I remembered how, every time we moved from city to city when I was a kid—and we did it often—I would be sad for months before the move, and when it finally happened, I was actually relieved.
I think that deep inside, I mourned the inevitable separation from Ari and from Dikla before it happened, I passed through all five stages of grief in advance, and now a kind of energy that had been trapped inside me was released.
I felt no weight on my shoulders, as if I’d taken off a backpack after a trek.
Being cut off from everyday demands—from text messages, e-mails, students who want to know when I’d finish reading their texts, the Stockholm police. (Who weren’t satisfied with my written testimony that I had indeed heard Axel Wolff say he was the murderer, and in endless phone calls, demanded more trust-inspiring details from that damned night in Jerusalem. You’re a writer, the chief investigator said, what reason do we have to believe you?)
That total break gave me something I hadn’t had for a long time.
Perspective.
I could look at my life and its collapse over this past year from the sidelines. And understand what it was all about.
How it happened. What led to what. How I was caught in the web of lies I myself had spun.
—
On the sixth day of the shivah, Sirkin called. I blocked him. He called again. And again. I went outside with the phone. He wanted me to write an outline for the debate. I told him that I was sitting shivah for a friend. He said it was urgent. I told him to go to hell. He threatened again to expose our relationship. Without hesitation, without clearing my throat, I said, Do whatever you want, Yoram. I have nothing to lose anymore.
—
On the last day of the shivah, Hagai Carmeli showed up.
He walked into the living room. With that puzzled expression of his. And a red beard.
At first glance, he looked the same. He hadn’t faded at all.
I was surprised he’d come. And at the same time, it was the most natural thing in the world.
I went over to him. I could see in his face that at first, he didn’t recognize me. And then he did.
We hugged. That surprised me. Hugs were never his thing. You could barely get a high five out of him.
After the hug, we still held each other’s shoulders loosely. Now I could see the small wrinkles on the sides of his eyes. And the sunspots on his cheeks. If we were women, that would have been the moment one of us would say that the other looked absolutely wonderful. But instead of playing fast and loose with the truth, we walked over to a corner of the living room.
I said, Bro, where have you been? I looked high and low for you! Far and wide! Up and down!
He didn’t reply. He just smiled that minimal smile of his.
—
Ari’s father came over to us. Stooped. So stooped.
Hagai, he said in a gloomy voice. It’s good to see you.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Hagai said as he stood to greet him.
No one could feel more sorrow than we do, but thank you. There are empanadas on the table if you’re hungry. Don’t be embarrassed to take some.
Thank you, Hagai said.
Ari’s father tilted forward at a sharp angle, and, for a moment, I thought he would fall onto Hagai. But then he straightened and turned to go back to the kitchen.
Hagai sat down again and said, I’m sorry that…I disappeared on you like that.
What happened?
He rubbed his beard for a while.
And then said: A girl.
And was silent for another three beats.
—
I remembered that the pace of Hagai’s speech used to drive Ari crazy. I like people you can have a ping-pong conversation with, he once explained to me, and that Carmeli talks tennis. Two hours between sentences.
I think it’s because he wants to be precise, I defended him. And I didn’t rush him now either.
I saw her reading your book, Hagai finally said. In Buenos Aires. In the El Ateneo. That bookstore in the opera house?
I knew it! I knew you were in Buenos Aires! I ran after you there, in the subway, but—
I went up to her and said that you and I were close friends. She was curious about that. So she agreed to have a drink with me when she finished the chapter.
Wait a minute. What was she doing there?
A trip after she finished her degree.
A kid, eh?
A cloud passed over Hagai Carmeli’s eyes. Something about the word “kid” grated on him and he gave me a disappointed look. On the verge of scorn. A look that, in high school, he reserved for those who preferred Queen over the Smiths.
A few seconds later, he looked away and spoke quietly. Almost to himself.
I didn’t feel any gap between us. We were together for a month, more than a month, in Buenos Aires. It was…the happiest time of my life. Maybe the only happy time of my life. One night, I drank enough to…propose. She said no, she was young…and needed time to take it all in. To get her thoughts in order. Then she went to Bolivia with her girlfriends. They rode in a van to La Paz—
Don’t tell me. Death Road.
Yes.
Was her name Mayan?
No. Nirit.
Describe her to me.
He described the girl standing beside Mayan in the picture. Holding a surfboard. Black curls. A straight part between them. Huge eyes. A slightly arrogant stance.
Then he was silent for a few beats.
He touched the corner of his eye with his pinkie finger. And wiped away a tear. A single tear.
He was silent for another three beats. Withdrew into himself.
Then suddenly, he came out of his reverie and asked: Wait a minute, who’s Mayan?
—
I told him about the meeting in Ganei Tikvah. And
