I remember the drive to the airport. The silence in the car. I usually get people to talk. I always get people to talk. This time, there was clearly no chance. The car, which looked like a normal Hyundai, sailed through the roads of the city. We passed the botanic gardens and the tall skyscrapers that are joined together by a walkway that looks like a ship. An Israeli architect designed those breathtaking towers. Safdie. And everyone I met in Singapore mentioned Safdie’s aerial ship as another example of the creativity of the Jewish people.
Apart from my two companions, whose silence was anything but companionable.
They also remained silent as we skipped check-in and skirted security.
The first and last time they opened their mouths was at the passport check.
The tall one handed me my passport.
The short one took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and read: “The Republic of Singapore thanks you for your visit and your contribution to our cultural enrichment and the breakthrough to new ways of thinking. Nonetheless, we wish it to be clear that any additional visit to our country by you or any member of your family is unwelcome and will be treated as such.”
(That was the first time anyone had hinted that the government had made the connection between me and my father. That, in fact, I had been marked from the first minute and someone had been assigned to follow me. But it took me a while to think about that. At that moment, all I wanted was to board the plane. Never in my life had I wanted so much to board a plane.)
—
Three hours after takeoff, my heart was still racing. The last time my heart had pounded that way was when Shira banged her head on the corner of the table and lost consciousness for a few seconds.
There were many Hebrew speakers on the plane, but I didn’t tell any of them the story of my expulsion. I think I temporarily lost my faith in people.
That escort, provided by the festival, was so open. Ostensibly.
He showed me his poems.
Poems about unrequited love. To a girl who left him for his best friend.
And several other poems, more original ones, in which he speaks on the phone with his dead father.
I don’t remember specifically, but I do remember the idea: Every year, on the son’s birthday, the father calls from the place of his death to say happy birthday and hear how he is. Every conversation has its own poem, and every poem reveals to us the changes that have occurred in the son’s life that year. And how, with time, he is becoming more like his father. Almost against his will.
You see, my escort had explained to me while we were still reading his notebook of poems, in our culture, the dividing line between life and death is more indistinct. Sometimes, it doesn’t even exist.
—
Damn it, I thought on the plane, how easy it is to put one over on me.
I took two sleeping pills and slept until we landed.
—
The first person I spoke to (I remember myself standing at the gift shop in the arrivals hall and putting the phone to my ear) was my father.
I warned you, he said.
You did.
So why did you rile them?
I didn’t think I was riling them, Dad. That guy, my escort—
Nerdy, writes poetry. I remember.
I never suspected for a single minute that—
Those are the people they choose for jobs like that, people who inspire trust.
Okay, the main thing is that I’m here, right Dad?
Right.
You know, all of a sudden I value the freedom of expression we have here.
Yes.
The fact that we can criticize freely, without fear.
For the time being.
Why “for the time being”?
Never mind. Should I come to pick you up, son?
No, it’s okay, I’ll take a taxi.
Call your mother after you’ve gotten organized, okay? But don’t tell her about the incident. Her heart is weak enough as it is.
The incident in Singapore occurred ten years ago, and I decided that I would never write or tell anyone about it. And so it remained banished from my life as if it were a leper.
But it isn’t only people who change with time. So do countries. I had a conversation a few hours ago. The literature teacher in the Itzhak Rabin High School in Ness Ziona called me. He began with compliments. Told me how excited the students were about the meeting with me the next day. Said they had prepared questions that he would print out for me. And then, after explaining where the best place to park was, he said, in a slightly tenser voice, Look, I have a request. More accurately, it’s a request from the administration that I ask you, if possible, to please not speak about controversial subjects. Politics, I mean. It’s better for all of us if you remain in the area code of literature. Family, love, childhood. You know. And you can save your criticism for more suitable opportunities. This is a rather sensitive time, you see. We’ve just asked the Ministry of Education for an addition to our budget. Apparently the supervisor, who is a personal friend of Minister Sirkin, will be present during your talk, and we don’t want to anger anyone now, of all times. You understand me, right?
—
My father warned me. I can’t say he didn’t. I took a course with your father at the university. What is he doing these days? Can you send him regards from Hanita Brodetsky? I hope he remembers me.
My father still goes down to the beach on Saturdays at six in the morning, dear Hanita. He loves to swim in freezing water. I absolutely do not love to swim in freezing water, but when we spend a Saturday in Haifa, I go down to the beach
