this barefooted, long-haired Middle Eastern child. I knew their kind, I had seen plenty of European movies. I knew how they dressed, knew they were well mannered, that they said excuse me and thank you, that they had Santa Claus and Christmas cake and holidays that seemed more fun than my own.
I always felt cold when I watched them. I always shivered, the coldness starting in my shoulders and running down my spine until I was cold all over. Even in the summer. And at school, when my teacher read about such places, those northern European countries with their secretive forests, endless grey skies, frozen winters, and roaring rivers, I listened with all my heart to her voice, for it spoke to me of my mother, her family, and their life there. I never stopped loving her, so that her touch remains upon my skin even today, even here.
Z AKI COMES back, pulls a chair close to mine and lights another cigarette. There is ash on his moustache.
You ready to go back, he says.
Yes, I say. I am ready.
He leads me to my cell but he is different, moves quietly, and when I enter my cell he doesn’t slam the metal door behind me.
Do you need anything? he asks.
No, nothing.
The small window is open so that I hear the rain outside. It’s not heavy, just a dull sound, a constant presence, and I feel cold then, I hate the sound of rain. I lie on my bed for a time until all the light goes out of the day and I begin to write. I’m desperate now, I need to finish this before I leave, so that these stories and people remain here in the desert, perhaps where they belong, among the stones, and rocks, and cracks, to rest here, so that they reside somewhere at least; and maybe with time they will become less sharp, less glaring, kinder and more forgiving.
C HAPTER 11
November 14th, 1990
D ear Sareet,
I received your letter two weeks ago, and apologise for the delay in replying for you gave me much to think about. I’ve walked a lot, and I’ve given it some thought, as you requested.
For the first week after receipt of your letter I allowed myself to believe that you could come back, and I nestled in that dream for eight days. In fact for the duration of these eight days I existed in a kind of stupor: I went to bed early, slept well and my dreams were pleasant, and in turn my days were spent in a happy haze of planning what to do with the house in preparation for your return. On the eighth day I decided I must write to you immediately and tell you that, yes, indeed, it is a good idea that you come back, as you say you want to. I made the decision early one morning, after a sleepless night, my first sleepless night for eight days, surrounded by the winter sound of rain. You know all about rain, you say, but you chose that rain, and everything else about your life now.
I was tired, it had been a stormy night, and I had woken from a strange dream where I strolled through a dark forest filled with little natural light, heavy with the scent of damp leaves, that opened on to a great lake under the grey British skies of my childhood—the leaves thick under my feet, the mouldy smell of autumn all around me. It beckoned to me all night, this autumnal forest, remaining with me after I awakened; but something else, what I am not sure, it murmured something to me, what exactly I cannot remember. I think it was my mother’s silhouette I saw there, standing by the lake; she was shivering and she called out something to me, but her words disappeared into the cold air. The night was long and I arose before dawn and sat at the window, drinking sweet coffee and staring at the rain, great sheets of it, driving against the house. When it eased I decided that I must take my morning walk.
So, having decided I must write to you to tell you to hasten your journey back, I walked through the rain, out of the kibbutz, towards the chalk mountains in the distance, silver and shimmering in the wet morning light. I’ll write this morning, I thought, and after that
I always felt cold when I watched them. I always shivered, the coldness starting in my shoulders and running down my spine until I was cold all over. Even in the summer. And at school, when my teacher read about such places, those northern European countries with their secretive forests, endless grey skies, frozen winters, and roaring rivers, I listened with all my heart to her voice, for it spoke to me of my mother, her family, and their life there. I never stopped loving her, so that her touch remains upon my skin even today, even here.
Z AKI COMES back, pulls a chair close to mine and lights another cigarette. There is ash on his moustache.
You ready to go back, he says.
Yes, I say. I am ready.
He leads me to my cell but he is different, moves quietly, and when I enter my cell he doesn’t slam the metal door behind me.
Do you need anything? he asks.
No, nothing.
The small window is open so that I hear the rain outside. It’s not heavy, just a dull sound, a constant presence, and I feel cold then, I hate the sound of rain. I lie on my bed for a time until all the light goes out of the day and I begin to write. I’m desperate now, I need to finish this before I leave, so that these stories and people remain here in the desert, perhaps where they belong, among the stones, and rocks, and cracks, to rest here, so that they reside somewhere at least; and maybe with time they will become less sharp, less glaring, kinder and more forgiving.
C HAPTER 11
November 14th, 1990
D ear Sareet,
I received your letter two weeks ago, and apologise for the delay in replying for you gave me much to think about. I’ve walked a lot, and I’ve given it some thought, as you requested.
For the first week after receipt of your letter I allowed myself to believe that you could come back, and I nestled in that dream for eight days. In fact for the duration of these eight days I existed in a kind of stupor: I went to bed early, slept well and my dreams were pleasant, and in turn my days were spent in a happy haze of planning what to do with the house in preparation for your return. On the eighth day I decided I must write to you immediately and tell you that, yes, indeed, it is a good idea that you come back, as you say you want to. I made the decision early one morning, after a sleepless night, my first sleepless night for eight days, surrounded by the winter sound of rain. You know all about rain, you say, but you chose that rain, and everything else about your life now.
I was tired, it had been a stormy night, and I had woken from a strange dream where I strolled through a dark forest filled with little natural light, heavy with the scent of damp leaves, that opened on to a great lake under the grey British skies of my childhood—the leaves thick under my feet, the mouldy smell of autumn all around me. It beckoned to me all night, this autumnal forest, remaining with me after I awakened; but something else, what I am not sure, it murmured something to me, what exactly I cannot remember. I think it was my mother’s silhouette I saw there, standing by the lake; she was shivering and she called out something to me, but her words disappeared into the cold air. The night was long and I arose before dawn and sat at the window, drinking sweet coffee and staring at the rain, great sheets of it, driving against the house. When it eased I decided that I must take my morning walk.
So, having decided I must write to you to tell you to hasten your journey back, I walked through the rain, out of the kibbutz, towards the chalk mountains in the distance, silver and shimmering in the wet morning light. I’ll write this morning, I thought, and after that
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