“What do you do there?”
“Tel people they can’t get compensation for the various disasters in their lives. It’s not very exciting.”
“Wil you be at the demo tomorrow?”
“The one at the Defense Ministry? Yes.”
“Okay, I’l see you there, I’m bringing some of the signs. Do you need anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. You tel me.”
“I don’t need anything. How’s Graciela?”
“She’s working hard.”
“How’s your daughter?”
“Naomi is fine.”
“Yes. Wel .”
“I’l see you tomorrow. You’l know me by my red hat.”
“Your long-lost hat.”
“My final y found hat.”
“We’re talking about hats.”
“Yes.”
“The characters in the books I write never talk about hats. I think I’l try it out tonight. This conversation is inspiring me.”
“You write books?”
I paused. Then I said, “Not real books, just junk romance. I have to go now,” I said.
“You al right?”
“I have to go,” I said, and hung up. I sat at the kitchen counter and stared at the fridge, which was covered with snapshots of Daniel. Daniel sit ing on a chair with our cat in his lap, Daniel and me at a party, Daniel with his friend Alex in Venice. I had not meant to tel Ra about the romance books. This was the rst time anyone other than my father knew something about me that Daniel did not know. In my interviews I always updated Daniel: I talked about al my adventures and misadventures, and about the people around me. That way, if Daniel read or heard the interview, he’d have some idea of what my life was like. But I didn’t want to discuss my romance novels in those interviews, so I didn’t tel anyone else about them either. Only my father knew. I had to tel him, because he couldn’t gure out how I was managing financial y, and he was worried. My father was my biggest fan. He bought al my books and he said they were a blast.
I stared at the snapshots and the pain of Daniel’s absence stirred inside me. Usual y the pain was like a lit le boy sit ing on a lit le chair in a darkened corner—like Lit le Jack Horner: it was there, but it stayed in its assigned place, quietly recalcitrant. At other times, without warning, the pain rose and expanded and threatened to suf ocate me.
At those times I longed for the drug Vronsky had prescribed when I broke my ankle. I was on an excursion to see new set lement outposts and I found myself near Be’er Shalom, an old set lement deep inside Palestine. Over the years I’d taken a few good photographs of set lers, but never of set lements. I managed that day to sneak away from the group without the army noticing, and I made my way toward Be’er Shalom. I knew it would be fenced in, but I was hoping to take some photographs of the fence, its guards, and of the set lement itself, viewed through the wires. Maybe the guards would even let me inside.
Before I reached the fence I came across a cabin someone had built just outside Be’er Shalom, a cabin surrounded by newly planted trees.
Whoever had built the cabin had also constructed an elaborate doghouse next to it. Most likely an eccentric lived here, someone who refused to hide behind a fence, who saw himself perhaps as some sort of prophet.
I went up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the handle and the door slid open. The room inside was very stil , its contents petri ed under a thin layer of dust and cobwebs; no one had lived here for some time. And yet nothing had been disturbed or moved, as if the owner were expected back: the e ect was spooky, but also intriguing. In one corner a plank of wood set on two cement blocks served as a makeshift bookshelf: it held about thirty books, al in English and al on the same subject, more or less: rearms, war technology, nuclear terrorism.
In the center of the room stood a table covered with black oilcloth. Newspaper clippings, also in English, were spread out on the table.
Seemingly random words had been circled and there were indecipherable numbers and symbols in the margins. The clippings were held down by a bot le of transparent glue and a paperweight that appeared to be the skul of a smal animal. There was a mat ress on the oor, and next to it sticks of incense, an oversized book on the Kabbalah, and a pamphlet of poems writ en by children in Theresienstadt. I took a and next to it sticks of incense, an oversized book on the Kabbalah, and a pamphlet of poems writ en by children in Theresienstadt. I took a photograph of the lit le animal skul , and I was going to take a few more, but I must have been on edge, because when I heard a noise outside the cabin I panicked and ran out.
I was so ustered I didn’t look where I was going, and I tripped on a metal rod protruding from a large uprooted sign that was lying on the ground. Two soldiers were hovering over me, half-smiling. “Seen a ghost?” they asked. I looked at the sign; it was trilingual, and it said, in English, DANGER / FIRING RANGE / ENTRANCE FORBIDDEN / ENTRY REQUIRES PRIOR APPROVAL AND COORDINATION WITH THE ARMY CENTRAL COMMAND COORDINATOR / 02-5305252 / CENTER
OPERATES 24 HOURS A DAY / EXCLUDING SATURDAYS AND HOLIDAYS. Its two metal supports had been set in large cement blocks, which now hung helplessly from the rods like Frankenstein’s feet.
“Everyone was worried about you,” one of the soldiers said. “Next time don’t leave the group without
