into the shower. He turned his face up to the sprinkler head like an Inca sun worshipper, letting the water cascade over him, bringing freedom, albeit temporarily, from the cloying heat of the Tel Aviv night. He turned the regulator to 'cold' and surveyed his feet for a few minutes till his body temperature had cooled. Feeling better, he wrapped a towel round his waist and padded over to the bed where he lay down and looked up at the white, featureless ceiling until the day stopped swirling inside his head and sleep invaded his tired mind.
Anderson woke just after five, with the rays of the morning sun streaming in through the slit window some eight feet up the wall and playing on his eyelids. Realizing that getting back to sleep would be impossible he got up, washed and pulled on a pair of shorts. The words 'roof apartment' sprang to mind. Did he really have access to the roof? He opened the door and looked left and right; the stairs down were to the right, but on the left was a small corridor which he followed and found led to the wide, flat roof of the French Building. The concrete surface, baked by a sun that was already very hot, threatened to burn the soles of his bare feet as he walked across to the parapet and looked over, following the broad sweep of Einstein down to the Mediterranean in one direction and up to the campus buildings of the university in the other.
Anderson returned to his room and looked through the cupboards - crockery, hardware . . . and food. Someone had stocked the cupboard above the sink with coffee, eggs and Syrian pitta bread. Another small cupboard turned out to be a fridge. It contained orange juice and milk. Anderson revised his hastily formed opinion of Israelis based on his experience with Cohen. He mellowed considerably over boiled eggs, toast and coffee.
When he had finished eating, Anderson took his chair out on to the roof and sat there with a second cup of coffee. He felt better with the food inside him and ready to face anything the day had to offer. As the sun climbed higher in the sky he moved his chair back into the shade of a water tower and used the time in
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