What…you really talked? You had a conversation?
Not just a conversation. A heart-to-heart conversation.
No kidding. I mean…it’s great that you talked.
It’s that Nadav, he’s a good influence on her, she suddenly opened up to me. Like those flowers in the desert that open at night.
She didn’t ask you why you suddenly showed up.
She did.
And what did you say?
That I needed some time away.
Which is true.
Which is true.
I can’t believe she has a boyfriend.
She has a boyfriend.
And I can’t believe she told you not to tell me.
You should see them. They walk down the paths of Sde Boker hand in hand.
I really should see them, because I can’t imagine Shira with—
One night he brought a pot of soup to the room. He made it himself. He added all kinds of herbs he picked in the herb garden. And he requisitioned bowls and tablespoons from the dining hall.
Are you sure it’s your daughter who’s in love and not you?
Come on, really. It’s just so awfully nice to be near it. Love…in fact, it’s a beautiful thing.
At their age.
At every age.
Yes. At every age.
And it’s such a relief…that she’s happy. We’ve wished for it for so long.
I don’t know, I said. I don’t feel relief.
Why?
Maybe because…I wasn’t with the two of you.
But—
And I don’t want to be happy too soon.
I picked up the plate of cookies. I offered her some again. She shook her head and hugged herself.
Are you cold? Do you want to come and sit next to me? I asked. You’re so far away over there.
I feel good here, she replied, and took a long drink from her cup of tea.
Okay, I said, and drank from mine.
We didn’t speak for a long while.
There was a time when our silences were relaxed, I thought.
In the end, it’s simple mathematics, I thought. The number of thoughts you have during a conversation with your wife that you don’t share with her, divided by the total number of thoughts that pass through your mind during the conversation, equals the chances you will split up soon.
—
How are the kids? Dikla finally asked.
Fine, I replied. They had a good week. And I wanted to add: But I had a bad one.
I missed them.
We missed you, too, and every night, when—
But I needed that time. I’ve been chasing my tail ever since Shira was born, and if at any time during those years a doubt slipped into my mind, I told it to go away, I have no time for you. And then…then Shira left for boarding school and you…you came back with that story from…Colombia, that you made up or didn’t make up, I don’t know anymore which is worse, and that forced me to say to myself “Stand still!” And think. That’s what’s happening now. I’m standing still. Thinking.
Okay. So…did you reach any conclusions?
I’ve had a few insights.
Want to share?
No. They stay with me for the time being. Tell me, how’s Ari?
They’re trying some new drug on him now. Developed in Canada.
You don’t say.
Yes. The chances are slim. I’m even afraid to hope. But imagine if he gets well?
I hope so. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.
Are you coming to bed? I asked.
In a little while.
Okay, I said, stood up, kissed her on the forehead as if she were my sister, and went to the bedroom. I waited a few minutes in the hope she would join me, but when I heard voices coming from the TV in the living room I understood that she wouldn’t. I felt both disappointment and relief, because as much as I wanted her, I was afraid of being rejected.
I texted her father: She’s back. (He didn’t understand why she hadn’t answered his calls all week, so I had to make up stories to calm him down.)
And to her, I texted a line from our song, Johnny Shuali’s “Sometimes.” Is there a meeting with readers that you remember in particular?
It was before the civil war in Syria, but even so, I knew no one would believe me when I said I was going to a meeting with readers in Damascus. So I told everyone that I was going to eastern Turkey. Which was true, because that’s where I would be smuggled across the border. Everything was arranged through e-mails with a British go-between, Jeremy. He was the first to contact me and say that a reading group in Damascus was discussing the Arabic translation of my book and the members wanted to know if I was willing to meet with them there. I replied that it sounded a bit problematic, technically, and he e-mailed back that most of the technical problems were solvable if I happened to have a foreign passport. I wrote him that, as it happened, I did. I was born in Bern when my parents were there on a sabbatical, so in principle, I had a Swiss passport. Which had expired. I traveled to Basel, where I received the next e-mail from the head of the Damascus reading group. Jeremy forwarded it to me. He wrote in fluent English that the group was very excited to hear that I had agreed to visit them and explained that I need not concern myself about security measures. Among the members of the reading group were high-level officers who would guarantee my safety throughout the visit. All that remained was to set the date and time of the meeting and book my flight to Turkey. They would pay for it, of course, and also take me on a tour of the city. The only thing I had to do was make sure my Swiss passport was valid.
In the following weeks, we tried to set the time for the meeting, which turned out to be a complicated business. Their holidays did not coincide with ours, their Sabbath was on Friday, and the smuggler’s trail from eastern Turkey to Syria was open only a few days a month. In the end, with Jeremy’s active mediation, we found a time convenient for
