Neutral questions you can answer with humor that seems spontaneous but is actually well planned and timed.
Then Iris raised her hand.
I recognized the raised hand and riding on the wave of the earlier laughter, I said to the audience: Like in the International Bible Contest, when it’s time for the prime minister’s question? So now we have the library director’s question!
This is nothing like that, Iris said so quietly that her words were almost inaudible. I have to ask you something. How is it…why did you agree to come here today?
What do you mean, why? Why not?
None of the other…left-wing writers agreed to come. I try to invite them every year. And don’t say you’re not left-wing. I googled you. I read your articles. It’s pretty clear which side you’re on.
I thought before replying.
I drank some water.
I weighed my words.
Curiosity, I finally said, I’m curious about you. About settlers in general. The fact that you choose to live in this place…it affects the future of our country. If affects my life. I personally think that settlements like yours are an obstacle to peace. Frankly? I think you’re destroying the chances that my children and I will ever have a normal existence here. But I think that from a distance. The last time I crossed the Green Line was in the army. And out of curiosity, I wanted to come here and see things with my own eyes. With me, curiosity usually conquers any force that stands in its way. Including ideology.
How much can you really see in an hour and a half? The complaint came from the last row.
It’s better than nothing, another voice said from the other side of the room.
Let him come here for Shabbat, and then we’ll talk, said a woman sitting right in front of me who nonetheless used the third person.
Why here? asked a male voice, let him spend Shabbat with our Arab neighbors in Ein Tor. And let him bring his children with him. Then we’ll see if you talk about peace after the welcome they give you there.
Angry mutterings of agreement rose from the audience.
I drank some more water from the glass, which was almost empty. I tilted it desperately to trap the last few drops. And the truth is, I drank air.
I picked up my last book. There’s a passage in it that I always read at the end of these meetings to send people home feeling pleasantly comforted. But what, what would be comforting? I put the book down and considered telling them about Jamal’s father and that final moment before he left Beirut, when he stood at the door of his room, looked at the sculptures he had worked on all his life, and parted from them. With a look. Maybe he went up to one of them and ran his hand over the cool marble. A caress. Or maybe not, maybe there hadn’t been time—
But I wasn’t sure it was an appropriate story for this audience. Or even whether a story was what should happen now between me and them. But what instead? And what am I doing here anyway? I’m a writer. I’m supposed to write books that end with a few blank pages on which the reader can argue with me in his imagination.
That’s where I should meet my readers. In our imaginations. Person to person. Not person to audience.
Okay—Iris rescued me, people were already moving around in embarrassment on their plastic chairs—our time is up. I want to thank you sincerely for coming. You are not the only curious one, as you can see from the number of people who have come to hear you and the number of questions. I hope this won’t be the last time we see you here. And that many other writers follow you.
The audience dispersed quickly to their homes. I put my books in my bag. I took another drink of air from the glass.
No one came up to ask a personal question. No one asked me to write a dedication.
Only Iris came over and said it was fascinating.
I appreciated the fact that she didn’t say “lovely.” People who say “it was lovely” are usually hiding a different thought.
Shall I drive you down to the checkpoint, she half said, half asked.
But then the beep of an incoming message came from her phone.
She looked at it for a long time.
And said: Oh dear.
What happened?
The road is blocked off. There’s a targeted warning that a small gang of terrorists is in the area.
So what do we do?
Wait.
How long can it take?
At least four or five hours.
That long?
Yes, I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ll have to spend the night here.
Oh boy. Are there any B and B’s here?
B and B’s? Now it was no longer a sad smile. It was a broad smile, which turned into real laughter.
Iris was roaring with laughter, and it was a spectacular sight. Large dimples deepened in her cheeks and her entire, slim body shook with glee.
Okay—I felt a blush climb from my neck the way it always does when I blurt out something totally stupid—I realize there are no B and B’s, so where…
You’re invited to my house.
Really? That won’t be a problem for you here? After all, I’m…a man.
I noticed.
B and B’s—she repeated on the way to the car and put a hand on her stomach—fantastic! I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.
When we lived on Hatishbi Street in Haifa, a family that lost their father in the First Lebanon War lived across from us. Their son played cops and robbers with me, so I spent all my waking hours at his house. I remember how, after the father died in the Tyre disaster, their living room became a shrine to him: Memorial candles were lit every hour. Pictures
