Father said, impressed.
“Wait, wait! I’ll do a ghasas for you,” Mother said and right away set about preparing for the procedure – melting balls of lead over my head while rubbing my neck with water – a time-honoured protection against the evil eye. I sat in the kitchen on a low, cane-bottomed stool and waited patiently for the end ofthe ritual, which included various muttered incantations. She also stuffed into my pocket a pinch of salt wrapped in a bit of cloth and the remains of the melted lead. I never told her that I always carried them with me – I even took them to war. I preferred to pretend that I regarded the whole thing as meaningless superstition.
Before I left, Mother gave me a basket full of delicacies and pastries. “I found your favourite halva in the market, first-rate stuff, and got you some Noumi Basra tea,” she said, following me to the stairs.
“Mother, tell me the truth. What did the doctors say?”
“He has to be careful, not get excited, not get worked up, not smoke, and he must diet, take pills and rest, that’s all.”
The moon lighting the night sky wore a pale halo. I was taking a shortcut across the stony field to Dostai Street when I remembered that I hadn’t asked Father for money. My wallet was lost – how was I going to get to work tomorrow morning? I jumped down the three steps to the path that led to the housing estate on Elazar Street and a moment later stood in front of my bursting mailbox, stuffed mainly with bills. My heart was thumping as I searched for something, just a note even, from Yardena. In the past she liked to surprise me with letters, or notes under the door, “I’m with you wherever you go,” that kind of thing. When we had a fight she’d send me colourful postcards with proverbs included, to signal that she wasn’t angry any more and love was on the menu again. But this time there was nothing. Feeling disappointed and lonely, I climbed up to my little flat on the fourth floor.
Grushka, my neighbour’s cat, came up to me on silent paws. How could I have forgotten her? A beautiful, thick-furred cat,white with a black band, she always waited for me, was never annoyed with me. I picked her up and rubbed my cheek against hers.
There was a thick, heavy smell in the flat, the smell of dust accumulated in closed, unused rooms. I turned on the light by the front door and stood in the doorway, hesitant, as if I wasn’t really home. But Grushka leapt down and ran inside and drew me after her. She settled possessively on the worn green armchair that I’d sworn to throw out if I returned from the war. I put down my kitbag and Mother’s provisions, and for some reason went around turning on all the lights – in the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, the balcony.
The pretty potted plant on the balcony had withered and died. The fridge held rotting fruit and vegetables, mouldy cheese, stale bread, and a jar of pickled herring in congealed oil. The bathroom walls had shed bits of plaster. The water in the toilet bowl had gone down and left rust marks. When I turned on the kitchen tap it coughed horribly, spitting out rusty splashes. I left the water running till it cleared.
I wanted to run away, but where to? I took a hefty swallow of slivowitz straight from the bottle. Sharp as a razor, it scorched my throat, lit a fuse and rolled like a ball of fire down my gullet. Now for a cigarette. I usually had packets lying around the room. I searched everywhere, turned out all the drawers – nothing.
While sorting out clothes for the next morning, I discovered a ten-lira note in a pocket, which cheered me up no end, as if I’d found a hoard of treasure. I turned on the radio and closed my eyes. I’d dreamed about this moment, about stretching out on the sofa, having a quiet drink and listening to music. Why then the sadness and emptiness?
*
The sound of the alarm clock pierced my brain like a harpoon striking a fish. With my eyes shut I fumbled for
“Wait, wait! I’ll do a ghasas for you,” Mother said and right away set about preparing for the procedure – melting balls of lead over my head while rubbing my neck with water – a time-honoured protection against the evil eye. I sat in the kitchen on a low, cane-bottomed stool and waited patiently for the end ofthe ritual, which included various muttered incantations. She also stuffed into my pocket a pinch of salt wrapped in a bit of cloth and the remains of the melted lead. I never told her that I always carried them with me – I even took them to war. I preferred to pretend that I regarded the whole thing as meaningless superstition.
Before I left, Mother gave me a basket full of delicacies and pastries. “I found your favourite halva in the market, first-rate stuff, and got you some Noumi Basra tea,” she said, following me to the stairs.
“Mother, tell me the truth. What did the doctors say?”
“He has to be careful, not get excited, not get worked up, not smoke, and he must diet, take pills and rest, that’s all.”
The moon lighting the night sky wore a pale halo. I was taking a shortcut across the stony field to Dostai Street when I remembered that I hadn’t asked Father for money. My wallet was lost – how was I going to get to work tomorrow morning? I jumped down the three steps to the path that led to the housing estate on Elazar Street and a moment later stood in front of my bursting mailbox, stuffed mainly with bills. My heart was thumping as I searched for something, just a note even, from Yardena. In the past she liked to surprise me with letters, or notes under the door, “I’m with you wherever you go,” that kind of thing. When we had a fight she’d send me colourful postcards with proverbs included, to signal that she wasn’t angry any more and love was on the menu again. But this time there was nothing. Feeling disappointed and lonely, I climbed up to my little flat on the fourth floor.
Grushka, my neighbour’s cat, came up to me on silent paws. How could I have forgotten her? A beautiful, thick-furred cat,white with a black band, she always waited for me, was never annoyed with me. I picked her up and rubbed my cheek against hers.
There was a thick, heavy smell in the flat, the smell of dust accumulated in closed, unused rooms. I turned on the light by the front door and stood in the doorway, hesitant, as if I wasn’t really home. But Grushka leapt down and ran inside and drew me after her. She settled possessively on the worn green armchair that I’d sworn to throw out if I returned from the war. I put down my kitbag and Mother’s provisions, and for some reason went around turning on all the lights – in the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, the balcony.
The pretty potted plant on the balcony had withered and died. The fridge held rotting fruit and vegetables, mouldy cheese, stale bread, and a jar of pickled herring in congealed oil. The bathroom walls had shed bits of plaster. The water in the toilet bowl had gone down and left rust marks. When I turned on the kitchen tap it coughed horribly, spitting out rusty splashes. I left the water running till it cleared.
I wanted to run away, but where to? I took a hefty swallow of slivowitz straight from the bottle. Sharp as a razor, it scorched my throat, lit a fuse and rolled like a ball of fire down my gullet. Now for a cigarette. I usually had packets lying around the room. I searched everywhere, turned out all the drawers – nothing.
While sorting out clothes for the next morning, I discovered a ten-lira note in a pocket, which cheered me up no end, as if I’d found a hoard of treasure. I turned on the radio and closed my eyes. I’d dreamed about this moment, about stretching out on the sofa, having a quiet drink and listening to music. Why then the sadness and emptiness?
*
The sound of the alarm clock pierced my brain like a harpoon striking a fish. With my eyes shut I fumbled for
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