Sure, I said.
And no thanks for Dror, who set it up for you? He gave me a small punch on the shoulder.
Thanks, bro—I raised my hand to my temple and saluted him—I’ll never forget it. Do you ever dream about your characters?
I’ll get to that in a minute. It’s just that…I’m still thinking about the previous question. I keep remembering more and more things I’m ashamed of, and all of a sudden, I think that the story about Dror and the lottery was actually meant to conceal other stories, darker ones—
We left Oren, from Hadera, sick in Peru. In a small, ugly city on the shore of Lake Titicaca. I don’t remember the name. Maybe I’ll google it later. In any case, he was burning up with fever, almost 104 degrees. Maybe if it had passed the 104 mark, we would have stayed. Maybe not. We had a plan for our trek and we wanted to follow it. Bolivia. Then Brazil. Although Ari had agreed back in Israel that if he met a girl—not one just for the night, someone he really liked—all options were open, anything was possible and no hard feelings. But Oren was a guy. An Israeli. From Hadera. He had a good smile and big, happy eyes. We met him in Cusco at one of those Mama Africa parties and hit it off right away. I mean, he always told boring jokes like the ones that start with “A Christian, a Muslim, and a Jew get on a plane,” and there wasn’t a day when he didn’t get into a noisy, almost violent argument when he bargained with a street vendor, but the trio—Ari, Oren, and I—worked well together. He injected some new energy at the point in the trek when Ari and I needed it. When he asked if he could join us to Titicaca, we looked at each other and said together: Sure, great idea.
—
When I re-create the events in my mind, it doesn’t seem as if there were early signs of his illness. On the contrary, he looked like a pretty strong guy. Energetic.
An hour after the bus left, he vomited the first time. Into a bag. Then he turned very pale, and half an hour later, he vomited again. And that’s how it continued, every half hour. After each time, he said he was sorry.
No “sorry” necessary, we said. We got more bags from other passengers. We poured him tea from the thermos we bought from a street vendor on one of the stops. We said to him, Try to close your eyes, sleep a little.
When he finally fell asleep, Ari covered him with his poncho, put a hand on his forehead, and said, Wow, he’s burning up.
After a ten-hour ride on the bus, we arrived at our destination. Ari climbed on the roof and took down our three backpacks. Down below, I supported a wobbly Oren to keep him from falling and said, Don’t worry, we’ll be at the hostel in a minute and you can rest in the room.
When we reached the hostel, it turned out that they didn’t have a room for three. We pretended to be disappointed, but honestly, we were relieved. We didn’t want to catch whatever he had. Ari carried the backpack up to his room and said we’d meet at breakfast the next day, and that we’d get him something from the pharmacy to settle his stomach. When he didn’t come down for breakfast, we knocked on his door and asked whether we should bring him something to eat, and from the other side of the door, he said he was dead tired and maybe he would join us later. We went out in search of a pharmacy in the town, described by Lonely Planet as picturesque, but which in reality reminded both of us of the northern Egyptian town of Rafah: Ruins instead of houses. Sewage running in the streets. Rebellion in the eyes of the residents.
We looked at each other and said in unison, “Weren’t we here already?”—our code on the trek for “It’s time to take off from this place or these people”—and went to the port to find out when we could catch the ferry to Isla del Sol in Bolivia. It turned out that in the off-season, it only sailed twice a week, but luckily, one of those times was the next day. At seven in the morning. We also found the town’s only pharmacy next to the port. But it was closed. And according to the sign hanging on the door, it wouldn’t open until eight the next morning. Neither of us mentioned Oren as we walked back to the hostel, but it was clear that we were thinking about him, and when we reached the room, Ari said, Let’s at least bring him some tea and toast. We went downstairs to the grungy lobby, and while Ari made Oren some tea, I went to the restaurant across the street and asked for tostada, con nada. We went back up to our floor with the tea and toast and knocked on the door. At first, there was no answer. Ari said, I think he died, and I said, Not funny. But I laughed. We knocked harder, and then heard a weak voice say: It’s open. We went inside and found Oren in bed. Watching a soccer game on the tiny TV with its rabbit-ear antenna that stood on the small cabinet across from his bed. His face was very pale. His eyes were glistening, as if he were crying. Who’s playing? Ari asked and sat down a safe distance from him. Who the hell knows, Oren said. Hapoel Cusco versus Beitar Lima. How do you feel? I asked, and sat down too. Lousy, Oren said. I took his temperature. Almost 104.
Fucking shit, Ari said.
Did you find a pharmacy? Oren asked.
There is one here, I said, but it doesn’t open until tomorrow.
It’s a lucky thing you
