The Tunnel, page 8
Maimoni laughs. “No, it’s because I have too much to do.”
“You’re planning this secret road by yourself?”
Luria wants to end the conversation, but the grandson in his arms has rested his heavy head on Grandpa’s heart, in search of a lost pillow.
“For now, by myself.”
“You wouldn’t want someone to help you?”
“Help me? How?”
“Very simple: another certified engineer, to work by your side on your road.”
“Who wouldn’t want an assistant?” asks the young man. “But only on condition that somebody else pay him.”
Now she shoots a smile at her husband: “I mean someone who doesn’t ask or need to be paid, someone who only wants to help.”
“Is there such a person?”
“Here he is,” she says, gesturing grandly at her husband, “a senior engineer, the former head of his division, ready and able to take on any new project, a road, a junction, a bridge, a tunnel, whatever, secret or not secret, in the desert or not in the desert, to help with maps, diagrams, budgets, even going out in the field if necessary. An unpaid assistant, but with tremendous experience. How can you turn down such an offer?”
Maimoni turns wide-eyed towards Luria, who avoids his look and very carefully returns the sleeping child to its mother. Once he is sure that the handover has gone smoothly, he smiles at his future employer, a handsome young man with a mysterious beard.
“You?” whispers Maimoni with amazement.
“Yes,” says the pensioner softly. “But part-time. No pay, only part-time.”
what did you eat at the party?
He adjusts the driver’s seat, buckles himself in, and without waiting for his wife to finish her goodbyes to her daughter and grandson, he enters the digits of the security code and presses the ignition, to no avail. He tries again, but the car takes offence at the repeated mistake and indicator lights flash their protest. He turns on the overhead light to see the numbers better and tries again, slowly, in the familiar sequence, but ignition still eludes him. His wife, who has meanwhile sat down beside him and buckled up, watches with concern. “Don’t say a word,” he warns her, “I have to figure it out myself.” The rebellious dashboard not only flashes now, it beeps angrily. “I hope you didn’t switch the code on me while I was at the party.” He laughs sourly, and while his wife is astounded by the absurd accusation, the vehicle suddenly responds to his random stabs at the keypad, with a rumble of the engine and the faint murmur of the Japanese manufacturer’s girl.
He drives with self-assurance, encouraged by the smile of a beloved woman. An evening with her grandson has infused her with the true meaning of life. Before saying a word about the military road, somewhere in the desert, that might conceivably help her husband’s spirit overcome his weakened brain, she asks him to describe the food at the party. “Why is that important?” He tries to dismiss the question, but she persists, if only to test his memory. And besides, since he preferred that she not join him, he should at least allow her imagination to share his pleasure. But the pleasure was minimal, Luria insists: he was so worked up about the speech, he made do with just the hors d’oeuvres, which were wonderfully textured but minuscule in size.
“Why so worked up? You knew from the start that you couldn’t avoid the duty of saying a few words. You even made sure to write his first name on your hand.”
“I still hoped to get out of it. But as I walked in, the new director general came over to inform me that Divon had insisted I speak. It was important for him that despite my anger and disappointment, I praise his accomplishments over our many years of partnership. And from the minute I knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I focused on one thought, how to navigate honestly between praise and disappointment.”
“And that’s why you only ate hors d’oeuvres and didn’t touch the main courses.”
“Dishes that looked fabulous, to judge by the crowds of people around them.”
“So at least tell me about the desserts, which I’m sure came after your speech.”
“Wait, you don’t want to hear about the speech?”
“Yes, but first the desserts.”
“Elaborate desserts. They were decorated with sparklers. They even turned off the lights.”
“But what were they? Try harder. Working on your memory is important.”
“I didn’t touch them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I passed on them. They were also served before my speech, and more came during the speech, which I delivered in semi-darkness. You don’t want to know what I said?”
“And after the speech there were no desserts left?”
“Maybe there were, but then Divon’s wife began harassing me because in my speech I called her Mrs Divon, not by her first name.”
“You didn’t remember her name is Rachel?”
“Yes, Rachel, how did you know? That’s odd, you’ve never even met her. It seems your memory is stealing names from mine.”
“So look after it better,” she jokes. “Basically, we sent you to a fancy party and you came home hungry.”
“Not to worry, the hors d’oeuvres were enough for me.”
“You said they were tiny.”
“But wonderful, and I gobbled seven or eight of them in one fell swoop. And also two shakshukas.”
“What? Shakshukas?” she nearly shrieks. “I don’t believe it …”
“Believe it, why don’t you believe it,” he laughs, “shakshukas in tiny dishes, with a cute little sun in the middle, apparently a quail’s egg.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“Why?”
“To pass up wonderful food for two little shakshukas!”
“What can I do, my love, my mind seems to be drawn now to things that resemble what’s inside it.”
“Don’t talk like that, don’t talk like that, don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? You saw yourself that I punched in the wrong ignition code three times. And still you want to send me to the desert. And there, if I forget the code, I’ll die of dehydration.”
“Nobody is sending you to the desert, and definitely not in this car. And I’ll never let you go there alone. I also forget the car code sometimes, and if you keep forgetting it, write it down on a slip of paper.”
“A slip of paper?” he says with disdain. “If I forget the code, I’ll also forget where I put a slip of paper.”
“So write it on your palm, like—”
“It won’t last on my palm.”
“So tattoo it.”
“Tattoo it?” “Why not? It’s just four digits, and you love to drive, and won’t have to give it up.”
“No, and I’m not giving up on you either, but for now, it’s easier with you, because the code of desire is in the spirit and not the brain.”
They’re in the garage, the hour is late. In the lift she finally takes an interest in his speech, but he hugs and kisses her and says, “Drop it, I don’t remember it. As I expected, when I saw his youngest son in the wheelchair, all my anger and disappointment melted into praise and compliments.”
the code of desire
As she reaches to switch on the hall light, he blocks her path. No, he won’t let the light dampen the desire that he owes to himself and his neurologist. If with her quick intelligence she has found him a project in the desert to stimulate his mind, why not spice the project with dormant lust? He pulls his wife close and hugs her gently, and by the rainy light of distant high-rises and cranes, he slides her hair aside and kisses the nape of her neck in a spot where a man’s kiss may still be considered merely friendly.
She’s in no hurry to push him away, and leans her head so his warm lips can brush her shoulders too, and only when it seems that he hopes to satisfy his hunger, does she delicately attempt to get free of his grip. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m wiped out, and it’s late, and I haven’t even managed to shower today.” But from many years of marital experience he knows that if she goes to shower first, and lingers as usual in the gushing water, she’ll emerge so cocooned in cleanliness that it will be impossible to try to touch her. He therefore refuses to let her escape, and as one hand holds her tight, the other quickly peels off the raincoat lent to her by their daughter and deftly unbuttons her jacket and blouse in the dark.
“No, darling, no, my love,” she whispers, struggling to re-button herself, “not now, it won’t work, better tomorrow, I promise.”
Luria is not fighting for personal desire but for medical desire, which the neurologist prescribed for them both. And with unaccustomed insistence he doesn’t let go of her, and still standing in the living room, he surprises himself and exposes her breasts, which appear more wondrous and pristine than by the light of day, and to lessen the shock of their sudden nudity, he leans over to calm them with the tip of his tongue and says: “Tomorrow? Who knows if tomorrow I’ll even remember who you are.” And sighs.
Instead of dismissing his devious words, she drops her resistance and freezes, as if the sigh had validated the absurd remark. And as in their early days, forty years ago, when she was still a third-year medical student, now too, despite all their years of love, he is afraid of doing something that might hurt or startle her. In those days, when she would sometimes arrive directly from the pathology lab after dealing with cadavers that had been left to science, he would interpret her reluctance not as rejection of his spirit but fear of his body, and would try to tame his passion before each sexual encounter. But today, now that the body has learned how to express and fulfil its longings, he knows it’s not the body that gives her pause, but the brain, and with well-chosen words, rational and realistic, couched in longstanding love, he pulls her carefully into the bedroom, and to assure her that medical lust will be no more aggressive than ordinary lust, he carefully removes her clothes and turns on her little bedside lamp, so that darkness does not mask his sincerity. And his wife, who at her age has retained her alluring shape, lies naked before him, and it seems that his hopes will be fulfilled more quickly and easily than expected, but he has yet to muster sufficient passion, and in despair, to vanquish his sudden incapacity, he hurries back to the party that he left hungry, and to the mummy who demanded he give her back her name, and as his hands and kisses gratify his wife’s body, he also walks amid chaos and emptiness in the rooms of an abandoned house in the country, and a naked woman leaps at him from her bed, and her limbs glow in the dark, and he combines the lust that was nipped in the bud with the passion ignited now with soaring sighs and the cry that delights his heart. And as he reaches his own climax he is thinking, On top of it all I am an obedient patient, and he turns out the light and covers his wife and cuddles up for a long night of sleep.
An hour later, he is awakened by the light. And by his side is his wife, clean and fragrant, holding a novel she has been reading very slowly for weeks.
“Why torture yourself with a boring novel?”
“Sometimes boredom is worthwhile.”
“I wonder what’ll happen when I can no longer read.”
“I’ll read to you.”
“And if I don’t understand what you’re reading?”
“I’ll explain.”
“And if I don’t understand what you explain?”
“Then we’ll make love, because that you always understand.”
He feels for her hand under the covers, takes it and plants a kiss on it, and she strokes his head and says, “And regarding the desert, don’t worry, I’ll never let you go there alone.”
“Nonsense. There’s no way that young man will need me. Why does he need someone senior hovering over him? I myself would hesitate to take on an assistant like that. He has a computer program to do the job, he doesn’t need me.”
“But you could expedite matters. Your signature on his map would spare him a debate at the first meeting of the planning committee.”
“What? How do you know about the first planning meeting?”
“From you, only from you. I always listen to you, so I’m a great authority on the subject of you.”
two children
At lunchtime on Tuesday, when Luria arrives as usual to pick up his grandson from kindergarten, the teacher says to him: “Today, grandpa of Noam, take two children with you and not one.”
“What’s going on? It’s not bad enough I got into trouble here two weeks ago, you want it to happen again?”
“No, this time without any trouble, the opposite, with thanks. Perhaps you remember the boy you took home by mistake two weeks ago?”
“Who basically latched on to me.”
“That’s possible.”
“Nevo.”
“Right. You even remember his name.”
“Because I have a special corner in my mind for strange names.”
“Nice. So Nevo’s mother asked that today you take him with Noam to your house, and in an hour, two hours max, she’ll come and pick him up. She arranged this with Avigail, who gave her your address.”
“But why me?”
“Because Nevo and Noam are good friends and play nicely together. I think they had sleepovers a couple of times at each other’s house.”
“And what about the Filipino woman who ran after me screaming?”
“She’s at the Interior Ministry now, arguing about her visa, and Nevo’s mother has a rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal of what?”
“Orchestra rehearsal.”
“In which case, Nevo will need to eat lunch at my house.”
“Definitely. But no meat.”
“Why?”
“Because he is a vegetarian.”
“So little and already a vegetarian?”
“This new generation is tough,” explains the kindergarten teacher, “you have to get used to it. Even little ones have principles that must be respected.”
“He also has principles against eggs?”
“Eggs? No problem.” “So maybe I’ll give him a nice shakshuka. What do you think?”
“Ask him. He’s a clever, easygoing kid.”
Meanwhile, the teacher’s assistant has brought over the two boys, spruced up and combed, colourful baseball caps on their heads and little knapsacks on their backs.
“Hold hands,” orders the teacher, “and go quietly and politely with Noam’s grandpa.”
So, thinks Luria, two weeks ago they suspected me of kidnapping, now they blithely hand over two little boys. Affectionately, he watches the two friends, still holding hands as they enter the lift.
After he removes their backpacks and insists they wash their hands and faces, he seats them at the kitchen table and announces: “Children, welcome to the Luria Restaurant. May I take your order?” He is happy to discover that the little guest not only knows what shakshuka is, but is willing to taste it. While he reheats it, he brings the boys paper and pencils and urges them to draw. And when the shakshuka is ready, and Nevo is eating it slowly and warily, Luria gets a good look at the boy who had misled him two weeks earlier. Could it be that this kid clung to him because he just wanted to avoid his Filipino nanny?
“What’s the name of the lady who picks you up from gan?”
“Yolanda.”
“And do you like her?”
The child drops his fork and looks around anxiously, expecting a trap. Rather than lie, he keeps silent. But Luria insists. He grows more certain by the minute that he wasn’t mistakenly drawn to this child by chance. Something in his face, those dimples, reminds him of someone who fascinated him long ago. “What’s your father’s name?” he asks quietly.
The child freezes.
“Sabba,” Noam jumps in, “Nevo hasn’t got a father.” So that Grandpa doesn’t get himself into trouble, Noam pulls him aside and whispers: “Nevo is from a single-parent family.”
But Nevo overhears the whisper and winces in pain, his eyes glistening with tears of humiliation. “Not true, not true,” he insists, defying the slander. “I’ve got a father.”
“So where is he, your father?” Noam challenges him, with a mean, ugly grin that shocks his grandpa. The unanswerable question is met with the cry of a wounded animal as his fork flies in the air, the shakshuka spills all over the table, and the boy suddenly falls, as if pushed, pounding the floor with his fists: “Not true, not true, I have an abba.”
Luria clamps his hand on his grandson’s mouth to prevent further provocation, kneels down, and tries to lift the little guest from the floor. The child resists, seizing the table leg with both hands, then for some reason abruptly lets go, thrusts his two skinny arms at the old man, grabs him tightly by the neck, and buries his shame in the chest of the man who once took him for his grandson. Luria will remedy the humiliation no matter what. Yes, he scolds Noam, he is right and you are wrong, he has a father. He gets carried away: “Yes, he has a father, I know it, I even know him. His father has travelled to a faraway country, but I’m sure he’ll come back.”
Slowly and cautiously Nevo lifts up his head to look at the old man who has just found him a father. His thin shoulders tremble but his big teary eyes shine with hope. “Yes,” Luria continues, uplifting the boy’s status for his astonished, embarrassed grandson, “yes, my dear Noam, your friend has a father, just as you do, only maybe he went all the way to Africa, and in a few years he’ll come back.”
He carefully sets the boy back in his chair, turns over the plate, gathers a few scraps of the shakshuka smeared onto the table, and tries to locate the fork flung in the air. Noam regrets his nastiness and says, by way of reconciliation, “Nevo has a harp in his house.”
“A harp?”
“A real one.”
Nevo, who has found his fork, confirms that this time Noam is right. He has a big harp in his house, with forty-seven blue and red strings.
“And who plays it?”
“Imma, only Imma,” says Nevo, “but she has another harp at the orchestra.”
Now that a father, as yet anonymous, has been found for him, Luria feels free to ask the harpist’s name.
“Noga,” both kids shout at once.
“You’re planning this secret road by yourself?”
Luria wants to end the conversation, but the grandson in his arms has rested his heavy head on Grandpa’s heart, in search of a lost pillow.
“For now, by myself.”
“You wouldn’t want someone to help you?”
“Help me? How?”
“Very simple: another certified engineer, to work by your side on your road.”
“Who wouldn’t want an assistant?” asks the young man. “But only on condition that somebody else pay him.”
Now she shoots a smile at her husband: “I mean someone who doesn’t ask or need to be paid, someone who only wants to help.”
“Is there such a person?”
“Here he is,” she says, gesturing grandly at her husband, “a senior engineer, the former head of his division, ready and able to take on any new project, a road, a junction, a bridge, a tunnel, whatever, secret or not secret, in the desert or not in the desert, to help with maps, diagrams, budgets, even going out in the field if necessary. An unpaid assistant, but with tremendous experience. How can you turn down such an offer?”
Maimoni turns wide-eyed towards Luria, who avoids his look and very carefully returns the sleeping child to its mother. Once he is sure that the handover has gone smoothly, he smiles at his future employer, a handsome young man with a mysterious beard.
“You?” whispers Maimoni with amazement.
“Yes,” says the pensioner softly. “But part-time. No pay, only part-time.”
what did you eat at the party?
He adjusts the driver’s seat, buckles himself in, and without waiting for his wife to finish her goodbyes to her daughter and grandson, he enters the digits of the security code and presses the ignition, to no avail. He tries again, but the car takes offence at the repeated mistake and indicator lights flash their protest. He turns on the overhead light to see the numbers better and tries again, slowly, in the familiar sequence, but ignition still eludes him. His wife, who has meanwhile sat down beside him and buckled up, watches with concern. “Don’t say a word,” he warns her, “I have to figure it out myself.” The rebellious dashboard not only flashes now, it beeps angrily. “I hope you didn’t switch the code on me while I was at the party.” He laughs sourly, and while his wife is astounded by the absurd accusation, the vehicle suddenly responds to his random stabs at the keypad, with a rumble of the engine and the faint murmur of the Japanese manufacturer’s girl.
He drives with self-assurance, encouraged by the smile of a beloved woman. An evening with her grandson has infused her with the true meaning of life. Before saying a word about the military road, somewhere in the desert, that might conceivably help her husband’s spirit overcome his weakened brain, she asks him to describe the food at the party. “Why is that important?” He tries to dismiss the question, but she persists, if only to test his memory. And besides, since he preferred that she not join him, he should at least allow her imagination to share his pleasure. But the pleasure was minimal, Luria insists: he was so worked up about the speech, he made do with just the hors d’oeuvres, which were wonderfully textured but minuscule in size.
“Why so worked up? You knew from the start that you couldn’t avoid the duty of saying a few words. You even made sure to write his first name on your hand.”
“I still hoped to get out of it. But as I walked in, the new director general came over to inform me that Divon had insisted I speak. It was important for him that despite my anger and disappointment, I praise his accomplishments over our many years of partnership. And from the minute I knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I focused on one thought, how to navigate honestly between praise and disappointment.”
“And that’s why you only ate hors d’oeuvres and didn’t touch the main courses.”
“Dishes that looked fabulous, to judge by the crowds of people around them.”
“So at least tell me about the desserts, which I’m sure came after your speech.”
“Wait, you don’t want to hear about the speech?”
“Yes, but first the desserts.”
“Elaborate desserts. They were decorated with sparklers. They even turned off the lights.”
“But what were they? Try harder. Working on your memory is important.”
“I didn’t touch them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I passed on them. They were also served before my speech, and more came during the speech, which I delivered in semi-darkness. You don’t want to know what I said?”
“And after the speech there were no desserts left?”
“Maybe there were, but then Divon’s wife began harassing me because in my speech I called her Mrs Divon, not by her first name.”
“You didn’t remember her name is Rachel?”
“Yes, Rachel, how did you know? That’s odd, you’ve never even met her. It seems your memory is stealing names from mine.”
“So look after it better,” she jokes. “Basically, we sent you to a fancy party and you came home hungry.”
“Not to worry, the hors d’oeuvres were enough for me.”
“You said they were tiny.”
“But wonderful, and I gobbled seven or eight of them in one fell swoop. And also two shakshukas.”
“What? Shakshukas?” she nearly shrieks. “I don’t believe it …”
“Believe it, why don’t you believe it,” he laughs, “shakshukas in tiny dishes, with a cute little sun in the middle, apparently a quail’s egg.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“Why?”
“To pass up wonderful food for two little shakshukas!”
“What can I do, my love, my mind seems to be drawn now to things that resemble what’s inside it.”
“Don’t talk like that, don’t talk like that, don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? You saw yourself that I punched in the wrong ignition code three times. And still you want to send me to the desert. And there, if I forget the code, I’ll die of dehydration.”
“Nobody is sending you to the desert, and definitely not in this car. And I’ll never let you go there alone. I also forget the car code sometimes, and if you keep forgetting it, write it down on a slip of paper.”
“A slip of paper?” he says with disdain. “If I forget the code, I’ll also forget where I put a slip of paper.”
“So write it on your palm, like—”
“It won’t last on my palm.”
“So tattoo it.”
“Tattoo it?” “Why not? It’s just four digits, and you love to drive, and won’t have to give it up.”
“No, and I’m not giving up on you either, but for now, it’s easier with you, because the code of desire is in the spirit and not the brain.”
They’re in the garage, the hour is late. In the lift she finally takes an interest in his speech, but he hugs and kisses her and says, “Drop it, I don’t remember it. As I expected, when I saw his youngest son in the wheelchair, all my anger and disappointment melted into praise and compliments.”
the code of desire
As she reaches to switch on the hall light, he blocks her path. No, he won’t let the light dampen the desire that he owes to himself and his neurologist. If with her quick intelligence she has found him a project in the desert to stimulate his mind, why not spice the project with dormant lust? He pulls his wife close and hugs her gently, and by the rainy light of distant high-rises and cranes, he slides her hair aside and kisses the nape of her neck in a spot where a man’s kiss may still be considered merely friendly.
She’s in no hurry to push him away, and leans her head so his warm lips can brush her shoulders too, and only when it seems that he hopes to satisfy his hunger, does she delicately attempt to get free of his grip. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m wiped out, and it’s late, and I haven’t even managed to shower today.” But from many years of marital experience he knows that if she goes to shower first, and lingers as usual in the gushing water, she’ll emerge so cocooned in cleanliness that it will be impossible to try to touch her. He therefore refuses to let her escape, and as one hand holds her tight, the other quickly peels off the raincoat lent to her by their daughter and deftly unbuttons her jacket and blouse in the dark.
“No, darling, no, my love,” she whispers, struggling to re-button herself, “not now, it won’t work, better tomorrow, I promise.”
Luria is not fighting for personal desire but for medical desire, which the neurologist prescribed for them both. And with unaccustomed insistence he doesn’t let go of her, and still standing in the living room, he surprises himself and exposes her breasts, which appear more wondrous and pristine than by the light of day, and to lessen the shock of their sudden nudity, he leans over to calm them with the tip of his tongue and says: “Tomorrow? Who knows if tomorrow I’ll even remember who you are.” And sighs.
Instead of dismissing his devious words, she drops her resistance and freezes, as if the sigh had validated the absurd remark. And as in their early days, forty years ago, when she was still a third-year medical student, now too, despite all their years of love, he is afraid of doing something that might hurt or startle her. In those days, when she would sometimes arrive directly from the pathology lab after dealing with cadavers that had been left to science, he would interpret her reluctance not as rejection of his spirit but fear of his body, and would try to tame his passion before each sexual encounter. But today, now that the body has learned how to express and fulfil its longings, he knows it’s not the body that gives her pause, but the brain, and with well-chosen words, rational and realistic, couched in longstanding love, he pulls her carefully into the bedroom, and to assure her that medical lust will be no more aggressive than ordinary lust, he carefully removes her clothes and turns on her little bedside lamp, so that darkness does not mask his sincerity. And his wife, who at her age has retained her alluring shape, lies naked before him, and it seems that his hopes will be fulfilled more quickly and easily than expected, but he has yet to muster sufficient passion, and in despair, to vanquish his sudden incapacity, he hurries back to the party that he left hungry, and to the mummy who demanded he give her back her name, and as his hands and kisses gratify his wife’s body, he also walks amid chaos and emptiness in the rooms of an abandoned house in the country, and a naked woman leaps at him from her bed, and her limbs glow in the dark, and he combines the lust that was nipped in the bud with the passion ignited now with soaring sighs and the cry that delights his heart. And as he reaches his own climax he is thinking, On top of it all I am an obedient patient, and he turns out the light and covers his wife and cuddles up for a long night of sleep.
An hour later, he is awakened by the light. And by his side is his wife, clean and fragrant, holding a novel she has been reading very slowly for weeks.
“Why torture yourself with a boring novel?”
“Sometimes boredom is worthwhile.”
“I wonder what’ll happen when I can no longer read.”
“I’ll read to you.”
“And if I don’t understand what you’re reading?”
“I’ll explain.”
“And if I don’t understand what you explain?”
“Then we’ll make love, because that you always understand.”
He feels for her hand under the covers, takes it and plants a kiss on it, and she strokes his head and says, “And regarding the desert, don’t worry, I’ll never let you go there alone.”
“Nonsense. There’s no way that young man will need me. Why does he need someone senior hovering over him? I myself would hesitate to take on an assistant like that. He has a computer program to do the job, he doesn’t need me.”
“But you could expedite matters. Your signature on his map would spare him a debate at the first meeting of the planning committee.”
“What? How do you know about the first planning meeting?”
“From you, only from you. I always listen to you, so I’m a great authority on the subject of you.”
two children
At lunchtime on Tuesday, when Luria arrives as usual to pick up his grandson from kindergarten, the teacher says to him: “Today, grandpa of Noam, take two children with you and not one.”
“What’s going on? It’s not bad enough I got into trouble here two weeks ago, you want it to happen again?”
“No, this time without any trouble, the opposite, with thanks. Perhaps you remember the boy you took home by mistake two weeks ago?”
“Who basically latched on to me.”
“That’s possible.”
“Nevo.”
“Right. You even remember his name.”
“Because I have a special corner in my mind for strange names.”
“Nice. So Nevo’s mother asked that today you take him with Noam to your house, and in an hour, two hours max, she’ll come and pick him up. She arranged this with Avigail, who gave her your address.”
“But why me?”
“Because Nevo and Noam are good friends and play nicely together. I think they had sleepovers a couple of times at each other’s house.”
“And what about the Filipino woman who ran after me screaming?”
“She’s at the Interior Ministry now, arguing about her visa, and Nevo’s mother has a rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal of what?”
“Orchestra rehearsal.”
“In which case, Nevo will need to eat lunch at my house.”
“Definitely. But no meat.”
“Why?”
“Because he is a vegetarian.”
“So little and already a vegetarian?”
“This new generation is tough,” explains the kindergarten teacher, “you have to get used to it. Even little ones have principles that must be respected.”
“He also has principles against eggs?”
“Eggs? No problem.” “So maybe I’ll give him a nice shakshuka. What do you think?”
“Ask him. He’s a clever, easygoing kid.”
Meanwhile, the teacher’s assistant has brought over the two boys, spruced up and combed, colourful baseball caps on their heads and little knapsacks on their backs.
“Hold hands,” orders the teacher, “and go quietly and politely with Noam’s grandpa.”
So, thinks Luria, two weeks ago they suspected me of kidnapping, now they blithely hand over two little boys. Affectionately, he watches the two friends, still holding hands as they enter the lift.
After he removes their backpacks and insists they wash their hands and faces, he seats them at the kitchen table and announces: “Children, welcome to the Luria Restaurant. May I take your order?” He is happy to discover that the little guest not only knows what shakshuka is, but is willing to taste it. While he reheats it, he brings the boys paper and pencils and urges them to draw. And when the shakshuka is ready, and Nevo is eating it slowly and warily, Luria gets a good look at the boy who had misled him two weeks earlier. Could it be that this kid clung to him because he just wanted to avoid his Filipino nanny?
“What’s the name of the lady who picks you up from gan?”
“Yolanda.”
“And do you like her?”
The child drops his fork and looks around anxiously, expecting a trap. Rather than lie, he keeps silent. But Luria insists. He grows more certain by the minute that he wasn’t mistakenly drawn to this child by chance. Something in his face, those dimples, reminds him of someone who fascinated him long ago. “What’s your father’s name?” he asks quietly.
The child freezes.
“Sabba,” Noam jumps in, “Nevo hasn’t got a father.” So that Grandpa doesn’t get himself into trouble, Noam pulls him aside and whispers: “Nevo is from a single-parent family.”
But Nevo overhears the whisper and winces in pain, his eyes glistening with tears of humiliation. “Not true, not true,” he insists, defying the slander. “I’ve got a father.”
“So where is he, your father?” Noam challenges him, with a mean, ugly grin that shocks his grandpa. The unanswerable question is met with the cry of a wounded animal as his fork flies in the air, the shakshuka spills all over the table, and the boy suddenly falls, as if pushed, pounding the floor with his fists: “Not true, not true, I have an abba.”
Luria clamps his hand on his grandson’s mouth to prevent further provocation, kneels down, and tries to lift the little guest from the floor. The child resists, seizing the table leg with both hands, then for some reason abruptly lets go, thrusts his two skinny arms at the old man, grabs him tightly by the neck, and buries his shame in the chest of the man who once took him for his grandson. Luria will remedy the humiliation no matter what. Yes, he scolds Noam, he is right and you are wrong, he has a father. He gets carried away: “Yes, he has a father, I know it, I even know him. His father has travelled to a faraway country, but I’m sure he’ll come back.”
Slowly and cautiously Nevo lifts up his head to look at the old man who has just found him a father. His thin shoulders tremble but his big teary eyes shine with hope. “Yes,” Luria continues, uplifting the boy’s status for his astonished, embarrassed grandson, “yes, my dear Noam, your friend has a father, just as you do, only maybe he went all the way to Africa, and in a few years he’ll come back.”
He carefully sets the boy back in his chair, turns over the plate, gathers a few scraps of the shakshuka smeared onto the table, and tries to locate the fork flung in the air. Noam regrets his nastiness and says, by way of reconciliation, “Nevo has a harp in his house.”
“A harp?”
“A real one.”
Nevo, who has found his fork, confirms that this time Noam is right. He has a big harp in his house, with forty-seven blue and red strings.
“And who plays it?”
“Imma, only Imma,” says Nevo, “but she has another harp at the orchestra.”
Now that a father, as yet anonymous, has been found for him, Luria feels free to ask the harpist’s name.
“Noga,” both kids shout at once.
