“People don’t notice things.”
“People don’t notice things.”
“I never noticed,” he laughed. “What sort of nice words?”
“The way you speak, the phrases you use.”
“Come to think of it, I did very wel on the vocabulary part of my psychometric exam. I remember they remarked on that, they were impressed. I just have a good memory. Maybe one day I’l write a novel. About reincarnation. A man who was a warrior in the days of the Bible, reborn today …a hero from ancient times, like Samson, let’s say. Fighting the Philistines. The whole story of Samson repeated, because he’s a reincarnation. Do you believe in reincarnation? I do.”
“I support the Palestinian struggle,” I told him.
“Oh wel ,” he said. He didn’t care. He only cared about whether he was going to get anywhere with me. “This is romantic,” he said,
“walking along the shore with you.”
“It would be, if I knew you,” I said. “If I knew you and we were in love. Then it would be romantic. As it is, I can’t think of anything less romantic.”
“We were destined to meet, it was preordained,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“How do I know you’re not a psychotic rapist?” I asked him.
He paused, surprised. “I’m safe,” he said.
“Do you have children?”
“Yes, a son. I missed him while I was away. I’m glad to be back from reserve duty. He’s in kindergarten. A very naughty boy. Naughty, but clever. You know what he asked me the other day?”
“No.”
“Where is yesterday’s time? Is it gone, or is it in our thoughts? That’s what he asked. Isn’t that clever?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nice to be home.”
“Where were you?”
“In Dar al-Damar. I’m in a special unit.”
“What do you do, in civilian life?”
“I teach programming.”
“You could be lying,” I said. “I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you. Maybe you just escaped from prison. Where you were serving time for kil ing your wife with a chain saw.”
“I’l show you my ID if that helps. My army ID too, if you want, I think it’s stil in my pocket. I’d show you my business card but I don’t have my wal et on me—I just came to jog.”
I laughed. He was very happy when I laughed.
“Okay, show me your ID,” I said.
He pul ed his ID out of his pocket. His name was Aaron and he was forty years old. Then he showed me his army ID. He looked about eighteen in the photo.
“Wel , now that I’ve seen your ID and I even know your serial number, I guess you can come over.”
“Thank you. You can trust me.”
“I was just kidding.”
“Why not? Why not? This is perfect—you, me, a perfect night.”
“No,” I said.
I didn’t say anything more. Aaron went on talking about how much he loved the sea, and then he talked about his son, but I wasn’t listening. He gave up and walked silently next to me.
We reached the southern end of the beach. “I have to go now,” I told him. “It’s get ing late.”
“Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you?”
“No, I live alone. Good-bye.”
“Maybe I’l run into you another time.”
“Maybe,” I said. I climbed the stairs to the boardwalk and walked back to my flat.
Daniel and I lived together for seven years and two months. Daniel designed buildings and I worked at an insurance o ce. I enjoyed my job: I typed let ers in English, handled overseas phone cal s, brought lunch for everyone, and watered the plants. The o ce was ful of interesting exotic plants because our employer, a bald, friendly man who was, however, capable of ruthless decisions when it came to client claims, was an amateur horticulturist; he had taped instructions about each plant to the wal and it was a compliment that he trusted me with their care.
“I can count on you, Dana,” he used to say.
