I should, I must stop answering this question. It’s too dangerous. I might even describe my embarrassing night trip to Sde Boker. How I hid in the bushes to get a glimpse of a sixteen-year-old without her seeing me.
The truth is that I ought to end this entire interview.
But I can’t. I have nothing else to hold on to these days. It seems like the love affairs in your books never work out. Why? And do you think you’ll ever write a love story that has a happy end?
Later, it turned out that she followed me from the ZOA House to the parking lot. She hid behind cars and kept a steady distance from me, like she saw in the movies. As I was about to open the car door, she closed the distance quickly, came up to me from the side, and asked urgently: Can you give me a ride?
I didn’t recognize her. I lecture to large groups participating in the Birthright project. Two hundred people each time. Four times a day. Who can remember a face, even if it’s beautiful?
Where to? I asked.
The city you mentioned in your talk, the one you live in?
Yes?
That’s where I need to go.
Wait a minute, do you belong to the Birthright group?
I don’t belong to anyone.
Okay…But as far as I know, you’re not allowed to wander around on your own.
So?
You can get into trouble.
I want to get into trouble.
—
I’d been lecturing to Birthright groups for a few years. It pays well, but that’s not the point. Those American kids are between eighteen and twenty-something years old, and I like to talk to people that age. You can reach them. Everything’s still possible. That must be the reason they bring them here at that age. For ten days, they sell them a kind of imaginary Israel. Just. Exciting. They take them to Masada, to Ben Gurion’s grave in Sde Boker, and to organized fun nights in Tel Aviv pubs. And then—on the last day—I meet them and ask them to write about the moment they felt a contradiction between what their guides told them about Israel and what they saw on the streets with their own eyes.
I’m not naïve. I know that inviting me to speak at the end as a subversive, challenging voice is also part of the campaign. But I have my own aims.
—
Is there a specific place you need to reach? I asked as we approached the entrance to the city. She took a lipstick out of her bag and, looking in the mirror, applied it to her lips.
Not really.
Okay, so why this city, of all places?
I’m looking for somebody.
Can you give me…a few more details? So I’ll have something to work with?
I still haven’t decided if I trust you.
Okay, so listen for a minute—by the way, what’s your name?
Rachel.
Listen, Rachel, in another second we’ll be in the city and I have no idea where to go from here. Do you happen to know the address of the person you’re looking for?
No.
So…
Just…drive a little ways.
Okay, but the chances of finding him this way, by accident, are pretty slim, so maybe…
Keep driving, my heart tells me we’ll find the person I’m looking for.
—
I drove randomly through the streets while she strummed on the tight strands of fabric above the tear in her jeans, humming an unrecognizable song, her eyes searching for somebody. So I wouldn’t feel like a complete idiot, I began crisscrossing the network of streets that connect the only two main drags in the city. The last time I drove that way was a year ago, when Luna, our dog, got lost. She was sixteen, which is a hundred and something in dog years, and we had already stopped letting her out of the house without a leash, the way we used to when she was young. Her hearing had deteriorated and she was going blind, and we were afraid that, without supervision, she would be run over. But her passion for open spaces was stronger than any prohibition, and one day, when we opened the door for a delivery guy, she took advantage of a moment when we weren’t paying attention and ran off. I drove up and down the streets with my second daughter, the one who had apparently inherited my thin skin, and we whistled Luna’s whistle through the open windows as we searched for her.
—
Why did you stop?
Look, Rachel, I don’t have all day and…I think it would help if you gave me a few more details about your somebody. Then, at least you’ll have another pair of eyes.
She has a brown hat, from the army…
Aah…so we’re looking for a girl soldier?
Yes.
With a brown beret?
Yes.
From the Golani Brigade?
Yes, Golani!
Okay. Where did you meet her?
First promise me you won’t put us in one of your books. What?
Why should I…
You said in your talk that you’re a “story hunter.” And this is a bad time for you to hunt my story. And it’s an even worse time for you to hunt Adi’s story.
Okay. I promise not to put either of you in one of my books.
And you’ll keep driving.
Look, I’m driving.
We met at Masada.
On the snake path?
No, on the top. On the mountain. You see, my father committed suicide. So when the guide started…to glorify the fact that everyone killed themselves there so they wouldn’t be taken prisoner by the Romans, I couldn’t keep quiet.
I can…imagine.
So I raised my hand and asked if there were women and children who killed themselves too. He said yes. So I said, well excuse me, but it was a stupid decision, and it’s a horrible story.
Wow.
What wow? It’s a horrible story and it’s a fucking chauvinist myth. Don’t you think so?
How did the guide react?
Everyone attacked me. Not just him. They all started throwing
