Later on, I discovered who it was that wrote that dedication to my grandfather. But I’ll keep that to myself. Maybe because, as N quoted, “over and above the truth there is another duty, much more important and much more human.” I am a devoted reader of yours. I e-mailed you a year ago and you didn’t answer. Why?
I don’t want to answer your question now either. Because what can I write? That receiving compliments on previous books when you’re suffering from writer’s block only underscores how much you’ve deteriorated? That the dysthymia diminishes my strength and the only things I was able to write this year were speeches for Yoram Sirkin and answers to interview questions? That dejection combined with compliments produces tears? That yesterday, my best friend asked me again to help him die and I can’t bring myself to do it for him, even though he deserves my help?
That my eldest daughter, the apple of my eye, left for the Sde Boker boarding school, and although she has no problem letting her mother sleep at her place for three nights, she absolutely refuses to let her father visit her for a single afternoon?
That her boycott of me is so utterly devastating that nothing else in the world seems important to me?
That her leaving for boarding school destroyed the fragile balance we had at home, and since then, Dikla and I have been on shaky ground?
That I wish I was sure there isn’t a much simpler reason why we’re on shaky ground?
That my son, who usually has no problem leaving me in front of the school gate, asked me to walk him to his classroom this morning, and I told him that I didn’t have time because I had to send Yoram Sirkin a draft of his speech before the Herzliya Global Policy Conference by nine in the morning?
That my other daughter’s bat mitzvah is next month, and all the signs indicate that right after it, Dikla plans to tell me that she wants to separate—and then who will have time to answer readers’ e-mails, what with all the lawyers and mediators we’ll have to see?
But of course I won’t tell you all that. I’ll want to be the good guy and it’ll be important for me not to disappoint you. Readers create an image of a writer in their minds, and my readers, I’ve noticed, imagine me to be a good guy. You too, according to your e-mail (obviously I received it, and even read it, over and over again), imagine that I’m a great guy. The kind you can send an e-mail to, inviting him to have a beer with you sometime.
Sure, bro, anytime. Sorry I didn’t answer before. Your e-mail landed in my junk-mail folder by mistake. I just now fished it out and read it. Thank you for the kind words. They arrived at exactly, and I mean exactly, the right moment.
Did you ever decide not to publish a book you wrote?
The elevator opened straight into an empty office. I walked through the corridors, my book under my arm, and called out a few times: Is anyone here?
No answer.
Finally, about to give up and turn back, a bare foot emerged from one of the offices. Followed by an entire leg. Followed by the body of a man. Followed by the words: May I help you?
Yes, I’m the lecturer. We set a date, I mean. For a lecture.
You don’t say? On what subject?
Secrets from the writer’s desk.
The guy scratched the right side of his receding hairline and said, Wait a minute. And disappeared back into the room he’d come out of.
Long minutes passed. Once again, I thought about leaving. And then I reminded myself how much I would get paid for that lecture. I decided to stay.
The guy with the receding hairline finally returned, with another guy. Also barefoot. Both were unshaven and wearing athletic shorts.
I see that they didn’t update you, the second guy said.
Apparently not.
When did they ask you to lecture?
Around December.
No kidding, he said.
We shut down the company on May first, the first guy said. There was no sorrow in his voice. On the contrary, he said it almost cheerfully.
They fired the human resources girl, so there was no one to let you know, the second guy said.
Wait a minute, I said, if they shut down the company, then…what are you doing here?
The day-after crew, they said in unison.
The day-after crew?
It’s like when you split with a girl, the first man explained, and he seemed to be experienced at it—there’s the end, the actual split, and then the little things left to take care of after the end: bank accounts, joint property, that kind of stuff.
And why—I asked cautiously—did they shut down the company?
A Canadian firm developed the same technology at the same time and went on the market before us, the first guy said.
There’s a race to release, and we lost it, the second guy explained.
Ninety-five percent of start-ups fail, the first guy said. This is the fourth start-up I’ve worked for that closed down.
Maybe it’s because of you, the second guy said, chuckling, you’re the curse!
No, it’s you, the first guy said, and pushed the other guy lightly with his hand.
No, it’s you, the second retorted.
Then only you two are left? I asked, trying to pull them out of the loop.
No, of course not, the first guy said, there’s Ravit too. The administrative director. Should I wake her up?
Whatever you want.
She’ll be angry at us if she finds out there was a lecture and we didn’t wake her up.
Careful, bro, she might fire us, the second guy said. And they both started laughing wildly, too wildly.
They didn’t see Ravit come out. On her head, surprisingly, she wore the crown of feathers of an Indian shaman. It was weird, no question about it. But at that point, I still wasn’t a nonbeliever.
Do you have a presentation?
