I hope so.
You really didn’t know anything about this whole story?
Not a thing.
Okay, you know what they say—you learn something new every day.
That’s right.
Now you can go, you were a good friend long enough today.
Don’t be silly, Mrs.—
Carmela—
Carmela.
And take the empanadas with you. You look hungry. Everything is okay with you, corazón?
—
My characters’ names are inspired by people close to me, to commemorate them or to get my juices flowing. But sometimes the fate of the character changes as the story moves forward, so there’s a burning need for a different name. If you could invite three writers, dead or alive, for dinner, who would they be?
If we’re already talking about a dream dinner, I wouldn’t waste it on colleagues.
Writers, dead or alive, tend to be focused on themselves in a way that turns them into the most frustrating conversation partners. Furthermore, there’s always a suspicion that an intimate anecdote you relate at a dinner with writers will become raw material for any one of them. After all, most of the supposedly biographical details in this interview are supposedly taken from a conversation I had two years ago with a supposedly Scandinavian writer in a Jerusalem restaurant. Supposedly. Axel Wolff’s thrillers were phenomenally successful all over the world, but nonetheless his shoulders were stooped, his eyes dull, and his blond hair lackluster. I asked him a lot of questions in an empathetic tone, trying to understand how he could possibly be so popular everywhere and not be happy about it. That’s how I learned, among other things, that what happens in Colombia doesn’t always stay in Colombia, that a girl can break her father’s heart, and that the dysthymia makes you feel as if your body is covered by a layer of ice: Tiny fish of happiness swim beneath it, but you can’t reach them because the ice is so rock-solid that you can never break through it.
In any case, I would invite three childhood friends to that dinner. We’ve been friends since high school, but lately, we haven’t had a chance to see each other. We made too many children. We took on too many mortgages. And Ari is hospitalized in Tel Hashomer.
I would pick up Yermi and Hagai Carmeli from their mortgaged houses and we’d drive to see Ari. We would disconnect him from all the machines, dress him in his old twelfth-grade sweatshirt (because of his illness, he’s lost all the weight he gained since then), and sneak him out of oncology to the pub in Kfar Azar. Maybe it still exists, that pub, with its long wooden tables. We’d drink shandies and munch pretzels from a little glass bowl, in memory of the old days, and talk about everything but the fact that Ari might die. Hagai Carmeli would definitely start crying at some point, he always cried when he drank too much, and Yermi would constantly look at his phone and come on to the waitresses, even though at our age, it’s pathetic.
When the check came, we’d all pay our share and, as usual, realize that we’d paid too little, and everyone would have to add something. Except for Ari, whose share we’d pay.
My friends never think of me as a writer, and never will. At the most, they think it’s funny that I’ve become a person who gets interviewed.
They saw me copying during the Bible final exam; they saw me come home from basic training in the Armored Corps broken and humiliated; they saw me in love with Tali Leshem for four years, a love that everyone but me was sure would end in tears; they scraped me off the floor after she married someone else; they sat shivah for my grandmother with me and know that I’m still mourning for her; they helped me walk after my slipped disk; they helped me move apartments, even when we’d already reached the age when you hire movers to do the job; they call me at the studio now twice a day to make sure I’m still alive.
They know very well that I don’t have answers for anything. And that if I had the courage, I’d reply to all the questions people ask me in interviews the same way: I don’t know. I have no idea. Ask someone who understands.
—
After we managed to pay the check, we’d return Ari to the hospital, take off his sweatshirt, dress him in his open-backed gown, cover him with a blanket, and sing him songs from the first Knisiat Hasechel album until he fell asleep.
Yermi would definitely try to flirt with one of the nurses in the department.
And Hagai Carmeli and I would wait patiently until he finished. Like we had so many times in the past.
Then we’d all go out together to the huge parking lot.
On the way, Hagai Carmeli would definitely say: Maybe that was the last supper. He always had the tendency to say things there was no need to say but that sounded nice.
After a long silence that might have embarrassed other people, we would get into the car and I’d drop each of them off at his house and say, Regards to the wife, and then drive to the studio, alone, slower than usual, thinking that if Ari really dies, it’ll be a sign that an era in my life has ended. And a new, totally different era is beginning. What is your favorite word?
Scandalmonger. What word do you hate the most?
Terminal.
Such a two-faced word. It can be the place where you begin a journey, filled with the promise of exotic lands and new experiences.
Or it can be the end, the very end. Of everything. If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?
A deejay. That’s my standard reply. It sounds good and it’s not a complete lie.
But the truth is that if I weren’t a writer who ran workshops and acted as my kids’ chauffeur, I would spend more time and energy looking for Hagai Carmeli.
