That no one will ever ask me questions taken from the Bernard Pivot questionnaire.
That Ari isn’t there yet. That at the last minute they’ll discover a miracle drug for his illness and he’ll live for years after taking it.
Last month, because of the painkillers, he shifted between totally groggy moments to totally sober moments.
I went to see him yesterday, and he suddenly said to me: Remember how angry you were at me when I didn’t come to see you guys after Shira was born?
Of course I remember, I thought. How could I forget the only real argument we ever had? After she was born, everyone came to congratulate us. To give us gift cards for the best baby store in the country. He was the only one who didn’t come. I waited a week. I waited a month. After four months, I was hurt to the core and began to block his calls. You should do the opposite, Dikla said. Call him. Tell him right to his face how unacceptable it is not to come to see us. Everyone deserves a hearing. Good friends definitely do.
Two hours after the conversation, Ari appeared at our place. With a bag of gifts, most of which were completely inappropriate for babies, a huge bouquet of flowers, and a pot of chili con carne for dinner. He volunteered immediately and without hesitation to hold Shira so we could eat, and while Dikla and I sat at the small kitchen table, he cradled her in his thick arms and sang to her: La linda manita que tiene el bebé / Qué linda, qué bella, qué preciosa es. He told us it was a song his mother used to sing to his brothers and sisters, and just imagine, until two minutes ago, he’d had no idea that he remembered it at all. Shira, who didn’t take to strangers easily and usually reacted with piercing screams when she was held by unfamiliar hands, was completely calm in Ari’s arms, and when we finished eating, he handed her to me, took a step back, studied me, and said, You were born to be a father, and to Dikla he said, That’s what he always wanted, you know? Once, on a bus trip from Bolivia to Brazil, out of sheer boredom, I asked him what he dreamed of. And what did he say? Not being a writer and not books. Being a daddy.
I hope your turn comes soon, Dikla said.
He gave a bitter chuckle and said, I can’t see it happening.
Then Dikla said she was going to rest for a while, and we sat down on the living-room couch, turned on the TV, and watched soccer. We didn’t shout when there was a goal to keep from waking Shira, who was sleeping peacefully on my chest, and when the match was over, I walked Ari to the door. Only then, right before he left, did he say, Listen, I don’t know why I didn’t come until now. Something held me back, bro. I have no idea what. But bottom line, I was a shitty friend. And I’m sorry.
—
Now I get it, he told me yesterday in his apartment.
What?
I get what it was that held me back then.
When?
After your Shira was born.
Forget it, bro. That was a long time ago.
No, listen. There are people who see the future, right? All kinds of tea-leaf and coffee-grinds readers?
Yes.
So every time I tried to imagine myself as a father, my imagination got stuck. Like a computer that gets stuck and nothing comes onto the screen. Just like we have a reserve of pictures from the past in our memory, I think we also have pictures from the future. And if something isn’t supposed to happen to you, you don’t have an image of it in your mind.
Maybe. I mean, it’s possible.
But I’ve been on strong drugs this last week. So it could be that…I’m talking crap.
It definitely could be. But bro, let’s hope you get well. You know. And meet a girl.
Sure. And Hapoel will win the championship.
And maybe, in her pictures of the future, one will have kids in it.
Twins.
And maybe that will be enough.
Triplets.
And peace will come.
And the Sea of Galilee will overflow its banks.
And the Negev will bloom.
And hospitals will serve gourmet meals.
Are you hungry? Should I get you something from downstairs?
No. Go home. And give Dikla a big hug.
Okay.
Colombia or no Colombia—she’s the love of your life. And the mother of your children.
You’re right.
A few minutes later, he was asleep. Maybe, I thought on the way home, he’s like Yaakov Shabtai, whose books were about the end of his life years before he had a heart attack. Maybe Ari really knew in some hidden, prophetic corner of his heart that he would become ill at a young age before he could become a father. And maybe that was what kept him from coming to see us when Shira was born.
Maybe that was also the reason he could never give himself completely to any girl he dated, including a few who really, and I mean really, were keepers. Maybe he had guessed that there was no point. That it would cause only pain. And that when all is said and done, it’s better to eat, drink, and be merry, because tomorrow…
Or maybe not, I thought. Maybe I’m letting him off easy here (apparently those are our true friends: the ones we’re willing to let off easy).
—
When I walked into the house, Dikla was working on the computer. I went over to her and did what Ari said. I bent down and gave her a big hug. She hugged me back. A weak hug. Then patted me lightly on the back, with one hand.
What’s with the pat on the back, I said, annoyed.
What?
What are
