I will wait here
Until the first leaf
Falls
And the other poem was:
Once
To travel
Without destination
And let’s say that, in the end, he couldn’t control himself and wrote a longer poem, maybe even a story, to the leader of the underground, confessing that he thought her dark secret, the secret she tried so hard to hide from the world, was beautiful. And let’s say that because of that overlong poem, the underground was exposed and all its members received the harshest punishment of all: a full Wikipedia entry loaded with links. And banishment to the third, Siberian moon. And let’s say there was an iRobot with a sense of humor in the story. And a forest where the trees could run. And cars that turned into jet fighters with the click of a button. And an app that enabled you to see the dream you had last night, along with possible interpretations, on your phone display.
What difference does it make.
In any case, it would turn out that once again, I wrote about an impossible love. Have you written any stories you would never publish?
MAYAN’S PICTURE
So listen. I lost your picture when we moved. And I really tried to make sure nothing happened to it. I put it into a plastic sleeve, an entire plastic sleeve for one small picture. I have no idea how it happened. I still hope I’ll find it, there are two or three cartons we haven’t had time to unpack yet, but chances are I won’t. And it’s breaking my heart, you know? I kept it with me all the time, I want you to know that. Since your mother came over and handed it to me after the lecture in Ganei Tikva and told me that they found a book in your backpack, which returned on the plane along with you.
Look, this is Mayan, she said, pointing to you in the picture.
Even before she pointed, I knew it was you. Something in your expression. If I had been your age and traveled to South America and we met in some ramshackle hostel for trekkers—I would have fallen in love with you, Mayan. I have no doubt at all. I’m a powder keg of emotion just waiting for a match, and the way you’re standing on the sand, your right foot slightly forward, your left hand on your waist—even though it’s a still, I can guess how you walk, Mayan. Your steps are like a dance, and you tilt your head a bit to the right when you approach people, right?
I kept the picture in my hand even after the taxi picked me up and looked at it for a long time: four girls in bathing suits. One of them, not you, was holding a surfboard. I liked the picture because, contrary to what I would expect from a trek picture, there was no pretense in it. It looked as if someone sneaked up on you and took your picture before any of you were ready. None of the girls but you looks especially happy. To be honest, you all look beat. People don’t talk about it when they come back, but wandering is exhausting, and there are so many moments of extreme loneliness on a trek, aren’t there?
At home, I propped your picture up against the books on the shelf in my den. It was so small that it fell a few times before I understood how to position it on Yehuda Amichai’s Achziv, Caesarea and One Love—do you know it?—which jutted out a bit from the other books. But even then, I would occasionally find that, when I was out, a gust of wind had blown the picture onto the floor. I would pick it up and put it back on Amichai. Gently.
It was obvious to me that people who entered the room would have something to say about that picture. A man who keeps a picture of four girls in bikinis in his den—how could they not make remarks and give me a conspiratorial pat on the back. But I never gave them an explanation. I never told anyone the story behind that picture. Even a story monger like me has his red lines. They can all go fuck themselves, I thought, it’s something that has to stay between you and me.
What I did do sometimes—can I admit it?—was look at you before I started to write. It helped light a fire under me and made me remember that there was someone on the other side.
To be honest, it’s become a ritual lately, standing in front of your picture before I start to write. Like a moment of silence on Memorial Day, except without the siren. (Tell me, Mayan, did you raise your head and look at other people’s bowed heads during the moment of silence at school? I suspect you did. In the picture, too, you’re standing slightly apart from your friends, not completely a part of the group, sort of watching from the sidelines.)
In any case, when we moved, your picture disappeared. As if there were a hidden abyss between the apartments into which only the most important things dropped. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to tell you in this letter, Mayan. That you have become someone important in my life. Without ever having met. Without ever having spoken. Without ever having written to each other. Somehow, it happened. I’ve become attached to you. I began wondering what you would say about certain stories. Then I began consulting with you before making decisions about things that had nothing to do with my stories. One look into your green eyes, and suddenly it became absolutely clear to me what I should do. I told you—not out loud, I’m not crazy, at least I wasn’t until recently—about things that were happening
