—
I asked Ghalib to take me to the Jewish quarter, to the house behind the synagogue. We drove there, and on the way, I examined his profile, trying to decide if he was him.
When we arrived, I asked for and received permission to take a picture of the building that now stood on the ruins of my father-in-law’s childhood home.
Ghalib remained a short distance away from me, stroking his beard slowly and looking around with visible discomfort. Finally, he approached me, pointed to his watch, and said in fluent English that the van was already waiting to take me back home. And that I mustn’t be late.
During the drive, I looked at his profile again. From a certain angle, he still looked like Ron Arad, but from a different angle, he suddenly looked like Hagai Carmeli. Hagai Carmeli with a beard.
Tell me please, aren’t you…? I asked him in English a moment before we parted.
No, he replied in Hebrew, and shoved me into the van.
—
I knew that no one would believe I took the picture of the house behind the synagogue in Damascus myself. So at Friday dinner in Ma’alot, I made up a story about a Kurd who came up to me in Izmir, reprimanded me for my mistakes about the descriptions of kubeh in my book, and pulled out a picture he had taken a few years earlier on a visit to relatives in Damascus, who told him that the building they lived in was built on the ruins of a house in the Jewish quarter.
I didn’t think anyone would buy the ridiculous story, but guess what, they swallowed it whole (sometimes it’s much easier to believe a lie than the truth).
Dikla’s father, in any case, held the picture for a long time. He shed a single tear that detached from his eye like a space shuttle separating from the mother ship, and then he put the picture down and asked, Who wants fruit salad? How is the younger generation of writers different from the older generation?
Among the photos of family trips to Eshtaol Forest is one—as if it didn’t belong—of a man with gray hair and a small paunch, leaning on a slide and looking off into the distance, his expression melancholy. I looked at that picture for quite a few seconds until I realized—
—
When I was thirteen, my voice started to change. I remember how estranged we became, my voice and I. I felt as if someone else was speaking from my throat.
For the past year, I’ve been taking off my glasses before I look in the mirror. I’d rather not see the changes. But I can see them in other people’s eyes. In women’s eyes.
Only in the world of literature am I still considered a member of the younger generation.
Before we grew distant from each other, Dikla used to say: You look better now than you did when we met.
We both knew it was a lie. That we were going downhill. But that wasn’t the issue—
The issue was the incongruity. Inside, I’m twenty-five, just back from my trip to South America, and outside, I’m this man with the graying hair and the paunch, in a picture taken on a trip to Eshtaol Forest. What embarrasses you?
Walking into a meeting hall and discovering that projected on the large screen behind the stage is a huge picture of me taken fifteen years ago, in which I look the way I looked fifteen years ago. When was the last time you wanted to cry?
The tests showed that the Canadian drug wasn’t working.
Ari didn’t tell me.
But his mother called. Said that the tests had come back and the results were unequivocal.
She said: Get over to his apartment quickly, corazón. So someone will be with him now.
I said: Claro. Of course.
When I arrived, he acted as if everything was as usual. I kept waiting for him to tell me about the test results, but he talked about Hapoel Jerusalem. Said he felt like there was hope this year. That the team is in synch. And there’s the new arena too. He watches the games on TV, and aside from all the statistics, he’s noticed that the team finally has character. We have Yotam and Lior, who are winners, he said, and they’ll pull the others up with them.
I played along with the conversation. I offered my opinion. I even argued with him about whether new players should be brought in or whether they would throw their great teamwork out of synch. And the entire time, I was thinking: In the end, he’ll talk about the tests.
In the end, he said, I’m a little tired, bro. Thanks for coming.
And he pulled the blanket up to his neck and closed his eyes.
I knew he was pretending to sleep.
So I controlled myself and didn’t cry.
—
All the way home, I pictured myself collapsing in Dikla’s arms. How I would open the door and say, I need you, Diki. Can you please love me again? At least for one night?
Sitting in the living room was Ariel, the babysitter, and waiting for me on the kitchen table was a note: I’m at a party with Gaia. Home late. Don’t wait up.
The difference between faint hope and no hope is infinite.
I asked Ariel, Do you have a minute?
What?
I need to talk to someone, I said, do you have a minute?
He looked at me in horror and said, They’re expecting me at—
Sure, I said. Of course. Here, take—how much do we owe you?
—
I went into Yanai’s room. He has a convertible bed, so I opened it and lay down next to him. I imagined a life in which I was allowed to see him and Noam only twice a week, and I thought
